There is a White Castle up the block from us. It's a never-ending source of amusement, because of the disgusting nature of the menu offerings and the occasional spelling or grammar challenges of the staff. Last spring the promo item was "Chicken Rings" (prompting anxious curiosity about which part of the chicken was the ring and whether one would really care to eat it), only the reader board initially promoted it as "Chicken Rins." Chicken Rinds? Chicken Rinse? It was corrected the next day.
So the other day we walked past and my husband stopped, made me go back, and forced me to look at the banner promoting the newest sandwich. I stared at it for several minutes, while the protective mechanism in my brain refused to let me see what was so horrifying. And then my brain gave up and I could see it:
Yes, that's a breaded fish patty stacked with two hamburger patties.
I'm no longer much of a fan of fast-food restaurants. I've never set foot in this White Castle; the smell outside convinces me that it can't be good, and this is New York, where one has to develop a very high tolerance indeed for smells. But even when I was young and would eagerly spend time, money and appetite at McDonald's and Wendy's and their ilk, I knew enough to never order the fish sandwich. Now imagine that fish sandwich with steamed hamburger and extra bread.
Calling it "surf and turf" seems a bit like pouring cheap riesling into ginger ale and calling that champagne. (Oh, wait, that's Cook's. Let me try again.) Calling it "surf and turf" seems a bit like mashing up a Tootsie Roll, rolling it in Swiss Miss, and calling that a truffle.