They have done something to sliders!
After not having even thought about White Castle for years, reading this thread caused me to begin "Jonesing" for an onion-steamed, 1 oz. square of questionable parentage served on a stale but steamed undersized dinner roll.
Unable to resist the siren song any longer, I succumbed and drove through the pick up lane at Harlem and Milwaukee last evening, leaving with a Crave case of cheeseburgers, two orders of onion rings, one order each of chicken rings and mozzarella sticks and a bathtub-sized sweet tea, ( my significant other was assisting me in the research, ergo the additional onion ring and sweet tea).
When I returned to Castella de Burpo, we sat at the dining room table and began our epicurean adventure.
Wanting to make the anticipation last, I started off with the chicken rings. I am less than impressed. The breading is O.K. and the flavor of the chicken pudding of which the product was constituted was passable, but I couldn't get the picture out of my mind that, due to the shape, I was consuming the anus of six chickens. I will not repeat this error as it had the effect of being an anti-appetizer, which could possible explain the "Meh" reaction I had to the balance of the repast.
I progressed to the mozzarella sticks, which, when dipped in the little plastic tub of non-descript marinara sauce, were a passable approximation of sleazy bar snacks used to increase the consumption of PBR. Acceptable for what they were, I had a couple but could control myself no longer and retrieved six little square boxes of joy from the crave case.
With the trembling anticipation of a high school boy knowing that he was finally gonna get lucky, I removed one of the small steaming squares from its' protective cardboard raincoat and, with the old Heinz ketchup commercial take-off of the song "Anticipation" running through my addled mind, bit off half of the slider and began to chew. The texture was as I remembered. The mooshyness of the bun/roll balanced with the slightly tart piquancy of the Chipco hamburger dill coin. The slightly gummy texture of the onion-steamed "meat" patty was a familiar old friend... but "something" was wrong. There were less of the microscopic onion dice scattered throughout my mouth than I expected, and the sweet bite of the onion was but a wisp of what once was. The small cheese square tasted like, well, cheese. I lacked the oniony unctuous mucilaginous mouth feel and flavor of my childhood.
Only the onion rings had the familiar old oil, burnt coating bits flavor profile reminiscent of summer nights tooling around in my buddys' 1951 Chrysler "woody" convertible hoping to pick up a couple of cuties in pedal pushers and tight "T" shirts.
Sadly, like those high school gals of yesteryear, the quick fling from White Castle didn't deliver the goods.
In the past, after consuming sliders, it was a given that during the journey through my alimentary canal, there would be the production of enough methane to amuse my crowd of teenaged male friends by lighting our own flatus eruptions with our Zippos' with the wick pulled out far enough to produce a five foot flame. Even after consuming six sliders and a large order of onion rings there was no seismic gastric activity whatsoever. Nothing. Nada. Not even a small toot.
I guess it is, in fact, a truth. You can't go home again.
You can't prepare for a disaster when you are in the midst of it.
A sensible man watches for problems ahead and prepares to meet them. The simpleton never looks, and suffers the consequences.
Proverbs 27:12