When I lived abroad, one of the things I missed most about Britain was a meal deal. I really did. It’s something we take for granted , the ability to go to any major supermarket and pick up enough food to tide you over until dinner, edible on the move, for a knockdown price. They don’t do it like this in other countries, generally. I can hear a Frenchman somewhere hon-hon-honing about the fact that our food culture is so pitiful, we have convinced ourselves we actually like eating an overrefridgerated supermarket sandwich out of a cardboard box and calling it lunch. He’s right, but here we are. I like a meal deal.
I don’t want any mathematicians to email me about this, but it is my understanding that there are several thousand possible combinations you can make out of the main-plus-snack-plus-drink offering. Aside from being convenient, cost- and time-effective, there’s something deeply personal, perhaps even beautiful, about a meal deal. I experience it as a little buffet for one, and get the same sort of nut-gathering satisfaction from buying a meal deal as I get from buying a curated selection of snacks at a train station for a long journey.
