Madeleine West’s unexpected love of fast food

Health-conscious actor Madeleine West reveals what went on during a recent trip to a fast-food restaurant in Morocco — flatulence and all.

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My daughter and I have just returned from a foodie pilgrimage across Morocco: that land of legends, kaftans, tagines, camels, and the dubious claim to fame that it’s where Sex And The City 2 was filmed.

This is the stuff of cultural legend — and movie-critic poison, apparently — but legendary all the same.

True Moroccan cuisine is superlative. Words to accurately describe how good it is have not yet been coined, beyond perhaps “Lick”, “The”, and “Plate”.

However, it is with a resigned sigh that I confess our last dining destination was a supersized Moroccan fast-food franchise.

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This was the deep-fried carrot I had dangled before my daughter to coerce her into trying every iteration of couscous available.

I never break a promise, and besides, nothing was going to stand between that girl and a high-GI fix.

“Why is it that what’s worst for you tastes so bloody good?” (Picture: Cameron Grayson for Stellar)

Fast food, anywhere in the world, proves to be a great social leveller. Young, old, rich or poor, fast food holds a special place in all our hearts, even if just via heartburn.

Perusing the menu, written in Arabic, I successfully mimed an order of “Nuggets, Coke and fries” for the child.

If acquiring Type 2 diabetes were a competitive sport, my girl would be well on her way to the Olympics. Unfortunately for her, I am determined to curtail her ambitions with a steady infusion of fruits and vegetables.

“Order The Big Cheese,” I admonished. “At least that’s got a slice of tomato.” There’s a sentence I never thought I would utter. Sigh...

But I do understand her affinity for the humble fry; the healthy eating pyramid’s version of the Kardashians: not a speck of actual sustenance in sight, but utterly addictive. Damn tasty, but full of preservatives, and botulism...

Drool-worthy poutine. (Picture: Istock)

As for me, I was seeking something with a semblance of complex carbs and a bit of fibre. Fibre, you ask? At a restaurant with a drive-through? I know.

I, too, thought fibre disappeared with the arrival of burgers that shared their DNA with cockroaches (that is, utterly impervious).

Salade de pescher excited me, until it landed — a super-sized fish finger on flaccid frilly lettuce.

I felt safer with the chicken nugget, devoid of nutrients (and chicken, as it happens).

I rebuffed my daughter’s dessert demand for a sundae by pretending to have a heart attack and dropping to the floor.

Madeleine West’s column is in this Sunday’s Stellar.

It wasn’t that far from the truth, given I’ll be struggling with residual heartburn from that crumbed monstrosity for months to come.

And besides, nothing dissuades a child from egregious behaviour like a parent making a dill of themselves... and I am living proof!

My wisest career and life choices were prompted by fear of my father indulging in a bit of “dad dancing” in front of my friends.

It was as though, when challenged, Dad’s fight-or-flight response was transforming into Kevin Bacon circa Footloose, only with two left feet and a mild yet undeniable beer belly.

So Morocco, last stop withstanding, your cuisine wooed me on every level, even if I am leaving with a sugar rush so intense I could probably navigate the first leg of the homeward journey without an airplane.

Cheers, fast food, cheers. I depart flying high. And flatulent. You truly are the wind beneath my wings...

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