Everyone knows that the algorithms of antisocial networks are tools of radicalization. The more absurd and violent the post, the more Ibope gives, so the strategy of the cretins jailers of these prisons in which we choose to live are always trying to bring us closer to the bang. Search for something about “social democracy” and in a few days you’ll be getting glowing comments about the gulags. Type in “meritocracy” and in no time you’ll be praising Pinochet. My mistake was to like the photo of a picanha: in a very short time my timelines turned into a rotation of gororobas that I can only call gastrobolsonarismo.
At the beginning, I confess that I approved what the algorithms served me. I like to cook. I’m a barbecue man, modesty aside, quite competent. Seeing, among photos of cats and the false happiness of others, a beautiful grilled chorizo steak, a chicken on a skewer, cheered up my afternoon. The algorithm knew this. From small steaks we went to whole ribs, from whole ribs to two thousand ribs roasted simultaneously, in some city in the interior of São Paulo. I started to feel like things had gone too far when the sausage pizza appeared on my Insta.
The sausage was not the topping, but the dough. The cook unwrapped half a dozen pepperoni, mashed up the ground pork, and opened it. Over the giant pork hamburger—I refuse to call it “pasta” anymore—the heretic spread tomato sauce and cheese. He put the monster on the grill and that’s it.
See, I’m a carnivore, I’m even a bit of a glutton. With an open mind, I go from the hamburger and fries to the mullet roe, without condemning the cream cheese in the sushi. I happen to have some principles — not many — that conflict with the trash cans that, for a few weeks now, the algorithms have placed on my desk.
X-salads with 6 hamburgers. Fries topped with four cheeses and chile con carne. Picanha topped with melted provolone. When we arrived at the pork pizza (an open suckling pig was the “pasta”), I thought I had nowhere else to go. Read mistake. The bottom line would be “O dogão de Curitiba”.
The video is confusing and not all the ingredients are named — even because a good part of it should be banned, if not by the WHO, by the Geneva Convention. In the name of advancing civilization and preserving our arteries, however, I will try to give you an idea of what goes into this 1.7 kg sandwich (sic, sick).
The chapeiro starts by making a mix with sliced pepperoni, corn, potato straw, grated cheese, bacon, tomato sauce and tube cheddar. Then he opens a hot dog bun, tops it with mayonnaise, rosé sauce, and ketchup. He puts in two sausages, chicken stroganoff, catupiry and the pre-mixed slop — a pyramid about four inches high by four inches in diameter. He sprinkles the farofa on top, masseia with mashed potatoes, decorates with more pepperoni slices, squeezes more cheddar and grated mozzarella cheese, then gratin with a blowtorch.
Curitiba’s dogão was my gastronomic terraplanismo, the culinary dick bottle offered by chef Zuckerberg and his cronies, according to my inputs. If I had liked not a picanha, but in “identity struggle”, I would be receiving a menu with rifles, neo-Nazi groups and the Ku Klux Klan. I don’t know what to do, or how, but we need to find a way to stop feeding ourselves ideas like the dogão of Curitiba, or we will continue with these obese and malnourished debates.
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