I’ve never ordered a sandwich where two employees went out of their way to double-check that I had something to wash it down with. But then again, Arby’s Meat Mountain warrants such a concern.
Arby’s Meat Mountain began as a staged photo on an advertisement that featured a stack of every single meat available from the Arby’s chain. As the story goes, people began asking if that was an actual menu item. After a Washington Post article featured the phenomenon, the Arby’s Meat Mountain toppled into the Internet, catalyzing an earthquake of the masses stampeding to their nearest Arby’s.
While this off-menu attraction is relatable to novelty fast food meals, such as the KFC Double Down or the Taco Bell Doritos Locos Tacos, this sandwich was not even in the same weight class. Quite frankly, it defied traditional weight classification entirely.
Weighing in at 15 ounces, around 1,275 calories and standing roughly six inches tall, the only similarity this savory stack had to its cousins on the actual Arby’s menu is its flappy, wafer-thin bun thickness. Buns are always weak at chain fast food joints, it’s a fact of life.
Let me lay down the monstrous Meat Mountain for you. Two chicken tenders, three half strips of bacon, two slaps of swiss and cheddar slices and 1.5 ounces of each of the following: Angus steak, brisket, corned beef, ham, roast beef and roast turkey.
The Argonaut charged me with summiting this mountain, and I swore on the life of Jon Krakauer that I would conquer this personal Mt. Everest. I meticulously planned what hiking gear I would shoulder during the journey, including a loose shirt that had enough room for a swollen belly, a fishing hat to protect from overexposure to harsh fluorescent light, a full water bottle and a ravenous appetite that would be my sword and shield to combat one of the most beastly of behemoth burgers.
Any climber knows that even with all your gear at ready, that doesn’t mean squat if you don’t arrive at the correct trailhead. That said, I was sure to call the Moscow Arby’s to check if they had the goods. Unfortunately, they did not.
So I ventured to the Arby’s in Pullman, Washington, and found the meat monster for only $10. Upon entry, I discovered that few had vanquished the Meat Mountain.
I could almost hear Kenny Loggins’ song, “Danger Zone” playing as I received and slowly undressed my burger from its cumbersome wrap up job.
I made a valiant effort to capture all eight meats in my first bite, to no avail. Slowly my carnivorous dissipated in the grease I was consuming by the bite load. A slosh of chewy textures, salt and so much sandwich. My jaw was sore, my eyes were progressively losing more fire and somewhere in an underground bunker I bet PETA was furiously scribbling out battle plans against the fast food chain.
I eventually adopted an autopilot mindset, no thought, no contemplation on the enormity of what was being accomplished, just chew, chew, chew, groan, chew, chew, chew. I tried not to think about an article I had read recently about studies that linked excessive consumption of beef to colon cancer.
Soon, all that was left was a sweaty pile of meat in the middle of my wrapping, and then, nothing. I had climbed the mountain, and found triumph over adversity. Victory was defined by greasy fingers, a groaning stomach and regret.
My verdict is that if the idea of ordering this sandwich for lunchtime satisfaction appeals to you, you might want to consult your doctor first, and a therapist. If this sandwich appeals to you because it symbolizes human triumph in the face of challenge, Moscow Mountain is only a few miles away. In any case, if you truly must eat an enormous amount of meat, be sure to bring a video camera for posterity.
George Wood can be reached at [email protected]