Arby’s Steak Nuggets: Overcooked or Overcompensating?

I think it was Teddy Roosevelt who said, “Judge a man not by his merits, but by the quality of his meats.”

Puttering out of the parking lot with a half-eaten order of Arby’s Steak Nuggets, gristle betwixt teeth, I have been found wanting.

Across capitalists and carnivores, one axiom remains constant: steak equals status. While the rich dine on Porterhouse, the poorhouse splits a bottom round.

Between layers of marbled beef, the USDA Standard male seeks wealth, influence, and a taste of masculine validation. Normally, this coming-of-age baptism is best performed at your local Outback. But for the common man trapped by carnal instinct, a more affordable delicacy is now available.

Arby’s Steak Nuggets.

At face value, the three faces of Arby’s Steak Nuggets boast the markings of a value meal. Nuggets, Sandwich, Bowl. Father, Son, and Holy Spirit (he/him).

In its purest state — just the nugs — Arby’s dispenses five pieces per emotionally fragile customer. The heartily reheated chunks arrive in plain white containers. Unbranded, save for a sizable grease stain with the same hips as Saint Mary.

Judged on packaging alone, an order of Arby’s Steak Nuggets feels like you accidentally took home someone else’s doggy bag of Sizzler leftovers. The cut-offs, castaways, and picked-over remains of a richer person’s steak dinner.

Indeed, their identification as “nuggets” is a feat of barely-legal branding. Whether chicken or karats, the word nugget connotes gold. A tantalizing piece of something deliciously out of reach. A connection to wealth, class, and gilded living. But a few shiny pebbles do not make a gold bar, and five Arby’s Steak Nuggets do not make a steak.

I chew, considering the jerky-coded tang. The suspiciously tender consistency, which suggests each nugget was reconstituted from available beef debris. Peeking inside, it’s impossible to determine the cut’s temperature. Is it raw, rare, medium? I’m only sure it isn’t “well done,” since it is clearly… not.

Biting into the sandwich, I experience the antithesis of mouthwatering. Even blessed with Horsey Sauce, a barbecue-flavored sponge hides between the buns.

I long for the familiar embrace of a Beef & Cheddar, but consign myself to another morsel of sweaty, hickory-slathered hyperbole.

Finally, the Arby’s Steak Nugget Bowl. A prix-fixe, pre-mixed combo that demands you either use a fork — or dive in snout first.

In concept and construction, the bowl is… confusing. A mashup of Steak Nuggets, mac ’n’ cheese, and fried onions. Altogether reminiscent of a plate of Thanksgiving leftovers — crammed into Tupperware, congealed, then forgotten. Any attempt to stir the ingredients produces a sickly squelch.

It’s the type of dinner that inspires diners to avoid all knowledge of its nutritional contents; unhealthy in ways science does not yet comprehend. Unfortunately, sight and squelch aside, my favorite variation of Arby’s Steak Nuggets is undoubtedly this sloppy trough.

A mirror of my own masculinity? Messy, mixed, performative? Perhaps.

But at over $25 for the unholy trinity, I think even Teddy Roosevelt would skip the Steak Nuggets for an Aussie 3-Course at Outback, mate.

Originally published at Little Old Lady Comedy.