I Cooked an Entire Dinner of Trump’s Favorite Dishes

Sitting at my desk on Friday afternoon, like so many others also glued to the live stream of Trump's inauguration, I feel physically sick. As he blurts out his ominous address to the nation, I wretch a little. When it gets to 6 PM, I realise I've been so transfixed by the shit-show that I haven't eaten anything all day.

Now, when an email landed in my inbox earlier in the week, inviting me to "feast like Donald Trump" at a swanky hotel bar in Kensington on the evening of his inauguration, I'd ignored it. What else could I do? "Come down to enjoy Trump's favourite snacks for the campaign trail," it continued, "in true 'go big or go home' Donald Trump spirit." It all seemed rather grotesque.

But with Trump well and truly President, an empty bank January account, and some serious hunger to grapple with, I decide to head along for the occasion. A Trump-themed dinner in an upmarket West London bar is way out of my comfort zone, but I'm told that living in echo chambers is what caused this mess in the first place. This will be a kind of outreach.

I get to the hotel and take a seat in the relatively quiet bar. I can't help but feel slightly underwhelmed. There are no American flags, no life-sized cardboard cutout of The Donald himself. The only waft of Trump I get is from a bloke sitting near me who mutters something racist under his breath.

"I'm afraid we're not actually doing our Trump menu anymore," the bar manager tells me when I attempt to order an Other Side of the Wall cocktail though gritted teeth. "Someone in head office thought in the end it might be a little bit inappropriate."

"No shit," I think, looking at the now-cancelled menu. It lists a number of other problematically named cocktails (anyone for a Democratic Immunity or Hell Toupee?), as well as a range of Trump's "favourite campaign trail snacks" including meatloaf and eggs and the Trump Tower Burger. In what must be a reference to the new President's love of both taco bowls and "Hispanics," the menu also includes two Mexican-inspired dishes.

By this point, I'm pretty pissed off. First Trump becomes President and now I've trekked halfway across the city with not even a fish delight to show for it. Undeterred, I scoff the free nibbles and head for the door—but not before grabbing one of the Trump Menus. Fuck it, I tell myself, if the fancy hotel bar won't make me Trump-themed snacks, I'll just have to do it myself.

It's about 9 PM when I finally make it back to my local supermarket, but I've studied the menu on the Tube and selected the dishes I want to make. Three drinks and a few snacks is all I can face putting together, so I'll cut corners wherever I can. Mac and cheese? Crushed peas? Both come in a can. There are no burgers or mincemeat left in the aisles, but there's a veggie alternative that doesn't need cooking. That'll save time.

Back in my kitchen, I get started on the haddock hot dog, which the bar would have apparently served with "tartar sauce, crushed peas." Like Trump's policies, the menu is light on detail. And like Trump's policies, I decide to make it up as I go along.

It's 10 PM now, Donald Trump is President, and as I lob a flaccid strip of haddock into a boiling pot of water, I can't help but despair. The water bubbles and turns a murky colour, so I quickly dollop all the components into a cheap hotdog bun.

I add a layer of mayo and a sprinkling of capers, and voila—haddock hot dog à la Trump is done.

Next, I throw together my meatloaf and eggs, a.k.a. vegetarian mince squeezed into a ramekin. There were no hazelnuts at the shop (Trump's preferred garnish, according to the menu), so I smash together some cashews I find under my bed.

The final dish is the Trump Tower Burger: gloop-y mac and cheese out of a tin with the rest of the squidgy brown fake-mincemeat, served on a brioche bun, as suggested. I look at the spread of dishes I've created and, much like the American electorate, I can't quite believe what I've done.

It's past midnight when I move onto the drinks menu—the moment I've been waiting for since this bizarre night begun. While drowning my sorrows is a very tempting option, my Dry January vows stop me. I'll just make them virgin, I tell myself. It'll be just fine.

It isn't fine. The Swing State is first on the menu, a heady concoction of smoked Texas corn whiskey, bourbon, wood bitters, maple spice, and zest. Unsurprisingly, my little Sainsbury's didn't have many of these ingredients, so I make do with what I can find in the cupboard and fridge. Maple spice? Golden syrup and curry powder will do. Wood bitters? My tree surgeon housemate throws me a chuck of birch.

My Other Side of The Wall should've been brimming with tequila, but instead it's mostly grapefruit, sugar, and zest. I stop trying by the time I get to the White Lady. My version of the gin and egg white cocktail is a whole lemon placed in a jam jar with a shell-ridden smashed egg.

In the end, my Trump-themed dinner is pretty disappointing, but the symbolism of what I've created isn't lost on me, despite it being 1 AM. Much like the new POTUS, the meal is messy and unpleasant, it looks fucking awful, and leaves me with a seriously bad taste in my mouth.

Still, it doesn't go entirely to waste. My slightly drunk housemate stumbles in and laps it all up. It's all very 2017.