Heard on the Hill

Decorum Police Have No Beef With Rude Snacks

In a place where every single syllable uttered or character woven into a release is religiously parsed for ulterior meaning, hunger apparently trumps civility.

How else to explain the wealth of preservative-laden “Big Az” products that stare back at famished House staffers circling the Longworth vending machines in search of microwaveable sustenance.

(Warren Rojas/CQ Roll Call)

(Warren Rojas/CQ Roll Call)

There’s the standard cheeseburger, a staple of truck stop deli cases and convenience store carousels.

(Warren Rojas/CQ Roll Call)

(Warren Rojas/CQ Roll Call)

The cheese-topped fried chicken sandwich.

(Warren Rojas/CQ Roll Call)

(Warren Rojas/CQ Roll Call)

The terrifyingly shelf-stable chili cheese dogs (Not. At. Gunpoint.).

(Warren Rojas/CQ Roll Call)

(Warren Rojas/CQ Roll Call)

And, of course, the suspiciously boneless barbecue pork “rib” sandwich.

Now, we're no prudes.

But there was a time when House Republicans went to war (and won) against the nomenclature for fried potato products — an all-out effort that essentially made the culinary prefix “French” verboten — just to punish the international community.

To wit, the Longworth Lunch Grill still refers to its oil-cooked spuds as “fries” on the specials menu. You have to walk all the way down the line to the actual side-item warming pen to find a tag that dares identify them as “French fries.”

But these days, no one has a problem with shoving a Big Az something or other into their pie holes if their tummies get all rumbly.