I ate like Trump for a week - and my body feels like it might never be the same
Day One. Here we go. This is it. I feel excited as I swing by McDonald's to pick up a pair of Egg McMuffins on my way into work.
Trump says he doesn't usually eat breakfast, but if he does, he'll have these. McDonald's breakfast being served all day has been cited as one of the reasons that the fast-food chain's business has turned around in recent years, so I'm excited to give them a go for the first time.
Immediate regret. The Egg McMuffin does not add up to the sum of its parts. Not a fan. I eat both anyway, seeing as it was the morning after Business Insider's holiday party and I needed something in my stomach.
A coworker also brought in a Shake Shack breakfast sandwich for me. Trump doesn't have an established history of liking Shake Shack, but it is a chain and it was hand-delivered — just like how Trump usually gets his food.
It puts its McDonald's counterpart to shame.
A staple of Trump's diet is Diet Coke, but I'm nervous about that part. I hate diet soda, and I'm not excited about the prospect of having to drink as much as I can in a single day. I start the day off with a seltzer to ease into it.
For lunch, I score some free pizza from a meeting I wasn't invited to. It's not a chain like Trump would probably prefer, but it is one of his major food groups. By this point, I am starting to realize what it means to eat like Trump. Calories and salt, and lots of both.
For dinner, I order McDonald's delivery through UberEats. Twice in one day feels like a crime against sense, but I push through anyway.
I get two Big Macs and a small chocolate shake. I also get a small fry. This feels like too much food, even though it's two Filet-O-Fishes short of a full Trump dinner. Then again, Trump says he barely eats the whole day, so that might explain it. I try not to think of what I'm doing to my body as I pound it down. I go to bed feeling slightly uneasy and very full.
Day Two. The next morning, I frantically search for information for something other than Egg McMuffins to subsist on. Trump says he eats corn cereals — bingo. To be fair, Trump says he only eats corn grown in the US, but my Peanut Butter Captain Crunch does not specify. It feels healthy compared to the day before, and my body feels renewed.
At Target, I decide to pick up one of Trump's favorite snacks (and mine): Oreos. In lieu of lunch, I polish off a row before I realize how many I've eaten. Oops.
I'm at a loss for what to do for dinner, so I decide on Domino's. That fulfills two Trumpian requirements: pizza and a chain restaurant. I also bite the bullet and get a two-liter bottle of Diet Coke to go with it. I drink about a quarter of the bottle and hate every second of it. At this point, my stomach asks me why I've decided to punish it so.
Day Three. I had plans early the next morning, so I eat the only thing quick and easy available to me for breakfast before I run out the door: cold Domino's. I do convince my friends to stop for an ice cream during the day, though — I get two scoops, of course.
The ice cream is good, but it still feels like I haven't eaten anything real or healthy in days.
Later, I meet up with a friend at a fancy movie theatre with a bar in it. Trump doesn't drink, so I order a Diet Coke. I find it strangely refreshing, and it tastes so much better than the bottled stuff I've been drinking.
I order another during the movie, along with an order of queso and chips. There's no record of Trump eating queso, but I figure the famous Trump Tower taco bowl isn't too far off. When the check comes, the mystery of the theater's great-tasting Diet Coke is solved — it's not really Diet Coke, but a much fancier brand.
Day Four. It's Monday, and I'm back on the Egg McMuffin grind. I'm really beginning to loathe these things.
I'm feeling super sluggish — much more than a usual Monday. I wonder if it's my horrible diet. Trump doesn't drink tea or coffee, so I crack open a Diet Coke at 11 a.m. I hate what I've become, but I finish the can anyway. I find it hard to drink one, let alone 12.
A coworker brings in donut holes, and I eat a few despite how I feel. I skip lunch.
For dinner, it's back to McDonald's for a Filet-O-Fish meal. The sight of the greasy food makes my stomach turn, but I've already committed.
Day Five. Work from home day. I ordered some eggs — over-hard, just like Trump likes them — and bacon "extra crispy." The eggs were over-easy, and the bacon just normal. It was all thoroughly fine. It felt nice to have something in my stomach that was minimally processed. The rest of the workday I nibble on (still) leftover pizza and Oreos.
For dinner, I decide to try Trump's "favorite" food: steak. I found a place in Brooklyn that sells a reasonable New York strip (his favorite cut), and ordered it well-done with ketchup. Upon the plate being set down in front of me, it was immediately clear why he takes it with ketchup. It's the only way to get any flavor out of a dried-out, burnt-to-a-crisp hunk of well-done meat. It's not bad, per se, but it's not great either. I feel the need to apologize to the waiter.
Day Six. This was the day I tried to stick to Trump's eating schedule — that is, ignore food all day and gorge at dinner. With the steak from last night still making its presence known in my stomach, I didn't get hungry until lunch time. I tried to see if a Diet Coke would suppress my hunger, but it didn't really work. At the onset of this experiment, I thought I would either grow to love or grow to despise Diet Coke. Turns out it's the latter.
A surprise TV appearance had me scrambling for food, so I decided to get a few Big Macs from the McDonald's around the corner just before 5 p.m. It's easy to understand why Trump structures his meals this way, as it is more productive in theory. But it requires the sacrifice of the mid-day eating demands, and my hunger distracted me from being productive all day.
Turns out two Big Macs and a Diet Coke is not enough food for one day, and I was hungry later. I finally finish off the Domino's, thoroughly ashamed of who I am.
Day Seven. Honestly, I don't know how much more I can take of the punishment. The thought of bacon, eggs, or any kind of breakfast sandwich in the morning makes me gag at this point, so I grab an oatmeal bar from the office kitchen instead. It tastes like release.
I splash out for lunch — a fast-casual burger instead of a fast-food burger. I order it well-done, and the receipt makes sure there is "nooooooooo pink." I'm embarrassed.
The food comes, and it's a welcome respite from the fast food I've been eating all week. It's fresh and beefy, and the change of pace is so nice.
I also ordered a chocolate shake to make it feel more Trumpian.
Day Eight. The last day. I go completely rogue and start the day off with a yogurt. Anything else feels like too much. I skip lunch.
For my last dinner, I'm finally indulging in the last Trump food group: KFC. This chain's menu is large and confusing. I got a two-piece chicken meal, which is not what I thought I ordered, but it's fine. It was greasy and rich, and far too much for me to stomach after the lunch and week I had. I was so glad to be done.
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