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I have never had avocado toast, and barring a catastrophe or a lost bet, I never will. This take isn’t a moralism based on how the excessive price point of the dish is limiting your growth as a human; odds are, if you’re eating at a restaurant that offers avocado toast, you’ll be overpaying for one thing or another regardless.

No, my take is both gustatory and reflexive: Avocado toast is unappetizing. First of all, I–a mere bystander–am embarrassed by the item’s branding. You don’t call salsa and eggs on a tortilla “Salsa Egg Tortilla”–it’s huevos rancheros. You don’t call strawberries and whipped cream on a waffle a “Cream and Fresh-Cut Fruit Waffle”–it’s a Belgian waffle. Perhaps avocado toast should be called “pan al verde” or “hangover bread” or “gentrificante.” But I’m not here to make friends (I never am) nor am I here to otherwise increase a bad food’s Q-score.

Mostly, avocado toast is bad because toast is a garbage vehicle for the avocado. As you likely know, l’aguacate is a superfood, which means even the fats in an avocado can salvage your troubling marriage or something. What you may not know is that it’s also a scene-stealer; the ingredients the avocado gets paired with inevitably wilt in its presence. That’s totally fine: Avocados are kick-ass. But it means that the toast is superfluous. When half your dish is superfluous, that means you have a bad dish.

A word on toast: it’s disgraceful. The benefits of toast are 1) its crunch and 2) its protective layer to shield your hands from jelly and honey and all other good liquids that you, let’s be honest, would drink straight from the container in the morning if society deemed it acceptable. When bread is necessary as a vessel for tastier foods, as it is in most sandwiches, it is functional and fine; when it is unnecessary, it is pointless. Of note, toast has an even weaker flavor than bread, a comically bland sub-food to begin with. Here’s a sentence that has never before been uttered: “Wow, that plain toast was amazing.”

(There’s also the hilarious inconsistency of the pairing from a health perspective: if you prefer avocado toast over other breakfast / brunch / snack options because an avocado is so good for you, then you’re undermining those modest gains by pairing it with a tasteless, indistinct, eighty-calories-later-and-none-the-wiser carb.)

Putting avocado on something isn’t a bad idea; I, like most white people, love avocados. What infuriates me about avocado toast is that superior alternatives to toast aren’t hard to find. Want crunch? Have an avocado cracker, which at least boasts some salt and notes of butter. Want some hint of texture to make sure your oral cavity doesn’t become a coddled snowflake? Add that avocado on eggs, or hash browns, or grits, or even some steel-cut oats, put it on a plate, and dig in with a single piece of cutlery.

Oh, no, you’re probably mewling, frightened of temporarily not being able to eat with your hands like a goddamn toddler, but what about the protective layer? I need to feel my soggy food while I consume it. Well, do you know what the inside of an avocado looks like?

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A never-before-seen image that’s currently on its way to the Smithsonian.

Look at that! It’s almost like the avocado’s tailor-made for hosting a flavor party in its own backyard. Seriously, just dump any and all sauces and liquids into the avocado itself for an in-hand brunch. Avocados are nature’s bread bowls–their shell can neatly nest their green goodness right alongside whatever else you want. Some Sriracha, some honey, grape jelly, peanut butter, hummus, pesto? You do you. The world is now your avocado, and you’ll never betray yourself with a dumb order again.

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