A couple of weeks ago, right before the coldest time of the year, to date, Karen wasn't feeling particularly well, so for about a week we ordered in instead of cooking at home. Because there are plenty of fast food restaurants around, it was supposedly easy to pick something up on the way home, quickly, and get in from the cold.
The first night I stopped at McDonald's. Karen wanted her simply hamburger and fries. There was a line, but it wasn't wildly long, so I didn't think I would be staying in the line for an eternity, which I was. The geniuses working at McDonald's, for whatever reason, didn't think it would be wise to move the car waiting for its food ahead so that they could free up the traffic jam that was developing in the drive-thru lanes, so we sat there for about ten to twelve minutes, engines running, waiting for what ironically is called fast food. To their credit, when we got close to the pick-up window, they apologized profusely for the wait, but it would have been more appropriate for them to apologize for their lack of intelligence.
While I was in the bottleneck at McDonald's, I noticed that there was no line at the Burger King next door. Karen likes frozen cokes, so I thought it would be nice to swing over there whenever my wait in hell ended at McDonald's to get her a frozen coke. So as soon as I was paroled, I swung into the Burger King lot, got in line, and order a frozen coke. There was only one vehicle -- a pick-up -- ahead of me. I thought to myself, Self, this should be quick. I should have known better. The same lack of reasoning skills affected the Burger King staff, because instead of waiving the pick-up forward to wait for his order, they let him sit there, blocking me. When they finally got him his order fifteen minutes later, it was a small order, considering the size of the bag they handed him. All in all, I wasted nearly forty minutes getting two comparatively small orders from local fast food joints.
The next night we decided to order take out from a local Mediterranean establishment that we frequent. We enjoy the food and have had pretty good success there. So Karen called ahead and I stopped in on my way home from work. I should have known there would be a problem when it took me about seven minutes to find a parking space. I drove around and around but it seemed no one was leaving the restaurant. So I parked in the next door restaurant's lot and walked over. My next hurdle was in discovering that the rewards program for the restaurant that we joined had an expiration date of three months. Of course, learning this was complicated by the fact that that night's manager had a thick Middle Eastern accent. Disgusted and tired, I simply deleted the rewards app from my phone and went home.
When Karen opened up the order -- which was supposed to be two deboned chicken breasts -- we were shocked to find what looked like chicken tenders instead. My Irish slowing warming to the occasion, I called the restaurant and got the manager on the phone to complain. When I explained the nature of my complaint I was given an explanation for the ages: The reason the breasts were so small was because they have begun using baby chickens -- his words -- because they're more tender. I was flabbergasted, but not enough to rein in my rudeness: Baby chickens, I thundered, were they in utero before you cooked them? Allegedly, we're going to get a free order on the house.
Stupidly undaunted, the next night I went to KFC to pick up a couple of their cheap $5 boxes. For mine, I ordered an extra breast. The line wasn't too bad, but when I got home, I discovered that my extra breast, for which I was duly charged, was not included in the meal. Perhaps unfairly, but because of the string of mishaps we'd experienced at the hands of the food industry over the course of three days, I lost it. I called the KFC, asked for the manager, and basically asked whether counting skills were necessary to be employed there. The best that can be said for my rant is that I didn't swear.
These incidents got me wondering how on God's green earth these people think they should have a minimum wage of $15 per hour. Minimal competence shouldn't be acknowledged by the presence of a pulse. I understand that the wages are low, but when I was a kid working for school money, minimum wage was less than $5 per hour. Now it hovers around $10 per hour.
I just wonder when it's going to be safe to stop again at one of these places for food.
(c) 2019 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
