The Medium, or lack of it, was the Message
Size-wise, we need a middle ground
It’s been a year since I’ve been to McDonald’s. In olden times I stopped once a month on the odd day when the family couldn’t convene for a common meal. I would run through the fast-food options in my head: Taco Bell? Love it! But I had that last time I wanted some processed grub. Five Guys? Don’t feel like taking out a home equity loan for a boring burned burger and bag filled with nine pound of fries. Wendy’s? No, I always get the chili sauce packet and spend the next hour convinced that a corkscrew tipped with botulism is trying to pierce my stomach lining.
So maybe don’t get the chili sauce packet, you say.
But I love the chili sauce packet.
Yes, but it brings pain.
But it doesn’t bring pain when I am enjoying it.
It will in the very near future.
Well, I could be hit by a car walking through the parking lot. Life is for living. (An hour later: bent over like a paperclip in the line at Walgreens with a 1.75 liter jug of Pepto Bismol)
In the case of my most recent McD visit, it was simply a matter of need: I’d forgotten to eat lunch, and needed a grub-wad to plug the empty spot. (As the gourmands say.) McD’s was the first fast-food joint I saw while driving.
They had kiosks. On one hand, I don’t like them, because they seem remarkably unhygienic. Hey, folks, you’re going to be eating with your hands in a few minutes - why not rub your fingers on this vertical petri dish? They’re probably DNA / facial recognition collection stations set up by the NSA. I use my knuckle. Did I want a drink? An apple pie? French fries? Yes, yes, yes - but I am I in control of my desires, and decline the opportunity. Do you mean this from a Stoic or Buddhist perspective? (Knuckle tap) STOIC. Do you want to contribute to a charity? No, I want a hamburger. Never in my life have I donated to a charity and suddenly a clown appears and asks if I want a hamburger. Let’s just keep these things distinct.
On the other hand, I prefer the clarity and ease of tapping out an order without dealing with a sullen clerk who doesn’t start listening until you’re two sentences into the order. It used to be worse. I used to have this conversation all the time:
“Two hamburgers, and a medium fries.”
One out of ten order-takers would press a button and ask if that was all. Nine out of ten would say:
“We don’t have medium. We have small, large, and supersize.”
This I knew. I was just being a man of principle. I refused to participate in this preposterous nomenclature. I refused to deny reality. If I really felt my oats I would say something along these lines:
“That’s not accurate. They are three containers of set dimensions, each with its own specific volume. If you have a set of three, one, by definition, will be greater than the small one, and one will be smaller than the largest. Once, when people spoke plainly and a man’s word was his bond and gentlemen tipped their derby hats to ladies as they passed on the street, whereupon the lady might conceal her blush with a coquettish wag of her parasol, a large was the largest. But now we have this new category. Do you get my meaning thus far?”
“We have small, large, and -
“You have three sizes. The second one may not be the ‘medium’ strictly speaking, in terms of its actual volume, but it plainly occupies the space between the two poles in terms of the gradation of increased fries supply. So your ‘large’ must be the medium, even if it is called something else.”
I never went that far, and usually grumbled “The one in the middle” with mild contempt, and life went on. At some point McDonald’s returned to Medium and eliminated “super-size,” perhaps to avoid bad PR after they got spurlocked.
Anyway. I did not eat the hamburger in-store, as they say in the romantically evocative industry terms, or in my car. It was a warm day, and I ate it outside, leaning against my car, as an American should. The burger was fresh, warm, and delicious - and I forgot it the moment it was gone, like every McDonald’s burger I’ve ever had. I’ve already forgotten the next one.
In the Midwest fast food world you get hit with a rapid fire “for here or to go” which comes out sounding “ferhurertahguh.” I lived in Minnesota for ten years, and for ten years I said “What?” The fast food sales associate would reply louder “FERHURERTAHGUH,” to which I would reply “Oh! Tah guh!” And they would say “What? Oh, TO GO? Sure, then!” I’ve had my hearing checked since then. It ends up I can hear, but I can’t hear Midwestern very well.
Afraid I’ve been a little more militant about an unavoidable choice between skipping the drive through window, or going home to eat something in the fridge.
My dominant complaint with these window-imbecils is that once you’ve handed over your money, they’re convinced that they are done speaking to you. You get your change back, are handed your bag, and expected to go away.
I started to insist that I get a thank you, often times asking for and complaining to the manager. Finally one occasion, after handing over my cash, I told the dumbazz kid, “This is where YOU say, thank you”. Moron looked befuddled, so I tepeated it. Finally he mumbled, “Your welcome”.
After 25-30 seconds later, his manager was insisting that I was not allowed to try to drag her employees through the window.
In order to stay out of jail, that was my last visit to fast food.