I cannot remember the last time that I went to eat at McDonald’s. In fact, I cannot remember the last time that I ate fast-food. However, cravings for a ‘heart attack in a brown bag’ come at unexpected times, so I stopped at McDonald’s on the way home from the gym this morning. What a mistake.

The following experience is very typical and is the norm for whenever I randomly stop for fast-food. I normally avoid meal rush-hours, therefore I stopped in today at 10:30 a.m.. There was nobody in line and only three people were waiting for their orders, all appearing impatient as their body language suggested. I immediately counted ten visible employees. They all seemed to be working at their respective stations and normal distraction occurred amongst them as they horsed around a bit and made side conversation. The woman taking my order was polite enough yet looked extremely unhappy and tattered [as if she hadn’t brushed her teeth in a while]. When she repeated my order back to me, she got it wrong. I corrected her. She repeated it to me again and got it right. Bingo- I expected to have my food [with no line and ten employees] in a matter of minutes.

I could not have been more wrong. I walked over to the condiment station to wait for my order to arrive. I found a handy pamphlet outlining the nutritional content of every item available on the menu. As a way to justify upcoming gluttony, I immediately checked the protein value of the Crispy Ranch Chicken Sandwich that I ordered to satisfaction that I was doing something to help build muscle. The Crispy Chicken Strips, which are billed as healthy via advertising, contain 1,260 calories if you eat a twelve-piece. Ouch. I could not look at the carbohydrate or saturated fat values. That may result in me leaving the restaurant without my order and I am too cheap to do that. Still waiting for food…

I check my watch and realize that I have been waiting ten minutes. I look up to realize the delay is that the sandwich-assembly-person made my chicken grilled when I ordered crispy. I figure this will take another five minutes. I also notice that I am the only person in the lobby and the drive-thru is empty. In the meantime, the woman that took my order goes to get my fries ready. I don’t like having to check the bag after I receive my order, so I carefully watch her to ensure that she is giving me the correct size french-fries. I usually don’t realize the sandwich order is wrong until I sit down to eat it, and, by that point, am too apathetic and disheartened from the long wait to get up and wait yet another ten to fifteen minutes to get the sandwich that I originally ordered. If I did that, I would have waited [officially] almost thirty minutes to get a correct order of food at a fast-food restaurant. Why do I bother? Is the food so amazing that I am willing to wait an average of thirteen minutes from when I order only to almost always receive the wrong order?

My food comes up and the woman apologizes for the wait to pacify my obvious discontent. Does McDonald’s think that a gloomy-looking disheveled worker that apologizes to me will ensure my future business? Apparently so. Or is McDonald’s and ‘fast-food’ such an endemic part of our busy cultural lifestyle that we accept such sub-standard service and food quality because we are too lazy to cook at home? And we wonder why childhood diabetes is a national epidemic. God forbid we feed little Johnny something healthy from the stove- let’s buy him a Happy Meal on the way home so Johnny can be just as fat as Mommy. Misery loves company. Maybe McDonald’s should team up with Weight Watchers to get people both coming and going.

I could have it all wrong…how can I blame the employees when they are making ‘McMinimum Wage’ with no chance for advancement? How can I demand service with a smile when they would almost rather shoot themselves than put up with my complaint over having to wait thirteen minutes for a chicken-sandwich? If I bring an incorrect order back and complain, will they spit on the new sandwich they make me? Is any of this even worth it?

I leave McDonald’s vowing never to patronize their business again. I always leave angrier than when I arrived yet knowing that the biggest disappointment will be when I open my ‘heart attack in a bag’. I wonder if the oil they cook the fries in is hot because mine are always cold. I get home to sit down for lunch in front of Jerry Springer in order to point my finger and laugh at the trailer-trash. I open the sandwich box only to realize that they got it wrong…

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