The Hamburger that Wasn't

 

Sometimes I teeter on vegetarianism. Sometimes not.

Every now and then I eat at McDos, the French nickname for a well known hamburger chain.

When my daughter was a toddler and my mother took us to eat at a nice restaurant, my daughter threw a tomato slice over her shoulder. It landed on a bald man's head. 

I knew she needed to learn how to eat properly in public, but with a limited budget we went to McDos.

Living in Switzerland a few decades later, I'd be writing in my second floor bedroom. My housemate would be working in her basement office below. Infrequently on a Sunday, I'd get a text, "Wanta sin?" Translate McDonald's. We would.

That's all history. It's been a long, long time since I've eaten at any.

My husband Rick and Sherlock, our dog, were driving back from Southern France to our Swiss home, a six-eight hour drive. There are many good Autoroute food choices, but many don't allow dogs. To add to the hunger problem on Sundays many non-Autoroute restaurants are closed.

We were really, really hungry. We decided on McDo to buy something and eat in the car.

The drive-up was easy to find, and we stopped at the first to check out the menu. A voice kept ordering us to move up. At the next drive-up the order taker did not understand our French and turned us over to an alleged English speaker. At least he tried.

We gave up on parts of what we want to order, corrected the order more than once. We were told our number was 14, and finally advanced. Food was in my future, I thought.

I was wrong!

Next problem. There were no signs, on the ground or on the building where to pay, so we followed the line that might lead us to pick up. The car in front of us stayed, stayed, stayed after the cars in front of him received their bags from staff. 

I went inside to check. One of the employees told me where to pay, but the kid at the counter didn't want my money. He couldn't find any order 14. I had to go to the pay-up line outside. He gave me instructions on how to find it. 

My stomach was growling.

We finally found the right window, reordered because they had cancelled our order and paid. We received two bags marked 14 and found a parking place.

Oops...my smoked hamburger was a chicken wrap, barely edible, the French fries limp, the Coke watery. Rick's hamburger was passable. There was some other drink we didn't order. List 14 was correct, but the items weren't. 

We'd bought a Happy Meal for Sherlock. Our spoiled pup loves hamburger. He ignored it. 

All we could do was laugh.

We drove on, hunger abated. "At least there's a game with the Happy Meal," Rick said.