Adam Garfield, CPA

You know that feeling when the hottie you’ve been eyeing from a distance gets close enough to check out from HD-quality length?  And she’s got some gnarly mole the size of Pluto on her apple-like cheek?   And a lazy eye that’s always looking at Cleveland?  And lime green eyelashes?  And one pointy ear?  Well, getting hosed at your favorite restaurant is exactly like that.  Except restaurants don’t have big ol’ face blotches.  And they aren’t female.  And they can’t really see.  Or hear.  Although they do cause men of all ages to make Homer Simpson drool noises (if they have onion loaf appetizers, that is, and you know EXACTLY what I’m talking about, Tony Roma’s fans).

I was coming back from California with my family and we decided to stop to get some food.  Since I had all four of my boys with me, we logically had to stop at four different restaurants.  Grrr (and another blog altogether).  My second-oldest wanted a burger and shake from his favorite place.  I won’t name it, but it rhymes with Schmiceberg Drive-Inn.  There’s no one at the counter, only a ‘ring bell’ sign.  We ding ding ding away, and an employee shows to take my kid’s order.  Then we wait.  And wait.  And wait.  And . . . so there’s nothing like fast food that’s NOT FAST.  It seems that counter girl was pulling all duties, including cook.  And not a person in line ahead of us, or behind us.

My kid’s picky, and ordered his hamburger with ketchup only (or catsup, if you don’t know how to spell).  The employee, in an very thoughtful effort to expand my son’s eating horizons, threw some cheese and mustard on his burger to be nice.  It might as well have been ricin and anthrax to my kid.  So back we went for a new one.

This time things got good.  And by good I mean nose-hair-pulling painful.  Line of customers eight deep, the girl was still flying solo, and I’m starting to get, shall we say, bent.  However, being the courteous and respectful person that I am, I march right to the front of the line, clamp down hard on my tongue to keep the rage from seething through, and tell counter/cook/dishwasher/complaint manager girl that the burger was cooked wrong, could she please cook another, and could she please, please do it quick since we were still three hours from home and I had a van full of sons and in-laws.  And you all know how painful that can be.  Of course the sons aren’t always pleasant either. 

Well bless her heart, she was, in fact, quick.  And by quick I mean seventeen minutes forty-three seconds quick.  Seriously, we’re talking Mr. Tudball speed (see Carol Burnett Show for hilarious comedic reference).

She finally emerged from the grill area, brown paper bag in hand, exasperated but triumphant in her appearance.  I expected an apology, an excuse, pretty much any sound to come from her mouth.  Instead I got bupkis.  A blank stare as she handed it to me.  An even more blank one as I, once again very courteously pointed out to her that the 100-year war was faster than her, or and while we’re at it that watching an entire episode of those two Disney twin blond boy morons who live in a hotel with their mommy seemed quicker.

The payoff came when we get to the van and Casey opens the wrapper, finally taking a luscious bite of his ketchup-only hamburger.  It was deliciously laced with pickles.  A condiment middle finger.

How did I react, and how did the good people of Schmiceberg respond?  I’ll tell you next time.  Until then, pass the Carolina Honey sauce (cue gargle-like drool noises).

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