The McDonalds Finishing School
I went to McDonalds yesterday to pick up a burger and fries for my son. Having recently moved across to the UK from mainland Europe I am accustomed to dealing with bilingual people. I now stood before a McDonalds employee - a young man who had evidently invested a recent pay cheque in a very large tub of hair gel, whom I doubt was even lingual. He just stood there with his mouth hanging open.
Not wanting to be insensitive, what with the UK being so ridiculously OTT politically correct, I thought he may have been hard of hearing so repeated my order, speaking a little louder and a little slower. But he continued to stare at me, his mouth agape.
I stepped back to look at the name of the food outlet just in case I’d walked in some kind of a health food joint, but no, there was the McDonalds sign. I returned to the counter by which point the McDonalds chap was digging in his nose. I asked him if he understood my order and proceed to outline what a hamburger looks like on the back of my hand. “To go,” I said, drawing little feet on it too.
He critically examined a recent rock dug out from the depths of his brain then proceeded to wipe it on the edge of the counter.
“Wazzat?” he said. “Duzwanthawhiffraaz…”
“I beg your pardon, could you repeat that?” I asked. “I speak English.”
With a sullen gaze and a long sigh he repeated slowly, “Duz-wan-tha-whif-fraaz!”
How I longed for a small firearm or perhaps a set of industrial tongs with which to clamp his reedy neck and draw his head close to mine.
“It makes no difference,” I said. I still only speak English.”
I stalked through the front door and went to Waitrose instead where I secured the healthier option of a lettuce and cucumber sandwich.
Labels: burger, customer service, employee, fries, McDonalds, politically correct, staff, Waitrose
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