You want fries with that?

Eeewww! I Didn’t Order This Stuff.
By Joseph Walther



You are on the road. It’s about 2:30 in the afternoon as you approach a restaurant emanating a charcoal aroma that is driving you to distraction. This, coupled with the fact that you are starving, causes your eyes to glaze over in a robot-like, empty stare. Suddenly, you’re in the parking lot getting out of your car. You have no conscious memory of pulling in. You are no longer in control of your actions. Drooling and methodically mumbling, “char burger, char burger, char burger”, you find yourself seated in a booth gazing at unrealistic pictures of charbroiled hamburgers and crisp, golden brown French fries similar to the way a zombie fixates on an intended victim.

Is this you? If so, please STOP freebasing the Prozac. Get a grip before you kill someone. You’ll never catch me doing this. First, I use Paxil, not Prozac. Second, I know, ever since the health food Nazis came into prominence, that there is no such thing as “crisp, golden brown French fries. Third, I never frequent known hamburger joints because there’s no fun in it. Let me explain.

I am an unpredictable, out-of-control writer who will go to any length to get a story angle. I am not above putting people on, as it were. I’m so bad that my attractive, moderately reserved daughter would rather drink a glass of liquid Drano than risk going to a restaurant with her dad. I can’t help myself. Just knowing that nothing freaks a health food nut like someone, well within earshot, ordering a rare to medium rare hamburger or New York strip steak, causes me to salivate in Pavlovian proportions. But this pales compared to a restaurant manager’s reaction when I deny ordering what the waiter put in front of me. Again, let me explain.

It’s important for all of you to realize the importance of always picking a general entrée restaurant. Health food freaks don’t go to steak houses and hamburger joints. Be realistic. These people look awful. They all have that emaciated look. Such people would NEVER eat a McDonald’s Quarter Pounder because it’s too heavy for them to lift. On top of this, the menus for general entrée restaurants tend to be bloated with unrealistic pictures of the food, not to mention over-hyped entrée descriptions. This is all of the ammunition one needs to send the food back.

Last week, I stopped at such a restaurant. It was not very crowded and that surprised me because it was 12:50 PM on a weekday. Where was the lunch crowd? I seated myself in one of the small, two person booths. A waiter arrived with a glass of water, eating utensils wrapped in paper napkin, and a menu the thickness of a short novel. She told me that she’d be back shortly to take my order. I told her to take her time as it could take several hours to read the menu. Not only was she was gone before I could finish the sentence, she displayed all of the warmth and personality of paper clip. I had a nasty feeling about this place and I should have left. But I didn’t.

As I thought about leaving, I heard a man and woman, seated in the booth next to mine, discussing the ills of red meat. He was the picture of death and she was death warmed over. This, in addition to a snotty-assed waiter, screamed at me to STAY. This was going to be fun and I was going to get a column out of it to boot!

The menu was loaded with unrealistic pictures of the food. Each entrée had exaggerated descriptions full of pure marking babble. On the second page of the menu, under a section called “Burger Heaven”, I noticed an item: Charburger Supreme with a picture. The picture showed a thick, juicy looking, perfectly brown hamburger on a large bun; topped with a beautifully dark green, fresh slice of leaf lettuce and two large, red-ripe slices of tomato. A plate of golden brown French fries accompanied the burger. Here is the entrée description, verbatim. “A quarter pound of our freshly ground top sirloin, broiled to perfection, served on one of our very own fresh, sourdough buns, and topped with generous slices of red ripe tomatoes and garden green leafy lettuce with a side of piping hot, crisp, golden brown French fries.”

The waiter returned. “You ready, yet”, she asked with an obvious air of impatience. I said, “Well, yes, unless you have something more important to do.” Her demeanor changed slightly for the better and she asked, “What would you like, sir?” Following a George Carlin comedy routine, the next paragraph describes exactly how I ordered.

I’d like the a Charburger Supreme, a quarter pound of your freshly ground top sirloin, broiled to perfection, served on one of your very own fresh, sourdough buns, and topped with generous slices of red ripe tomatoes and a generous leaf of garden green lettuce. Please don’t forget that piping hot serving of crisp, golden brown French fries. “How would you like that cooked, sir?” I told her that it would be fine as long as it does not wince with pain when I bite into it. (The meat-hating man in the adjacent booth developed chest pains and the woman with him went into a fetal position.)

When the order arrived, it looked nothing like the picture. Since the food’s appearance has nothing to do with the waiter, I asked for the manager. When she arrived, I told her that I had not ordered this. She retrieved the check from the waiter and said that I had ordered it. “It says right here that you ordered an H1, medium rare with iced tea. An H1 is our code for a Charburger Supreme.”

I admitted that I had ordered the Charburger Supreme. However, I further explained that I ordered one like the picture in the menu and described as “A quarter pound of our freshly ground top sirloin, broiled to perfection, served on own very own fresh, sourdough buns, and topped with generous slices of red ripe tomatoes and garden green leafy lettuce with a side of piping hot, crisp, golden brown French fries.” Clearly, I explained, the bun’s stale. The crumbling and dryness is a dead gave away. The meat could pass for leather and the lettuce was neither green nor fresh. I’m rather observant; otherwise, I would have missed the single, paper-thin slice of unripe tomato. I also explained that the French fries were closer to tepid than piping hot, light beige, not golden brown, and definitely not crisp.

At this point, she apologized and offered the meal on the house. I explained that I didn’t want a free meal. I told her what I was doing and why and gave her one of my “The True Facts” business cards. I asked her if she had any say in the menu content of pictures and descriptions. She said that she did. So, I won’t divulge the name of the restaurant because I’d like to see if the manager can make a few changes as outlined below. If she does, it may not be as easy to get a seat the next time. If not, I’ll bet there are other businesses lined up to lease the space.

I asked her to consider eliminating the pictures. They are unrealistic. It’s impossible to cook food to look like the pictures. Make the entrée descriptions simple and straightforward, and serve what you advertise. Hire waiters who enjoy the work because they enjoy meeting other people. Once you have good waiters, treat them like you really care and they will take care of your business.

Great restaurants have certain things in common. If any of you want to see one in action, go the Crossroads Restaurant, located midway between Wilmington and Newark, Delaware. Specifically, it’s located at the intersection of Kirkwood Highway and Limestone Road. There are no food pictures on the menus. The entrée descriptions are accurate, and the food is terrific. The waiters are fantastic people who make you feel like a respected paying customer.

I know. I know. I am going to get a few emails from people who have had bad experiences at the Crossroads. Well, that’s too bad. You’re probably getting old and becoming unreasonably cranky.

Have a great week.

Joseph Walther is a freelance writer and publisher of The True Facts. Send email to: publisher@thetruefacts.com