one man, no potatoes
Recently I was driving home on the M50 Southbound. It was 9:30 towards 10 o’clock at night – roughly the threshold beyond which the appeal of a multicoloured, vibrant plate of healthy food gives way to a vociferous yearning for beige, greasy grub.
I had long since dismissed notion of cooking my own meal, so as I approached the Carrickmines exit, the steering wheel of my VW Polo began to be pulled to the left, gently at first, as though guided by some kind of cruise control system, then gradually with more purpose.
The left indicator was blinking, and I realised I was powerless to override the manoeuvre: I was headed for the McDonald’s Drive Thru and there was nothing I could do to stop me.
To my dismay, the queue beneath the golden arches was lengthy – far longer indeed than the swiftly burning fuse of hunger that felt like it was boring a hole in my stomach. Can you reverse out of a Drive Thru? Sod it, I was doing it anyway.
Just at that moment I sensed a strong presence over my right shoulder; an elderly, bespectacled man with white hair and a goatee was beaming down at me. He wore a white shirt with a black dickie bow and a red and white-striped apron. He loomed large, shining brightly against the coal-black sky with an unyielding stare. His fixed eye contact and toothy grin told me one thing: there was no queue for the Colonel.
I rolled up to the Drive Thru outside KFC – Kentucky Fried Chicken for the uninitiated – and to say the guy at the first window was stunned to be receiving my custom would be a major understatement. The look on his face betrayed the emotions of a man who had never even witnessed a customer turn right for KFC instead of continuing straight ahead for McDonald’s, much less served one.
Unfamiliar with the offering of this fine establishment, I perused the menu on the board in front of me and made my order.
“I’ll have the fillet box meal, please.” Chicken burger, a piece of original recipe chicken, regular fries, regular side and a drink of choice.
“Sorry mate, we’ve no more chips,” came the response.
Fair enough, I thought, they were half an hour from close.
“Ok, well I’ll go for mash instead, and a corn on the cob.”
“We’ve no corn on the cob either.” This I could accept.
“Grand, well I’ll just have the mash then.”
“We’ve actually no potatoes left at all.” Why did he not tell me this when he was breaking the bad news about the corn?
At this point I made every effort to withdraw from the transaction but was enticed back in by the offer of an extra piece of original recipe chicken in lieu of any potato-based side.
“Go on then,” I sighed before tapping my card and rolling my car forward.
To my surprise I was greeted at the next window by what appeared to be the exact same man from the first window, who decided – bafflingly – to try and mask the fact he was the only employee on shift and greet me as though he had never so much as laid eyes on me before this moment.
He recited my order.
“One fillet box meal with extra chicken and a Coke Zero.”
“Yep, that’s me,” I replied, as if it could be anyone else, my voice and no doubt face growing more and more weary with every passing minute in this parallel world that looked like ours but seemingly contained only one man and no potatoes.
“Sorry mate, we’ve only one piece of original recipe chicken left.” The offer of extra chicken made so graciously to me by the same man at the previous window was now being cruelly retracted.
All I was getting were broken promises.
“Listen,” I said, noticing the McDonald’s queue dissipating. “I may just leave it and ask for a refund. Is that OK?”
“Hold on.”
The man then stood up and disappeared from view in what I can only speculate was an attempt to make it appear as though he was consulting a colleague, before returning seconds later and sitting back down at window level.
“If you want I can cook you some chips?”