Soop-Yok

July 27th, 2005 Posted in 2005

I had to go into work this past weekend, which always puts me in a foul mood. There’s something about being in an office building by yourself with only the ancient cleaning woman to keep you company that makes you wonder how life somehow came to this. Hoping to pick up my spirits, I stop in at a McDonalds on the way in, figuring I’ll at least get something fatty and bad for me as consolation.

As is my talent in these situations, I effortlessly manage to pick exactly the wrong, non-moving line. Watching the other three lines zip along like lightning while my line stands rock still puts me in an even worse mood than before — and keep in mind I’d already reached the Yosemite Sam out-loud made-up swearing stage of bad moods.

I lean over impatiently to see what the hold-up is at the front of the line, and find an old woman trying to pay for a small coffee with a bag of pennies. With her fumbling arthritic fingers and inability to count past thirty before having to start over, the entire process has ground down to NASA shuttle launch speeds.

I wait. And wait. And wait.

Much anger courses through my veins for the entire human race as, ten minutes later, and now in a devastatingly poopy mood, I finally make it to the cashier.

“I’ll have a Big Mac combo,” I say pleasantly enough, put a ten dollar bill on the counter, and look around while the cashier goes to fill my order. Because my mind’s on other things — poisoning the city’s drinking water and whatnot — it takes me almost half a minute to finally look back around and notice the four-foot tall Korean woman in a McDonalds hat staring at me mutely, completely motionless, and making no moves whatsoever toward putting a hamburger, fries and drink on a plastic tray.

“I’ll have a Big Mac combo,” I try again — slower this time, getting a little confused. More awkward silence.

“I would please really like a Big Mac combo please.” I gesture to the kitchen. “With fries,” I add. “And a drink.” A pause. “In combination. A Big Mac combo. A Big Mac and fries and a drink combo.”

“Beeg…Mahhk…commmbbo…” she repeats back to me, like I’d wandered in off the street and asked for a golden moon rock and an octopus. I swear I’m not making this up. I look around to make sure Ashton Kutcher isn’t hiding behind a nearby counter giggling at me.

The cashier still isn’t doing anything. “Nho Beeg Mahhk,” she finally says, looking down at her cash register and pushing my money back at me.

I hadn’t misread the sign and walked into a furniture warehouse or something by accident, had I? They still served hamburgers at McDonalds, right? How many people had this cashier turned away already today? Had the manager not bothered to sit this woman down and explain the concept of McDonald’s to her — that the reason for her standing in front of the big box with the buttons was to take people’s money and give them hamburgers?

I can tell the cashier is getting flustered, and I feel a little bad for her. Sadly, her ability to explain whatever problem exists with my order is obstructed by her inability to speak any English words beyond “no” and “Big Mac.” Waiting in silence with a growing line behind me, I ponder how disconcerting it is to see such direct evidence of the crack hiring policies of a major food chain. It’s far from comforting to know that there are people cooking my food who can’t be counted on to read the cautions or warnings on the sides of the packages. Warning: keep these fries in the fridge. Attention: don’t put this Windex in the deep fryer. Note: Please do not pick your nose with the same finger you’re holding the lettuce with. These are staid rules, passed down from the McDonald’s head office for well thought-out reasons — yet in the actual restaurant, where the warnings would be most useful, they’re apparently regarded as funny-looking engraved sigils.

Finally a manager comes up to me and explains that since it’s only 10:54, they can’t serve me a Big Mac combo for another six minutes. Ah. He goes on to apologize for poor Soop-Yok the cashier, who is new to this country but can apparently whip up a mean quarter pounder despite her linguistic shortcomings. I mention that I’d been under the impression that McDonalds began serving lunch at 10:30. He clarifies that McDonalds serves lunch at 10:30 on weekdays, and 11:00 on weekends. I offer frank criticisms of his restaurant’s policy to change the times they’re able to serve food to their customers twice in a week, and ask if there are any other concessions I should be aware of, like apple pies being unavailable at low tide or not being able to order McChicken sandwiches during an eclipse.

My questions are, to say the least, accepted coolly. I mention that six minutes is a very short time span, that the line is ridiculously long, that I’ve been waiting for fifteen minutes, and could I maybe just get my food six minutes early and promise not to tell anyone about the special treatment? He explains that this would be impossible.

I grumblingly accept his apologies and get out of the huge line. Then I walk to the back of the huge line and get back in it again, confident that this useless activity should take about six minutes. By the way, I’m really not happy at this point.

I wait. And wait. And wait.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m back up to the front of the line again. The only person in front of me is a woman in her early forties with a big thick moustache, and it’s exactly as prominent and gross as you’re imagining it is right now. When she gets up to the counter she looks up slowly at the menu and says “Hmmm” like she’s never even seen it before. I’m baffled as to what she’s been doing for the past fifteen minutes — composing haikus in her head, I guess — but now, with the cashier’s full attention and twenty people waiting behind her, is evidently the best possible time to look directly in front of her and decide what she wants to eat.

I wait. And wait And wait, while she reads the entire menu and strokes her moustache. Then she says — and I’m not making ANY of this up — “Oh dear. I don’t suppose you have any sandwiches, do you? No — no sandwiches?”

Keep in mind that not only has she apparently never heard of the restaurant chain known as McDonald’s before, but she’s also directing her questions to the English language-impaired Soop-Yok, who of course is looking at her as if she’s taken off her pants and laid a crap right on the counter.

“A — turkey sandwich, perhaps? Could I trouble you for a turkey sandwich?”

“Only burger,” strains poor Soop-Yok, unprepared in her training for a customer this stupid. “Burger. Yum yum. Beeg Mahk.”

“Oh,” she says, looking at the menu again. “Oh, Chicken McNuggets! Well, those sound adventurous. I’ll have the nuggets of chicken, then. Now,” she says, putting her purse on the counter. “Can I order the nuggets of chicken WITH anything, or should I order other items separately?”

“Yum yum,” counters Soop-Yok. “Beeg Mahk yum yum.”

“Oh, a fresh roll!” she suddenly says, eyes lighting up. “Could I possibly get you to bake me a roll with the nuggets of chicken? Can I get that here?”

It’s then that I snap.

Not in my head. Actually out loud, in front of a restaurant full of people. I’ve waited. And waited. And waited patiently for forty minutes, and I want some food.

“You get FRIES with it! Fries and a COKE! It’s FUCKING MCDONALDS! What PLANET are you from that you’ve never heard of McDonalds before? Get Combo Five! Just say ‘combo number five’ and LEAVE!”

Long silence. Only the sound of my loud breathing. Then: “I guess I’ll have the Combo Number Five, then, if the gentleman here wants to be so adamant about it.” Nasty look at me. Heated death stare back at her.

“Next yes!” yells Soop-Yok. I’m up.

“Big. Mac. Combo.” I put my money on the counter loudly.

Soop-Yok: “Whant go-to-go-go?”

“Look, just put something in a fucking bag for me. I don’t care what. Grab something, put it in a bag, please dear Jesus just put food in a bag and take my money.”

I mention all this because I stopped into McDonalds today for lunch, this time in a better mood. I had to laugh out loud when I noticed the framed plaque on the wall, and saw who they’d made Employee of the Month.

I thought that was fitting. I’ve gotta start going to Jack in the Box or something.