Is This You? - Fast Food Junkie

There are times I wonder what it would be like to live in a city where every corner has a fast-food, or even a medium-fast-food joint. Then I feel the tug of a too-tight pair of pants. That’s when I realize I could never live somewhere that food is available by driving up to a window 24/7.

But! Yes, an overly stuffed French-Fried “but.” There are times when I have gone to town and come home with delightful smells of burgers, pizza, chicken, Chinese food, and tacos wafting a heart-clogging aroma through my vehicle. If I get a bit of guilt, I will also bring home an apple pecan salad. It is, however, nearly always the last thing I pull from the line-up of brown paper bags and boxes that encase some sort of burger — with bacon — and stick it in the fridge after one of those trips. I think healthy. Does that count for something?!

I have known a few potato farmers in Idaho who often sell their taters to a few fast-food places. I have learned more than I really wanted to know about the process of getting the lowly brown and red spuds from the farm to the cardboard box as delicious French fries. Oh, the things those potatoes go through to make them so irresistible to the masses.

Besides the beautiful potato raised to perfection — thank you, J.R. Simplot, potato processor, and J.P. Kruckeberg, #1 worldwide agronomist — the spudders get bathed in special oils and seasonings. I think there may even be magic wands involved. A lot of R&D (research and development) goes into each food item on the menus we choose from, either by car or — Heaven forbid — by actually getting out of our cars and walking into the restaurant.

And finally, I have gotten to where I wanted to go today. Fast-food restaurants.

My friend Google says the description of a restaurant should clearly and concisely convey its unique selling points — including food, atmosphere, and overall dining experience — to attract customers. It should be memorable, descriptive, and tailored to the target audience. Does that include the McPlay Space?

Not that this is a big point in life. There are bigger spuds to fry. Like: is there still an “air mail” stamp? A discussion for another time.

The fact that there are seats and restrooms in the place where you eat your baked potato — with a big ole splat of chili on it — does that make a fast-food place a restaurant?

In the 1950s, when drive-ins were all the rage, when your milkshakes were delivered by a girl on roller skates, was “inside seating” what made it a restaurant?

Speaking of chili — I still laugh when I picture this guy behind the counter scooping rich, red chili into a yellow paper cup. He yelled to the gal at the counter, “Cheese on this chili?”

“Yes!” she called back.

Without missing a beat, he grabbed a slice of yellow cheese-like product from an eight-inch-high stack, unceremoniously stuffed it down into the chili with his finger, popped on a lid, and handed it over.

Some things you just can never unsee.

Do the restrooms in a “real” restaurant have to be hidden away down some walkway? With a little round lock that says “OCCUPIED” or “VACANT”?

If the one- or two-holers are tucked inside the dining room, where you can see people wiping their hands on their pants as they come out, does that make a fast-food place restaurant-quality?

I’m just a country gal. I don’t need candles in little yellowish glass cups or linen napkins and tablecloths to call it a restaurant.

Besides — have you ever thought about those linen napkins? You’re not the first person to spit out a wad of steak you just couldn’t chew into one of those napkins. Oh my!

For my part, I’ll go with the diner on Main Street America. Paper napkins — all you need. Heavy plates that have seen more meatloaf than you can imagine. Maybe “inside air-conditioned seating.” Yes, even a place for kiddos to play — as long as there’s a scream-proof wall between them and me!

Whether you eat in a restaurant, in your car, or out of bags and bags of takeout, make it something that makes you enjoy every bite, every slurp, every finger lick.

Trina lives in Diamond Valley, north of Eureka, Nevada. She loves to hear from readers. Email her at [email protected].

Really!