Saturday, May 10, 2008
I haven't had my coffee yet, so I'm just going to put it to you straight: If you have the choice of eating at Sonic or contracting gonorrhea, go with gonorrhea. I mean, at least you get to have some kind of sex to get it.
Due to my pathological aversion to hype, I have avoided Sonic like the proverbial plague for almost a month. Nothing, and I mean nothing, ever lives up to that kind of ballyhoo. Except for Jacob. He truly is all that and more.
But my kids have really been wanting to try it, and I was kind of a harsh mom yesterday, so I cajoled a very resistant Todd into taking them there. Oh. My. God. Every diagonal slot was full, there were swarms of teeny-boppers skating to and fro, the parking lot was all cordoned off, and the blasted line went clear into the parking lot of the second business over. And there was no sign of movement. Ever. The chosen were all too content to peck at their leisure, and even the 8th grader directing traffic (the unmoving traffic) just shook his head. Well, true to form, I was just pissed. Half of me wanted to leave screaming obscenities out my window (because I possess lots of self-control, like Sherri Chamness). The other half of me was determined to shoehorn my way in somehow. Not to be beat by their haphazard circus, we managed to park and and walk up to a very disconcerting ordering system, reminiscent of Back to the Future 2. The tables were laid out in such a way as to make it nearly impossible to reach the speaker/menu-thing, and there was no clear way in which to form a line. So we stood in clusters, and were immediately divided into two groups: the polite, "No you go aheads," and those who just assume it is their turn, regardless of the fact that you've been standing there since jelly shoes were en vogue...the first time.
Our order was fairly simple. Todd and Rei ordered theirs with nothing special, I ordered a cheeseburger with no mayonnaise, and Quinn ordered a double patty hamburger with ketchup, mustard, and pickles only. Now, I realize that to a troglodyte in a dinner rush, this may be very difficult to grasp, but most hamburgers come that way, so we were optimistic. The food came, served by a very pleasant Kaneeishia. (I wondered how many more vowels we could squeeze into that name. Maybe go Hawaiian? K'nalei'sh'lei?) Anway. Todd's $7 popcorn chicken had exactly eight pieces, Quinn's HAMburger was dripping with cheese, and I literally bit into ice in my burger. So I flagged down Dinyil and complained, which, contrary to my causticism and forked tongue, I don't relish. I explained that hamburger means no cheese, that's what cheeseburgers are for, and that mine hadn't thawed. She whisked them away apologetically and Quinn and I sat, oh so accustomed to our orders being wrong. (You'd be amazed at how "NO mayonnaise or I will die" translates into "Extra mayonnaise PLEASE" through the intercom.) So then Kaneeishia reappeared with my new burger, as well as Quinn's, which, tah-dah! was another cheeseburger. We realized all four of us were having a simultaneous nightmare. As they were bringing out Quinn's THIRD cheeseburger, I bit into another frosty burger. There was no use. Dinyil explained that it was impossible to to get orders right at mealtimes, and my friend Kaneeishia said she would never work in food again. Now, we all know one can only complain so many times before the cook hawks a loogie into your food. So I ate the frozen burger and prayed that Quinn's fifth one would be correct. Lo and behold they got it! To borrow from the Jabberwocky, Callooh Callay!
Still, the entire operation was suspect, the particular lot they bought is way ill-equipped for this amount of traffic, the layout is confusing and the fries are shit.
That's why I'm telling you, go with the gonorrhea. It's one shot, and no frozen patty.