Fairly Fast Food

A bit of social nourishment

A friend and I recently went out for a quick bite. We were somewhat limited on time, so we selected one of those not-quite-fast food chains that position themselves a tiny cut above the ubiquitous burger or fried chicken emporia in your town. I’m sure you’ve seen them popping up recently. To succeed, an ethnic angle appears obligatory—perhaps Mediterranean or Middle Eastern, Mexican, Indian, Polynesian—you name it.

Anything that can create an excuse to toss the customer’s choice of one protein-dense ingredient and a handful of chopped vegetables onto a base consisting of a wrap or a rice bowl. The whole experience echoes a school cafeteria, except for the exotic flavors like Harissa, Sumac, or Cumin, and the absence of a mean girls’ table. You shuffle along a service line pointing at things, and the burka-clad young woman on the other side of the glass makes up your meal for you. You pay and leave, or if you are staying, search for a table that looks like it might have had a fairly recent disinfectant wipe.

That is, you do unless you are stuck behind this clown; what in God’s name is he up to? The server watches in dull despair as he jabbers on his phone, while not even making eye contact with her; her colleague by the cash register is wondering if he can grab a quick break since nothing seems likely to happen for a bit. I have never been accused of not being nosy, so I press the “learn more” button by executing a deft quarter turn toward my friend while simultaneously taking a half step back toward the fellow so I can hear him better.

“ Yes, chicken or beef or - what is that? chickpeas? - “ he is saying in a deferential tone of voice. “Yes, the chicken looks ok, looks like white meat… Ok “ he looks at the server and points, and we are off. Slowly, of course, since he begins to describe other potential ingredients while receiving instructions. He’s only buying one meal, nothing for himself, only for this other person who clearly has the power in the relationship. What is going on? “ They have tomatoes, cucumber, two kinds of peppers, and ..” “What is that pink thing please?” - “Pickled onions … No, of course, no pickled onions” (waves a frantic no at the server).

Wife or girlfriend he is afraid of losing? That would account for the lickspittle tone - no, impossible. No woman would send this pillock out on an errand without detailed written instructions and his mittens tied together with a string.

Ah - I have it; It’s late Friday afternoon - he’s a single dad starting his weekend with the child who normally lives with his ex. Probably a daughter, a son would get a cheeseburger and fries and learn to like it. He’s competing for her affections and afraid of losing her. She must be about 11, the hormone-induced mother-daughter war-to-end-all-wars has not erupted yet, or he would be more secure. And of course, if she were a teenager her Friday evenings would be sacred and he would have to start on Saturday morning.

Mystery solved, I turned my attention to my friend, and we enjoyed a pleasant hour together. We caught up on our lives and benefitted the world around us by collaborating on the solutions to various social problems. We parted with a resolve to meet again soon to enjoy another evening together.

Back home, a little introspective guilt started tugging at me. Is it normal to fabricate backstories for strangers? Do other people do this? Or is it, like my left-handedness and cowlicks, an unfortunate idiosyncrasy? Maybe a little of both, or perhaps we all want to feel closer to the strangers we see daily.

I know I am far from alone these days as although I routinely see my loved ones, it is mainly in electronic form, on Facetime and Zoom. Conversely, I overwhelmingly see strangers in physical form. Somehow, I have let too much geography creep into my life.

For most of human history, and even now in small villages worldwide, people know their neighbors well. Indeed, they know much more than those neighbors want them to know. Presenting a false front to the world was and is full-time work for people in these places, necessary for status and self-respect. For us, in the anonymous metropolis, there is nothing to fear as we go about our daily lives, unconcerned with the unseen and almost certainly false speculations of those we will never meet again.