A fast food tale in which the narrator SHOULD have called corporate, or, everyone knows it’s wendys…

It was lunchtime about three years ago in the greater Green Hills area. In fact it was about eight stomach growls past the time to eat, and for some reason I had a hankering (el anhelar if you are reading this in Peru) for a Wendys Spicy Chicken sandwich. Usually when a fast food chain advertises spicy, the resulting sandwich wouldn’t make a baby blanch, but in this case, the Wendy’s folks come though. It doesn’t hold a candle-watt to Prince’s chicken, but then again, on that day I didn’t want the coating on my tongue to peel and my intestines to gavotte their own version of the Seven Veils hoping that my head would come off.

So, I head to Wendy’s for my overdue lunch. I stand in line patiently…well, patiently for me. I didn’t say what I wanted to say to the 4 folks in front of me who apparently were recent recipients of the type of lobotomy that disables the portion of the brain that makes decisions. I could wait. The spicy chicken was ahead.

Finally, I make it to the counter. I place my order in a semi-weak voice to reinforce the impression that I had not eaten in three days and couldn’t wait one minute longer for my succor in the form of a spicy chicken sandwich. Naturally, the counterworker told me to move over into the holding area because ‘the cook is just about ready to cook some chicken’. I sidled obediently into the waiting pen along with three other people who ordered some type of chicken sandwich.

About five minutes later, the counterperson waved over my three companions who had wuss-ily ordered the non-spicy version of the sandwich which was beginning to take on the proportions of Orwell’s Rosebud.

I waited about a minute longer, and when I could wait NO MO, I sauntered to the counter and saucily asked..’hey, how about my sandwich’? The counterperson went back to talk to the cook and came back smiling. ‘She said that she didn’t feel like cooking a spicy chicken’. I was sure she was having me on, pissing up my leg as they say in bloody England. I asked again..’now really, when is my sandwich going to be ready?’ ‘SHE DIDN’T COOK YOUR SANDWICH!’.

HUH..WTF!!??? When I got over being stunned and realized that the Candid Camera folks weren’t there and understood she was serious, I asked for my money back. It became quickly clear that she had no idea how to refund money that had already entered their computer with the order wending its winding way to Wendy worldwide headquarters.

I asked to speak to the manager. The manager apparently was sick that day and his second-in-command was taking money to the bank. I waited 15 minutes until the number 2 guy returned. He was able to successfully negotiate the transaction and returned my money. I told him about the pathetic service expecting a coupon for free sandwiches or at least an apology. The true meaning of apathy was defined anew for me that day.

I drove off, uttering curses for which my mother would still attempt to ground me, vowing never to return to the Green Hills Wendy’s. I haven’t..but I’ve been to the Metrocenter Wendys since then, because, I still love me some Wendy’s Spicy Chicken.

I did write an email, but never heard back from anyone. It almost made me want to take up smoking, but that’s another story for another day.

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3 Comments

Filed under tales of stupidity

3 responses to “A fast food tale in which the narrator SHOULD have called corporate, or, everyone knows it’s wendys…

  1. jag

    I had a similar experience at the Wendy’s on West End – the guy behind the counter was telling the person building my Jr. Bacon Cheeseburger to put ketchup and mustard on it, and when I said that the Jr. Bacon doesn’t come with all that he yelled at me that HE was the manager, don’t tell HIM what to do. Then he proceeded to yell at an old man who came up for a refill and then asked for the manager when his service from this guy was rude. Of course, the guy said that HE was the manager and if the old guy didn’t like it, she should SIT THE HELL DOWN! Who cusses an old man? I haven’t been back since.

  2. Pingback: When Im out walking I strut my stuff yeah, I eat Wendy’s?, or, Et tu Violent Femmes… « Salem’s Lots

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