Have you noticed that, despite the concerns of health officials, portion sizes continue to creep up in the fast food world.  I mean, I’m as in favor of getting my share as anyone, but do I really need a drink that represents the amount the average Ethiopian consumes in a week?   Or gulp down more calories in one meal than a defensive end would eat over several days? 

Back in the day, you could just order a medium and you would end up with something you could carry.   But medium has slowly gotten bigger and bigger, especially a medium drink, and so now it is roughly the size of a 1990 ‘Gigantor’ helping.  As a result, I have decided to start going with ‘small’, in the hopes that my weight will not increase as fast as the national debt.  But that has it’s own issues as I found out during a recent visit to my local fast food outlet. 

Chewing gum, playing with her hair, and shifting from one foot to the other, the clerk mumbles something that I can’t understand but assume is ‘Welcome to ‘insert chain here’ hope you’re having a super duper day would you like to try our gut buster combo with extra butter and a coconut coke along with a slice of boxed apple pie’. 

I take a deep breathe and reply, “Actually I would like the small ‘can’t buy a belt that fits anymore’ combo with a regular coke.” 

She stops shifting her feet and there is a long silence. 

“That’s for here . . . and for today, thank you,” I add, just to clear up any confusion. 

“What size you want?” she asks like I’m speaking some Jamaican dialect and she didn’t quite catch it. 

“Small”, I announce in a strong clear voice.  Never let em see you sweat. 

She shakes her head slowly and I am positive she is rolling her eyes as she turns around looking for her shift manager.  “Bobby,” she yells, “Do we still have a small?” 

From somewhere in the back a voice yells back “A small what.” 

At least now she is exasperated with someone other than me as she hollers again ‘a small . . . combo, I guess.   This customer wants a . . . small.” 

Bobby pops his head out from around a bank of microwaves.  “The customer’s got a small what?” 

“He . . . wants . . . a . . . small . . . instead . . . of . . . a . . .  large.  Do we have a small?” 

People are starting to turn and look at me, and I hear the John Deere ball cap wearing guy behind me let out a long breath.  

Bobby comes up to the register and looks it over.  He smiles at me and says hi, the way you do to your boss’s children.  You don’t want to ignore them but neither do you want to have to spend any time with them.  After a moment he says to the clerk.  “OK, you enter it this way” whereupon he punches about seven or eight keys in quick succession “and then when the slip comes out write a big S on it.  I’ll take care of it once it gets back there.”  Then he turns to me and says “We haven’t had small since the 70’s, or at least that’s what my dad told me when he turned the store over to me.  I’ll have to charge you for the medium but I’ll substitute small fries and small drink.” 

In my heart I know I should just let it go, but for some reason I can’t even though the other part of my mind is slowly realizing that I have effectively tied up one of two registers for nearly two minutes now and the line is starting to back up.  “OK, so you’re going to charge me for more, but give me less?”  

The manager smiles and nods.

“Am I the only one who thinks there’s something wrong with that,” I add after just a moment. 

The manager nods again.  “Well, the problem is we don’t have a small combo, which is always a discounted price.  So I could give you a sandwich, and a small fry which is now our ‘children under five’ fry and a small drink which is usually reserved for seniors over 80, but if we price each of those separately we end up charging you seven cents more than if we just charged you for a medium combo but gave you less.”  He obviously thinks he has really straightened things out for me and, in the strange logic of today’s world, he has. 

I am tempted to suggest that it might just be easier if there was a small combo size but the guy behind me mutters ‘every damn place you go’, and I feel a real need to move on.   But I swear I see the clerk roll her eyes one more time as I move off with my small and the next person in line moves up.  Maybe next time I will just get the medium and throw most of it away before I get to the table.   Either that or invest in new pants.

Tags: Food, humor