McDonald’s

Oh, Mack-​a-​Don-​AHL-​days (that’s how I say it). How you sparkle on the horizon of Florida Blvd. A bastion of hope and security for many a BRCC student, you remain unfettered by the constraints of time and updated technology. Standing in your noisy and somewhat dingy fortress of burger-​tude, I’m sometimes thrown into a state of serenity by the incessant beeping of the fryolator. Then, like an angel calling from on high, I hear it: «NUMBER 256!». I answer the clarion call by approaching the counter and asking for mayonnaise and offering a heartfelt «thank you».
Shuffling off to the plastic booth by the tv blaring daytime talk shows or news, I settle in to enjoy the fruits of my waiting. The anticipation builds as the first french fry moves towards my already salivating maw. Finally, contact… and disappointment.
Whyyyyyyyyyyyy?! Whyyyyyyyyyyyy, must one of the busiest fast food restaurants in Baton Rouge serve cold French fries? I saw you dump 2, nay 3 baskets of fresh fries into the hopper and my eyes even watered a little upon the sight of fluorescent light glinting off the salt cascading from its silvery chalice. Yet, somehow, I receive fries that are listless and hyperborean.
I charge on into the burger. While it does not reach the soaring heights of quality that a seasoned McD’s veteran has come to expect with 38 years of practice (yes, I was fed the sweet nectar of McDonald since my earliest days), it is comforting to know that the food will taste the same and always be terrible for me. Adieu, sweet abode of heavenly sustenance. Until we meet again.