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Dining in Review: By Matt Brady
Cuisine: Beef & Chicken grease bombs, snacks, incidentals & petroleum Credit: Gas station merchandise only The city of Science & Culture has a new 'fuel stop'. Situated on a redesigned lot bordered by Patrick & Saginaw roads in Midland, this latest addition to our fine, fine roster of restaurants blends the magic of a standard franchise outlet and a completely un-adorned white plaster storefront, achieving an extremely unremarkable effect. I stopped first for gas and found access to the pumps as well as fuel transfer speed to be better than average; a plus during winter months. The pump area is well lit, but the size of the garbage cans was lacking in that I was unable to deposit all of the clotheshangers, pennies, beercans, letters from grandma, broken CD cases, coffee lids and empty belly-buster cups that always seem to accumulate between fill-ups. I was relieved to find the window washer squeegee in place, for I had been spurting my fluid so much air was coming out and I could hardly see. Walking into a common entrance, I was greeted by helpful 'Wet Floor' signs, steering me clear of danger, which I always appreciate. The gas store itself is stocked with the standard pop, coffee, nuts, jerky, hats, maps & sunglasses and finishes it off next to the register by offering for sale individually wrapped roses. The matching satin softball jackets worn by each of the clerks gave me the feeling of security I look for in a filling station, and I could see on their faces their pride in wearing them. All personnel were cordial and offered their advice on the top picks among instant lotto tickets. While I was inconvenienced by the lack of a glow-in-the-dark tickler vending machine in the men's room, as my supply is low with the holidays just around the corner, I took this in stride. Besides, it was time to eat. Strolling into the Burger King half of the place was like walking into a 50's diner mixed with the whirrs & beeps of a carnival midway. I found myself gathering coins and searching for the little monkey. Faux flowers hang lifeless from the ceiling and you kind of get the feeling you're in the marketing department warehouse of Hanna-Barberra Studios. Patrons range from the young to the aged, with the core demographic being elderly couples named Minnie & Earl, retirees from Gladwin in Midland for craft shows, Walmart, and doctor visits. The husbands usually wear nine-year old light blue velcro tennis shoes in absolutely perfect condition. I thought I'd settle for a moment, soak things up, and peer at the menu, but my hostess/cashier had a different plan for me. It was time to order. "HI, WELCOME TO BURGER KING. CAN I HELP YOU!" she belted out, her breath bolstered by the extra tight grip of the unflatteringly stitched Cintas elastic-waist crew slacks. "Well," as I began to stare even more intently at the large plastic Lite Brite menu overhead, "Gimme a look here at the sign for a second will yeh?, " I said under my breath. Just then the manager, whom I named 'Marge", swooped speedily by in her soft, cream colored Stride Rite loafers. A tougher looking gal of roughly 53, she most likely at one time owned her own bait store or small engine shop. It seemed odd not to see her at the potluck picnic pulling up in her 1994 Mercury Topaz, cigarette dangling loosely yet firm, toting a keg of potato salad under the flapping tricep of her liver-spotted arm. That's how I see gals like 'Marge', but that's not important here. The menu is the standard fare: burgers, chicken this & that, plastic toys for the kids, fries, and the whole shaker full for 39 cents extra. I could feel the cashier/hostess begin to look me up & down as I decided what to order; as if I was just another piece of 'Big Fish' to her (the name of the BK fish sandwich). This species of fish is harvested in & around the Pacific Ocean and has a distinct aroma not unlike the Gulf of Splits when the tide is coming in. Although presented with several, conveniently numbered meals, I settled upon a large coffee and decided to rely on the patrons for their food feedback. Finding a seat next to another elderly couple that had just placed their order, we stood together and watched the Burger King Ice Refilling Attendant stare at the breasts of a young female patron from point blank range as she topped off her soft drink. We went on watching as he innocently fingered much of the ice he started pouring into the top of the machine. Oddly, it was somehow reassuring that the attendant was talking to himself and gesturing emphatically as if his team had just won, or he was really happy someone played his song. Overall, it was highly interesting and I was fine because I had ordered just the coffee. All at once several buzzers went off and someone shouted out a stream of numerical gibberish which created a look of urgent resentment on the faces of the women overflowing their uniforms, perched to catch the product as it whisked down the stainless steel chute. My coffee was served hot and I took my seat. I nursed the decent brew while gazing out the window watching the drive-thru patrons urgently bury their forearms in search of fries as they rolled up their windows and passed slowly from the drive-thru lane. On average, it took less than 1.4 seconds after bag-handoff before an item was removed for consumption. After each drive through reception, one is treated to a view of an apartment complex unrivaled in its use of flat, gray surfaces and small, porthole-type windows that by popularly held opinion "Are really nice inside, though." Above the swish & clack of the attendant's broom against his handled trash scoop and the head buzz from the spray of his cleaning solvent, I heard my neighbors discussing their meal. The lightly bearded geriatric woman spoke before her husband as she peered angrily at her baggie of fries. "This is not a medium, and they are not even done," she said. "Her husband made a two syllable grunting noise that ended up being the extent of his commentary throughout the meal. "See, it says here, medium fries a dollar nine," wifey stated, handling Pops the receipt. "But I think they didn't charge us for the coffee," causing Pops to grunt rather excitedly and eject a small piece of sesame seed bun, acting as if he'd forgotten his medicine or had just filled his colostamy sack. At the end of it all, I watched as my neighbors sped away in their 1989 Buick Century building up speed to almost 19 in the 25-mile zone. I thought to myself that I'd be back someday, likely not in the most rational state of mind. I tapped a Mountain Dew pseudo-Slurpee from the Gas Station, donned my new cardboard King's Cap, and went on my way. |
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