Wendy’s — My Guilty Quarantine Pleasure
Spicy chicken sandwich, anyone?
There’s nothing quite like a Wendy’s drive through in pandemic land. Shacked up in Bay Village at my girlfriend’s dad’s place, I couldn’t wait to hop in Xssy’s beat up Chevy Cobalt or whatever the model was, drive, just driving was a fun, head to the drive though and return reeking of fryer grease. I felt like a smoker airing out that old black sedan, 100,000 miles on it, manual windows, manual steering.
I’d mask up, roll down the window at the drive though, joining the line of cars. It felt appropriate — the proper social distance. As I inhaled the car’s exhaust ahead of me, I felt an unspoken camaraderie. After all, as a Swiss born immigrant (if you could call it that — it’s a whole other story), this felt American. And we were all doing our part.
But this isn’t some Vice gonzo piece on an empire in decline. I always felt pleasantly surprised by the customer service. Wendy’s, after all, is the kind of inoffensive brand you could dedicate an entire collection of poetry. Although, I can’t imagine what self loathing that poet must have had, or was it dedication, to head there and religiously slip notes in the suggestions bin.
And when I finally unwrapped the aluminum lined wrapper to reveal the spicy chicken sandwich, I always got so excited. I’d have to get everything in place — YouTube queued up, habañero hot sauce uncapped and ready, the door shut. The first bite is always the best.
Now, some swear by dipping fries in Frosties but I have to say it’s not my style. I’m a fries and ketchup kind of guy and this isn’t a think piece, thank god it isn’t a think piece because it’s past midnight and I’m getting hungry again.
This essay is one among 30 Atomic Essays in 30 days.
