I’m relieved to report that Jonathan, my 13 year old, and I arrived safely in Florida last night. The first thing I did when we got here was rip off my Montreal, winter clothes and dig out my shorts and flip flops.
I LOVE my flip flops. They’re the second key ingredient to a happy life. (The first is alcohol.)
But it’s not all flip flops and happiness for some people; specifically the girl who works at the Burger King Jon and I stopped to eat at during our travels.
Now I don’t want to sound like I live under a rock but when I asked Ms. Burger-King-Ray-of-Sunshine what her equivalent to a Quarter Pounder was, the first thing she did was stare at me with a blank face.
13 seconds of silence.
Thinking that maybe I had spoken a foreign language (ENGLISH), I repeated my question in French.
“I heard you the first time,” she answered. “And we don’t have Quarter Pounders. We have WHOPPERS.”
“Yes, I get that. But I don’t want anything similar to a Big Mac. You know. With the ‘special sauce’,” I explained. “I want something Quarter Pound-ISH.”
“Uh-huh.” And then again nothing but a blank face so I ended up ordering a WHOPPER.
Dear Burger King Girl: May I suggest a little flip flop therapy?
Or maybe a career change.