What Part Of "Barq's" Don't You Understand?

Two weeks have gone by and - Wouldn't you know it? - I find myself back at Chick-Fil-A once again.

*sigh*

Not my choice of a quick dinner while on the go. (As a matter of fact, the next time we're out, I'm picking the eatery for a change of pace.)

You know ... I never have understood the attraction of Chick-Fil-A. I've frequented their locations a handful of times - the majority in the last year - and I haven't yet had anything that strikes me.

Well that's not necessarily true. When there those few weeks ago I included a side of coleslaw with my order. It would have been completely unremarkable except for one thing: Chick-Fil-A shaves their slaw into such small particles it has the consistency of chewing grains of sand. It's barely coleslaw; it's more like eating flavored shavings. Yeah, that was the impression the stuff left me with. At least, I can say I've tried it. And no need to go back to it again.

Anywho, everyone else had ordered and I was last up. I requested the same thing as previous, a spicy chicken sandwich meal. This time noted there was hot sauce available as one of their condiments. I could make the sandwich taste as if there was a bite to it being the description ("spicy") was deceiving. (Interesting Side Note: This time around I was asked by the service person what type of cheese I wanted on the sandwich. The image displayed and stated on the menu board plainly states the item comes with pepper jack cheese. Being given a choice point blank upon ordering leads me to conclude Chick-Fil-A simply enjoys messing with my head.)

Understand: As far as fast food joints go, the place isn't bad. It's just, well ... dull. There's nothing that stands out about it. (And even that's not completely true. The employees? They're overly nicey-nice. They exude a kind of suspicious scrubbed-clean fakery to the point they lean toward a somewhat creepy side. They're kind of like a clean version of "children of the corn" - you know they're going to show up at your doorstep in the middle of the night to do you harm. (Of course, I jest ... I think ...)

At any rate, my order put in, I was asked what drink I wanted with my meal. "Barq's, please" I responded.

"What?" the service kid asked me quizzically.

"Barq's" I said once more.

The kid leaned closer to me obviously befuddleded and asked again. For the third time I said "Barq's." I was speaking English and I know I was speaking loudly enough for him to hear me; I wasn't privy why there was a disconnect. He looked at me with a bit of a crinkle in his brow, appearing not to want to ask a forth time. 

"Barq's Root Beer, please" I explained.

"Oh! I'm sorry! I didn't even know that's what it was called," he fumbled.

Inwardly I sighed to myself, but didn't say anything. My drink was filled and given to me. I thanked him and went on my way.

"Why didn't you just tell him you wanted root beer?" I was asked by a member of my dinner group.

"Look: The founders of Barq's have done a hell of a job branding their product and establishing a niche in the soft drink arena. I would be doing them a huge disservice if I called out Barq's with the common terminology of "root beer" ... which their beverage isn't precisely. Not to mention if there were any Cajuns within earshot they would have lambasted me ... and understandably so with regard to my lack of respect toward the product ..."

I was rewarded with an eye roll.

Yes ... I know: Sometimes I'm a freak.

.......... Ruprecht ( will not STOP calling it "Barq's" ) 629

Conversation .....

Harold and Maude had just escaped the heat of the day to refresh themselves with a quick fast food meal at a local Weinerschnitzel. After ordering, both sat down at an empty booth when an argument between two unseen employees broke out behind the counter. One was yelling at the other in Spanish:

“¡Mirar! ¡No me importa lo que usted piensa que sí, no es trabajo! ¡Ese es el tercer cliente del que traté de hacer una cosa y salió otra… después de que usted ha dicho usted fija bien desde la primera vez! ¡Ahora salir allí y cambiar la contraseña de root beer!”

(Translation: “Look! I don’t care what you think you did, it’s not working! That’s the third customer that’s tried to get one thing and it came out another … after you said you fixed it right the first time! Now get out there and change the root beer!”)

Harold and Maude looked at each other and smiled.

“Geez! What was that all about? But more importantly, don’t they have a word in Spanish for root beer?” Maude asked.

“No, they don’t,” Harold responded.

“That’s just dumb. You’d think they could say “root beer”! They have to use English words to say it?”

“What restaurant are you sitting in?” Harold asked.

“Weinerschnitzel,” Maude replied.

“That’s right. And there is no translation for “Weinerschnitzel” in English. So what are you going to call it? You’re going to call it “Weinerschnitzel”, just as you’ve done since you first learned the word,” Harold explained. “Not everything translates ..... and English isn’t the be all, end all …”

Moral: Dogs and root beer usually go together. (That is ... if you can make yourself understood when you order'em .....)

........................................ Ruprecht ( STOP )

If you have a better moral, post it, Diego .....