Last March I wrote a lengthy post about different experiences at three different McDonald’s, two in different parts of South Carolina, one somewhere in the wilderness that blurs between Georgia and Florida.  According to my budgeting software, the last time I purchased anything from McDonald’s was 17 March 2024, which is shortly before I wrote this post on 20 March 2024.

I like McDonald’s.  I do not like what it has become—overpriced, low-quality fast food.  The classical trade-off of fast food generally, and McDonald’s particularly, is that, in exchange for low-quality food, you get high consistency and low cost.  Now the experience is expensive, inconsistent, and inconvenient.

In other words, it’s not worth it.  I’ve always seen McDonald’s as “travel food”—the kind of cheap crap you shovel into your face on a long road trip because it’s quick, hot, and fairly delicious—not as everyday fare, but there are so many superior options.  Taco Bell is a vastly more affordable fast food experience, and the food is better—and, I’ll risk claiming it, marginally better for you.  I’m not saying Taco Bell is healthy, but a bean burrito is filling and cheap, and way less life-ruining than a Big Mac.

That said, I’m hankering for a Shamrock Shake.  ‘Tis the season.  If I head back to a McDonald’s anytime soon, I’ll be sure to give a full report on the weird, alien world I encounter.

With that, here is 20 March 2024’s “McDonald’s: A Vision of Our Dystopian Future“:

Ever since The Age of The Virus, I’ve noticed a general decline in the quality and value of dining and amenities.  Every restaurant, hotel, airline, and putt-putt golf course used The Virus as an excuse to trim out all of those little “extras” that we did not consider as such, those little dashes of additional service or product that made visits to these places memorable.  Things like peanuts at corporate steakhouses, or regular cleaning of your linens at hotels (apparently, towels aren’t even a given anymore).  Meanwhile, prices at all of these businesses have increased, far outstripping “official” inflation numbers.

We all know that is true; furthermore, we all know it already.  But what if we look at the lowest common denominator, the dregs of these businesses?  What if we look at fast food?

To be clear, I love fast food.  Perhaps, my doctor would argue, too much; a man of my shape and with my blood pressure would do well to avoid salty, fat-saturated, processed foods.  But when I need quick, greasy sustenance, fast food is always there.

I also like McDonald’s.  The establishment is not “top of mind” for me typically, but nothing beats a McDonald’s cheeseburger or Filet-o-Fish or Quarter Pounder with Cheese on a long road trip.  Well, probably a lot beats it, but my point is that I am not one of those haters who despises everything McDonald’s represents.  Generally, I think it provides decent food at an affordable price.

It used to, at least.  A summer or two ago I stopped into the pitiful McDonald’s in Darlington, South Carolina—which shares space with a gas station, if that tells you anything—and was blown away to discover that a QPC combo meal cost a whopping $11 (don’t worry—I just bought a drink).  Even with inflation and in-app discounts, that’s outrageous.  I’d recently gone on a couple of dates at a moderately upscale Italian restaurant in West Columbia, South Carolina, that offered up a full-blown lasagna—with salad and bread!—for about $15.  Why spend $11 on McDonald’s when I can get lasagna for a few bucks more?

But I digress.  The point is that while McDonald’s might not be the happiest or best place on Earth, I enjoy it occasionally, and I don’t react negatively to mention of the franchise.  I recognize McDonald’s for what it is.

Yet recent visits over the past few years have clued me into how McDonald’s is presaging a pretty bleak future, and not just because they’re charging $11 for a combo meal.  Allow me to share some stories.

Gas Station McDonald’s on the Way to Orlando

On one of my many trips to Universal Studios I stopped on the drive down to gas up and pick up a quick dinner.  I found a McDonald’s in the app that also had a Shell station attached to it, so I knew I could gas up my car, unload my bladder, and chow down on succulence in one stop.  The gas station had overflowing trash cans.  I entered to use the bathroom after fueling up, and there was one, disinterested employee scrolling through her phone.

I then passed into the McDonald’s portion of the store to pick up my order.  There were a handful of people waiting for food:  a small family; a couple; a random guy (like me).  No one was at the counter.  The counter was situated in such a way as to make it difficult to see back into the kitchen or the prep area, and therefore difficult to catch the eye of any employees.  One beleaguered, older worker intermittently came out and barked order numbers.

No one waiting for food looked at each other.  The mood was—and I am not exaggerating—funereal.  It was like everyone in the room knew we were attending a funeral for good, courteous service.  Everyone was atomized:  we just wanted to get our orders, pray they were accurate, and get the heck out of there as quickly as possible.  I think everyone feared an error in the order, because one never knows how churlish the response from the wait staff will be.

My food had apparently been given away to someone else, but the beleaguered guy behind the counter was super gracious about it and sped up a replacement order.  That was a nice touch to the visit, and left me with some hopefulness, but I was ready to fly out of there.

Gas Station McDonald’s in Darlington, South Carolina

I’ve referenced this location already, but I went in there this past Sunday—Saint Patrick’s Day!—to pick up a Filet-o-Fish and a Shamrock Shake, the traditional meal of the Irish (right?).  I’d ordered in the app at about half a mile away in my church’s parking lot.  I almost requested curbside delivery, but my experience with those services has always been mixed, and I probably would have sat in my car for thirty minutes until someone could be bothered to bring me a bag of cold fries and a dehydrated Filet-o-Fish.

When I walked into the restaurant for pickup at the counter, the staff behind the counter acted as though it was an episode of Showtime at the Apollo.  One cashier was hooting and hollering about some inside joke with everybody else; another was shouting “WHAT?!” to a girl in the back of the kitchen.  The “WHAT?!” lady was a manager of some kind (which explains a lot about the crew’s behavior), as she began doling out orders about emptying an outdoor trashcan that “hasn’t been emptied since yesterday.”  One of the girls started making weird sounds that indicated both acknowledgment and dismissiveness.  I felt like an anthropologist visiting an alien culture with norms and mores completely different than my own.

A gentleman who had come in ahead of me spoke to one of the cashiers to place his order.  She did not acknowledge him verbally, but continued her conversation with the other cashier.  After a solid sixty seconds of jabber-jawing, she resumed placing the man’s order, asking him for additional details.  I walked up and let her know I had an online order, which “WHAT?!” lady was actually filling—accurately!—to her credit.  My Shamrock Shake was barely blended, with a thick layer of green, syrupy ooze at the bottom, but I counted my blessings and hightailed it out of there.

McDonald’s on the Northside of Aiken, South Carolina

About a month ago I was home visiting my folks.  My mom has been recovering from foot surgery, and while my dad had to run to church for a choir practice or the like, I ran out and picked us up some McDonald’s (well, to clarify, my dear old mom ordered it; I was just the bagman).  This McDonald’s is located across from a huge neighborhood in Aiken that is renowned for its criminality and unsavory element, and all of them were apparently crossing a busy highway that morning to get some hashbrowns and Egg McMuffins.  One massive SUV full of teenagers was stopped dead in the parking lot for no apparent reason other than the driver was shouting out to one of his friends.  Dusky hordes of pajama-wearing people shuffled around listlessly.  It was a like a zombie movie, but the zombies wanted a BOGO sausage, egg, and cheese biscuit instead of brains.

However, this McDonald’s was excellent.  The interior was bright and clean.  While there still wasn’t someone manning the cashier, I think that’s just being phased out in general, as they want you to order on those big kiosks or on your phone.  Regardless, there was a lady—clearly the manager—near the front filling orders and generally being courteous and friendly.  An elderly couple—regulars at this location, it seemed—thanked her on their way out.  The store was doing a brisk business and treating people like actual human beings.

Takeaways (or Takeout!)

I’m still puzzling through what to make of these three experiences—and others like them.  Obviously, Ruth’s Chris isn’t going to have people turning up in pajamas to order a $120 Tomahawk ribeye, so surely the price has something to do with the somewhat unsavory clientele that McDonald’s attracts.  I don’t know what they’re paying now, and while I doubt it’s minimum wage (no one outside of the high school kids working at the Piggly Wiggly here in Lamar actually make $7.25 an hour anymore), it’s probably not as good as other places, so maybe that explains the lower-quality employees at the first two locations.

The Shell Station McDonald’s was a surreal experience.  Everything felt transitory and atomized.  No one knew each other or wanted to know each other; we were all just strangers passing briefly in this distant, far-flung, nasty place, and were all just trying to get out without causing a scene.  Whoever took my food probably didn’t even care that the order wasn’t right; they were just happy to have something so they could get out of the Lynchian nightmare into which they’d entered.  I’m pretty sure Dante wrote about this McDonald’s in The Divine Comedy.

The Darlington McDonald’s is more indicative of where I think America is heading if we don’t course-correct immediately.  It was a clear indication of what happens when you have bad management and a totally alien work culture.  To their credit, they were getting food out to people, but every customer felt like cattle.  It’s like when an ER doctor has seen so many winos and gangsters die on the gurney, they stop seeing the value in human life and instead inject us with experimental gene therapy drugs without our consent:  we’re not people anymore, just more braying jackasses to feed.

Both of these locations had different hellacious qualities about them.  The first felt like Purgatory; the second felt like attending a cookout full of demons—and the demons are the ones cooking the food!  The same kind of attitude of decadent indifference and solipsistic drudgery dominated both locations.  The staff were just there to collect a paycheck and try to make some food; the customers were just trying to get some food without getting called “racist” because their orders were wrong.

The Aiken location gives me hope.  While I despair to see people wearing pajamas in public at 10 AM on a Saturday (increasingly, even my students are wearing pajamas and shower shoes to school!), maybe we can hold onto enough Talented Ten-Percenters to keep our McNuggets warm during the long winter of our civilization.

Overall, though, I’m not optimistic.  I’m a declinist by nature, and I can’t help but see selfishness and foolishness winning the day.  Fortunately, one day leads to the next, and we may enjoy a brighter tomorrow—with or without the golden arches.