Pulling into the parking lot the Golden Arches tower above, shining like a beacon, a signal for the radically increasing obese population of America. The "M" stands for McDonalds (common knowledge to the masses), in the slowly clogging arteries of my heart it now stands for something much more.
Stepping inside, I first notice the crew of cashiers donning black Faded Glory polos with somewhat matching black faded hats. It really is the only color choice, seeing that it's slimming. At the register a middle aged woman named Martha greets me with her Jack O' Lantern smile. She quickly won me over with those five words we all long to hear. "May I take your order?" It was like having a raspy voiced angel whisper the meaning of life into my ears. Perusing the menu, I came across a few delectable items. Searching my pockets for my coin purse (only the finest gentlemen carries a coin purse), I lay out the exact change for the order. Martha wishes me a great day and suggests that I come back soon. I stare into her one lazy eye, at least I think it was the lazy one, and tell her, "You can count on it, sweetheart."
As many know finding a table at this fine establishment can be a daunting task. I prefer to sit right between the vagabond reading yesterday's paper while slurping a two hour old coffee and that senior citizen wearing a newsies cap, his gaze ever fixed upon the entrance door. Here is where I will drown my sorrows by consuming thousands upon thousands of empty calories.
Staring down at my platter, the Golden Arches adorn every package, all with greasy sustenance awaiting inside. My thirty-two ounce cola sweats from the heat of the recently fried ten piece. I take out one golden brown crispy nugget and slowly push it into the tanginess of a sweet n' sour packet. It's like foreplay before mastication. Have you ever tasted Chicken McNuggets? If you have, you know that they taste nothing like chicken. You know what they do taste like though? Fucking delicious.
The fries here are a masterpiece to behold, like Da Vinci's Mona Lisa or Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel, they are what can only be described as perfection perfected. Mario Wong Gonzalez, the fry cook, is an artist in the truest sense . Also, the apple pie I devoured was better than your grandmothers.
I have only two small gripes. The puma, open mouthed, in the back wearing a sign around his neck that read PlayLand and the distraught mother crying for her lost toddler. They were both dragging me down a bit, that was until I took another sip of my soda and returned to bliss.
If you're ever in the neighborhood make this the place you go, you know if nothing else sounds good or you don't feel like waiting fifteen minutes for a nice square meal or you have a hankering for gray meat or your kids won't stop whining for the latest ten cent toy or you just want to meet Mario. You could just go if you're terrified of clowns in yellow jumpsuits, you know just to overcome your coulrophobia. Whatever your reason, this is fast food at its finest, so go now, because Ronald, he's watching you.
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