I've never reviewed a chain restaurant before, but this McDonald's franchise is so heinous that I am making my first ever exception to the rule.
I work two blocks from this fiasco, in a neighborhood where the options for iced coffee are a Starbucks that's just out of walking range, a Dunkin' Donuts that's walkable but unfortunately serves Dunkin' Donuts coffee, and the horror show that is the subject of this review. To their credit, Mr. Newman and Mr. McDonald contracted to serve the former's completely serviceable coffee in the latter's "restaurants," and so it came to be that the McDonald's on Washington Street is, in that one respect only, the best option for take-out coffee near my workplace.
The problem is two-fold:
1) At McDonald's, your options are "iced coffee with eighty-two tablespoons of cream and four hundred forty-six grams of sugar" or "no iced coffee." While most dining establishments that serve coffee long ago adapted to the concept that the customer may want to customize the type and quantity of dairy and sweetener added to her beverage, at this gem of an institution, no such option exists. Oh, you can try. You can make eye contact with the cashier, speak slowly and emphatically, and even repeat yourself. "One cream. One sugar." You can write it down, wear it on a t-shirt, say it in Pig Latin. But it won't matter. You're on the dark side of the moon, Tom Hanks. Houston, you have a problem. Because when that iced coffee is delivered, it will be as white as the receipt you were just handed, which inexplicably contains the notation "XTRA CREAM." And it will be so loaded with sugar that your kidneys will shut down before you can finish that ungodly concoction. I am not exaggerating when I say that I have ordered minimally two dozen iced coffees at this place, and have never, ever received one that comported with my order.
2) If after receipt of your iced coffee, you attempt to engage an employee to rectify the mistake, you will likely be met with avoided eye contact. If you press the issue, audible sighs, eye rolling, and a distinct lack of comprehension-- legitimate or feigned-- will ensue. Once, I asked a cashier how many ounces were in a medium iced coffee. She stared at me for a beat, and said "How much does it cost?" "No," I repeated, "how many ounces?" She replied, incredulously, "What? I don't know!" At my job, the answer "I don't know" doesn't fly. Especially when the actual answer is utterly, unquestionably attainable. In other words, the service here is atrocious. We frequently wait long, long spans of time for our iced coffee orders to be filled, while employees chat with each other and ignore our attempts to inquire as to when we might expect our beverages. The coffee, you see, is sitting right there. Waiting for someone, anyone, to pour it into a plastic cup full of pathogen-laden ice.
And yet, despite my many complaints, I will return. I will endure these injustices again and again. Because I hate myself. read more
