It is a truth universally acknowledged that one of the most simple joys in life is going into a Chick-fil-A, placing an order for a chicken sandwich, and then thanking the workers profusely to get them to say "My pleasure!" a million times.
I think Jane Austen wrote that.
At least, up until today, that was true. Because up until today, the workers at Chick-fil-A always said that to me. They gave me my allotted two Chick-fil-A sauces. They smiled. And I believed it. But now, I am left to grapple with one of the most difficult questions mankind has ever asked:
What happens when you thank the worker bringing your Spicy Southwest Salad to you, and they don't say "My pleasure"?
But really though--what happens? Do you get your meal for free--like when the Dairy Queen kid doesn't flip your blizzard upside down in front of your face? Are you on a prank show, being filmed for your reaction to this bizarre absence of Southern gentility? Is this the beginning of the world's inevitable downward spiral into madness and chaos that no one will believe is happening until it's too late?
Or, more plausibly, is this omission of relaying his privilege to serve me a sign that he really, genuinely, was not pleased to hand me my order? That he was not enjoying his job during the rush of lunch-hour patrons jockeying for their greasy bags of poultry? Did he poison my food?
And more importantly, why do I always end up saying "I'll have the Spicy Southwest Salad" in all its full, alliterative, valley-girl-sounding horror when I always tell myself I'll shorten the name of it before I order since I feel so dumb saying it? Do I subconsciously believe the workers will not know what I'm ordering if I just asked for the "southwest salad"? Do I secretly enjoy saying something that sounds so ridiculous? Am I stupid?
(Did he poison my food?)
(Did he poison my food?)
Thus ends my hunger-induced soliloquy.
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