Meals from the Past

I saw a photo of an older-type Arby's sign on flickr today. I had thought Arby's ensured all these older signs would be replaced, but apparently there are still a few old ones around. These signs were the style Arby's used when I was a kid. Seeing this sign reminded me of childhood fast-food endeavors. For me, there were no "Happy Meals" at McDonald's. Oh...they were on the menu alright, but they weren't available for me. Why? That's another Discourse of Distractions.

When I was a kid, I did not like fast-food restaurants. In my childhood experience, the food was awful. You see, my father always chose and ordered for me and my brother. We never got to pick out what we wanted. At Arby's, dad would order a "Super." This is the one with lettuce, tomatoes, sauce, etc. At McDonald's, it was always a quarter-pounder with cheese. I hated cheese back then. A Whopper (with everything) was the standard fare at Burger King. To drink? MILK...always MILK - and not even chocolate milk - plain, white milk. My dad hated soda and would never order them for us under the guise that it would rot our teeth and eat away at our stomachs.

Happy Meals were introduced when I was 8 years old. McDonald's had commercials showing these really happy kids opening the box and revealing their new toy. I remember thinking those must have been some awesome toys to make those kids so happy, because I knew they didn't like that food!

Invariably, I ended up picking at my food, trying to get the bites I wanted while avoiding the onions, lettuce, cheese, pickles or whatever other strange tasting objects would be in there. The fries were OK, but fries and milk are not a good combo. Dad would get frustrated and try to guilt me and my brother into eating whatever he ordered. "I can't believe you won't eat. There's a man back there who sat down and took the time to make that burger for you, and you're just picking at it."

I would imagine this gentle, seasoned, elderly burger-maker peering with anticipation from from the back of the kitchen at me and my brother while my dad ordered our fare at the counter...how happy it made him when he read our order, like Santa Claus reading a child's crayoned wish letter...how meticulously he placed each piece of lettuce, each pickle, every stripe of ketchup and mustard as he dreamed of young voices shouting accolades to his handiwork...and how terrible I felt that this man's glorious, heart-felt creation tasted like crap. I hoped he couldn't see me sitting in the booth, but I knew exactly what I would have said to him if he did: "I'm sorry, burger man! It's my dad's fault! He doesn't know how to order for kids! Kids just want meat and ketchup, but my dad orders all this other stuff."