Jonny McCambridge: A slow crawl to fast food, but no McBrown sauce

Now, for the first time, I can see a virtue in them. My car is at the back of a long queue and the lofty sign is the only part of the McDonald’s restaurant which I can distinguish in the distance. It’s like a mirage, pregnant with promise, reminding me that there is an endpoint to this quest. It’s where I need to get to.

Throughout the lockdown my son has missed many things, but I’m not sure that anything has caused him as much pain as being deprived of his Happy Meal. I regret this state of affairs, of course. I regret that he spurns every fresh home-cooked meal I prepare for him, preferring what comes in a garish cardboard box with a plastic toy. I regret how completely he is taken in by the commercial messaging.

But he is just a child and the world is as it is. Several times, when he was bored or distressed in lockdown I promised him that I would buy him a Happy Meal when the chain reopened. Sadly, the prospect seemed to soothe him.

And so, here I am, one of a seemingly endless line of vehicles which snakes up and down the hard surface of the carpark. I look around impatiently. The woman in the car behind mine is lighting a cigarette. I notice that none of her windows are lowered.

Before driving into the carpark ten minutes earlier, I was stopped by a young man wearing a McDonald’s cap, a fluorescent yellow jacket and a face mask. He asked me if I was sure I wanted to enter. I nodded hesitantly.

‘It’s a wait of at least an hour,’ he advised me. ‘And it’s one way, you can’t change your mind - once you go in, you can’t get out.’

Now, to pass the time, I imagine this as a new advertising campaign. I envisage the TV ad where the brass section of some grand orchestra blares out Aaron Copland’s Simple Gifts, a camera scans along a long line of cars while the velvet-voiced narrator purrs ‘McDonald’s - once you go in, you can’t get out.’

My car inches forward, passing a sign which advises ‘Please wait responsibly’. I see that the woman behind me is lighting another cigarette.

I have not travelled very much further when I notice another young man in a McDonald’s uniform and a face mask moving from car to car. As he approaches me I panic and try to remember how to lower the window in my wife’s car. I press a black button. The bonnet springs open.

The young man pretends not to notice this. I imagine he is smiling at me behind the mask. I succeed in lowering the window.

‘Have you downloaded our app?’ he enquires brightly.

‘No,’ I reply, brilliantly.

‘If you do it you can order now and it will save you loads of time in the drive-through.’

‘Uh-huh.’

He passes on to the next car. I get out to close the bonnet. It’s only when I start to inch forward again that I begin to consider what he has told me.

I don’t know how the app works, but I do know that I am in a long queue, the cars zoned in by cones. The logic of this is that we will all be served sequentially. Unless the app somehow equips my car with propellor blades which enable it to fly, I cannot see how it can save me ‘loads of time’. I look around to see if I can interrogate the young man further, but he is gone.

I nudge forward. I pass another sign which says ‘Please wait responsibly’. I stall the car engine. I see that the woman behind me is lighting another cigarette.

I have plenty of time to think. I think about what I am going to write about in my column this week. I think about whether I remembered to turn off the immersion heater at home. I think about it why Brazil did not win the 1982 World Cup. I think about brown sauce.

Perhaps it’s because I’m inherently an old-fashioned country boy that I have such an attachment to brown sauce. When I grew up there was no ketchup in our house, no mayonnaise or (God forbid) fruity sauce. There was just brown sauce in a glass bottle. Often I would spend several minutes whacking the base of the bottle with the heel of my hand in an increasingly frustrated attempt to persuade the sauce to leave the bottle. As I wait responsibly, this is what I think about.

We have reached the point near the restaurant where the line of cars separates into two lanes. I choose the right hand lane and notice the sign which spells ‘Drive Through’ as ‘Drive Thru’.

Soon it is my turn to speak into a plastic screen. I shift in my seat because this always makes me feel uncomfortable. I hear a female voice, slightly tinny because of the distortion of the machine.

‘Can I take your order please?’

I order fast food. I ask for chicken nuggets, which flash up on the screen as Chicken McNuggets. I order a chicken burger, which flashes up on the screen as a McChicken Sandwich. And a Happy Meal, of course.

‘Is there anything else sir?’

I think about it.

‘Yes, could I have some brown sauce please?’

The machine is silent. I remember where I am and politely rephrase the request.

‘Sorry, I mean could I have some McBrown sauce please?’

Another silence, and then.

‘I’m sorry, but we don’t do brown sauce sir. Would you like some barbecue sauce instead?’

‘Is it brown?’ I ask suspiciously.

‘Sorry?’

‘Is it brown in colour?’

‘Uh...yes sir.’

‘Ok then, I’ll give it a go. That’s all.’

‘Please go the next window sir.’

I move forward again to where the two lanes converge back into one. I see that the woman who was in the car behind me is now in front, lighting a cigarette. She must have downloaded the app.

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