Census of a fast food nation

Geoff West

I’m a guy like most guys. I’ve got urges -- hungers deep inside me.

So, I spend quite a bit of time hangin’ out with some of my favorite

ladies on 17th Street, enjoying their company and having my needs

met.

Ever since one of them, a long-in-the-tooth French chick named

Coco, was forced to leave her favorite corner, I found it necessary

to move on up the street a short distance whenever I felt like I

needed some midday satisfaction. Two very nice gals, Ruby and Wendy,

hang out on the other side of the street and kind of take turns

satisfying my hungers. Have I got your attention yet?

It’s always an interesting experience when I go to see Miss Wendy.

I don’t actually see her around much, so I just hang out at the place

with her name on it.

Every day is the same, but different, at Wendy’s. The music is

usually the same -- a nice blend of soft rock -- but the clientele

differs from hour to hour, day to day.

Some days, when I go in for my meal of chicken strips and “senior

frosty” (What did you think I was talking about, for goodness sake?

This is a family newspaper, after all) there will be hoards of

boisterous high school students, pretending no one else in the world

exists as they bellow their conversations and shout into cellphones

to friends across the room. I have not figured out whether all these

young people have gone deaf from the music they listen to on their

Walkman or Ipod, but I do know that most of them seem unable to

communicate at anything below a 100-decibel level.

Other times this store is a refuge for geriatrics, relaxing with a

meal not too dissimilar to mine, which always includes the senior

frosty. I watch them as they peacefully sit and enjoy their little

meal -- the best value in town, by the way -- and quietly talk with

friends who have joined them or who have just become friends for the

first time that day.

Sometimes I see young mothers with their accompanying infestation

of rug-rats, ranging in age from 0 to about 6 years old, each of whom

has demanded and received a kid’s meal with toy. The toy, of course,

is the only thing that really matters. No worries about these

youngsters becoming obese -- most of the food on their tray ends up

on the floor or table or is smeared on their hands and faces or

squished into their clothes. The debris field around their tables

reminds me of the food fight from “Animal House.” Only through

osmosis would these urchins get too many calories.

Sometimes I see business folks, young and old, yapping on their

cellphones while trying to grab a quick meal before continuing on

their quest for their next -- or first -- million. They are usually

rubbing elbows with electricians, plumbers, cable guys and

extermination technicians, all busily downing double-stacks,

double-bacon cheeseburgers or Mandarin chicken salads.

On occasion the ambience is spiced up by a fragrant homeless

person or two, wearing what looks like a lifetime’s supply of scum on

their clothes, as they seek a warm, quiet place to sit and eat their

dollar meal -- and doze as long as the manager will let them.

The most fun begins, however, when these groups descend on the

friendly confines of this establishment simultaneously. As I watch

from behind my Wall Street Journal, I get a real chuckle out of the

kids screaming and flinging “freedom fries;” the teenagers yelling

and cellphoning; the business folks squirming; the geezers frowning

and the homeless scowling as this mixture of ages, backgrounds and

interests compete for floor and air space to the beat of Jimmy

Buffet.

On days when I’m feelin’ like the company of a little more mature

woman, I mosey on up the street to Ruby’s place, where the setting is

slightly more formal. Here, I am waited on hand and foot by bright

young people who have been known to burst into song to celebrate a

client’s birthday. This establishment shares some of what passes for

ambience and also shares many of the same customers.

I’ve seen many of the same harried young moms and fry-flingin’

rug-rats here, too. Following a meal, during which they scribble on

their placemats with crayons and condiments, they usually top off

their attempt at nourishment with a kid’s ice cream cone. This makes

a perfect coat of varnish on the stains produced by ketchup, mustard

and guacamole. I’m sure some of these kids would stick to the wall if

you pressed them a little.

One difference here, though, is the noise factor. Since it doesn’t

have carpet like Miss Wendy’s place, the sounds emanating from the

screeching squirts bounces off the plastic walls and tile floors so,

particularly on Kids-Eat-Free-Tuesday -- it’s like having a meal

inside a drum. It’s very convenient that the parents can snag a

cerveza (beer) at this establishment -- a very necessary libation,

I’m sure.

Both of my favorite places provide a welcome respite from

contemplation of things political. There are worse places than these

two locations for lunchtime entertainment on my side of town.

* GEOFF WEST is a Costa Mesa resident and frequent contributor to

the forum pages.