Chintzee-Katchip at Chic-Fil-A
It’s a nice (for fast food) place. Clean, attractive, good chicken sandwiches, fun desserts, and an indoor playground for my grandsons. But they better be careful before they go the way of McDonalds, as in fries—waffle fries no less—that taste a little stale.
But my bigger concern is those itty-biddy packages of catsup (and how come the mayonnaise packs are bigger?).
First, you gotta open each little pack, hoping you tear a wide enough slice to squeeze enough out—and without spitting it all over the place. And it takes about 10 packs if you really like to slop your fries in catsup the way me and Goodie do.
And if that weren’t bad enough, there’s no place to put the darn catsup. So you have to dump it on a napkin, or on the foil wrap of your burger, or into your chicken-fingers box (and that’s no fun, let me tell you). In other words, you gotta invent a holder for yourself. Then you gotta stare at all those empty, crumpled up catsup packs while you eat lunch. Not what I call a delightful dining ‘experience’ if you know what I mean. (Truth is, though, I’m not sure it’s any worse than those other joints that ‘let’ you pump catsup from a dispenser into teeny-tiny paper cups—you need 10 of those, too.)
But here’s the other thing. There’s no way anybody can get all the catsup out of those little packs. On average I figure there’s anywhere from 5 to 10 percent left in each one. Ever wonder why our landfills are so soggy? Well, that’s one darn good reason I can think of. Next time somebody asks you: “What’s up with these landfills?” just say, “The catsup.”
Oh, and those funny ads? They should really say, “Eat mor chikin… and bring yor own katchip and yor own katchip holda.”