The Burger King atmosphere is delightfully otherworldly. I felt transported by the new-age music, purple-green booths arranged at surprising angles, and two-tops Pee-Wee Hermanesque in their teal-chaired tinyness. The Whopper’s ingredients seem identical to the Wendy’s single, yet somehow it sits heavier upon its too-big bun — the bottom half of which gets squashed and soggy. It’s good, though everything seems just a little less crisp, a little more wet. The meat in the middle was a hardly frightening brownish gray. These fries are very thin and quite crisp. Served hot, they were the best of the bunch. The beverage dispenser allows you to add soda water to your Coke to get it just how you want it. Brilliant.
So really, you can’t go wrong. Having finished these meals, slouched in my booth, was I uncomfortable, overfull, lethargic? Yes. Is this exact discomfort the appropriate feeling for an American in late-modernity? Yes. As Wenderoth put it: “It’s times like this — dehydrated, exhausted, unable to imagine home — that your plastic seats, your quiet understandable room, set beside but not quite overlooking the source of real value, offer me a tragedy small enough to want to endure.”
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Brian Duff: bduff@une.edu
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