How About a Burger?

Have you eaten at Wendy’s lately? And how was it?

I only ask because I cannot eat there. Not that I popped in weekly, but that once in a while I could go there for a decent burger or some chili. Now, it's clear to me: I can’t pop in at all.

It’s the food, of course. It’s just not good anymore, and the level of concern on the part of employees—those people who slap together the burgers and such—seems to have slid downward also. Like your lettuce leaf might actually be on the bun, or it might not, and if you ask for no ketchup on your hamburger you might get no ketchup, and, then again, you might not. I know these things because I did eat at Wendy’s, once last year and once this year. But no more. I'm done.

I blame death. No, this isn’t The Widow’s Chronicle. It’s just me, Carol, griping, grieving, maybe, for Dave Thomas, at whose death Wendy’s began its decline and its cutbacks on quality and quantity. I mean, can those square hamburger patties get any thinner? The last time I ordered a single, the beef patty had a hole in it, you know, an area right about in the center where there was no meat, as in "Where's the beef?"

More's the pity, I say, because Wendy's used to be kind of good, but what you get now is just plain old shoddy fare and a lousy eating out experience. Too bad.

My point? I don’t know. Maybe it is about death. Sorry.