By Jamie Swinnerton
By Mark Antonation
By Lori Midson
By Jonathan Shikes
By Amber Taufen
By Cafe Society
By Juliet Wittman
By Jonathan Shikes
Last week I had lunch at McDonald's. It doesn't matter which McDonald's, because most of them are interchangeable. In fact, they're the greatest example of assembly-line restaurants in the history of the industry. McDonald's has gotten so good at self-replication over the past fifty-odd years that today the company is less in the business of food service than it is real-estate speculation: Pick a spot, drop a seed, harvest money, repeat.
We're now in a place where making fun of McDonald's is pointless, just shouting at the mountain when the mountain don't care. But I'm going to do it anyway.
I went to McDonald's because it was McDonald's -- at the height of its we're-bad-and-you-love-us ubiquity, the apex of its power and unassailable stranglehold on the tummies of billions of customers worldwide -- that, at least in part, inspired Larry Leithto open his first Tokyo Joe's(see review, page 50) in Centennial ten years ago. And McDonald's definitely inspired the Roman-style training regimen at Leith's now-fifteen-outlet chain.
I stopped by McDonald's at what I figured would be its best moment: the beginning of the lunch rush. The place was loud, busy but not overcrowded, dirty (though I've certainly seen worse) and -- to put it politely -- confused. I could see eight employees, and they, like the restaurant that employed them, seemed entirely interchangeable, since McDonald's regards its workers as just another transposable component in the machinery of production and delivery. But while the idea of a cross-trained workforce capable of complete sufficiency in the field might have worked out well for Caesar in Gaul, it's not a system that translates to a McDonald's in Aurora -- mostly because Caesar's centurions actually could fight, build, march, mend and generally fend for themselves on a campaign, while your average McDonald's employee is commended if he manages to go a whole shift without lighting himself on fire.
My order was taken at the counter by one employee, punched into the computer and then also shouted into the back in what seemed a deliberate undermining of the POS system's sole duty. Several more of those eight workers then swung into action: one finding my burger on the specially designed burger shelf, a second arguing over which burger was the right burger, a third poking disconsolately at the mountain of lukewarm fries in the specially designed french-fry holding area, another jerking me the wrong soda from the specially designed soda machine and two evidently going on break.
I'd ordered a double cheeseburger, a value-sized box of fries and a small Pibb Xtra. Grand total: $3.24. Just under two minutes later, I was handed a double cheeseburger, a limp pocketful of salty, mealy, cold fries and a Coke -- a meal it had taken a half a dozen employees to demand, assemble and deliver. I could get all snobbish and holier-than-thou and say that my meal left me feeling spiritually empty even while juiced on simple carbs and sugar water, but the fact is, I got what I paid for: $3.24 worth of empty calories and brand recognition. As Michael Pollan so eloquently suggests in The Omnivore's Dilemma, what I'd bought was not so much a burger and fries, but a notion of "burger-and-fries," a wholly generic spread of food items so divorced from the food chain that produced them that they can't be judged fairly on things like flavor or taste or texture, but only in terms of satisfaction: How close did this simulacrum come to matching my idea of what a burger and fries ought to be like?
In addition to real-estate speculation, one of the things McDonald's has gotten very good at is lowering the bar by making its iteration of everything the most common of common denominators. Ergo, for the majority of McDonald's customers, the basis for satisfactory comparison is another McDonald's burger. This is fucking brilliant, to say the least. But for me, the burger didn't come close at all. McDonald's took just two minutes to fuck up my order and disappoint me. My average meal at Tokyo Joe's took more than twice that and cost more than twice as much. But when I left Joe's, I felt good. When I left McDonald's, I felt fat and icky.
"We had a healthy skew way before it was hip to be healthy," Leith says. "What I wanted to make was a fun place to go and eat, something that was a lifestyle component. The kind of place that people can go to three or four times a week and feel good." And over the past decade, he's accomplished this. He's pushed the limits of what fast casual is capable of: making everything in-house; refusing to use the fryers that have always been the centerpiece of the fast-food experience and going instead with all grilled and steamed foods; integrating "natural, wild and organic" products into his kitchens as the supply chain for such goods has stabilized.
As for his staff, Leith takes a novel approach to employee equity. "We have this saying -- well, not really a saying, because it's true," he corrects himself. "We actually do this. But we say that the highest-paid person left in the building at the end of the night cleans the toilets. And it's true. That's exactly what we do. All my people know that if I'm there at the end of the night, I'm going to be the one cleaning the bathrooms."