Eating Out

The Charleston Town Center Mall.
I used to spend quite a bit of time there. I may have actually qualified as a mall rat. Vans. Billabong. JennSport. Volcom. Catch the KRT, rove around, see a movie, buy some comics, eat some Chic-Fil-A. That last bit is what this post is about, Chic-Fil-A.
I remember when Chic-Fil-A was hungry for business, not as if there weren't doing well or anything, just presenting itself in an eager fashion. There would be someone waiting for me at the top of the escalator with a sample, presented on a simple black plate. I took the piece, but we both knew I was going to eat there anyways.
The wait in line, looking at the other people. Knowing what I was going to order. Number Five, Dr. Pepper, Two Honey Mustard, Please. The pause when they would up the price, a silent what? exchanged from me to the cashier. The cashier who was Christmas help, who didn't know I had been paying only one certain price for the exact, exact same order all Summer. It didn't matter, everyone involved knew I'd be paying whatever price it was.
The ad campaign. The cow standing there with a doomsday placard reading: eat mor chiken. The calenders of much the same. The Vege-tales. Cherry-flavoring is to cough syrup as Vege-tales is to Christianity.
All that changed for me recently.
I found myself drawn to the bloated franchise, walking there aimlessly, as I imagine a bug flies into a zapper. But some wind changed my direction and instead of lining up with the others, the unsmiling horde of slack-shouldered whites, I kept walking. The wind stayed at my back and I kept walking.
Soon I found myself at a place that was hungry for my business. A young man handed me a sample, looking earnest and open, and it tasted great. From behind the counter a woman, undoubtedly related in someway to the young man, was beckoning me with her hand, and in a thick accent, Polynesian? saying, "You like? Come try chicken!" I smiled, goofily. At her behest I tried every variety of chicken they served. The next always better than the last, so different! This tasted different! The neon lights of the pineapple reflected off my glasses as I read the sign, The Hawaiian Grill. These people were treating me like family, like I was some skinny puppy, like I was a paying customer! The woman piled my plate full, the styrofoam protesting under the bulk of the rice, and I was happily departed from eight dollars.
Stop eating! I couldn't! I was being satisfied. I could see the people milling around the other place, I could hear the soft buzzing of their thick, fat wings as they lined up to serve their god.
I used to think Chic-Fil-A's not opening on Sundays was a stalwart stand against the sleaze usually associated with corporations. Now I just think it's a gimmick, and the worst possible kind at that.
The young man handing out samples was tireless. He was of the right age to be getting into trouble with other kids and here he was helping his family out with the business. He even offered me more when I got up to empty my tray. Tempted, but no, no, I must be going.

I wondered what else people have to say about chic-fil-a, turns out the franchise hands a lot of money over to anti-gay organizations. But, the nitty-gritty there is that they're writing checks out to Christian organizations who promote a hetero-sexual family unit. And everyone who's ever tried to eat at Chic-Fil-A on a Sunday knows it's Christian Camp, so there really shouldn't be any surprise there.

But, in the interests of a healthy diet, and trying to patronize places that will truly appreciate your business, not just expect it- go suck a dick, Chic-Fil-A.