Pick up the lobsters. Buy some prosecco. Make the salad. Boil the corn. Serve the oysters. Refill the drinks. Clean up the plates. Present the main course. Refill the drinks. Clean up the plates. Refill the drinks. Bring out the macaroons and coffee. Wash the dishes.
The intoxicating smell, or maybe just toxic, hit me as soon as I closed my car door. I packed the 26 burgers and 18 orders of fries into the trunk of my sedan. I started the GPS and the delivery distance was, luckily, only 5 miles away.
With the windows down and vents set to pull in air from the outside, I made my way to the drop off location. The fresh air and cool wind in my hair turned into the stagnate, chemical-laced cloud that hangs over burger joints across the nation. With 1-mile to go, I gagged and responded by setting the fans to the maximum level.
As I waited in the client’s lobby, every passerby stopped and took a double take at the bags from the burger joint. First, they were hit with the trademark smell and next they saw the iconic packaging. Their eyes widened, mouths salivated and they were reminded that it was lunch time. These folks just had no idea.