I went to the local burger joint for dinner tonight. It's set up very simply: you walk in, order at the registers, and pay. If you're taking out, they call your name when your order is ready; if you're eating in, they bring the food to your table.
I was there for about fifteen minutes until my take-out order was ready. Two men were standing at the registers, looking at the menu, and debating what to order for that entire time. I heard pieces of the conversation, which included such scintillating debate as whether or not the herbs were spread throughout the meat or simply sprinkled on top. It's a fucking hamburger. A good, well-made, and tasty hamburger, but nothing more. A burger joint with a half-page of burger options is providing a service to both regular customers and obsessive-compulsives.
I've used a variation on this phenomenon at work. If I need a fast response from a client, I give them one or two options. If I want a project to be delayed for a while, I give the client six options or more.
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3 comments:
Of course, if we ever work together, you have just allowed me to NOMM yer branes.
\HAHAHA.
I prefer my burgers made with pink slime.
My favorite restaurant in your neck of the woods is the Chip Shop on 5th Ave. I love their steak-and-kidney pie, but my best meal there was a filet of striped bass, the fish caught earlier that day by the proprietor.
the fish caught earlier that day by the proprietor.
I avoid eating the denizens of the Gowanus Canal.
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