Ever been to Portland, Oregon? I used to live there, so I know firsthand that PDX has some comically awful food service. It’s probably because every hipster with a PhD in Free Range Coffee Studies is convinced they’re too intelligent to serve food cart chow to fellow PBR swillsters. It’s been tough trying to find the absolute worst service in all of Portland, but I finally completed my quest.
My brother and I walked down to the neighborhood food cart pod where I occasionally partake in a falafel or shawarma from the Mediterranean place. Instead of the refreshingly jovial counter lady, I’m greeted by a brand-new, extra surly mouth breather. By “greeted,” I mean “homeboy is slumped against the cash register, passed out cold.” I attempted to awaken him a few times by ringing the counter bell. The cook/owner walked over and prodded the clerk with the end of a spoon while yelling in Turkish.
Much like the mighty grizzly bear, the lumpy greaseball eventually stirred from his long hibernation, failing to recognize the ever-increasing line of customers in his state of grogginess. My brother told the clerk, “Hey, gimme a chicken shawarma.” The clerk furrowed his brow with apelike concentration and finally grunted out some basic communication:
“Dude, one chicken shawarma.”
“No man, one chicken shawarma. Are you still asleep or what?”
The ever-so-slightly reanimated lardass handed my brother some change, then promptly forgot to inform the cook what had been ordered. The cook poked the clerk with the spoon again, cursing in Turkish and asking what to make. Apparently such a complex question forced a factory reset in the clerk’s brain, so my brother had to repeat his order a third time.
“Dude, a fuckin’ chicken shawarma! God damn, seriously?”