EAT ME

The Portions Seem Small

I was unsurprised though highly amused by a small item in this week’s Economist. A recent survey revealed that fully one-quarter of American food delivery drivers admit to nibbling on their customers’ orders. Not so lean times for some in the gig economy apparently.

Anyone who ever held a summer job or made a career in the hospitality or food services industries cannot feign surprise at backstage shenanigans. As with every human activity, some of those involved are stupid, lazy, disgruntled or perhaps too clever by half; regulations are ignored and corners get cut. Customers are people too and so they insist upon playing kitchen roulette. The vegan option at the steak and seafood house is probably not a wise decision and neither is the strip loin for the person with a severe shellfish allergy. There’s no way of knowing what inadvertently touched what on which surface even in the finest establishments.

When I was a kid ordering out for supper was a treat beyond ecstasy, akin to a green glass bottle of Coca-Cola instead of a can of Canada Dry cola. Back then there were two incredibly exotic choices: all dressed (pepperoni, mushrooms and green peppers) or plain (cheese only) pizza or westernized Chinese food (egg rolls, fried rice, sweet and sour spareribs and pineapple chicken). We didn’t know any better but by God we were happy.

Times have changed. Since the Internet segmented into thousands of cell phone applications the food delivery business has exploded. Certainly sub-contracting logistics to a third party while benefiting from an enlarged pool of potential revenue makes sense. Yet, there are absurdities. My local 7-11 is a fine example. It’s situated in a sort of nether zone, a DMZ that borders good, bad and crazy. If I were the franchisee I’d never permit an employee to work a solo shift no matter what time of day or night.

The store is clean enough I suppose, perhaps even cleaner than the kitchens of some of the pubs and restaurants I’ve dined in. Then again, I’ve never experienced the humiliating misfortune of having to use its toilet; the state of an eatery’s toilet usually reflects the cleanliness of its food prep area. I heave this up because one afternoon last week I was struck by a pink food delivery app decal on the window of my 7-11. I paused long enough to impede the nicotine addicts, lottery aficionados, Slurpee thirsters and shoplifters.

Who would pay a premium for home delivery of 7-11 pizza, gooey chicken parts and potato wedges? Made in-store (sort of)! Who!? If I was on a detective noir-shabby motel-crystal meth rip, I’d careen a stolen car to the 7-11 and pick up my takeout order at gunpoint. I mean, that’s just logical, it follows. But the question remains, who on this once-blue planet would order orange and green 7-11 food for home delivery?

Upon reflection, if I was overly concerned about the icky prospect of a grazing stranger turning my as-yet-undelivered meal into a mini-buffet, I suppose I’d dial up some really unappetizing food as a preventive measure.   

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