Death by "flunch"

Yeah, you heard me: flunch. Last night Paul, french guy I'm staying with, took me to what can only be described as a classier, French version of Home Town Buffet. This magical place is called flunch. Flunch is an equally meaningless word in both French and English. Of course, the first thing I thouht was "f*&! lunch," but seing as how the "f" word doesn't really exist in French and lunch is "déjeuner," I'm probably one of only a handful of Americans who have made that connection.

We met up with some friends, Marion and Julien, and went into the cafeteria-style establishment. First you get a tray and utensils then you pick from a myriad of starter plates and desserts before selecting your main dish: some form of fried meat and potatoes. I filled a small bowl with fruit and grabbed some chorizo. Why not? Marion and Julien strongly suggested that I choose the "Super Tennessee" as my main dish. I've never been to Tennessee, but I'm guessing they don't serve the "Super Tennessee" there. I looked at the picture on the menu and it appeared, like every other choice, to be some form of meat and potatoes. It sort of looked like a cheeseburger without vegetables or bread. So I went for it.

The "chef" threw a couple of beef patties on the grill, cooked them a little, threw on some cheddar cheese, and then threw on a thin slice of unidentified meat (I think pork). Then he grabbed a breaded pattie, which I assumed was chicken because that was the only main meat not included thus far, and slopped the burger, cheese, and ham on top of it. Voila! I asked Marion what the unidentified patty was and she informed me that it was potato, not chicken.

My plate now contained some sort of cheeseburger (sans bun) with ham on a hashbrown. Time to select a sidedish. The choices were: french fries, mashed potatoes, fried potatoes, breaded potatoes, something that looked like it was supposed to be a green vegetable, and another potatoe dish. Who knew potatoes were so versatile? So I grabbed some french fries and, for good measure, threw in some mayonnaise and ketchup to wash it all down.

My meals thus far in France have consisted mainly of meat, potatoes, cheese, and bread. I don't eat a lot of meat at home so usually by the end of a meal here, I feel like throwing up. Flunch was no exception. By the end of the meat and potato extravaganza I felt awful. Then we had ice cream. I know what you're thinking. Don't judge me. It's Flunch!

America, America

I pledge allegiance to the flag, of the United States of “we’re better than you and everyone should learn English.”

My flight was scheduled to leave PDX at 6:15am. I didn’t sleep the night before, and judging by the look of my fellow passengers, not many of them did either. If you haven’t heard, I’m going to France. PDX --> Atlanta -->Paris --> Bordeaux. Gross. I passed out near my gate. I meant to set the alarm on my cell phone but in my sleepy state I must have forgotten. I was suddenly awoken by a group of old women (all wearing matching red Christmas sweaters) who had decided to sit awkwardly close to me and squawk loudly about God knows what. I can’t complain too much. My human alarm coincided with the boarding of my flight. I jumped up, too quickly, before realizing that they hadn’t called my zone yet, but I sauntered over anyway. I walked by two women, late 40s, tan skin, platinum blonde hair. They were speaking colorful Spanish and gesticulating wildly. Apparently their zone had been called.

The flight attendant, whose lipstick was just a little too pink for 6:15 in the morning, smiled a forced smile and welcomed the passengers with a forced greeting. She spoke with a “Southern Bell” accent, which would have been charming if I thought that under her cold, painted exterior there was a kind person. That may sound harsh but my suspicions were confirmed when the Spanish women reached the front of the line. The flight attendant started freaking out because one of the Spanish women had a small bag, a purse, and a shopping bag. Oh my. Everyone knows that you’re allowed one carry on and one personal item. The Spanish women didn’t speak English and looked at each other, totally confused as to why they’d been singled out, while Lipstick Lucy continued to point awkwardly at the bags and speak louder and slower… because we all know that foreign people actually speak English, but only if you talk to them like they’re stupid. “Español?” the Spanish women said helplessly to Lipstick Lucy and to the people in line, but no one came forward to help.

The blonde with too many bag started emptying the contents of her shopping bag to reveal a porcelain Christmas tree she’d probably purchased in the airport. Lipstick Lucy waved her arms back and forth, “No, no, no.” The Spanish women looked at each other again, confused. “I don’t speak any Spanish,” the flight attendant said loudly and slowly. I’m pretty sure by that point that everyone within a 50 foot radius of Gate D9 was well aware of Lipstick Lucy’s lack of linguistic abilities. “You can take that bag and that bag and we’ll check this bag,” she said pointing and then grabbing at the woman’s suitcase. I was appalled and took a step toward the scene because even though I don’t speak Spanish, I could speak broken Spanish and try to communicate with these women, which is more than I could say for Lipstick Lucy.

Finally, some guy stepped forward and translated. The blonde with too many bags ended up just awkwardly stacking her purse on top of her shopping bag and they let her through. Which begs the question, why was she singled out at all? Her carry on was small and could have easily fit in the overhead compartment. Her purse and shopping bag would have fit under the seat in front of her. And in the end, after harassing these women for 10-15 minutes, the flight attendant just let them through anyway. I walked behind them into the airplane and helped them get their bags into the overhead compartment. I could tell they were both flustered and still a little confused about what had just happened. They smiled and thanked me in Spanish and English. I responded in Spanish and English and smiled back.

Have you ever noticed how when you come back from a foreign country the American customs people are really nice to Americans and complete jerks to all the foreign people? It’s generally assumed that if you don’t have a navy blue passport you must be a terrorist, a thief, or just plain stupid. I hate it.

We should just hang signs up: Welcome to United States of “we’re better than you and everyone should learn English.” Why bother translating it to any other language?

Mini Sirloin Burgers, Major Disapointment

Okay, I'll admit it. I'm susceptible to clever marketing. I can't help it!

I happened to see Jack in the Box's Mini Sirloin Burger commercial last weekend and thought it was hilarious. If you haven't seen it, you should: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5xXkmvrT_e8. I don't eat fast food and the burgers didn't look particularly appetizing, but the commercial was brilliant so I decided that Jack deserved my business.

The adventure begins. On a dark, cold winter night... I convinced my roommate, BJ, that it would be a GOOD idea to drive all the way out to Jack in the Box to try their new Mini Sirloin Burgers. Of course, the only Jack in the Box in Eugene is way out west on 6th street in the middle of nowhere. We got to the drive through and BJ commented on how nice the menu looked. It's true, it was clean, easy to read... there were even nice little pictures (remember this, it will be important later). We decided on the Mini Sirloin Burgers, the Mini Buffalo Ranch Chicken Burgers, and a medium curly fry.

We pulled up to the microphone to order and sat there for a couple minutes. I'm not sure about drive through etiquette, but I thought the person working the window was supposed to speak first. After a while I said, "Hello?" Then the speaker box shouted back at me and we ordered.

The car in front of us had Massachusetts plates and a "Masshole" bumper sticker. Classy. I remember because we sat behind that car for about 15 minutes. Not exactly "fast" food. When we finally got up to the window the Jack in the box employee, who I will call Wendy, informed us that they were training a new cook and it would be a few minutes. After having already spent 10 minutes driving, and 20 minutes waiting in the drive through, I asked Wendy very politely, "What are we talking about? 10 minutes?" She looked at me and smiled and said, "Oh 10 or 20. Ha ha ha ha. Just kidding. It'll be a little while. Can I get you to pull into the front parking lot? I'll bring it out to you." 5-10 more minutes pass.

Wendy hobbles out of the store and attempts to run toward my car. She hands me the bag and we drive off. BJ immediately starts eating. The little burgers aren't great, but they're not that bad. Plus, they're mini, so that's pretty great. When BJ opened the second package, which was supposed to contain the Mini Buffalo Ranch Chicken Burgers, he found three mini buns, some random condiments, and a regular-size hamburger patty cut in half and spread over the three little buns. WTF Jack in the Box?

So, we went back. 10 more minutes in transit. This time I went in. Wendy came to the counter and said it would just be a few minutes. The people waiting for their orders behind me snickered. 5 minutes later Wendy was back. I explained the situation, and showed her the three little buns oddly spread over the halved, regular burger patty. "Hmm, that's not right." she said, and took the box from me. "What did you order?" I showed her my receipt and asked for the Mini Buffalo Ranch Chicken Burgers. She walked toward the kitchen, 10 feet away, and called, "Does anybody know where the chicken is? Has anyone heard of these chicken burgers? Do we even make a chicken burger? Oh I found the chicken. I guess this is it. I'm putting it on the grill."

I couldn't help but laugh. EVERYONE in the restaurant could hear her. We were all laughing. When she came out she looked at me and said, "Now don't get scared yet. Is this chicken thing on the menu?" I nodded and pointed at the menu. Wendy walked toward me so she could get a better look at the menu and exclaimed, "Oh good, there's a picture. I can make this. Don't get scared. Hmmm... It definitely has chicken. I bet it has the buffalo sauce. Maybe ranch." Most of these key ingredients could have been deduced from reading "Mini Buffalo Ranch Chicken Burgers."

Another 5-10 minutes of waiting. I just stood there and smiled and laughed while Wendy and the new cook tried to construct the Mini Buffalo Ranch Chicken Burgers from the picture on the menu. What else could I do? Finally, Wendy handed me the bag. I checked the little burgers and they were, in fact, some form of chicken and there were, in fact, three little patties and three little buns. Good enough.

BJ and I both ate part of a Mini Buffalo Ranch Chicken Burger (or whatever Wendy had made us), but by that point we were both kind of "over" the whole experience. Plus, I'm pretty sure the new cook put buffalo sauce, ranch, and yellow mustard on our mini chicken treats. Not a fantastic combination.


The adventure took over an hour and the mini burgers were a major disappointment... but wow... what an experience!