How I Did My Best to Break In-N-Out, and Failed
As everyone in the Golden State knows, if you live in California, you have no choice but to be an In-N-Out Burger aficionado. Believe me, Californians are serious about their double doubles. In fact, I’ve wiggled my way out of at least one traffic summons by making sure that my to-go animal fries and double double were plainly visible on the passenger seat next to me, getting cold (and old) by the second.
The other night, I was heading home, when I received a message from my wife imploring me to run through In-n-Out to bring back sustenance for the family. I initially hesitated, as it was late, and I was very tired. However, I agreed to go, hoping that it would be a quick stop, or stated another way, a quick “in-n-out.” ba dum bum tishhhhh.
In hindsight, this decision was really stupid, since I was well aware that In-n-Out is legendary for their extended culinary queues, regardless of the time of day and/or fatigue of the customer. Now, to their credit, as a well-oiled fast-food machine, they address the long lines by stationing a smiling employee next to the line of cars with a tablet computer, keeping one step ahead by taking orders early. But on this particular crisp and cold evening, the floodgates had opened, and it was pouring rain like California had never seen, leading me to my favorite dictionary to look up the word of the day: atmospheric river [at-muhs-fer-ik riv-er]. There would be no outside smiling employee today.
When I arrived at the nearest In-n-Out, not only was there a line, but it was a considerable line. As I processed with dread what I was seeing, wondering if the wait was worth it, another misguided soul pulled in directly behind me, blocking my only exit route. Damn, I was stuck. So, like everyone else, I embarked on the familiar fast-food crawl, playing with my phone, reading the news, taking a catnap (only kidding), and creeping forward inch-by-inch.
Finally, I arrived at the drive up window, manned by a nice-looking college-aged kid, bathed in the blue glow of his computer screen. I immediately started reciting my order, but, in an instant, I knew that there was something very, very, wrong.
Like the runners in Chariots of Fire, the kid’s head rotated toward me in slow motion, as his customer-facing smile transformed into a look of sheer terror. Honestly, he couldn’t have looked any more terrified if my head had just burst into flames.
With lip quivering, while asking a question to which there was only one terrible answer, he forced out the words “didn’t you already order?” Clueless, and somewhat indignant, I explained that I hadn’t ordered yet because it was raining, and there was no smiling employee standing outside to take my order. Come on kid, what are you, stupid?
“You were supposed to… order… at… the… menu… board.”
Oh sh*t.
At that moment, as I stared with a blank face at the horrified kid, who was no-doubt wondering where his next job would be, time stopped, and I was reminded of a scene from the movie Hudsucker Proxy, one of my favorite Coen Brothers’ films.[1] The scene takes place in the massive mailroom of Hudsucker Enterprises, which runs with the quiet efficiency of a finely tuned watch. Suddenly, a sorter holds up a “blue letter,” a once-in-a-decade inter-office memo “between the brass.” As a supervisor bellows “IT’S A BLUE LETTER,” alarms go off, red lights flash, and the mailroom deteriorates into a state of mayhem.
As I’m playing that scene back in the screening room in my head, the face of the mail supervisor yelling “BLUE LETTER” is replaced by the face of the In-N-Out kid, screaming, as if to wake the dead, “WE’VE GOT A HOME RUN!”
Well, you know you’ve screwed up when they’ve got a name for the idiotic thing you just did. Who knew that ordering charred mammal flesh out of order could be such a bad thing.
So that’s what they call it when some idiot drives right past the menu board and shows up at the payment window to place a food order — they call it a HOME RUN. It’s actually a fairly clever name, it’s like I was running the bases with everyone else but I decided to cut across the field and score before the guy in front of me. How nice.
In other words, in that instant, like the Hudsucker Industries mailroom, I expected the well-oiled In-N-Out machine to ground to a screeching halt and descend into madness.
While all hell broke loose in the kitchen, the kid was trying to learn how to enter food items in the cash register. It hadn’t dawned on me, but in this age of specialization, this poor boy had no idea how to enter the order. His job was to collect the cash; that’s it. I feel his pain as he hunts and pecks his way through the order. Finally, he’s sure he’s got it right, and gingerly hits ENTER. But when he reads it back, it’s not my food, it’s someone else’s order. At that moment I thought he was going to keel over. The manager, sensing an impending coronary, sprints over, pushes the body aside, takes my order, and successfully reads it back.
As I’m about to pull forward, the manager puts up his hand to stop me, and whispers “given what just happened, you’ll probably have to park and they’ll bring the food out to you, ’cause it won’t be ready.” I acknowledged his point, and pulled up, with the lowest of expectations.
But low and behold, the order was ready, and it was right.
I learned my lesson that day. Never underestimate the In-N-Out Burger machine, the finest charred mammal flesh this side of the Sierras.
And next time, try a “HOME RUN,” you’ll enjoy the show.