Ugh. Remind me never to eat Papa John’s in the near future. Usually, I love pizza from the Papa, but last night, I got two and a half hours of sleep due to indigestion, and resulting frequent trips to the bathroom.

I had the day off work Friday, and spent day it cleaning my apartment. Woohoo. Party over hee-err.

So Saturday afternoon, before stopping over Chris’ and Matt’s house to help set up for their party that night, I stopped at Boston Market to grab some lunch.

Not the good one. I stopped at the bad one.

Most towns, or cities, have more than one franchise fairly equidistant from you and have labeled them accordingly.

We have two Boston Markets. One is good, the other is bad.

The good one is only five miles out of my way, while the bad one is more like five blocks. The differences between them are staggering. But I was in a hurry, and didn’t feel like fighting traffic, and my stomach felt as if it was playing kickball, so sue me. I knowingly chose location over quality of food and service.

I really can’t understand how two restaurants, any restaurants, that serve the exact same food and have the exact same name, can be polar opposites.

It’s not like it was a complicated order. I always order the same thing: chicken carver sandwich without lettuce and tomato. Side of mashed potatoes (no gravy).

The good Boston Market, after punching my order into the computer, then asks the logical question, “Would you like that on white or wheat?” The bad Boston Market stares puzzled, ignoring my choice of bread (of which they have run out), and tries to decipher how to code “no lettuce” and “no tomato” like they are trying to decipher the Dead Sea Scrolls.

But let’s back up a bit. The good Boston Market has an organized layout, maximizing table space, while providing a good flow for a fast food joint. The bad Boston Market makes the customer walk through the seating area, where tables are spaced a minimum of six feet away from each other, to meander around the counter in no particular order until someone asks you directly, “What do you want?”

Anyway, the cashier, after taking my money, then ushers me down the assembly line, where I can view one person scooping my mashed potatoes, while another person carves the chicken for my sandwich, while carefully checking the display monitors to remember not to add lettuce or tomato to my sandwich. Also, the person scooping the mashed potatoes tries her hardest to cram as many potato molecules in the dish before it reaches max capacity.

The bad Boston Market calls my order back to the carver, who his hidden in the rear of the prep area, while I make my way down to the cashier, who has no idea what I just ordered, while the person who took my order slides by with only one scoop of potatoes in the dish, spreading them around so it looks filled.

The carver, who has decided that the stress of making two sandwiches before making mine had deemed her worthy of taking a break, shuffles over to the soda counter to fill her ten ounce cup, and sip it slowly. It’s only after her manager gives her the stink-eye that she resumes making my sandwich. Incorrectly. It’s not entirely her fault. The order wasn’t written down, and since she has the attention span of a flea, I can’t expect her to remember the brand of soda she just drank let alone, “no lettuce”, “no tomato”, and “wheat bread”.

At the good Boston Market, I can trust that my order will be filled correctly, and promptly. At the bad Boston Market, I can trust that I will have to send back the sandwich at least once. And my mashed potatoes are cold. And covered in gravy. So that gets sent back too. And the employees have the nerve to be angry with me for their mistake. We’re not talking four stars, folks. We’re talking fast food. There is a minimum I expect, and these people still aren’t meeting it. But like I said I was in a hurry.

So finally, at the good Boston Market, I can expect to enjoy a hot meal, quickly, while at the bad Boston Market, I can expect a case of the runs in half an hour.

READ THESE JOURNALS Uncle Bob SaraH

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