When Your Convenience Becomes Everyone Else’s Inconvenience
I’ve come to the conclusion that we’ve completely lost our understanding of what a drive-thru is supposed to accomplish. The concept seems relatively simple. You drive up. You conduct a transaction. You drive away. The entire purpose is convenience and efficiency. At least, that’s what I thought.
Apparently, somewhere along the way, people decided that a drive-thru was an excellent place to conduct complicated business negotiations, family financial planning, and personalized culinary experiments. And the rest of us are simply expected to wait. Patiently. While our lives pass before our eyes.
The Customized Cheeseburger
Let’s start with McDonald’s. It’s lunchtime. You have fifteen minutes to grab something to eat before returning to work. You pull into the drive-thru. Two cars ahead of you. Perfect. You already know what you want. Two cheeseburgers. Maybe a Diet Coke. No substitutions. No modifications. No special instructions. You’re prepared to conduct this transaction with the efficiency of a NASCAR pit crew.
Then the person in front of you reaches the speaker. “I’d like a double cheeseburger, but without cheese.” Okay. “No pickles, extra onions, but only if they’re grilled.” Here we go. “Can you cook the meat a little longer? And I’d like the sauce on the side.” I’m beginning to lose hope. “Can you substitute the bun? I don’t really like the regular buns.”
Sir, you don’t want a cheeseburger. You want to open your own restaurant. And apparently, you’re going to do it right here in the drive-thru. Meanwhile, I’m sitting behind you watching my lunch break disappear. By the time I get my two cheeseburgers, they’ll be eligible for Social Security.
The Drive-Thru Family Accountant
Then there’s the person who reaches the speaker and announces something that immediately causes my blood pressure to rise. “I have four separate orders.” Four. Separate. Orders. Apparently, we’re catering a corporate retreat.
The first order is relatively simple. The second involves six modifications. The third requires a phone call because nobody remembers what little Timmy wanted. And the fourth involves three different payment methods, a coupon from 2019, and a debate about whether the app discount can be combined with the senior discount.
Meanwhile, I’m sitting behind this person wondering whether McDonald’s offers financing on the two cheeseburgers I’m eventually hoping to purchase. If you have four separate orders, GO INSIDE. There’s a counter. There are tables. There’s room to organize your receipts and conduct your quarterly family budget meeting. You can divide the bill, collect everybody’s money, argue about who owes what, and determine whether little Timmy actually wanted chicken nuggets.
All without holding the rest of us hostage. The drive-thru is not a conference room.
The Coffee Shop Chemist
Now, I spend a fair amount of time in coffee shops. And I’ve discovered that ordering coffee has apparently become a scientific discipline requiring considerably more education than I possess. I remember when coffee was relatively simple. Small, medium, or large. Cream? Sugar? Done.
But those days are apparently gone. A woman walks in and announces she’d like a peanut butter latte. Except she’s allergic to peanuts. So, she needs the special peanut-free peanut butter syrup. But it can’t contain gluten. And she can’t have sugar. And she can’t have dairy. And she needs a particular milk substitute, but only if that substitute doesn’t contain something else she’s avoiding.
Oh, and she wants it extra hot. But not too hot.
Ma’am, have you considered ordering something you can actually drink?
Now, before somebody gets excited, I understand that food allergies are real. Some are extremely serious. People have legitimate medical and dietary restrictions, and nobody should be expected to risk their health just to make my coffee arrive thirty seconds faster. That’s not the point. The point is that somewhere along the way, the menu became merely a suggestion.
“I’ll have a large half-caf, sugar-free vanilla latte with oat milk, one pump of hazelnut, no foam, light ice, and can you make it exactly 137 degrees?”
That’s not a coffee order. That’s a chemistry experiment. At some point, I expect the barista to put on safety goggles and announce that the laboratory is ready. Meanwhile, I’m standing behind this person. I just want a peppermint mocha. I’m beginning to think I should have brought a thermos.
The Bank Drive-Thru Mortgage Closing
And then there’s the bank. This one absolutely fascinates me. I pull into the drive-thru because I need to make a deposit. One check. One account. Thirty seconds of actual work. There’s one car ahead of me. Wonderful. Except fifteen minutes later, we’re still sitting there.
The pneumatic tube has traveled back and forth so many times I’m beginning to wonder whether NASA is using it to test spacecraft reentry. What could possibly be happening? Is this person refinancing their house? Consolidating their retirement accounts? Establishing a trust fund for their grandchildren?
Apparently, they’ve arrived with sixteen separate transactions, three account questions, two cashier’s checks, and a mortgage application. Sir, this is a drive-thru window. Not a closing at the title company. There is an entire building ten feet to your left. It has doors. Chairs. People who can help you. You can actually go inside and conduct your financial affairs without requiring the rest of us to participate in your estate planning.
Meanwhile, my single deposit is sitting on the passenger seat.
I’m beginning to wonder whether I should just endorse the check to the person in front of me and ask them to handle it while they’re in there. Apparently, they’ve already established a working relationship with the teller.
The Pharmacy Drive-Thru Medical Conference
And let’s not forget the pharmacy. Now, I understand that pharmacies serve people who are sick, elderly, disabled, or otherwise have legitimate reasons for using the drive-thru. That’s precisely why those services are important.
But occasionally, you encounter someone who apparently believes the pharmacy window is the appropriate place to conduct a complete medical consultation. “I need to pick up my prescription.” Simple enough. “But I have a question about this medication.” Fair enough. “And while I’m here, can you check the prices on these other six prescriptions?” Okay. “And my insurance changed.” Of course it did. “And I have a coupon on my phone, but I can’t find it.” Naturally. “And can you explain the difference between these medications?” At this point, I’m wondering whether I should turn off my engine and enroll in medical school.
We are no longer picking up prescriptions. We are conducting grand rounds.
There are times when a complicated issue requires personal attention, and pharmacists absolutely should take the time necessary to protect their patients. But when a transaction becomes an extended consultation, perhaps the solution is to move that conversation inside or arrange another way to complete it.
Because there are six cars behind you, and at least one of those people probably needs medication before they lose consciousness from waiting. Possibly me.
The Menu Is Apparently Just a Suggestion
Here’s something I’ve never quite understood. Restaurants spend enormous amounts of time developing menus. They decide what they’re going to sell. They determine the ingredients. They establish prices. They put pictures on the wall. Sometimes they even number the items so you don’t have to remember what they’re called.
You walk in. Look at the menu. Choose something. It seems like a relatively straightforward arrangement. But apparently some people view the menu as the opening offer in a negotiation.
“I’ll have number six, but I don’t want anything that comes with number six. Can you replace the meat, change the bread, substitute the sauce, remove the vegetables, and prepare it differently?”
Why, yes. Would you also like to come into the kitchen and supervise? Perhaps you’d like to interview the chef. Review the supply chain. Approve the agricultural practices used to grow the lettuce.
At what point does ordering food become designing food? Because I think we’ve crossed that line. And if your order requires a blueprint, an engineering degree, and written authorization from corporate headquarters, perhaps the drive-thru isn’t the appropriate venue.
Convenience for Whom?
Now, I realize I’m exaggerating (Sort of). That’s what makes these little observations entertaining. And I have no objection to someone saying, “No pickles, please.” There’s nothing wrong with wanting something prepared the way you enjoy it.
And there are legitimate reasons people need special accommodations. But there is a difference between making a reasonable request and turning a simple transaction into a twenty-minute consultation. Which brings me to the real point.
Convenience for one person shouldn’t automatically become an inconvenience for everyone else.
Somewhere behind you is another person. Maybe they’re on their lunch break. Maybe they’re running late. Maybe they’re trying to grab breakfast before work. Maybe they have a child in the car who’s already asked seventeen times when they’re going to eat. Maybe they simply want to deposit one check and continue with their day.
Your time matters. Your preferences matter. Your needs matter. But so do theirs. And that’s something we seem to forget more and more often. We’ve created a world where everything is supposed to be customized, personalized, and tailored to our individual preferences.
Businesses encourage it because customization sells. I understand that. But sometimes I wonder whether we’ve become so accustomed to having everything exactly the way we want it that we’ve forgotten how to consider the people around us.
Not everything needs to be reinvented. Not every transaction needs to become a negotiation. And not every hamburger needs to represent your unique identity as a human being. Sometimes a cheeseburger can just be a cheeseburger. I know. Radical thinking.
Just Go Inside
So, here’s my suggestion. If you have four separate orders… Go inside.
If you need to conduct sixteen banking transactions, establish a trust fund, and discuss refinancing your mortgage… Go inside.
If your coffee requires six substitutions, three special syrups, and laboratory equipment… Perhaps consider going inside.
And if your hamburger requires so many modifications that the restaurant no longer recognizes its own product… You might want to consider making it at home.
I’m not suggesting that you shouldn’t get what you want. I’m simply suggesting that your pursuit of the perfect lunch shouldn’t require everyone else to sacrifice theirs. The drive-thru was designed to make ordinary transactions convenient. Not to provide a mobile office for conducting every complicated task you’ve been putting off for the last six months.
And if you’re wondering whether your transaction might be too complicated for the drive-thru, here’s a simple test. If you need to begin your order with the words:
“Okay, this is going to be a little complicated…”
Park the car. Turn off the engine. Open the door. And walk inside. The rest of us will appreciate it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to McDonald’s. Two cheeseburgers. Maybe a Diet Coke. No modifications. No substitutions. No separate transactions. And if the person in front of me starts discussing mortgage rates with the cashier…
I’m going home to make a sandwich. At least I know how long that will take.
