Harlem McDonald's

[Martin Hash]

A lot can be learned about a place by going into a McDonald's. My wife, Gwynne, & I are big travelers, and one of the first things we look up when we get to a new place is where's the closest McDonald's. I do love the cheap coffee & a breakfast burrito & Gwynne will eat a parfait every day, and for-the-most-part McDonald's is the same all over the United States, the world even. There are some variations, however...

The inner city McDonald's have their own flavor, and I'm not talking about food. The difference in service is astounding, and there's certainly no parking in at any McDonald's we ever went to. There's one McDonald's in Harlem that's is nothing more than a small order window set high in wall facing a busy sidewalk. Gwynne, who is just over five feet tall, had to look up to ask if they had an ice cream cone since there is no menu posted anywhere, but first she had to ask if this was a McDonald's because she couldn't see in. During our interminable wait for a single ice cream cone, we were constantly jostled by the throngs of people on the sidewalk since we were standing immobile while the rest of the city was in constant flux around us.

There's also a McDonald's across the street from the community hospital, Lincoln, where I did some rotations during Med School. I never missed a day going there but sometimes the trip was simply too slow for me to buy anything during my break because sometimes there were picketers out front, the lines were long, the service beyond poor, and the checkers speak in a thick local dialect that is difficult for West Coast White people to understand. But they are obviously popular to the indigenous population because there sure aren't any tourists eating at these places. There are little pockets of old men playing video-games and chess, a rambunctious teenagers, like everywhere in Harlem. Also, note to self, if you order the breakfast sandwiches, they assume you're Jewish or whatever, so you have to specifically ask for the bacon or sausage, and waiting back in line to exchange a bland Egg&Biscuit just isn't worth it. The bathrooms are locked and you have to wait again to ask for the key. Gwynne just could not break the habit of always wanting to use the bathroom, but half the time she couldn't because the person that had the key was not on shift yet.

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Another Harlem McDonald's is next to the subway station & it is the smallest, busiest McDonald's I've ever seen. Half-dozen beggars demanded money from me as we walked in before I sat down to read my email. I pointedly ignored them all until I noticed the one over my shoulder had a commanding presence so I looked up, and it was a big Harlem McDonald's security guard saying I had to purchase something before I could sit down. He had a badge, and he was obviously doing his job, so I stood up & said, “My wife's buying the food.”
“How do I know you have a wife?” he asked, suspicious. He has to deal with a lot lying homeless people, I'd guess, and I kind of fit the stereotype.
I pointed up to the busy lines at the counter: Gwynne was easy to spot, we were the only two White people in the place. The security guy nodded that I could again seat myself & continue reading.
The biscuit was sure good too because Gwynne remembered to ask for the bacon.

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