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“Inside it’s a restaurant—just with more hamburgers and chips and such, you know, themed—but it doesn’t operate like most of them”, Crowley explains, as he taps a bony finger against the steering wheel and waits with what he’d call an admirable patience for the person in front of them to move their arse. Not that he would waste a miracle to do something about it—it was a good enough time as any for old fashioned exposition. ”More like a cafe, really, you go straight to the person at the register and tell what you want and boom, you get your food. Well, you have to wait for it to be made first, so you’d probably go do that at a table anyway. Yeah, a restaurant.”
There’s a distinct I think that lingers in the air, but some things are not meant to be said out loud.
Aziraphale nods attentively on his spot at the passenger seat and looks out of the window to the highway that spreads in not so far distance, darkened by the autumn hours but rendered visible by street lamps and fleeting headlights.
“Not that it matters. It would, if we were staying.”
“We can dine there, if you’d like”, assures Aziraphale, who likes dining at places, and who thus didn’t know what he was currently asking.
“Oh, absolutely not”, Crowley counters. A grimace creeps to him as he remembers his last visit in one of these establishments—it hadn’t been full by any means, but there were still families and groups of friends with their salty potato sticks and splattering ketchups and grilled breads with falling pieces of salad sticking out of them, accompanied by the universal smell of absolute mess as if every rag and mister had gone on strike and refused to turn up to work that day. “These places are filthy. You’re not putting your pretty little angel butt on their greasy… Burger-stainy chairs.”
Aziraphale rolls his eyes. He’ll appreciate Crowley’s thoughtfulness some other day.
The car in front of them finally jerks and moves out of the way, and Crowley drives into its place. Following the steps his predecessor had done, he rolls down his window, and looks eye to eye at an quadrangle box that he assumes to be some sort of a microphone.
Now. Was he supposed to press something? Greet it? Wave a hand and do a little gesture?
“Uh…”
“Welcome to McDonald’s. Can I take your order?”
Crowley flinches as a sudden voice of a woman emits from the box, but he promptly clears his throat and collects himself.
“Hi. Hold on for a sec.”
He glances to the side, where the menu is neatly laid out behind two glass slates, and sees rows and rows of different names that either don’t describe him much or spell loud and clear “heart disease”. None of it sounds particularly appetizing—what even was Big Tasty? Someone is trying to compensate for something.
“Are all of these indeed burgers?” Aziraphale asks. It might have been directed to Crowley, but the speaker picks it up nevertheless.
“Um. We have wraps, too. And ice cream. And stuff.”
“Now, angel, you can’t just come to a hamburger restaurant and not order a hamburger”, Crowley chastises. “Very uncivil.”
“I was merely curious! Surely a person can ask.”
Crowley gives him a little smirk and turns back to the voice, leaning onto his window frame. Is there a camera somewhere? Could the overworked employee see them? “Hey, lady. What would you recommend?”
Not an odd question at all as far as Crowley was aware, yet the pause that follows it is throughoutly heard and felt.
“What I would recommend?”
“Yeah. What’s the special for the day?”
“The hamburger catalogue is really impressive”, Aziraphale pipes in, unhelpfully.
“…Alright”, the woman manages to say. “Um. Big Mac meals are pretty popular.”
“Cool, I’ll have that”, Crowley decides, because he’s come this far, and having a bite for the authentic fast food experience was, for some reason, a goal for the day. “Aziraphale?”
“Say, what’s in McCrispy?” The angel asks. Crowley chuckles in his thoughts at the funny little “Mc” in the beginning of the item—very on brand. “It has a curious sound to it.”
“It’s, uh. Some chicken, and mayo”, the voice answers. “And salad.”
Oh, that births a question.
“Why do they call it ‘Big Mac’?” The demon asks in turn. A long “uhhh” emits from the speaker.
“I don’t know?”
“What’s in it, anyway? It isn’t very descriptive.”
“Um. Two beef patties and some sauce and uh, pickles—“
“Ah, pickles. I can get behind pickles. They’re very clever.”
“I also like pickles”, Aziraphale adds. “You’re absolutely right. Pickled food is a very impressive human invention. What kind of pickles are we talking about in this ‘Big Mac’?”
“Gotta be cucumbers”, Crowley says. “Haven’t heard a human refer to nothing but cucumbers when talking about pickles in ages. Isn’t that right?”
“I-I guess.” Was the voice in the box starting to stutter? “The meal, sir?”
“Oh, yes. The… Chicken Sandwich sounds lovely, thank you. Sorry. McChicken.”
“Very well. The drinks?”
Ah, drinks. Usually it happens to be Crowley’s favorite, but this time, he isn’t that thrilled.
“They don’t serve alcohol in places like these”, he lets Aziraphale know. “Not that they would even humour the thought, with us driving and all.”
He gives his attention back to the box.
“Whatdya got?”
He could almost, almost, hear a little sigh coming from the speaker.
“We got, uh. Coca Cola, fanta, sprite and… Um. Water.”
Standard restaurant drinks. At least Crowley’s seen them on the menus on their regular dining places, even if they’ve never given them a go themselves during dinner. Or lunch. Or any other proper dining time.
“I could try Coca Cola”, Aziraphale announces. Crowley spares a glance at him on that—the man had completely missed the launch of the beverage when it first came around, and had never shown any interest towards it on years after it.
“You wouldn’t like it”, warns Crowley. “It’s shite.”
“I’m feeling experimental. Besides, I think it’s about time I pay John Pemberton my respects. One Coca Cola, please.”
Despite the horror that the poor angel will no doubt experience upon actually drinking a soft drink, Crowley can’t help the grin that creeps to his face. By the off chance that there is a camera, he hopes it doesn’t catch it.
“Make that two”, he tells the speaker. “The things I could tell you about Pemberton, Aziraphale. Now there was a lad.”
“Anything else?”
The anything else that the woman says sounds suspiciously lot like please no more, but for all Crowley knows, this could just be a standard in any self-respecting fast food establishment.
“Look, there’s shakes, too”, Crowley points out, having spent a bit extra time leering at the menu by now. “All kinds of flavors. When was the last time you’ve given the good ol’ chocolate milkshake a go?”
“Oh now you’re just tempting me”, Aziraphale spells the obvious. He puts in a few seconds to go through his options, the employee at the other side be damned.
“What would you suggest, my dear girl?” He eventually asks. “What do you like?”
“Uh, the shakes? I don’t know, I haven’t drank any”, they hear the woman say.
“You haven’t?” Aziraphale gasps, as if it had been the most outrageous thing he’d heard that day—it wasn’t, since Crowley had announced on breakfast he’s going to make chopines trendy again. “Why, surely you’d have at least tasted some?”
“I just work here, sir.”
“Ah. Very well. Do you like it here, at least?”
“It’s a fast food restaurant. They’re supposed to hate working in these places”, Crowley interrupts. “I think. You do hate it here, don’t you?”
“Crowley!”
“The shakes, sirs?” The woman tries, desperation now creeping into her voice—Aziraphale, mercifully, turns back to her.
“Ah, yes. The… Chocolate milkshake will do just fine, thank you.”
A line has formed behind them by the time they are hastily directed to drive to the next stop for payment, but Crowley fathoms waiting in lines is just a part of the whole deal when participating in food-based capitalism. No need to think anything of it.
———————————
They take themselves to a cozy little park by the side of the road, onto a bench that looks to a pondful of ducks and oak trees in full autumn color. They open the contents of their McDonald’s branded brown paperbag between them and set them onto a promptly miracled (tartan) table cloth, with the hamburgers and drinks and chips, Crowley didn’t remember ordering chips, but apparently those were a part of their meals now.
“And you truly haven’t dined there before?” Aziraphale asks. He chomps down on his burger and frowns at the taste.
“Well, I’ve been inside of them, of course. A really easy source of some mild evil. Do you have any idea how many souls you can secure by just breaking one of their ice cream machines?”
Aziraphale glances at him.
“An ice cream machine, out of all things?”
“People switch for less.”
And the angel doesn’t disagree.
“But, yeah, never ate their stuff. Not much of an eater, I. And if I’m gonna eat, it’s not gonna be in Mc-bloody-Donald’s.”
Crowley takes a bite out of his own burger, this being an experience and all, and is struck with a salty, meaty taste that although isn’t the worst, is layered with a particular brand of nasty. He takes another bite, and looks at Aziraphale just in time to see him grimmace at his sip of cola.
“This is horrid.”
Crowley gives him a toothy grin.
”Told you so.”
”You ordered one yourself!”
“Mhm.”
Crowley picks up his drink and tastes it through its cardboard straw. Acidic, piercing and tangy—perfectly terrible.
“Pemberton did it better. Did you know it used to be a wine? With cocaine.”
“You’re a fiend.”
“You love a good fiend.”
Aziraphale huffs, but it’s quickly taken over by a little laugh.
“A good fiend, indeed.”
Crap. Crowley didn’t think that one through.
Nevertheless, they dine, and agree to never order from McDonald’s again.