There’s an unspoken contract when you roll into a drive-thru: you keep it moving. You get in line, you glance at the glowing menu board, you make your choice, and when it’s your turn at the speaker box, you order with confidence. That’s the deal and the whole point of a drive-thru.
So tell me why, after waiting in line for ten solid minutes behind a parade of SUVs and pick-up trucks the size of Mount Everest, I get stuck behind the Drive-Thru Novice. The one who, after sitting idle the entire time, suddenly decides this is their moment to start studying the menu like it’s the SAT exam.
“Uh… hmmm… okay… what comes on the cheeseburger?” What comes on the cheeseburger? It’s a cheeseburger! The clue is in the name. Cheese. Same standard condiments as on a hamburger. Done. Yet there they are, grilling the poor teenager on the headset about ingredient lists, portion sizes, and whether the fries are gluten-free. Meanwhile, the rest of us are debating whether it would be faster to abandon ship and go forage in the wilderness for food.
And then comes the panic pivot. After five minutes of indecision, they settle on something. “I’ll have the chicken sandwich.” But as soon as the cashier repeats it back, they backpedal. “Actually… no, wait… do you have wraps? Oh, you do? What kind? Hmm, okay, maybe I’ll go with…” The line is now backed up to the street. Horns are honking. Children are crying. The entire concept of “fast food” is dying a slow, painful death.
Let’s not forget the add-on parade. They finally settle on an order, but instead of letting it ride, they tack on item after item like they’re building a Lego set. “And can I add a small fry? Actually, make that large. Oh, and a shake. Do you still have those seasonal pies? No? Okay, never mind. Wait – do you have apple slices? You do? Okay, throw those in.” At this point, the cashier deserves combat pay.
And then they reach the window. This is when the true performance begins. Out comes the fumbling for the wallet. Digging through the cup holder for change. The “Oh shoot, I think I have a gift card somewhere in here” routine. They’ve had ten minutes in line to prepare, but only now, when the entire operation rests on their payment, do they start rummaging through their belongings like raccoons in a dumpster. Just use a damn credit or debit card like everyone else and have it ready.
By the time they drive off, victory bag in hand, you’re questioning every choice that led you here. And you’re trying not to make eye contact with the car behind you, whose driver is surely debating whether it would be socially acceptable to ram your bumper just to escape. And in a way, you wouldn’t blame him.
I get that menus and options are big. Sometimes you panic. But the drive-thru is not the place for soul-searching. It is not the place to discover yourself. It is not the place to explore your culinary boundaries. This is a pit stop, not a pilgrimage.
I propose a solution: a drive-thru license test. You have to pass a basic exam before you’re allowed in line. It’s simple. Multiple choice. Question one: You’ve been in line for eight minutes. When do you decide what you want? A) Right now. B) At the speaker box, after much dithering. C) Never, because life is meaningless. The correct answer is A. Fail, and you’re banished from all drive-thrus for six months until you learn how society works.
Maybe even better: separate lanes. One for people who know what they’re doing. One for the novices. The “I need to see a menu first” lane, complete with a holding pen and maybe a life coach to walk them through their order at their own pace. That way, the rest of us can keep civilization running.
Because the drive-thru is sacred, it’s fast food in its purest form. In, out, gone. But when the novices roll in, hemming and hawing, second-guessing, fumbling, and dragging us all down, they betray the one rule that matters most: keep it moving.
So, dear Drive-Thru Novices, respect the line. Study the menu as if it were scripture before you hit the speaker box. Have your money ready. And for the love of cheeseburgers, stop treating the drive-thru like it’s your personal episode of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. No lifelines. No do-overs. Just order and move on.
John Berkovich Talks 