With everybody all “#SOPA” this and “#PIPA” that and killing middle-schoolers’ history essays, no one seems to be paying attention to the day’s BIGGER story: that Burger King, quietly testing a new delivery service these past few months, has supposedly mastered the “proprietary thermal packaging technology” that has long stymied advocates of burger transportation reform. Once upon a time the ability to move a flame-grilled Whopper from the kitchens of BK to your dining room table was practically non-existent, the loss of condiment crispness and patty heat TOO MUCH to overcome. But no longer. Harnessing all the powers of modern science, BK is once more leading Americans of discriminating taste to the Promised Land of freshness. They told us this day would never come. Their shortsightedness will one day be written of alongside that of King George and the Hindenburg engineers.
The real question, of course, is HOW WILL IT WORK? No one really knows! As Megan Garber at The Atlantic points out,
It’d have to lock in enough moisture, microwave-style, to ensure that the food it contains doesn’t dry out; it’d have to release enough, though, to prevent those contents from steaming. It’d have to, ostensibly, include some kind of mechanism that prevents the “fresh” ingredients on the burger — the lettuce, the tomato — from cooking while the other ingredients are kept warm.
That’s a lot of masters to serve! The sheer number of variables at play — dry/wet dynamics, veggie moisture, bun integrity — makes cracking the code here at least a Calc 4-level problem. But if BK’s top scientists can make this work…I mean, what is there left to accomplish? We won.
But that’s beside the point. Succeed, fail, or fall woefully somewhere in-between, your efforts at changing the Game are admirable and worthy of recognition. So here’s to you, Burger King — the Hertz Rental of burgers, forever trying harder. What did you do today, Carl’s Jr.?
McDonald’s. 157th Street and Broadway. 6:45 PM. I’m waiting in line to order a heart-healthy #2 when a large woman walks in, loudly announcing her arrival. “Time to eat, time to eat,” she says and licks her lips as she ponders the Dollar Menu. Unfortunately for her, it’s a notoriously slow McDonald’s. A fast food explosion seems inevitable. Sure enough, she goes off after five minutes. “We waitin’ in this line and you over there makin’ a salad or some gay ass shit.” The manager tries to ignore her. “I’m about to hop this fuckin’ counter and make my OWN damn food.” She elicits a few laughs, a few groans. I’ve been in line with people like this before – angry, obnoxious people who want everyone to know who’s in charge. It’s hardly a question of geography, either – they live everywhere. In Harlem, though, people don’t say things that they won’t back up. 
Henning
DJ Steve
