Never a Dull Moment at Steak ’n Shake…

…even though I went in to order this time…

I ordered my stuff, including a chocolate malt; Brett’s stuff; and RenRen’s stuff, her usual: a grilled cheese sandwich, with mustard and pickles cooked in (it’s just a bit unnatural having to spec them cooked in…), beef and veggie soup, and cottage cheese.

15 minutes later, my malt showed up, with the latest fad garbage (whipped cream and a cherry??!) on top; my bad: I know better, but forgot to call them off. It was a malt, however.

Another five or so minutes went by. As I was idling around the front of the store, one of boys ran out from the kitchen into the parking lot, and darned near got himself run over by the SUV motoring by. Shortly thereafter, two young teenyboppers and their swains wandered in, the girls laughing hysterically. They’d been through the drive-through and gotten mustard and pickles in the grilled cheese sandwich, which one of them proceeded to whip out onto the counter, in its black clamshell, complete with fries. It was the grossest, weirdest thing they’d ever seen. Of course, as one of them put it, “I’ve never seen one like that before!!”

While they were still giggling and snorting over that, the two bags with my order came up. I asked if my grilled cheese sandwich was in there, and was assured that it was. Upon checking anyway, I found the girls’ grilled cheese sandwich, wrapped up in paper with no fries. And no mustard or pickles.

I got someone’s attention and requested the sandwich I’d ordered. A couple of minutes later, a black clamshell was brought to the counter. Inside was a cheese sandwich with mustard and pickles on rather raw-looking bread, and no fries.

“Besides that the cheese isn’t melted, where are the fries?” says I.

“You got them…”, whilst looking at the bags suspiciously, was the reply.

“No. They were with the grilled cheese sandwich you gave them,” pointing over at the teenyboppers, who were still hanging around with the swains, chatting up the kid who had dashed out previously.

Back went the clamshell. It returned in another bag, complete with a cone of fries. “I melted the cheese, too,” I was told.

The poor assistant manager apologized and gave me a gift card for my troubles.

There were no complaints when I got home, except mine over the stuff on the malt, but that’s my own fault, so it doesn’t count.