When You Order Your Salad Online For Pickup, The Employees Don't Give A FUCK About Making It
I eat a salad for lunch every day. A bunch of plus-size models in my mentions took issue with this. “Thfe reakl prtoblemm is that yout”re eating a slaad.” What? Sorry, I wasn’t able to read your message because you hit too many keys when you typed it. I don’t blame you—they don’t make keyboards for people with choad fingers.
Given our policy of no free ads, I won’t mention the name of my salad place (it rhymes with sweetgreem). Although if you look at that picture and can’t figure it out, it’s because you don’t eat salads and you should switch to a healthier lifestyle because heart disease is killing more Americans than war and pit bulls combined. For months, I’ve been ordering my salad online and picking it up to avoid the massive line that forms during peak hours. Sure, it’s a fun line to stand in because a lot of the chicks are super hot babes wearing funky hats and talking about entrepreneurism. They’re so focused on their careers that you can stare at them and steal their startup ideas and they don’t see it coming. Haha head on a swivel, Barbara Corcoran!
A few weeks ago, I was so hungry that I needed my lunch at 11:30. I decided to do it the old-fashioned way and went to build the salad at the store with verbal directions instead of clicks. And as “James” filled my cardboard bowl, I could tell we were making something special. This was NOTHING like the salads I’d been eating from my internet purchases. For months, this deceitful company had been catfishing me. I’d add “chicken” only to find a couple measly cubes of bird. I’d add “avocado” only to discover a slimy, brownish chunk still clinging to its leathery skin like a botched bris. Now, under my watchful gaze, James was dumping heaping ladlefulls of each ingredient into my bowl. I was so turned on that I started adding random shit just to watch him fill the tank. I even put radishes in there. What? lol. Radishes? That’s not me.
From my online salads, the only thing worse than the portions is how poorly they mix the ingredients. These salaristas specialize in tossing the shit out of your dish, but when you’re not there to watch them do it, they mail it the fuck in. My guess is that they simply tip the whole bowl upside-down once and call it a day. All the chicken in one area, all the sweet potatoes in another like a totally segregated neighborhood that refuses to mingle. The dressing sits on top and you eat that and think the salad is overdressed, only to reach a lower layer that’s dryer than the first seven girls I slept with (I didn’t have a CLUE).
Not so with the in-person order. This guy delicately beat that avocado up into digestible pieces. I asked him to dress the salad with a “medium” squirt, and I would say that his medium and my medium are very close. Christ, when you click medium online, they drown the entire fucking salad. My walnuts look like the heartbreaking photos of birds affected by the BP oil spill.
By the time they finally handed me the salad—same ingredients as always, same price—it was at least two or three times heavier than my online salads. I went back a few more times to make sure it wasn’t just generous James and his heavy hands. Similar results every time. When you watch people make your salad, they put more into it—both effort and size.
I’m hoping this blog will draw awareness to the discrepancy we salad-eaters face. I shouldn’t be able to tell the difference between an online salad and an in-store salad by lifting them. We’re all striving for equality. Don’t be last to that party.