Intolerable Vibes at the Biltmore Village McDonald's
Published by the Biltmore Beacon
Recently, I was assailed by a craving for a burger, and drove to my local McDonald’s, in Waynesville. Now, it was late, but according to Google, this location should be slinging sandwiches at even the most obscene hours. When I got there, though, instead of finding deliverance from my craving, I was confronted with a piece of paper, taped to the microphone. It read: “we are be closed.” Really.
The following day I found myself in Asheville. Still wanting a burger, I decided to head to the Biltmore Village location for what I hoped would be a more regal, grammatically sound McDonald’s experience. The Mcdonald’s in Biltmore village does not look like a typical McDonald’s. Meant to blend right in with the surrounding buildings, it has the sober, faceless charm of a dentist’s office. Devoid of golden arches and prancing clowns, its appearance does not incite hunger.
I could’ve driven through, but since I hadn’t set foot in this Mcdonald’s since I was seven (following a matinee of Happy Feet, of which I remember not a whit), I decided to take my meal inside. Upon entering, the first thing I noticed was the player piano. That piano made quite an impression on me when I first saw it fifteen years ago, mainly because it was my first ever confrontation with a self-playing piano, an experience which I assume is difficult for all children. I recall being shaken to the core by the fact that not only was my first paranormal encounter unfolding in a fast food restaurant, but that the other customers seemed far more interested in their McDoubles and McChickens than, say, a McPhantom. I had started to entertain the idea that–much like Cole Sear in The Sixth Sense–perhaps only I was privy to this ghostly pianist, when I was told that what I was seeing was not paranormal, and that some pianos are so constituted that they can play themselves. This, I recall, was not all that reassuring.
Walking in there now, though, I understood why people would rather drive through. That same player piano, presumably due to a lack of maintenance in the intervening years, seems to have gone berserk. It now plays discordant and roundly unenjoyable notes without pause–much, much worse than no music whatsoever. As I waited for my order–a double quarter pounder with cheese w/ a twenty-piece mcnugget (who’d eat a small meal in place so grand?)–I wondered about the psychological state of the employees who must hear that constantly; imagine clocking into your job and having to endure for nine hours, say, a toddler on a baby grand piano. Maybe there should be a law prohibiting floundering player pianos in the workplace.
I’m happy to report that the actual food was fine. Perfectly normal Mcdonald’s. The soda was thoroughly carbonated, the McNuggets good enough to keep any worries about their origin at bay. But while eating, I couldn’t help but think that it was kind of dirty. Litter flanked the walkway leading to the front door. There was a mysterious spill on the floor near my booth. My table required a more than cursory wipe.
The main appeal of the Biltmore Village McDonald’s location, I feel, is the utter incongruity of it: eating perfectly pedestrian food in a building with twenty-foot high ceilings and a fireplace. But such incongruity is only fun and appealing when all these little pseudo-luxury elements function as intended. The Biltmore crown lies heavy on this McDonalds; cleanliness and atmosphere have greater import here. The reader might accuse me of having impossibly lofty expectations for what is, at bottom, a fast food chain; so what if the floors are a bit dirty and the player piano can’t do Canon in D well enough to make one spill scalding tears into one’s McNuggets? My answer: Oh, but imagine if it could!
As I left the building, as corny as it sounds, I found myself drafting a definition of growing up that I feel to be pretty serviceable: growing up involves dealing with the ever-increasing tendency to notice entropy. It’s quite possible that the Biltmore McDonald’s was in much the same state when I was seven, but I was at an age where all the crummy stuff was rather miraculously filtered out of my awareness. But I do know one thing–at least that damn piano worked.