Condiment tax leads to chicken anarchy

I’ve always considered myself a law-abiding person. But imagine my surprise to find out that deep down I’m really an anarchist.

Or something like that.

I’m still reeling from the discovery. It happened, as many discoveries will, in the drive-thru lane at McDonald’s.

There I was, minding my own business, not wishing any ill will on another living soul. I placed my order for a grilled chicken sandwich. A raging case of gallstones had made it necessary that I cut my fat content, so I asked for my grilled chicken to be served up naked with none of that good greasy mayonnaise. Only a little barbecue sauce, please.

(I even said please.)

But lo and behold, the voice of the god of the golden arches came squawking out of the box informing me I could have my chicken sans mayonnaise, but that I’d have to spread the barbecue sauce on it myself. I thought that to be a little strange, but I wasn’t really bothered by it.

Then the voice informed me that I’d be charged 16 cents extra for the privilege.

And that’s when my left eyebrow shot up automatically to the top of my forehead.

Now wait just a cotton-pickin’ minute, thinks I. I understand that maybe they don’t keep bottles of barbecue sauce on hand. I understand having to spread it across the naked chicken myself. But to be charged 16 cents extra for the privilege? It just ain’t right.

When I pulled around to the window to receive my bounty, I tried really hard. The rational, calm side of my mind was doing a tug-of-war with the Dr. Jeckyl side of my brain that wanted to scream, “This is an injustice and an affront to all people with gallstones.”

I bit my lip. I pinched myself on the leg. It was no use. I was no match for me. I had to ask.

“Could you explain to me,” I said, “why you would charge me 16 cents for barbecue sauce? Especially barbecue sauce that I am in charge of spreading on my own chicken?”

The teen-age girl at the window looked at me with a tired expression. I could tell she was probably praying she’d never get old and grumpy like me. At least not old and grumpy enough to quibble with somebody at a fast-food place over 16 cents.

(And just between us, it’s not the 16 cents that bothers me. It’s the reasoning behind it. I had to know why.)

Had barbecue sauce suddenly become an endangered product? Is there a global shortage of brown sugar? Did the city pass another occupational tax on people who eat poultry?

She told me the restaurant had to start charging because people had been asking for barbecue sauce to use on their – get this – French fries.

Oh, sweet Lord, say it ain’t so. The nerve of some people.

She told me the only people who can get barbecue sauce for free now are those who purchase some product in the six-piece-or-more chicken McNugget family.

Now, I didn’t continue into my investigation into the condiment tariff, but it did start me thinking.

If I’m understanding correctly, if I buy six little pieces of chicken, the sauce comes free. But if I buy one big piece of chicken, kiss those 16 pennies goodbye.

(Also just between us, I came dangerously close to asking her to slice my sandwich into six pieces and throw the sauce in for free. I’m proud to report self-control prevailed…barely.)

And it’s bad enough to be charged extra for the sauce. But the whole “do-it-yourself” thing just adds insult to the injury. I’ll grant you spreading barbecue sauce on a naked piece of chicken isn’t all that labor intensive. But I’ll be darned if I want to get charged extra for the thrill.

There is another issue here, even more important than prejudice toward single pieces of chicken. We as Americans have a fundamental right to complimentary condiments with the purchase of a meal.

If I want barbecue sauce for my six little chickens, one big chicken, French fries, or hot apple pie, it should make no difference. If I want to pour it on my head, that should be my God-given right as the customer.

What’s next? A tax on ketchup? Only two salts per customer, please. Sign away your first-born for a packet of pepper. Put down a deposit on that mustard. Would you care to take out a second mortgage for some tartar sauce?

I want to take my gripes to the person who came up with this little jewel of a rule and say my piece. I want to look him straight in the eye and say, “Who died and made you Mayor McCheese?”

Until that day, I’m going to have to come up with a way to beat the system. I just can’t, under any circumstances, be true to my ornery nature and still pay 16 cents extra for barbecue sauce.

Whether it means smuggling a spare bottle of sauce in my purse or pulling the old “What’s that behind you?” and grabbing a few packs from under the counter while she’s not looking. There has to be a way.

I imagine this is how the Hamburglar got his start in crime.

Told you I was an anarchist.