The universe is trying to tell me something about the ingredients I choose to eat. I'm just not sure what.
Over this past weekend--and, really, over the past few months--I've noticed a trend in restaraunts. This trend basically boils down to "Even if you ask for something to not be in your meal, they're going to put it in anyway and then complain when you complain."
I suppose this isn't new--I distinctly remember traveling down south when I was a child, ordering a plain chicken sandwich, and it being delivered with mayonnaise. And when I pointed out that it had mayo on it, the waitress kindly replied, "Yes, that's right, plain."
More recently, I ordered a sandwich at Panera Bread, and I distinctly told them I did not want mustard. (I'm not a fan of mustard--it's not bad, but you can only have so much of it, and I fulfilled my lifetime allotment of mustard when I was, like, six.) Needless to say, when the sandwich came one half had no mustard but the other did--and when I pointed this out to the manager, she insisted that it was simply "rung up wrong" despite the fact that it very clearly said no mustard on the receipt. Getting an order wrong is OK--it happens--but don't try to push it off on either me or the clerk. Let's just say that Panera is the sort of place that for as much as you pay for that sandwich they damn well better get it right.
Fast forward a few days later, and my wife picked up some KFC on the way home. Anyone who knows me knows there are only three things I absolutely despise--communists, horses, and gravy. (Actually, I'm willing to give an undisclosed amount of cash as a reward to someone who makes up some horse gravy.) So when I wife ordered mashed potatoes she requested no gravy--on the receipt and everything--and yet pulling it out of the sadness box I saw a small container filled to the lid with gravy. My dachshunds Dexter and Chloe, of course, were more than happy at my misfortune, since they were the ones who got to eat it.
We can chalk this up to the standard inability of teenagers to navigate basic skills, or some sort of passive-aggressive way of protesting fast food wages, or underemployed hipster foodies cranking at my dislike of condiments. In any case, I might just have to fire a food tester. Dexter just volunteered.