D'ya want fries with that?

Oh, central PA, you make the whole fast food experience not so fast. Here we are again, doing the trip to Ohio for the holidays and making another disappointing stop for fast food.

I need to remind myself that stopping for food on the Pennsylvania turnpike is always a tactical error. The reststops on the turnpike are populated by third- or fourth-tier fast food places. Sbarro, Famiglia. I finally settled on Roy Rogers. ("They still exist?" My dad was surprised.) Roy Rogers seems to have taken the marketing strategy of doing a little bit of everything and none of it very well. You can get your hamburger, you can get your roast beef, you can get your fried chicken. You have your choice of about five different sides, mostly potato-based. It all looks a bit sad and washed out.

I decide on the grilled chicken. If you get the "combo", you get a side and a drink. I go to order. There's at least three girls doing something behind the counter but no one is actually at a register and no one comes up to take my order. I wait. Still none of the girls come up to a register. Another person walks up in line behind me. Still no one steps to a register. I look at the guy behind me, maybe he can figure it out. He just shrugs.

Finally, a girl comes to a register. "Can I take your order?"

"I'd like the combination of the grilled chicken and mashed potatoes."

"If you want to add a drink, then you can make it a 'combo,'" she tells me, very happy to be saving me some money. I stop for a moment, wanting to explain that "combo" is actually short for "combination," then realize that it probably would just confuse her, so I nod and agree that that's what I want. She takes my money and hands me a soda cup.

I go to the soda machine which proudly declares that with a touch of a button, I could have one of four types of soda from the same spicket. Although they are different varieties of Coke (diet, sugar-filled, caffeine: yes or no), they are all brown varieties and I am suspicious. I go to the one that is dedicated to Diet Coke, knowing that all the sodas could be the exact same brown variety, but, for some reason, I am trusting this spicket a bit more.

When I get my chicken, I see that it is simply a hunk of chicken on a bun. Nothing more. There is a "Fixin's Bar" for anything else. I shake my head a bit. Roy Rogers can't even give me a bit of lettuce and some mayo. Instead they take the naked route, unwilling to commit to any toppings for your sandwich. I don't think this is the best strategy. McDonald's proudly lists what's on a Big Mac; Burger King may say that special orders won't upset them, but they have a bunch of stuff already slathered on and you have to "hold the pickles." I "fix" my chicken.

I suppose you're not tempted to dawdle with a meal like this. You eat and you get on the road. I had my book but barely read three pages. I look around and sigh. Time to get back to driving.