The Proof is in the Cheese Burger

On Monday, I strolled to a beloved deli down the road from my office. It’s one of my favourite places because everything is made from scratch every day, including wraps, chicken pies, spaghetti meat balls and soups. When you walk inside, it smells like love.

So there I was, facing the friendly girl on the other side of the counter and I ordered one of their bests– a cheese burger. Now, call me an idiot, but I presumed because they care enough to make everything from scratch, they definitely care about the environment and what they feed their customers. But with my new philosophy, I had to ask the question.

With a shaky voice, not wanting to sound like a drip, especially with a queue of other nine-to-fivers behind me, I asked the question: “Where does your beef come from? Is it free-range?” I could hear the yuppie behind me stop her super-fast sms-ing as she let out an irritated sigh.

God.

The deli girl, who was so friendly at the beginning, shifted uncomfortably as redness crept up her neck, turned around to ask the owner. To my surprise, not even the owner could give me an answer!

Scary.

So, fully aware of what felt like an icy silence (even the radio stopped blaring!),I dared to ask yet another question. “Ahem. Where does your chicken come from?” This time more confident and strangely, almost proud, deli girl answered: “We buy normal chicken in the supermarket, because it’s double the price for free range”.

Right.

I cancelled my order, turned around and walked out (a little red faced and pissed off). I felt betrayed! How can someone put so much love into making food, yet care so little at the same time?

This incident made me start wondering about the contents that are in my own fridge. And with a Bridget Jones smile (you know, the one where she walks to her office the morning after a night of intense shagging) I walked to my own office, knowing that although I was really hungry and bummed, that I’m doing ok.