Tonight we went to Five Guys, the hamburger place, for supper. We went up and placed our order with the young lady who spoke perfect English, having read the signs, the menu, and what toppings were available.

There is a big sign, written in English, which says "All Burgers Cooked Well Done". Seems pretty straightforward right? I take that to mean that, while they offer every topping in the world, and you can customize your burger any way you want in that regard, they do not customize orders with regard to done-ness. This makes sense to me, because the health department has regulations about how....

hot meat has to get, and this is not "Chez Five Guys" - it's a burger joint, where the dude at the grill does not have time to stop and stick a meat thermometer in somebody's individual hamburger.

Also, Five Guys has won all kinds of awards for their burgers, and the franchise has expanded because the place has legions of raving fans. I mean, lets face it, I don't even like hamburgers and I eat there.

So you'd think if somebody didn't like the way they cooked their hamburgers, they'd just eat someplace else.

But anyway, we were standing there, waiting for our order. Numbers were being called by a pleasant, smiling Hispanic girl, and workers in the open kitchen were rushing around, working hard, getting everybody's orders together. No word of a lie, the cook must have had 20 burgers going on the grill, each one uniform and getting perfectly well done.

Next to us stood a white guy in his 50's with gray hair. He was as tall as The Hub. He wore a button down shirt over his not-insubstantial pot belly. I smiled at him, because I smile at everybody.

The young lady called somebody's number, the customer came up and got their order, she smiled and handed it over wishing them a nice night.

"Excuse me. I have two burgers on order and I don't want them to get too well done."

The young lady smiled and nodded and looked back towards the grill. I figured that she was going to snatch his burgers off as soon as she could, but the customer did not seem satisfied.

"Hey, I have an order there....you understand me?" he asked condescendingly.

I cringed. The girl understood him perfectly well.Like lots of young people in an after school job, she simply was shy and not confident. She smiled, nodded, spoke to the cook in Spanish. Her co-worker said, in Spanish ( I understood enough to get this) that they have to be well done. The cashier came over to see if she could help the comunication process, but she wasn't needed.

The number caller spoke further, gesturing towards the customer. The cook spoke, gesturing at the hamburgers ( I have no idea what he said, because of the noise of the grill)

"Yeah, that's it, those two there, they're done already." the customer said with a fake smile. The kitchen workers obviously didn't want to argue, they just took two burgers off the grill and stuck them on the guys...er, buns.

The customer turned to me, smiling, and shaking his head. "I feel like Gov. Shaffer when he couldn't get what he wanted." This is a reference to William Donald Shaffer, the former governor of Maryland, having a problem communicating with workers in a fast food place because there was a language barrier. Willie Don did a lot for Baltimore and was probably good for Maryland, but he wasn't exactly known for his tact.

I gave the guy my "owl look": eyes wide, thin smile. "I don't get you." I said.

"Yeah, yeah." said The Hub, smiling at the guy who by now had gotten his burgers. The Hub is big into avoiding conflict. I am big into defending people who strike me as the underdog, and The Hub knows this about me, so he sort of angled his body between me and Mr. Have-It-My-Way until the guy left.

"Idiot." I muttered. "Why did have to talk that way to that girl?"

"Oh, don't get upset. He probably just felt frustrated. Some people just get frustrated when they have to deal with people who don't speak English"

"He DIDN'T have to deal with anybody who didn't speak English. After all, he speaks English, and one presumes he can read. There's a huge sign up there, in English, explaining that they cook everything well done. If he's in his own country, speaking his own language, and doesn't bother to read the sign, or thinks it doesn't apply to him and then tries to tell the short order cook what to do then he deserves whatever he gets. Turkey."

I saw both the number calling girl and the co-worker prepping the toppings smile and duck their heads. That was a lot of English I spoke: they seemed to have gotten all of it. Presently the number caller handed me my bag, smiled broadly and said, without a trace of an accent. "Thank you. Have a good night. Enjoy your dinner."

It was a good burger. It was well done. Just like the sign and the menu said. Amazing.