A semi-lucid review of the Walnut Creek Wendy’s

A semi-lucid review of the Walnut Creek Wendy’s

The first thing you need to know about the Walnut Place Wendy’s is that I don’t fit on a plane. I’m a unit, not absolute but certainly large enough to occupy more than a single seat. Nothing in the euphemistically named economy class is built for me and the guy next to me smelled like throat. I shifted from one uncomfortable position to another until I finally realised that the whole concept of sleep was a prank. ABSOLUTE LUCIDITY elevated me to a trancended state and this new state of being required nourishment. Il’krit, the being of cosmic energy who was now driving me, demanded we go to a Wendy’s.

The Decor

Australian fast food chains were designed by disgraced MKULTRA scientists to beat the human forebrain into submission. Pursuant to this dark cause, the walls are a shifting kaleidoscope of food imagery and slogans that would make your local fascist jealous. Copyrighted fonts, humans market-researched to be inoffensively attractive, and extreme close ups of impossibly perfect versions of the garbage you’re about to eat rile your lizard brain into a feed or fuck frenzy. The lunch rush will provide the forward thinking man with both.

By comparison, the Walnut Cove Wendy’s is an exercise in surreal minimalism. The experience stunned this diner with a case of agoraphobia, I was a cave dweller stepping outside and thinking the great blue up would eat me and my simple kin. The entire place felt like the generic “soda” version of a fast food restaurant you’d see in a sitcom. The only area with visible branding was the service counter and it made the whole thing feel like the Wendy’s was only here for a few days until things turned around.

If you put on the glasses from They Live in here, the entire place would look the same. Perfect! Nobody was going to fuck me so I settled for eating.

The Process

The first thing I noticed was that my server’s name was Ariel. Yes, just like The Little Mermaid if that movie were about a chunky latino who would probably get upet with me for the comparison. He was nice enough not to point out the ancient energy being steering me about by the ears and took my order.

The cost it ended up costing was more than the sign and till said it would. It was 9.46, so I got out two American 5 FREEDOMBUX. He said 10 dollars something and I looked at him like we were both retarded. It turns out the tax is added at the very end, like a fun surprise only awful and stupid.

A clawing sensation in my stomach can only mean one thing: I’m embarassing myself socially or I ate too many claws. I gazed at Ariel like we were both retarded but he gazed back at me like only I was retarded. Like when someone pulls another draw 2 in Uno, I had to accept that I was a double retard and handed him a twenty while muttering about numbers being harder than shapes.

The Food

I came to this mad capitalist fiefdom to do two things: observe a wedding and eat crimes. I’d already purchased aerosol cheese but, high on freedom and sinister cheese alchemy, I was mad with lust for more. I wanted a burger. I got a Dave.

I’m unfamiliar with the greater Wendy’s lore so I have no idea who Dave is. Is he Wendy’s father? Lover? Victim? Or some combination of the three? I had no idea and the only other reference to him I could find were on the vaguely described Wendy’s Soda so I remain ignorant to this day.

I got the biggest quantity of Dave possible, the triple, thanked Ariel, and wandered to my table with fries and a small bucket of coke. The largest beverage size in Australia is the smallest here. You’re vile pig-monsters but you grill a good Dave.

The burgers are square but the buns are round. This discordant theming continued with the meat itself: it smelled awful but tasted fine. The odour was not something I was expecting either in presence or familiarity. It reminded me of the feral kids who coudn’t wipe their arses properly. A shit but not-quite-shit stink of a parent who wipes their child with their own lavender body spray. Lavender, asshole, and Dave all wound together to taste like bland beef. Almost an accomplishment.

The fries weren’t peeled, probably in some naive attempt to appear like more than twigs of fat and sodium, but were otherwise fair fare. Coke is coke. Acidic black hatred successfully peddled to us via marketing voodoo and the fundamental human need to self-destruct.

I ignored the uncanny smell of neglected 11 year old butthole and wolfed down my Triple Dave and upsized sides. I forgot the experience the second I’d finished it.

Most places peddle their wares around some kind of identity marker. Special sauce. 11 herbs and spices. Wombat meat. The Wendy’s of Walnut Point doesn’t have any of this. There’s meat, lettuce, tomato, and sauce. The burgers are square but until this place’s sinful geometrists work out how to bind flavour to physical shape, it’s just a novelty that one won’t notice. I’m eating at Wendy’s, I hate myself and summon a countering survival instinct by engaging in horrifying self-mutilating behaviours, I’m only noticing your burger shape because I’m smell checking it for skidmarks.

I left feeling like garbage and enjoyed the experience immensely.


The modern human experience is one of overwhelming sensory stimulus and it is a kindness that Wendy’s in Walnut Lakes eschews this for the screaming nihilism of empty spaces and featureless latino service balls. The food is the kind of stuff you’d find perfectly laid out under a videogame barrel. It has [FLAVOUR], [TEXTURE], and the faint scent of lower socioeconomic tragedy. If you are after food, I wouldn’t recommend it. But if you want an experience that will palate clense your Zen, resetting you to a screaming primate driven by sensation so you can pursue the joys of evolution over again, the Walnut Bush Wendy’s gets my highest recommendation.


By Hungry Gabe

Liked it? Take a second to support Gabriel on Patreon!

6 Replies to “A semi-lucid review of the Walnut Creek Wendy’s”

  1. Exactly like reading a resturant review by the late, great A. A. Gill, if he was on strong medications. That’s praise, by the way.

  2. Wendy’s does more than ice cream, and they don’t list tax in the advertised price? America is just as loopy as Rand McNally

    1. The reason sales tax isn’t listed in the menu price is very simple: There is no federal sales tax. Sales tax is handled on a state level, and many states also allow a smaller tax to be added on top by local tax authorities (though admittedly most local tax authorities opt to add the maximum allowed by the state tax code).

      It’s simply not feasible to create separate marketing material for every possible tax-added price, especially with so many ads broadcast nationally. Even if you went through the logistical nightmare of creating the in-store marketing materials to have the final price on the paper, if a customer saw an ad on a national TV broadcast that advertised one price, and in the store it was a higher price, they would complain. You know they would. People complain when the price is higher because they thought the sales price they saw in a circular ad three weeks ago was no longer valid even when the ad clearly says in bold font when the sale ends.

      Sales tax isn’t confusing for Americans, because nearly every time we buy taxable goods they have sales tax added, and anyone who’s lived in an area for even a couple of months will know what their local rate is. We don’t have to guess whether a price we see is with tax included or without tax included or with the tax included but for a different tax district because what we see is always the pre-tax price and we know that.

      Australian GST is federal. It’s 10% no matter where you go, so there’s no issue. Companies just make their Australian marketing material and they’re done. They don’t have to worry about their nationally-advertised rate not matching the price on the tag in their local store. It seems to be the same way with every other country whose people are baffled by the way sales tax is handled in America.

  3. My sister only realized how big fast food sodas are a couple of years ago when she refilled her cup from a 2-liter bottle and she was somewhat horrified. I don’t know if that translated into choosing smaller sizes though.

  4. The burger patties are square because “Wendy’s doesn’t cut corners,” although I am unsure what alternate reality they draw their square patties from. Dave was the dude who actually founded Wendy’s, and named it after his daughter, who, fun fact, was in the Wendy’s commercial on television for a while until they decided that they wanted someone a little less beefy to represent their food, at which point she was promptly replaced by a skinnier redhead of more renown whose name I cannot recall. Most of this information is courtesy of a large wall art-thing in my local Wendy’s detailing the origins of Wendy’s.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *