About a week ago, Lauren, our friends Ryan and Mallory, and I went to the new Shake Shack location in River North, Chicago. It was pretty packed, which I think is pretty much par for the course for Shake Shack on a weekend night. This is coming from a Shake Shack Veteran. And by “veteran,” I mean person that’s been to Shake Shack twice, once at the original Madison Square Park location in New York in 2009, and once at the new Washington D.C. location last year. I knew it would be pretty busy, so I told Lauren we should get there for an early-ish dinner, around 6 or 6:30.

We get there, and the line for ordering food isn’t too long (i.e. spilling outside of the restaurant), so things are looking good. We read the chalkboard menu and decide what to get while waiting in line, slowly inching forward toward the cashier. I decide on the “Shack Stack” — a beef patty hamburger with a mushroom on top — and a root beer.

We put in our orders, and like I mentioned earlier, the place is packed. Lots of people are waiting for tables to open up, and very few people are finishing up their meals and leaving. Ryan and I wait, pagers in hand, closer the counter to pick up everyone’s orders, while Lauren and Mal go off to stake out an area in the back to try to vulture a table from a group that’s done with their meal. Ryan’s pager goes off first, and Lauren and Mal are still looking for a table. Eventually, mine goes off too. I walk over with my order and everyone is visibly distraught. “What happened?” I ask.

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