There's something about fast food that tends to scramble my brain even as it satisfies my stomach.

The drive-through lanes are bad to induce dementia once I enter them. I can't figure out where the microphones are when I'm ready to give my order and what the speakers are saying when the drive-through server asks me whether I'd like ketchup and fries with that.

I remember going through a drive-through in Mobile, Ala., and barking my breakfast order into a newspaper rack that was placed conveniently beside the lane that led to the drive-through window. I waited for the rack to respond, but it just sat there and stared back at me with its headlines. I moved on only after the customers behind me started honking their car horns. I don't know whether they were impatient to get their breakfast biscuits or their copies of the Press-Register.

What makes things worse is the language of the people at the drive-through windows. I speak English, along with an unintelligible smattering of French and enough Spanish to say "Buenos dias" and "adios." But I still haven't mastered the McDonald's, Hardee's and Burger King dialects. I don't know the difference between tater tots and hash rounds, and I'm not sure what to order when I want one of those little flat brown pastries with the apple mush inside. I can't count the number of times I've been served seasoned curly fries when I really wanted those plain straight fries cooked to a golden brown with only salt and grease for enhancement.

I'm not a fast-food junkie, which probably explains why I don't dig the lingo. I usually eat my meals at home, prepared from stuff I buy from Publix or Bi-Lo or Wal-Mart. It's only when I'm on the road and don't have time to stop at Cracker Barrel or Applebee's that I pull into a fast-food joint, or maybe when I'm getting drowsy behind the wheel and need to stop at McDonald's for a senior coffee.

The other day I was shuttling back and forth through my hometown taking care of all the details of moving from my apartment into a newly purchased home (Is now a good time to buy? I sure hope so).

With Miss Peggy out of town, I didn't want to stop to fix a meal and I didn't want to waste time at a sit-down restaurant. So I gazed down Main Street at the line-up of fast-food restaurants. Being within commuting distance of Clemson University, my town offers a fast-food smorgasbord.

My mind ran down the offerings of McDonald's, Burger King, Wendy's, Taco Bell and Hardee's, all situated elbow to elbow to each other, with driveways practically indistinguishable. Then I spotted that stylized hat that suddenly appears in TV commercials over the heads of people who say "I'm thinking Arby's."

Immediately, I started thinking French dip sandwich.

I had to execute a U-turn on a busy thoroughfare to get there, and while I watched for traffic creeping up on my blind spot, I pulled into a driveway and looked for the drive-through.

I stopped at the mike and didn't bother to glance at the menu, since I already knew what I wanted. No combo. No fries. No drink. Just a sandwich that I could take home and share with my dog.

"I'd like a French dip sandwich," I said politely.

"Wudjy laksum frummm brmbly skznks widdat?" asked the speaker with perfect drive-through diction.

"Just the au jus," I said.

"Wudjy laksumpn tdrink?"

"You don't serve the drink I really need," I was tempted to say, but I replied: "Just the sandwich."

I stopped at the first window I came to, which is sometimes where you pay for your order, but this time there was no one at the window, and a young woman at the next window motioned me to drive forward.

I paid for my order and she handed me a bag. I drove home, salivating over the tender roast beef and the roll waiting to be dipped into the au jus.

The first thing I noticed when I opened the bag at home was that there was no au jus.

The second thing I noticed was that the wrapper said "Burger King,."

I immediately drew the conclusion that this was not an Arby's French dip sandwich.

I read the wrapper more closely and it said something like "Tender Crisp Chicken."

Oh well, I thought. Fast food isn't the epitome of fine dining, but I'm no epicure, and most of the stuff I buy via the drive-throughs is quite edible. Who knows? Maybe chicken is better for my cholesterol than roast beef is.

So I unwrapped the sandwich and bit into it.

Not bad. It wasn't crispy, but it was certainly tender. Somewhat the texture of fish.

In fact, I began to wonder whether it was fish.

The sandwich went down well and took care of my appetite until dinner time, when I could get more serious about eating.

I checked out the Burger King fish sandwich on the Internet and found that its history closely tracks the history of its chicken sandwich. Maybe somebody in the back of Burger King accidentally slapped a piece of fish between the bun slices, unable to distinguish between chicken of the coop and chicken of the sea. Anyhow, fish is probably just as good for me as poultry, and if you can't tell the difference, why stew over it?

I'm still not sure what I ate. I drove back to Main Street and made a mental note of the relative locations of the Burger King and the Arby's driveways. I figure I owe myself a French dip sandwich. Next time, I'll make sure the au jus is in the bag. And the next time I stop at Burger King, I'll just order a Whopper.

Readers may write Gene Owens at 317 Braeburn Drive, Anderson SC 29621 or e-mail him at WadesDixieco@AOL.com