That evolution of the dowdy old bar code, the QR code, came into its own in the COVIDian era. In the days when the brave or foolhardy donned PPE just to walk in deserted parks, the thought of touching a piece of paper that had been touched by someone else produced in many the Full Howard — a germaphobic freak-out worthy of old 100-take Howard Hughes in his Vegas penthouse period. And so, we all perused virtual menus by taking phone-snaps of QR codes. Did it put a dent in the pandemic? I doubt it. But it was supposed to make us feel safer. Fortune asked, “Will the pandemic finally get Americans to embrace QR codes?”
Let’s hope not. The pandemic may have let restaurants throw out their menus, but I doubt that means QR codes have established themselves as a permanent feature of eating in America. If anything, they carry the taint of the pandemic. Before the plague made their use obligatory, I never used QR codes. Now, I associate them with those grim days. They are a symbol of the shutdown. I am now no more interested in using them than I am eager to don a hazmat suit.
But they persist. This week, I met my wife for dinner at an El Salvadorean restaurant in Washington. I paid no attention to the QR code taped to the table. I did note that the tape was yellowed and cracking and not at all nice-looking. For a phenomenon born of germ aversion, it wasn’t exactly antiseptic in appearance. A waitress arrived with water. But no menus. “You take a picture of the code with your phone,” the waitress explained. “Can I have an actual menu?” I asked. “No,” she said with a wan smile that suggested she found the question tiresome. I know that I did.
I let my wife peruse the menu on her phone and decided simply to order a dish so simple — chicken enchiladas — that I wouldn’t have to consult the virtual list. The evening was not shaping up to be a particularly fine night out.
It didn’t help that the waitress made herself scarce. I finally caught her eye. “I think we know what we’d like,” I said. “Can we go ahead and order?”
“You order on your phone,” she said. “Does the phone bring out the food?” Another wan smile, and she was gone.
It turned out that to put in an order, one had not only to scan the QR code for a menu, but key in an email address.
We should have left, but by this point, my wife and I had become amused, curious to see just how far the restaurant would go to annoy patrons. As it turned out, the answer was pretty far. Before the food arrived, we received an email touting specials.
When the food did arrive, it came in the hands of two harried busboys who waved the plates aloft yelling one over the other the names of the dishes. It was a variation on three-card monte with beans and rice.
My wife’s phone pinged with an email asking how pleased we were with the restaurant.
There was one transaction that was not mediated by the phone. The server appeared with one of those mobile cash registers that have become ubiquitous. She gestured for me to insert my credit card and then turned the screen of the device toward me so that I could sign the bill with my index finger. Never mind that she had already pressed the virtual button awarding her a 25% tip. What was striking was that, even with the pandemic-promoted QR code still taped to the table, I was being asked to touch a screen that hadn’t exactly been through an autoclave.
That’s a “high-touch area,” which is allegedly how pandemics start.
Eric Felten is the James Beard Award-winning author of How’s Your Drink?
