There are sabre-rattling Canadians out there who will tell you Tim Hortons ‘meant something’ once. That they’d go after hockey practice, that their parents went and their parents’ parents went, that whoever handed them a coffee through the drive-through window knew how you took it, and that the donuts were made overnight by someone who cared. Like it was something real.
That could be the case, once. My personal experience says otherwise, having had family work late nights at a central location once over a decade and a half ago, where an owner would hand-deliver literal garbage bags of bran muffins when stock ran out to keep customers happy, but I digress.
That memory of Tim Hortons has been gone long enough that romanticizing it now feels like grief cosplay. Canadians have been slow to admit the place went to hell, the same way you're slow to admit a restaurant you loved has slipped, ordering the same thing each time and telling yourself it's fine until you admit that, yes, the coffee and food sucks.
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