Life on the McDonald’s Production Line

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Recently, someone quipped that McDonald’s has transformed into an unfeeling ‘middle-aged’ entity, having traded its childlike wonder and youthful vigour for the drab routine of a canteen catering to wage labourers. Yet in truth, McDonald’s has never been short of such workers. I found myself genuinely taken aback, and suspect I am far from alone: our sheer familiarity with the brand has led us to treat it merely as a black box designed to churn out fries and burgers at speed. As we queue and anxiously await our meals, we can catch glimpses of blurred figures moving briskly behind the glass of McDonald’s deliberately open kitchens. Still, our gaze invariably settles on the food, entirely missing the reality of their working lives.

◉On 8 October 1990, mainland China’s first McDonald’s opened on Guanghua Road in Shenzhen. At that time, the brand stood as a symbol of a dynamic, modern way of life for Chinese consumers. Image source: McDonald’s official website.
It was whilst I was living in Jing’an District, Shanghai, in April this year that I conceived the idea of investigating working conditions in the fast-food industry across this modern metropolis.

I. Shared Life Fragmented by the Assembly Line

I spent four or five days cycling around, asking every chain restaurant within a three-kilometre radius whether they were hiring, but many of the responses were rather unwelcoming. That changed when I met Xiao Lao W, the assistant manager at this particular McDonald’s. He poured me a glass of cola, handed it over, and sat down to chat. At one point, a local Shanghai woman started shouting at the front counter, seemingly picking a quarrel over something or other. Xiao Lao W cast her a glance but ignored her, remaining thoroughly engaged in our conversation. It was the most I had been treated with genuine consideration over those past few days. I drew a tarot card for good measure—the Six of Cups—and took it as a sign to apply at this branch. After paying 150 yuan for a medical check-up to get my health certificate, and buying my own black trousers and black leather shoes, I officially started work as a part-time staff member. All new hires have to complete a four-hour trial shift during peak hours. Xiao Lao W told me to speak up if it felt like too much. The trial shift is unpaid, though you do receive a 40-yuan voucher. Regular staff earn 19 yuan an hour, rising to 21 yuan only after logging a thousand hours—still 4 to 5 yuan an hour less than manufacturing wages.

During my first half month on the job, I was keen to pitch in wherever I was needed, rushing to whichever station looked swamped. For a while, it felt as though I was working for my colleagues, easing their burdens, which gave me a sense of purpose and kept me connected to those around me.

I’d go to Jing Jie to learn how to assemble burgers, and when she noticed I kept returning, she’d affectionately call me her “apprentice” with a touch of pride. Through the choreography of shift handovers and cooking, I could sense camaraderie with my colleagues in the brief notes left behind, the exchanged glances, and the shared smiles. Shared labour of this kind can, much like life itself, bring us positive energy and emotional connection.

Yet in many fast-food chains, such dynamics are systematically suppressed. To deliver efficient service and standardized products with a predictable taste, the human element must be stripped out. Food preparation is broken down into an assembly line of simple, repetitive steps.

The restaurant’s stations are split into five sections: the burger line, the fryer and snacks counter, the fries and sides station, the drinks and takeout area, and the McCafé bar. The placement of each station is dictated by the layout of the kitchen equipment, and staff rarely cross over between sections. On a typical shift, only five or six of us are working at once. Everyone must hold their designated post to keep the production line moving smoothly. I was assigned to the drinks and takeout section.

◉ Compared with a manufacturing plant, the kitchen at a McDonald’s may be cramped, yet it is almost entirely composed of automated machinery and electronic equipment.

Preparing each menu item is actually quite straightforward, as all supplies arrive as semi-finished products. Take the cheeseburger, for instance. As soon as Sister Jing sees the order on the screen, she slides the bun into the toaster. A dozen seconds later, it drops down, signalling it’s toasted. Following the set procedure, she dispenses the sauce, layers on the pickles, a pre-cooked beef patty, and a slice of cheese. In moments, a standard cheeseburger is assembled.

◉ During peak hours, staff at a McDonald’s work under pressure to assemble burgers. Image source: Xiaohongshu user @大黄跟小展还有阿铭
Lao Qin works the fried snacks station solo. Every deep fryer comes with its own built-in timer; each product has a standard cooking time mapped to a different button on the panel. You simply drop the food in and wait for the alarm to sound. The fries station is usually covered by the meal-assembly staff, given how close it is. Making beverages and packing delivery orders can be split between two people, and the same applies to the assembly area. I hoped to get a feel for what each station involved, but when shift manager Xiaohua and Xiyangyang caught me running back and forth, they told me to hold my post at the soda fountain. The moment I looked idle, they would instruct me to clear the rubbish or restock supplies. Before long, I found myself bracing for their words, my mind already anticipating their next order.

As a result, I could only focus on my own narrow slice of work, a division of labour that erected a thick barrier between us all.Those hamburgers that taste identical at any hour, in any part of the country, are in fact sustained by the fragmentation of our shared life as workers.

For all their apparent simplicity, these tasks are so monotonous that they drain you completely. Too often, it felt as though my eyes were merely watching my hands and feet navigate between the machines, my hands telling my brain to keep quiet—any stray thought felt liable to jam the line. From seven to ten in the morning, the hours stretched into a terrifying distance. I felt I was moving on my knees, inching from one end of the shift to the other, with only the clock keeping a watchful eye on my every movement.

After more than half a month on the job, I had earned only a little over 1,700 yuan. My rota was five or six hours a day, five days a week, with the occasional day off. Pulling a full eight-hour shift, every day of the month, would bring in around 4,500 yuan.

II. On rainy days, the dread is a flood of delivery orders

Business at the store follows a predictable rhythm. In-store and delivery orders usually balance out, each totalling around 300. Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays are invariably the quietest, while Thursday through Sunday see a significant surge. Holidays bring the highest volume, yet we’re never as well-staffed as on ordinary days. During the May Day holiday, Zhang Di—a young team member who had been with the store for a long time—told me it was just the three of us running the place. On Children’s Day, we completed 450 deliveries. I genuinely cannot fathom how they managed to keep going. When a holiday overlaps with rainy weather, though, it turns into sheer chaos. The POS terminals spit out order tickets non-stop, and I simply cannot make drinks quickly enough. This isn’t for lack of speed; I was already trying to prepare two or three at a time.

◉ Staring at a screen packed with drink orders, almost every McDonald’s worker would feel completely overwhelmed.

What’s most terrifying is that the riders will also shout and yell at us, demanding to know, “Why’s it taking half an hour and it’s still not ready?” Behind them, the delivery platforms are cracking the whip. Opposite the collection lockers, they stand packed tight in their raincoats, madness simmering beneath their placid faces. The scene inside the shop is just as harrowing. Colleagues are shouting at the top of their lungs, asking about stock levels, where the chicken fillets are, and how much longer until the fries are done.

Customers stand and lean against the counter, all eyes fixed on us. In the middle of it all, I’m drowning in despair: what do we do if we run out of Oreo crumbs? What if the spill-proof lids for hot drinks are gone? What if syrup is spilled all over the prep table? I cannot spare a single second to deal with any of it.

When orders flood in, neither riders nor staff dare to make the slightest mistake, as though every movement is a matter of life and death. We dare not imagine what happens if we can’t keep up. Do we just leave customers without food? If anyone slips up or pushes past their limit, the entire assembly line collapses. In that scenario, everyone in the system loses their “life”: riders face penalties from the platform, and our store loses all its reputation.

The moment the rain stops, the order volume plummets. This contrast is what infuriates me most: to the customers, they are merely paying 5 yuan to have someone else stand in the downpour in their place. Yet the manager will say the burgers are selling brilliantly today; even old Qin, who usually takes life in his stride, will chime in that business is good. It leaves me reeling. What does “good” even mean? Is an order surge really “good”?

◉The POS terminal works like a weather forecast: when it suddenly starts rapidly spitting out orders, you know without even looking that it’s almost certainly raining outside.

III. “Let them stir it themselves!”

Shift manager Xi Yangyang is set to leave soon. He’s been demoted repeatedly, dropping from hygiene supervisor down to shift manager, and says only a level head could withstand it. His counterpart is Old Qin, who works the fried chicken station; the two couldn’t be more different in personality. In his fifties, Old Qin takes a keen interest in his colleagues’ gossip and trivialities, yet remains detached from whatever task he’s given, as if nothing in the world really matters. The day Xi Yangyang announced his departure, he even yelled at Old Qin: “Working shifts with you just makes me miserable!”

Old Qin has a soft spot for another shift manager, Huahua. Her real name is Xiaohua. She’s in her thirties, married, and left her hometown to work and send her daughter to school before coming to Shanghai to make a better living. She too is planning to leave soon, returning home for her daughter’s high school entrance exams. Old Qin said he’d see her off; though he couldn’t take her all the way back, he wanted to escort her to the train station.

Xiaohua is petite, wears her hair in a high ponytail, and looks highly competent without carrying an air of authority. Judging by her speed when assembling and packing orders, she’s clearly the most efficient here. Her go-to phrase is “So frustrating.” Customer complaints annoy her most, as does Old Qin failing to restock, or the store room running low on supplies. I’d say she’s effectively playing the role of the matriarch. When the rest of the family is overwhelmed and struggling to keep up, isn’t that exactly when the matriarch needs to step in?

Making a McFlurry requires stirring crushed Oreos evenly with a wooden spoon. When I was doing this and she grew visibly irritated, she’d say: “Fine, fine, hand it over. Let them stir it themselves!” It was as if customers were adversaries we faced together, while us staff were the real family. This hostility towards customers became even more apparent when handling complaints. “All this rushing achieves absolutely nothing!” Only she would speak like that, yet she’d still swallow her irritation, put on a pleasant voice, and answer the complaint calls.

By contrast, the deputy manager, “Little Old W”, comes across as much more relaxed and humorous. He’s the only one in the store on a fixed salary, which is tied to the branch’s revenue and overall performance. So any food I sneak or waste gets charged to his account. Colleagues would joke about “making Little Old W foot the bill”, but he never seemed to mind our waste. When I accidentally made too many soft-serve cones, he’d take them and say: “I’ll just reluctantly polish them off!” He’d also playfully tease Jing with the bubble machines we sold. When handed large, unavoidable orders, he’d feign despair: “You’re making a middle-aged man slave away like an ox. An ox can at least graze, but I’m stuck doing grunt work.” Indeed, even as deputy manager, he’s still just another pair of hands when he’s in the store.

IV. Escaping “Crazy Thursday”

One thing that genuinely surprised me was that half the staff had essentially “fled” here from KFC. Sister Jing, her daughter Sun Jing, and Xiao Hua had all worked there previously. A few others shuttle between the two fast-food monopolies, clocking day shifts at KFC before heading over to McDonald’s for an evening stint. The moment I mentioned KFC, they erupted, venting their fury with remarks like “they discard you the moment you’ve outlived your usefulness,” “there isn’t a decent soul among them,” and “it’s just like serving a prison sentence.” Sun Jing (who was still a minor when she worked at KFC) described how ruthlessly they capped staff hours. By “capping hours,” she meant that each branch is allocated a strict weekly payroll limit, forcing employees to compete for shifts. With the total hours tightly restricted, managers are compelled to stretch a skeleton crew across a mountain of work. She recalled being left alone at the counter regularly, juggling drinks, frying chips, packing dine-in meals, prepping takeaways, and managing deliveries all at once. I had worked each of those roles individually, but doing them simultaneously is a level of intensity I simply could not fathom.

◉ This KFC branch in Shanghai gets completely swamped with orders every Thursday; the place is packed to the rafters. Image source: Xiaohongshu
Crazy Thursday is a nightmare for every KFC staff member. Orders flood in every single time, and there are never enough hands on deck. She said, “The screens are absolutely packed with orders, stretching across a solid four pages!” I did the maths: 32 orders in total, all for her to finish single-handedly before the next wave crashed in. Without a pay rise or any extra staff, employees are still expected to sell gift cards and push the app. On top of that, KFC has someone dedicated to monitoring the CCTV, keeping an eye out for anyone slacking off or just standing around. And that old saying about discarding the workhorse once the load is hauled? It rings true here: as soon as the peak season ends, KFC swiftly trims the workforce.

5. My Fixation on Leftovers

Over the past month, I’ve been secretly snacking on chicken nuggets. I’ve often reflected on this habit, and on my growing fixation with leftover food. Ever since hearing that my friend Xiaoshu used to sneak bites with colleagues at the restaurant where they worked, I too found myself regularly raiding the heated display for nuggets—eating five or six a day. Of course, I’d sample other things too: fries, chicken strips, cheese slices, fish fillets, sweet potato balls, and so on. I drank plenty of fizzy drinks as well, until just the thought of them made me feel dizzy and queasy. I started to wonder whether I actually enjoyed the food, or if I was just addicted to the act of “stealing”. My own analysis is that I fantasise about these items belonging to me, simply because I’m putting in the labour here. Or perhaps, I feel like I’ve been shortchanged, and I need to steal these bites to make up for it. Yet, even as I was sneaking food, my stomach issues never let up. After eating the nuggets, I’d only feel nauseous and sick to my stomach. The sight of greasy food made me recoil, and sweet drinks left me feeling just as queasy.

In reality, we’re given a staff meal every Saturday, and that’s when I’m happiest. It’s not really about the food itself, but rather the feeling that there’s finally an above-board way to give the food we’ve made back to ourselves for free. All in all, I believe my sneaking of food is a way of resisting the separation between my labour and the products I create.

On the other hand, I feel quite sorry for the food. As soon as we close, it all gets binned, with nothing saved for the staff. I’ve seen it countless times: the manager throwing out burgers that have been sitting out too long. I’d offer to take them, but they’d insist they’d gone hard and were no longer fit to eat.

◉Fries and burgers frequently find their way into the bin. Apparently, this stems from McDonald’s tradition of forecasting customer demand to boost service efficiency—food is prepared before customers have even placed their orders. If a burger sits for more than 10 minutes or fries for over 7 minutes without being sold, they’re tossed out.

I simply cannot get on board with the policy of throwing food away rather than giving it to staff or their families. Sometimes, when I clock off and see plenty of leftover spicy chicken wings, I’ll figure out a way to smuggle a couple home. Once, some fried eggs had been left out too long to be served. Assuming they were destined for the bin, I popped two into my mouth, slid one into a bag and into my pocket. After finishing all three, I once again felt thoroughly queasy.

In this environment, food isn’t produced to fill bellies. It’s produced for efficiency, to realise its exchange value. At any given moment, the fried chicken and burgers we make must be converted into their marked price; otherwise, they’re straight to the rubbish bin.

◉The restaurant enforces strict rules regarding staff meals and the disposal of leftover food.

Once, while clearing tables, I spotted a guy who’d left a whole spread behind. There were some of the priciest burgers, along with pineapple pies and fries. He’d torn some open to inspect them, while the pineapple pie sat completely untouched in its wrapper. I couldn’t fathom it, but I had no choice but to clear the table. Yet, as I went to tip everything into the bin, I felt it was such a waste and brought the bag back. I hesitated for ages, too nervous to eat it, my mind racing with thoughts of food poisoning. Once I actually ate it, I grew even more anxious, spending half an hour wondering if I was going to die.

I keep wondering what this fixation of mine with leftovers actually means in relation to my identity as a wage labourer. I also find myself pondering: after I leave this place, if I ever walk into a McDonald’s again as a paying customer, will the burgers taste any different? And what will I be feeling when I see the familiar, yet now invisible, hustle of staff I’ve never met?

Foodthink Author
Qing Tai Yin Wu (goes by the same name across all platforms)
“Above all, every investigation is ultimately a self-investigation.”

 

 

 

 

Unless otherwise stated, all images in this article are provided by the author.

Editor: Yu Yang

Published by Foodthink