Between the fast-food joint and the dry cleaner’s, the new temple of the last breath promises “zero wait, zero tears guaranteed” and prices “that won’t bury your budget.” The crowd packs in from dawn, torn between the smell of coffee and the chill of ice-cold marketing.
Under a bright awning where pastel neon blinks “Goodbye, hello savings,” the line of cars snakes along like a hurried cortege. A loudspeaker pipes a fitting lullaby while an employee in a black vest hands out laminated menus: “Express Package,” “Deluxe Farewell,” “Premium Silence” — all served without leaving your seat, with the biodegradable-tissue option. “It’s not death we’re interested in, it’s the customer experience,” swears one Hugo Lafoire, marketing director, anthracite tie and a funeral smile. “We optimize grief so it fits into the lunch slot.”
In the inaugural rush, a few hiccups cast a perfectly apropos chill. One family drove off with a “commemorative basil” instead of a decorative urn — the pot, stamped “Rest in peace (and on a windowsill),” was retrieved two hours later, intact, seasoned with regrets. Inside, a “wall of belated regrets” papered with fluorescent Post-its fills up before your eyes: “I should have called back,” “I would have preferred marble.” The local tabloid has already christened the concept “mourning to-go.”
The manager insists everything is “compliant, warm, and calibrated to 19° of emotion.” A loyalty card promises a tenth wreath free and a “Dead Leaf” room fragrance with any morning visit. At the exit, a kiosk invites you to rate the experience from one to five stars — five is “It was dignified, I even smiled,” one, “It was long, I had an appointment after.” Grief in sprint mode: on-site, you pick up your order, your receipt, and what’s left of your decorum.
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