This would end up being one of the more memorable twists in race relations during my job. Some weeks ago in the middle of winter, the following events occurred:
We were in the nearing the end of the lunch rush, weeks before Christmas. The restaurant was slowly emptying but there were still some customers in line. I was running an order back and returned to my post as several new customers came in.
There were three of them, bundled up in their winter gear. Judging from their overalls and the boots, I determined that they were from the power plant and had just emerged from some maintenance work. When they removed their hoods and scarves, I saw that there were two black men and a black woman.
They scanned our menu, their eyes quickly darting back and forth. The woman stepped forward from the group and placed her order. A coworker wrote it down and yelled out the drink order to me as I started to fill the cup with ice. As I gave the woman her drink while she waited for her order, one of the men started to speak.
"You know, this is like a comedy show..." He remarked to his coworker, chuckling slightly.
"How so?" His companion replied, his attention focused on our menu.
"Well," The man started to explain, "You got a bunch of Asians making barbecue and serving it to us...I mean, am I right?" He looked at me, upon finishing his remarks.
I stared at him and I turned to look at my cousin, whose mouth was slightly open and his eyes wide in shock and confusion. The black woman stared back and forth at her coworker, unsure whether to apologize or to even say anything.
My cousin and I stared at the man for a few more seconds, oblivious to the pandemonium unfolding around us. We started to laugh and the black men started to join in. Internally, we were rather annoyed and mildly offended. Luckily, before any drastic occurred, we were handed their carryout orders. We dispensed them to the men and the woman and bade them good day. The woman gave us a slightly bemused glance as she left with her companions.
Afterwards, my cousin grabbed my arm and turned to me. In a quiet whisper he asked me, "Is it just me or was that kinda racist?"
I paused for a second and replied, "I'm not really sure but it certainly did feel somewhat racist."
"But they're black...and we're Asians..."
"Yeah, I know. I don't know how this ethno-reverse-racism shit works. It's...it's a bit different."
"Yeah, tell me about it."
Needless to say, this wouldn't be the last time stuff like this would happen.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Tales from the Pit - Rock Bottom
There are times when the going gets rough and the rough get going. There are also times when you really really know you've hit rock bottom. This is the story of one of the latter.
Today was a mildly slow day. Our lunch hour wasn't brisk as usual and it just felt a bit sad and slow. I was working on my book and outlining some ideas on the countertop in the afternoon. I hadn't had a customer for about an hour or so. Mildly bored, I walked back to the kitchen area to just think about some stuff and seek a change of scenery. However, I was then recalled back to the front line of duty as a customer came in.
"Hi, how I may help you?" I automatically said to the man who walked in the door. He was rather tall, with light brown skin and eyes that appeared slightly unfocused as he looked at me?
"I would like some chicken fried rice." He said, his Indian accent showing through slightly.
I was momentarily stunned as he watched me, clutching his hat. I didn't expect such a question like this to be asked at all since I thought we were perfectly obvious as a BBQ restaurant.
"Sir, we don't have any chicken fried rice. This is...this is a barbecue restaurant." I shuffled some orders nervously and plastered a fake smile on my face, hoping to convince him to see the obvious error.
"Why? I thought you had chicken fried rice."
And I thought you people would help me with tech support on my damn hard drive, I thought. I became slightly annoyed and furious at his persistence for chicken fried rice. However, for the sake of decorum and business, I internalized these thoughts and shuffled them into the recesses of my mind.
"We do sell chicken sandwiches though, sir. They are quite delicious." I offered the choices, hoping he would take them.
"What kind of chicken sandwich?" He asked, looking at the menu briefly.
"It's a chicken sandwich. With chicken. That is pulled and put on the bread with sauce, pickles, and onions." I replied tersely. This unexpected turn of events had become unwelcome and entirely ridiculous.
"Oh. Never mind then, thank you." He walked out the door, back to his truck parked in the middle of our lot. My aunts stared at him, genuinely confused and somewhat flabbergasted at the strange litany of questions we had received.
As for me, I figured I had reached rock bottom when an Indian driver walks into a BBQ restaurant manned by Asians and orders Chinese food. Yep, definitely rock bottom.
Thank God for vodka.
Today was a mildly slow day. Our lunch hour wasn't brisk as usual and it just felt a bit sad and slow. I was working on my book and outlining some ideas on the countertop in the afternoon. I hadn't had a customer for about an hour or so. Mildly bored, I walked back to the kitchen area to just think about some stuff and seek a change of scenery. However, I was then recalled back to the front line of duty as a customer came in.
"Hi, how I may help you?" I automatically said to the man who walked in the door. He was rather tall, with light brown skin and eyes that appeared slightly unfocused as he looked at me?
"I would like some chicken fried rice." He said, his Indian accent showing through slightly.
I was momentarily stunned as he watched me, clutching his hat. I didn't expect such a question like this to be asked at all since I thought we were perfectly obvious as a BBQ restaurant.
"Sir, we don't have any chicken fried rice. This is...this is a barbecue restaurant." I shuffled some orders nervously and plastered a fake smile on my face, hoping to convince him to see the obvious error.
"Why? I thought you had chicken fried rice."
And I thought you people would help me with tech support on my damn hard drive, I thought. I became slightly annoyed and furious at his persistence for chicken fried rice. However, for the sake of decorum and business, I internalized these thoughts and shuffled them into the recesses of my mind.
"We do sell chicken sandwiches though, sir. They are quite delicious." I offered the choices, hoping he would take them.
"What kind of chicken sandwich?" He asked, looking at the menu briefly.
"It's a chicken sandwich. With chicken. That is pulled and put on the bread with sauce, pickles, and onions." I replied tersely. This unexpected turn of events had become unwelcome and entirely ridiculous.
"Oh. Never mind then, thank you." He walked out the door, back to his truck parked in the middle of our lot. My aunts stared at him, genuinely confused and somewhat flabbergasted at the strange litany of questions we had received.
As for me, I figured I had reached rock bottom when an Indian driver walks into a BBQ restaurant manned by Asians and orders Chinese food. Yep, definitely rock bottom.
Thank God for vodka.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Tales from the Pit - How To Screw With Their Minds
The following incident occurred some weeks ago and ultimately gave me a taste of what it felt like to really screw around with a stranger's mind in a deliciously satisfying and humorous manner. It also will likely solidify my belief that I can be a mendacious bastard.
It was after the lunch rush was settling down. The tables were still mostly filled with customers chatting and talking about their workplace lives or other topics of generic interest to fill the time until their breaks expired. After that, it's back to the office or the factory for work until freedom rings at five o'clock. For some of us, it's not that simple. Especially those of us who work 10+ hour days.
I was counting the number of orders we had taken through the day when the next customer walked in through the door. Once glance at him and I knew that he wasn't a regular customer but a newbie testing the waters of this new BBQ. I stopped my counting and faced the man, inwardly annoyed that I had my break time interrupted.
"Hi, how may I help you?" I said, plastering my best faje customer service smile on my face, resisting the urge to sigh and yawn.
"Well, you guys don't seem to have any ham..." He said, scanning our menu board looking for his desired meat. Mentally, I groaned since I had dealt with many an inquiry regarding ham before.
In reality, we really do not have ham. My parents had to make some very select purchases so as a result, we carried beef, chicken, Italian sausage, and pork ribs as the meats we had available. Ham is rather expensive to purchase and also takes time to properly prep and cook in our pit oven. My personal preference is for barbecued beef or sometimes pulled pork if it's good. Barbecued ham is just something that was sacrificed for the sake of the recession and also my own family's knowledge of barbecuing meats since they learned it in Texas. Besides, why would you eat ham when you can have beef anyway? But I digress.
"No, we don't. We have beef, chicken, sausage, and pork ribs mainly, sir." I replied in a well-rehearsed manner.
"Why no ham?" He inquired, looking extremely confused.
I paused, trying to formulate my reply. Generally, I offer reasons such as "It's the economy" or "Prices were too much" or some other logical, rational explanation for our lack of ham.
But not this time.
I don't know how or why but a thought popped into my head which told me to take a gamble. I figured I was a bit tired or irritated or I just didn't like like dealing with people who want ham. I knew I stopped caring at this point
"Well, sir, it's because we're Jewish."
I stared at him, with an absolute straight face, directly in the eyes. My eyes bored into his, visualizing the back of his skull past all the cerebral tissues and brain matter.
He paused at me and blinked, attempting to formulate words. His mouth moved, yet no words came out.
"Oh. Well, er...um...erm..." He stuttered, clearly at a loss for words.
He was noticeably uncomfortable, squirming at the counter and seeking a way out of this rather unique racial-ethnic situation. I knew he had likely never met Asian Jews before and anything he said would likely offend my being Asian or my being Jewish. I had a feeling the ACLU would not look so kindly upon such an offense, if it actually was possible. So naturally, he was stuck in a coup de grace between a rock and a hard place. However, after 10 seconds of his awkwardness, I felt pity so it was time to drop the charade.
"Sir, I'm not Jewish. I'm kidding with you."
"OH! Okay." He looked immensely relieved and exhaled suddenly. I half-expected him to be furious and suddenly turn into Rambo and begin whaling at me with his fists or guns. "For a minute there, I thought-"
"Yeah, forget about it. I recommend the beef plate if you're starting out here." I suggested, pointed to it on our menu.
"Oh, that sounds good."
So, the moral of the story is that Asian Jews are rare and screwing with customers' minds takes a lot of balls.
It was after the lunch rush was settling down. The tables were still mostly filled with customers chatting and talking about their workplace lives or other topics of generic interest to fill the time until their breaks expired. After that, it's back to the office or the factory for work until freedom rings at five o'clock. For some of us, it's not that simple. Especially those of us who work 10+ hour days.
I was counting the number of orders we had taken through the day when the next customer walked in through the door. Once glance at him and I knew that he wasn't a regular customer but a newbie testing the waters of this new BBQ. I stopped my counting and faced the man, inwardly annoyed that I had my break time interrupted.
"Hi, how may I help you?" I said, plastering my best faje customer service smile on my face, resisting the urge to sigh and yawn.
"Well, you guys don't seem to have any ham..." He said, scanning our menu board looking for his desired meat. Mentally, I groaned since I had dealt with many an inquiry regarding ham before.
In reality, we really do not have ham. My parents had to make some very select purchases so as a result, we carried beef, chicken, Italian sausage, and pork ribs as the meats we had available. Ham is rather expensive to purchase and also takes time to properly prep and cook in our pit oven. My personal preference is for barbecued beef or sometimes pulled pork if it's good. Barbecued ham is just something that was sacrificed for the sake of the recession and also my own family's knowledge of barbecuing meats since they learned it in Texas. Besides, why would you eat ham when you can have beef anyway? But I digress.
"No, we don't. We have beef, chicken, sausage, and pork ribs mainly, sir." I replied in a well-rehearsed manner.
"Why no ham?" He inquired, looking extremely confused.
I paused, trying to formulate my reply. Generally, I offer reasons such as "It's the economy" or "Prices were too much" or some other logical, rational explanation for our lack of ham.
But not this time.
I don't know how or why but a thought popped into my head which told me to take a gamble. I figured I was a bit tired or irritated or I just didn't like like dealing with people who want ham. I knew I stopped caring at this point
"Well, sir, it's because we're Jewish."
I stared at him, with an absolute straight face, directly in the eyes. My eyes bored into his, visualizing the back of his skull past all the cerebral tissues and brain matter.
He paused at me and blinked, attempting to formulate words. His mouth moved, yet no words came out.
"Oh. Well, er...um...erm..." He stuttered, clearly at a loss for words.
He was noticeably uncomfortable, squirming at the counter and seeking a way out of this rather unique racial-ethnic situation. I knew he had likely never met Asian Jews before and anything he said would likely offend my being Asian or my being Jewish. I had a feeling the ACLU would not look so kindly upon such an offense, if it actually was possible. So naturally, he was stuck in a coup de grace between a rock and a hard place. However, after 10 seconds of his awkwardness, I felt pity so it was time to drop the charade.
"Sir, I'm not Jewish. I'm kidding with you."
"OH! Okay." He looked immensely relieved and exhaled suddenly. I half-expected him to be furious and suddenly turn into Rambo and begin whaling at me with his fists or guns. "For a minute there, I thought-"
"Yeah, forget about it. I recommend the beef plate if you're starting out here." I suggested, pointed to it on our menu.
"Oh, that sounds good."
So, the moral of the story is that Asian Jews are rare and screwing with customers' minds takes a lot of balls.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Tales from the Pit - Drive Thru Con #1
The following incident occurred several weeks prior and can be considered the spark which ignited the powder keg of growing chronicles you see now.
Working a drive-thru window during the evening hours tends to be rather slow and uneventful for the most part. Generally, we received a handful of orders via drive through after dinnertime and we would busy ourselves with our tasks to take care of. I was awake this particular night, thinking of ways to escape this dismal road which I had taken. I hoped that this would be temporary but as I watched the days stretch into weeks and the weeks began to turn into months, I had to brace myself for a long slog.
This particular incident would ultimately lead me to embrace the cynic within and increase my tolerance for bullshit and pain.
The drive-thru alerted me with it's annoying beeps. I had argued that we should have a headset but we didn't have the money to install one, which was understandable in this tough recession. I ran over to it and pressed the TALK button.
"Hi, how may I help?" I inquired to my faceless customer.
"Do y'all have any kids' meals?" The voice asked, mildly grating my nerves. The slight twang and the vernacular tongue made me attempt to determine what type of person I was talking to. I felt it was likely African-American, considering I had lived in the ghetto long enough to figure out how people would talk.
"No, sir. We don't have any kids' meals." I replied.
"All right. I'll take a chicken sandwich. That'll be all."
"Please pull up."
I rushed the order down to the kitchen. Generally, most modern restaurants use a modern cash register system to relay orders to the back. But we didn't happen to have thousands of dollars at our disposal so we opted instead to use a normal till and take orders on paper. While somewhat analog in the digital age, it had its uses in the simplicity of it all. I then returned to the window to get the money from my customer.
A black man pulled up in a white car, reeking of cigarette smoke. He had a bluetooth headset on and was talking to someone at the other end.
"That'll be $4.99, sir." I said to him, ringing up his total on the register.
"All right, honey. Hold on." He said to his companion at the other end. He reached into his wallet and pulled out a $20 bill, handing it to me. As he did, he then turned to me and started to speak.
"Why don't y'all have any kids' meals? I'm sure kids wouldn't mind eating here as well." He asked, in a concerned manner.
"Well, sir. Our main clientele are the people who work in this industrial area so we don't get many children out here often." I replied.
"Well, I think you may get lots of business with kids' meals, just so you know."
"I'll think about it." I turned back to the register to calculate his change and put the $20 next to me outside the till in both our sights.
"Hold on. I think my wife wants to go to Taco Bell instead." He suddenly interjected, bringing a halt to the counting of the bills I was currently engaged in. Naturally, I was mildly dismayed but if that was what the customer wanted, then that was his own nutritionally deficient choice.
"Very well then." I closed the register and handed the $20 back to him as he reached his hands out. He continued talking on his headset, ignoring me for the most part as he put the money into his wallet. Then he surreptitiously slipped a $1 bill out and handed it to me.
I had the bill in my hand, staring at it and very much confused. I had no idea why he had done such a thing and felt it was a mistake. My instincts told me that something was unnatural so I returned the bill to his palm.
"What's this?" He looked at me suddenly, inquiring in an accusatory tone.
"Sir, it's your bill. I gave you the $20 and then you gave me a $1 bill." I replied, mildly annoyed.
"I don't see any $20 here. What are you talking about?" He proceeded to open his door, looking around at his car in a big show of searching for the supposed missing bill.
I stared at him, my eyes narrowed in suspicion and a sudden burst of rage broke through my otherwise unassuming behavior.
"I GAVE YOU YOUR $20 BACK AND THEN YOU TRIED TO GIVE ME $1, SIR! WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO DO HERE?!" I bellowed at him, with my hat askew and arms flailing wildly. I seethed with rage as I saw my breaths exhale quickly in the pale, cold January night.
He paused to look at me, taken aback by my outburst. To my satisfaction, I saw the glimmers of fear in those foul eyes of his.
"Hey, it's cool. You don't need to shout, mister. It's okay, you don't need to yell." He said softly, as he looked furtively around, scanning the area for any passerbys within earshot of us.
He closed his car door and stepped on the pedal, escaping to the street in front of the restaurant, like a mouse fleeing the claws of its feline predator. He didn't even pause to turn left for the Taco Bell near us but simply disappeared into the darkness from which he came.
And thus, these tales were born.
Working a drive-thru window during the evening hours tends to be rather slow and uneventful for the most part. Generally, we received a handful of orders via drive through after dinnertime and we would busy ourselves with our tasks to take care of. I was awake this particular night, thinking of ways to escape this dismal road which I had taken. I hoped that this would be temporary but as I watched the days stretch into weeks and the weeks began to turn into months, I had to brace myself for a long slog.
This particular incident would ultimately lead me to embrace the cynic within and increase my tolerance for bullshit and pain.
The drive-thru alerted me with it's annoying beeps. I had argued that we should have a headset but we didn't have the money to install one, which was understandable in this tough recession. I ran over to it and pressed the TALK button.
"Hi, how may I help?" I inquired to my faceless customer.
"Do y'all have any kids' meals?" The voice asked, mildly grating my nerves. The slight twang and the vernacular tongue made me attempt to determine what type of person I was talking to. I felt it was likely African-American, considering I had lived in the ghetto long enough to figure out how people would talk.
"No, sir. We don't have any kids' meals." I replied.
"All right. I'll take a chicken sandwich. That'll be all."
"Please pull up."
I rushed the order down to the kitchen. Generally, most modern restaurants use a modern cash register system to relay orders to the back. But we didn't happen to have thousands of dollars at our disposal so we opted instead to use a normal till and take orders on paper. While somewhat analog in the digital age, it had its uses in the simplicity of it all. I then returned to the window to get the money from my customer.
A black man pulled up in a white car, reeking of cigarette smoke. He had a bluetooth headset on and was talking to someone at the other end.
"That'll be $4.99, sir." I said to him, ringing up his total on the register.
"All right, honey. Hold on." He said to his companion at the other end. He reached into his wallet and pulled out a $20 bill, handing it to me. As he did, he then turned to me and started to speak.
"Why don't y'all have any kids' meals? I'm sure kids wouldn't mind eating here as well." He asked, in a concerned manner.
"Well, sir. Our main clientele are the people who work in this industrial area so we don't get many children out here often." I replied.
"Well, I think you may get lots of business with kids' meals, just so you know."
"I'll think about it." I turned back to the register to calculate his change and put the $20 next to me outside the till in both our sights.
"Hold on. I think my wife wants to go to Taco Bell instead." He suddenly interjected, bringing a halt to the counting of the bills I was currently engaged in. Naturally, I was mildly dismayed but if that was what the customer wanted, then that was his own nutritionally deficient choice.
"Very well then." I closed the register and handed the $20 back to him as he reached his hands out. He continued talking on his headset, ignoring me for the most part as he put the money into his wallet. Then he surreptitiously slipped a $1 bill out and handed it to me.
I had the bill in my hand, staring at it and very much confused. I had no idea why he had done such a thing and felt it was a mistake. My instincts told me that something was unnatural so I returned the bill to his palm.
"What's this?" He looked at me suddenly, inquiring in an accusatory tone.
"Sir, it's your bill. I gave you the $20 and then you gave me a $1 bill." I replied, mildly annoyed.
"I don't see any $20 here. What are you talking about?" He proceeded to open his door, looking around at his car in a big show of searching for the supposed missing bill.
I stared at him, my eyes narrowed in suspicion and a sudden burst of rage broke through my otherwise unassuming behavior.
"I GAVE YOU YOUR $20 BACK AND THEN YOU TRIED TO GIVE ME $1, SIR! WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO DO HERE?!" I bellowed at him, with my hat askew and arms flailing wildly. I seethed with rage as I saw my breaths exhale quickly in the pale, cold January night.
He paused to look at me, taken aback by my outburst. To my satisfaction, I saw the glimmers of fear in those foul eyes of his.
"Hey, it's cool. You don't need to shout, mister. It's okay, you don't need to yell." He said softly, as he looked furtively around, scanning the area for any passerbys within earshot of us.
He closed his car door and stepped on the pedal, escaping to the street in front of the restaurant, like a mouse fleeing the claws of its feline predator. He didn't even pause to turn left for the Taco Bell near us but simply disappeared into the darkness from which he came.
And thus, these tales were born.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Tales from the Pit - Racial Misadventure #1
It was a day like any other Saturday. Cold, dreary, and gloomy with a sepulchral feel outside. How I loathed and hated winter, as it twisted me and affected me with a mood to equally match the depressing landscape. But as the snow melted and bits of sunlight came through, there was always hope for better times ahead.
Ignorance on the other hand remains a constant.
An African-American man came in and placed an order. Judging by his grizzled beard with bits of gray and the rough cut of his hands, I felt that he was a truck driver. This was made more obvious by the coat with many patches of various states he had on him. I wrote down his order and yelled it back to my aunt and mother to get a move on. It had been rather slow so we were lethargic. As I turned back to the register, the man suddenly spoke to me.
"So, what nationality are you? Mexican?"
"No, sir." I replied. At this point, incredulity had struck me. To be honest, do I look Mexican at all? Hell, my pseudo-Jewish friend is closer to being Mexican than I am. I was not offended really but more troubled by the misidentification.
"Are you Korean?"
"No."
"Well, what are you?"
"I'm Vietnamese."
The slow dawn of realization spread across his face as his neural synapses managed to connect the dots. However, what he said next once again made me seriously consider if he was trying to offend me.
"You guys don't have dogs or cats on this menu, do you?" He asked, in a somewhat desperate manner. His eyes grew wide as he pointed and scanned our menu.
"Nope." I deadpanned. At this point, I figured there's no point in trying to get offended since I felt we had passed beyond that into an unidentified region.
"Oh, okay. Because I know that it's a delicacy in some parts of you know....Asia."
"Yes, it is a delicacy back in the homeland. However, we do not serve cats or dogs."
"Oh, okay. I think it's a bit weird, you know. I mean...here, we keep them as pets but over there...I mean hell, they eat them!"
He chuckled slightly, slapping me on the shoulder. Naturally, I was determining whether my next approach would be to respond to that or call the ACLU for racial defamation though I doubt it would actually work.
"Well, some people keep pigs and chickens as pets. And we eat them too."
"Yeah, but you don't see a black man walking around with a chicken here on a leash."
"No, but I know some keep pigs as pets around." I retorted, somewhat mildly exasperated at this juncture in our conversation.
"Oh, yeah, that's true. Quite true. But hell, I'm just kidding with you, boss." He jovially remarked, laughing again.
"Oh, I would hope so."
Ignorance on the other hand remains a constant.
An African-American man came in and placed an order. Judging by his grizzled beard with bits of gray and the rough cut of his hands, I felt that he was a truck driver. This was made more obvious by the coat with many patches of various states he had on him. I wrote down his order and yelled it back to my aunt and mother to get a move on. It had been rather slow so we were lethargic. As I turned back to the register, the man suddenly spoke to me.
"So, what nationality are you? Mexican?"
"No, sir." I replied. At this point, incredulity had struck me. To be honest, do I look Mexican at all? Hell, my pseudo-Jewish friend is closer to being Mexican than I am. I was not offended really but more troubled by the misidentification.
"Are you Korean?"
"No."
"Well, what are you?"
"I'm Vietnamese."
The slow dawn of realization spread across his face as his neural synapses managed to connect the dots. However, what he said next once again made me seriously consider if he was trying to offend me.
"You guys don't have dogs or cats on this menu, do you?" He asked, in a somewhat desperate manner. His eyes grew wide as he pointed and scanned our menu.
"Nope." I deadpanned. At this point, I figured there's no point in trying to get offended since I felt we had passed beyond that into an unidentified region.
"Oh, okay. Because I know that it's a delicacy in some parts of you know....Asia."
"Yes, it is a delicacy back in the homeland. However, we do not serve cats or dogs."
"Oh, okay. I think it's a bit weird, you know. I mean...here, we keep them as pets but over there...I mean hell, they eat them!"
He chuckled slightly, slapping me on the shoulder. Naturally, I was determining whether my next approach would be to respond to that or call the ACLU for racial defamation though I doubt it would actually work.
"Well, some people keep pigs and chickens as pets. And we eat them too."
"Yeah, but you don't see a black man walking around with a chicken here on a leash."
"No, but I know some keep pigs as pets around." I retorted, somewhat mildly exasperated at this juncture in our conversation.
"Oh, yeah, that's true. Quite true. But hell, I'm just kidding with you, boss." He jovially remarked, laughing again.
"Oh, I would hope so."
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Tales from the Pit - Drive Thru Con #2
Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later this time around. People often think that they can get away with trying to swindle drive-thru operators. In fact, many often do. It's one of the perils of customer service and one of the more trying methods of breaking the tedium of a languishing day.
The lunch rush was in full swing, a flurry of feet running orders to and fro for ravenous patrons on their lunch break. There was a line of cars at the drive thru, placing orders and waiting for them. A truck pulled up to the window, one among many in the line.
There were two men sitting in the truck. A short, thin black man and corpulent, pug-faced white man. The man's bushy red hair gave the impression of one who seemed to be on fire perpetually.
They had both placed two separate orders. I vaguely recall they were two sandwich combinations and a separate sandwich combination. The black man handed me a credit card and I swiped it immediately, returning the card and a copy of the receipt to him. Then he gave me cash for the second order, upon which I dispensed his change back to him.
The orders were completed minutes later and I began to give them to the men, waiting for the next car to pull up to the window. However, that didn't happen so easily.
"Hey, what's this on my receipt?" The fat man asked me. His companion paused with the bag in his hand and looked back and forth, his expression one of slight confusion.
"Sir, what are you talking about?" I replied, slightly irritated and rather petulant at this strange turn of events.
"Well, there's a tip on here. I don't remember giving out any tip." He pointed a pudgy finger at his receipt. Scrawled on one of the lines was a tip amount for what I could see as 2 or 5 dollars.
Upon seeing that, my initial thought was one of disbelief and then just sheer anger. I knew for a fact that there was nothing written on the copy I had given him. Furthermore, the ink was different form the pens we usually have. No one ever gives tips out at the drive through unless it's warranted and that has rarely happened ever since our opening day. Naturally, I deduced that this was simply an attempt to skim money off our business and by extension, me.
"Sir, there's no tip. If there's a tip on there, it's not being entered into our machines! So you don't have to worry." I exclaimed, waving my hands wildly in frustration at his transparent and idiotic attempt to scam me. His companion merely stared at the both of us in shock, a slight smile curling in his upper lip. Needless to say, he didn't expect this turn of events.
The pig-like man blinked and then muttered something along the lines of "it's okay" or "fine then" and the two of them drove off. As I dealt with the next customer, I thought to myself "Did this really happen again? Is this seriously a joke?"
Later, after the rush ended, I sat and ate an apple, reflecting on the stupidity of man and the fact that I present a rather intimidating presence to people sometimes. Needless to say, I now keep a knife taped under the register in the event things get serious. After all, you never know when you may need to skin an apple.
The lunch rush was in full swing, a flurry of feet running orders to and fro for ravenous patrons on their lunch break. There was a line of cars at the drive thru, placing orders and waiting for them. A truck pulled up to the window, one among many in the line.
There were two men sitting in the truck. A short, thin black man and corpulent, pug-faced white man. The man's bushy red hair gave the impression of one who seemed to be on fire perpetually.
They had both placed two separate orders. I vaguely recall they were two sandwich combinations and a separate sandwich combination. The black man handed me a credit card and I swiped it immediately, returning the card and a copy of the receipt to him. Then he gave me cash for the second order, upon which I dispensed his change back to him.
The orders were completed minutes later and I began to give them to the men, waiting for the next car to pull up to the window. However, that didn't happen so easily.
"Hey, what's this on my receipt?" The fat man asked me. His companion paused with the bag in his hand and looked back and forth, his expression one of slight confusion.
"Sir, what are you talking about?" I replied, slightly irritated and rather petulant at this strange turn of events.
"Well, there's a tip on here. I don't remember giving out any tip." He pointed a pudgy finger at his receipt. Scrawled on one of the lines was a tip amount for what I could see as 2 or 5 dollars.
Upon seeing that, my initial thought was one of disbelief and then just sheer anger. I knew for a fact that there was nothing written on the copy I had given him. Furthermore, the ink was different form the pens we usually have. No one ever gives tips out at the drive through unless it's warranted and that has rarely happened ever since our opening day. Naturally, I deduced that this was simply an attempt to skim money off our business and by extension, me.
"Sir, there's no tip. If there's a tip on there, it's not being entered into our machines! So you don't have to worry." I exclaimed, waving my hands wildly in frustration at his transparent and idiotic attempt to scam me. His companion merely stared at the both of us in shock, a slight smile curling in his upper lip. Needless to say, he didn't expect this turn of events.
The pig-like man blinked and then muttered something along the lines of "it's okay" or "fine then" and the two of them drove off. As I dealt with the next customer, I thought to myself "Did this really happen again? Is this seriously a joke?"
Later, after the rush ended, I sat and ate an apple, reflecting on the stupidity of man and the fact that I present a rather intimidating presence to people sometimes. Needless to say, I now keep a knife taped under the register in the event things get serious. After all, you never know when you may need to skin an apple.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Tales from the Pit - Karl
Karl came by today. He usually comes in on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. A rather stout fellow, with a full beard tinged with gray and glasses perched on his crooked nose, he resembled another innocuous, obese American seeking nourishment and food. However, he always is talkative and very genial.
He's a truck driver. He generally has to drive down three times a week. He also is a Vietnam war veteran, a former presidential candidate for 2008, and very much versed in the ways of the world.
Full of stories, he often talks about anything ranging from the inadequacies of the Republican Party to precious metal speculation. The war stories I found were most interesting, giving me a view into the American psyche during the Vietnam War. What's more entertaining are some of the anecdotal tales he has. Granted, he does talk for many hours on hand but it's generally interesting and fun. After all, life on the road is pretty mundane
Luckily, he also buys our pork rib plate and a large drink. So, cha-ching!
He's a truck driver. He generally has to drive down three times a week. He also is a Vietnam war veteran, a former presidential candidate for 2008, and very much versed in the ways of the world.
Full of stories, he often talks about anything ranging from the inadequacies of the Republican Party to precious metal speculation. The war stories I found were most interesting, giving me a view into the American psyche during the Vietnam War. What's more entertaining are some of the anecdotal tales he has. Granted, he does talk for many hours on hand but it's generally interesting and fun. After all, life on the road is pretty mundane
Luckily, he also buys our pork rib plate and a large drink. So, cha-ching!
Tales from the Pit - And now for something totally different!
Another day and another long, mind-numbing 12 hours of work. Sometimes it ebbs and flows like a river and other times it's as long and silent as solitary rock on the ground. Today was essentially like yesterday and the day before but not quite like tomorrow.
I know it was warm today, almost balmy like summer though the snow and ice reminded me otherwise. There were some notable meetings and interesting stories to be told, though nothing so as to drive me up against the wall.
Gluten Lady came by the drive-thru today. I remember her for the most singular request she made of me some weeks earlier when she first visited. She wore glasses and her golden brown hair was short, falling to her shoulders. She work a long black coat, wrapping herself in a plaid scarf. Her eyes were very alert yet entirely warm though I would have to disagree with the choice of the handbag. It was actually a bitterly cold day then in December.
"I'll take your beef and chicken plate. It doesn't have any wheat or soy, does it?"
"No, ma'am. We don't use either in our meats. It comes with bread though."
"No bread. I can't eat the bread."
"...Really? Are you allergic?"
"Well, no. I get this a lot. The thing is, I'm breastfeeding my son and he's probably gluten-intolerant because my mom and my aunt and my grandmother both couldn't eat bread..."
"Oooh, okay. I got it. No bread. But still...how can you get by in life without eating....CROISSANTS?!"
"OH! I know, right? I'm something of a baker but we always have to buy the gluten-free stuff for the kids. I can handle wheat and gluten well but it's just a precaution in case. I mean it's just the way you make croissants...you can't do it gluten-free."
"Oh, most definitely."
This time, she ordered the same thing as she pulled up in her lime-green Honda Cube. She did say she would come back and she did. So naturally, we're doing something right at least for one woman and her newborn child.
I know it was warm today, almost balmy like summer though the snow and ice reminded me otherwise. There were some notable meetings and interesting stories to be told, though nothing so as to drive me up against the wall.
Gluten Lady came by the drive-thru today. I remember her for the most singular request she made of me some weeks earlier when she first visited. She wore glasses and her golden brown hair was short, falling to her shoulders. She work a long black coat, wrapping herself in a plaid scarf. Her eyes were very alert yet entirely warm though I would have to disagree with the choice of the handbag. It was actually a bitterly cold day then in December.
"I'll take your beef and chicken plate. It doesn't have any wheat or soy, does it?"
"No, ma'am. We don't use either in our meats. It comes with bread though."
"No bread. I can't eat the bread."
"...Really? Are you allergic?"
"Well, no. I get this a lot. The thing is, I'm breastfeeding my son and he's probably gluten-intolerant because my mom and my aunt and my grandmother both couldn't eat bread..."
"Oooh, okay. I got it. No bread. But still...how can you get by in life without eating....CROISSANTS?!"
"OH! I know, right? I'm something of a baker but we always have to buy the gluten-free stuff for the kids. I can handle wheat and gluten well but it's just a precaution in case. I mean it's just the way you make croissants...you can't do it gluten-free."
"Oh, most definitely."
This time, she ordered the same thing as she pulled up in her lime-green Honda Cube. She did say she would come back and she did. So naturally, we're doing something right at least for one woman and her newborn child.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Tales from the Pit - Pain or just plain crazy?
Earlier tonight, there was a customer who came back from a week ago. His mannerism and voice oddly reminded me of those prospectors who sought for gold during the 19th century mining eras and also from those films set in the Old West. I could tell that he worked for the city and judging by the state of his attire, I determined that he was likely a power plant worker. He was a wiry fellow, rather loud at times and possibly drinking beforehand
He came in, greeted me and proceeded to stare at the menu, his eyes furrowed in deep concentration. The dirt and grime on his eyebrows gave him the appearance of a orangutan who had just woken up. After resuming eye contact with me, he began his order.
"You guys sell ribs?"
"Yes, sir. We sell slabs and pork rib plates."
"You know, I'll take that rib plate of yours."
"All right, a number four it is."
"How many ribs do you get with that?"
"You get three ribs, sir."
"Only THREE ribs?!" He exclaimed, his face in disbelief.
I could easily tell that he felt that wasn't enough for him to eat. The plate came with 3 long end ribs, potato salad, beans, bread, pickles, onions, and BBQ sauce. It's a MEAL! He stared at the menu for 30 seconds and then stared at me, attempting to speak. Yet nothing came form his mouth really.
"Well, never mind. Thanks anyway." He walked out, muttering to himself something about "money" and "ribs."
The last time he came in was exactly like this. Only he got a menu the first time and walked out, only to come back later. We also had this exact same conversation over pork ribs as well yet that time, he decided to order something else. This time, he didn't. Needless to say, I couldn't really determine if I thought he was just mean or simply confusing.
He came in, greeted me and proceeded to stare at the menu, his eyes furrowed in deep concentration. The dirt and grime on his eyebrows gave him the appearance of a orangutan who had just woken up. After resuming eye contact with me, he began his order.
"You guys sell ribs?"
"Yes, sir. We sell slabs and pork rib plates."
"You know, I'll take that rib plate of yours."
"All right, a number four it is."
"How many ribs do you get with that?"
"You get three ribs, sir."
"Only THREE ribs?!" He exclaimed, his face in disbelief.
I could easily tell that he felt that wasn't enough for him to eat. The plate came with 3 long end ribs, potato salad, beans, bread, pickles, onions, and BBQ sauce. It's a MEAL! He stared at the menu for 30 seconds and then stared at me, attempting to speak. Yet nothing came form his mouth really.
"Well, never mind. Thanks anyway." He walked out, muttering to himself something about "money" and "ribs."
The last time he came in was exactly like this. Only he got a menu the first time and walked out, only to come back later. We also had this exact same conversation over pork ribs as well yet that time, he decided to order something else. This time, he didn't. Needless to say, I couldn't really determine if I thought he was just mean or simply confusing.
Tales from the Pit - You don't know catfish!
Yesterday, I got into a disagreement with an African-American customer with regards to the meaning of "fried catfish." Needless to say, it was one of the weirdest and most ridiculous arguments I had ever heard. It went down like this.
The woman ordered a catfish basket and proceed to sit down and eat with her boyfriend. At least, I assume he was her boyfriend, judging by the extent of their physical closeness and the lack of a ring on their fingers. If they were cheating, there was a lack of tremor in their voices or any sort of visceral reaction when I mentioned that her boyfriend ordered a grilled chicken salad.
After less than five minutes eating, she came up to the counter carrying her catfish as I was finishing up an order for another customer.
"Excuse, this catfish is too hard."
"Ma'am, it's fried catfish. It's breaded so we had to fry it for several minutes so it would be done."
"Yeah, but it's too hard for me to eat.It's not soft enough..."
"...Would you like to get something else or a refund?"
"I'll take the refund."
I'm pretty sure fried food has to be fried so the texture of the fish must change in order to properly undergo a catalytic reaction with the frying oil. For the record, most people have loved and enjoyed the catfish baskets we offer. A few handful would beg to differ.
WTF.
The woman ordered a catfish basket and proceed to sit down and eat with her boyfriend. At least, I assume he was her boyfriend, judging by the extent of their physical closeness and the lack of a ring on their fingers. If they were cheating, there was a lack of tremor in their voices or any sort of visceral reaction when I mentioned that her boyfriend ordered a grilled chicken salad.
After less than five minutes eating, she came up to the counter carrying her catfish as I was finishing up an order for another customer.
"Excuse, this catfish is too hard."
"Ma'am, it's fried catfish. It's breaded so we had to fry it for several minutes so it would be done."
"Yeah, but it's too hard for me to eat.It's not soft enough..."
"...Would you like to get something else or a refund?"
"I'll take the refund."
I'm pretty sure fried food has to be fried so the texture of the fish must change in order to properly undergo a catalytic reaction with the frying oil. For the record, most people have loved and enjoyed the catfish baskets we offer. A few handful would beg to differ.
WTF.
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