Here's the beginning list of things that people say which I love to hear. By which I mean I detest with an absolute loathing passion of hellish rage and ridiculous fury. I seem to have misplaced my medication so my anger is currently unchecked, motherfuckers.
#1: ASKING FOR ITEMS WE DO NOT HAVE / ARE YOU MENTALLY RETARDED?
Two customers recently finished eating their meals and came up to me for refills on their drinks. They were two men, one being old white man and and his middle-aged white friend. As I handed them back their drinks, the old man leaned on his cane and said to me:
"So, when are you guys going to have ham?"
"Well, sir. We had ham for awhile but it took too long to get rid of and we had to throw it away at the end."
I inwardly sighed, recalling this debacle. Somehow, it took us 3-4 weeks to get rid of a leg of ham, proving that our investment in it was ill-advised at the time and ridiculous. I get 3-4 requests for ham a week on average. Now couple that with the fact that we serve several hundred customers a week. I think the point's been made but I digress.
"Really now? How long did it take?"
"About 3-4 weeks."
"Well...until you get ham, I won't be coming back. When you do get ham, put a sign up"
I stared at him, my mouth slightly open about to retort with something in regards to his mother and a quick death but luckily, prudence caught me instead.
"Eh, don't worry. I'll be back." His companion remarked, rolling his eyes slightly at the old man's outburst. They both left the restaurant, the old man plodding along.
VERDICT: Old people love ham. It seems their taste buds are so degraded that it's all they can taste. And seriously, fuck ham.
***
I was sitting at the register and reading a book when a customer came in. As I glanced up, I noticed he was a new one. Medium height, small build, and black, he looked at our menu for several minutes and glanced around the restaurant. I stood at the register and waited for him to ask for his order. However, after two minutes, I grew tired and impatient.
"Is there something I can help you with, sir?"
Surprised, he mumbled "Y'all don't have any friedkrandeens?"
"...What?"
"Y'all don't have any fried okra and greens?"
"Nooo..." I replied, somewhat surprised at the question.
"Oh, okay, it's cool. Thanks." He left quicker than when he had come in.
VERDICT: Fried okra and greens? There's a reason stereotypes exist.
Showing posts with label food. Show all posts
Showing posts with label food. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
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.
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 - 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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