Ah, the wonderful world of teenage jobs. I had just come off my two and a half year stint at the pizza place, and with summer starting, it was time to get myself out there. I dropped off applications at a few places, but almost all of them were in the fruitless "we're not really looking for anyone right now but why don't you fill out an application just in case" category. That's a long category name, so you can imagine my frustration.
Then I saw a grand opening of a new salad place very close to home. I went in, and the owner/manager Mitch gave me the long-category response. Still, I turned it in because there was really no harm in that. He said he'd call me either way the next day, but when he didn't, I stopped by the following day to check in. Persistent, eh?
He didn't seem to remember me at all, which was a little troubling. However, he did seem much more interested in me this time. He led me into his back office and found my application amongst a sizeable snack. He took a pen out and started quickly looking over it. He perked up a little and asked, "So you worked at an Italian restaurant." "Yes sir," I said, "for over two years." "Did you make any salads there?" That was a trickier question than he probably imagined. Honestly, yes, I made salads, but they were salads a 3 year-old or even a seeing eye dog could make. Grab lettuce with the tongs, a few croutons, two tomato slices, and some of either the Italian or Creamy Italian dressing. See what I mean? "Well, yeah, I made some salads," I said. "Great!" he responded, drawing a big circle around my name on the application. "You're our new Head Pantry Chef!"
I didn't know what to make of that. On one hand, I figured, "Hey, that's cool. I got a job, and I'm a quick learner so it won't be long til I have a good grasp of my duties." On the other hand, I thought, "What the hell is a Head Pantry Chef?" He put me down for a 40-hour week starting the next day, gave me two shirts and a hat, and said he'd see me tomorrow. I walked back to my car, alternating between "Alright!" and "Oh shit!" What had I just gotten myself into?
I arrived the next morning, and a kid name Michael from my high school was working behind the counter. We greeted each other, but I wasn't happy to see him there. The guy was a total dick, and that's not exactly what I look for in co-workers. I saw Mitch, and he gave me an apron and walked me through the restaurant. Then he took me back up front to show me where I was going to be stationed. Michael and a few others were up at the counter, taking orders and helping people in a similar fashion to my previous job. "You'll be right here," Mitch said. But when I looked at where he was pointing, it wasn't with Michael and the others. It was with my back to all of them.
Basically, this is what my job entailed: Don't look at the customers. The other employees will put tickets up in front of you. Make the orders, announce they're ready, and keep moving. When you're out of the sandwich meat, cut some more on this heavy duty slicer. Be fast, good, and don't make a mess.
In other words, this position wanted me to use every skill I'd never managed to obtain. I have a lot of talents for working with the public. I can be personable, genuine, and in touch with their needs. In fact, I enjoy that quite a bit. Being a chef, on the other hand, is not something I knew how to do and never really claimed to either. And yet, I was thrust into it.
I found out rather quickly a little more about my hiring: the Head Pantry Chef from the first week of the restaurant's existence had just quit right before I walked in the door. Mitch probably knew he was stretching it with me, but he had no idea.
My first orders were for some big gourmet salads that weren't too difficult, but I just needed some extra direction. I didn't know how many bacon bits or how much bleu cheese was supposed to go into them, so I guessed if no one was around to help. The sandwiches were more difficult, because a lot of them had avocado on them. I'd never eaten avocado and had never even touched one before, so being told to put some of that thing on a sandwich was mind-boggling. Mitch came over, opened one expertly with a knife, cut some out, slapped it on the sandwich, and looked at me like I was an idiot.
I found myself falling behind right away, and I hated that feeling. I accidentally made food "for here" instead of "to go" for a customer, and that set me back another minute. People were coming over to lend me a hand though (not Michael), so I eventually got through the day. When we closed, I had to clean everything up and then go clean all of the dishes in the back before heading home. When I thought I was done, Mitch did a final walk through. He looked at the big blade of the meat slicer. "Michael, come over here," he said. "Does this look clean to you?" "No sir," Michael answered in full-on Eddie Haskell mode, "I would've done a much better job on that." I glared at him, unable to believe he so readily threw me under the bus. Honestly, it could've been cleaner and I admit that, but that would've required me to make bigger and more forceful motions on the giant blade.
In any case, things only got slightly better over the next few days. It just wasn't my thing, despite the effort I was putting forth. I wasn't a chef, and I certainly wasn't the right guy for this particular job. I didn't know how this was all going to play out though. I wasn't going to quit, because as inadequate as I was, they needed me in that role. Or so I thought.
Then I saw a grand opening of a new salad place very close to home. I went in, and the owner/manager Mitch gave me the long-category response. Still, I turned it in because there was really no harm in that. He said he'd call me either way the next day, but when he didn't, I stopped by the following day to check in. Persistent, eh?
He didn't seem to remember me at all, which was a little troubling. However, he did seem much more interested in me this time. He led me into his back office and found my application amongst a sizeable snack. He took a pen out and started quickly looking over it. He perked up a little and asked, "So you worked at an Italian restaurant." "Yes sir," I said, "for over two years." "Did you make any salads there?" That was a trickier question than he probably imagined. Honestly, yes, I made salads, but they were salads a 3 year-old or even a seeing eye dog could make. Grab lettuce with the tongs, a few croutons, two tomato slices, and some of either the Italian or Creamy Italian dressing. See what I mean? "Well, yeah, I made some salads," I said. "Great!" he responded, drawing a big circle around my name on the application. "You're our new Head Pantry Chef!"
I didn't know what to make of that. On one hand, I figured, "Hey, that's cool. I got a job, and I'm a quick learner so it won't be long til I have a good grasp of my duties." On the other hand, I thought, "What the hell is a Head Pantry Chef?" He put me down for a 40-hour week starting the next day, gave me two shirts and a hat, and said he'd see me tomorrow. I walked back to my car, alternating between "Alright!" and "Oh shit!" What had I just gotten myself into?
I arrived the next morning, and a kid name Michael from my high school was working behind the counter. We greeted each other, but I wasn't happy to see him there. The guy was a total dick, and that's not exactly what I look for in co-workers. I saw Mitch, and he gave me an apron and walked me through the restaurant. Then he took me back up front to show me where I was going to be stationed. Michael and a few others were up at the counter, taking orders and helping people in a similar fashion to my previous job. "You'll be right here," Mitch said. But when I looked at where he was pointing, it wasn't with Michael and the others. It was with my back to all of them.
Basically, this is what my job entailed: Don't look at the customers. The other employees will put tickets up in front of you. Make the orders, announce they're ready, and keep moving. When you're out of the sandwich meat, cut some more on this heavy duty slicer. Be fast, good, and don't make a mess.
In other words, this position wanted me to use every skill I'd never managed to obtain. I have a lot of talents for working with the public. I can be personable, genuine, and in touch with their needs. In fact, I enjoy that quite a bit. Being a chef, on the other hand, is not something I knew how to do and never really claimed to either. And yet, I was thrust into it.
I found out rather quickly a little more about my hiring: the Head Pantry Chef from the first week of the restaurant's existence had just quit right before I walked in the door. Mitch probably knew he was stretching it with me, but he had no idea.
My first orders were for some big gourmet salads that weren't too difficult, but I just needed some extra direction. I didn't know how many bacon bits or how much bleu cheese was supposed to go into them, so I guessed if no one was around to help. The sandwiches were more difficult, because a lot of them had avocado on them. I'd never eaten avocado and had never even touched one before, so being told to put some of that thing on a sandwich was mind-boggling. Mitch came over, opened one expertly with a knife, cut some out, slapped it on the sandwich, and looked at me like I was an idiot.
I found myself falling behind right away, and I hated that feeling. I accidentally made food "for here" instead of "to go" for a customer, and that set me back another minute. People were coming over to lend me a hand though (not Michael), so I eventually got through the day. When we closed, I had to clean everything up and then go clean all of the dishes in the back before heading home. When I thought I was done, Mitch did a final walk through. He looked at the big blade of the meat slicer. "Michael, come over here," he said. "Does this look clean to you?" "No sir," Michael answered in full-on Eddie Haskell mode, "I would've done a much better job on that." I glared at him, unable to believe he so readily threw me under the bus. Honestly, it could've been cleaner and I admit that, but that would've required me to make bigger and more forceful motions on the giant blade.
In any case, things only got slightly better over the next few days. It just wasn't my thing, despite the effort I was putting forth. I wasn't a chef, and I certainly wasn't the right guy for this particular job. I didn't know how this was all going to play out though. I wasn't going to quit, because as inadequate as I was, they needed me in that role. Or so I thought.
Then the old pantry chef returned. Apparently his new job didn't work out, and Mitch very excitedly welcomed him back with open arms. When the schedule for the next week was put up, where I had 40 hours previously, I now had...3. I went over to Mitch's office. "Hi Mitch," I said, "I noticed that my hours were cut from 40 to 3. Isn't there any more you can give me?" He said that with the other guy back, they really didn't need me in that role anymore, so no, 3 was about it. I said that I was looking for more than that, so I didn't know if I could stay working there without a greater workload. "Okay, no problem, I understand. It's been nice having you with us," he said, way too cheerfully. I thanked him and walked out, still trying to understand what just happened.
So that was my entire time at the salad place. It was brief, overwhelming, and weird. I came in and got my paycheck a few days later, and then set out again to find summer employment. I don't think I ever put that job on my resume though. I kept my shirt from there and actually wore it quite a bit during my freshman year of college because it was "cool." So it wasn't a total loss.
I haven't eaten there since my brief tenure there, and it's been about 13 years. So I think it's time. With my wife out of town, I imagine I'll be stopping there on my way home sometime soon - maybe even tomorrow. I'll stick with a big salad; I don't want anything that's touched that nasty meat slicer. They really should clean that better. Much, much better.
Have a good, gentle readers, and we'll meet back here for a Follow Up Friday tomorrow. ptklein@gmail.com is just an email address, sitting in front of a reader, asking you to use it. Isn't that touching?
1 comment:
Square peg in a round hole. It happens all the time.
At least it didn't scar you for life.
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