By Jerome Haller

My lowly status as a security guard finally became very clear on a recent Tuesday night. A cleaning crew had starting waxing my store’s floor. That did not deter a customer from requesting a lighter. The man wore a black jacket and black pants. His right eye sported a red shade. The other had a bluish tint. His breath reeked of hard liquor.
I told him no one could not get to the lighters because of the wax job. He left, but returned 15 minutes later. I repeated my earlier message. He walked out of the store and called the cops on me. Three squad cars rolled up. I explained the situation to an officer, who simply nodded and left.
The idea that a bum could call the cops on me made two managers laugh at my expense.
Such is my life in the current economic downturn. While completing college years ago, I wrote a short story about a hapless security guard. One liberal arts degree and a layoff later, I am a hapless security guard. Or what my father once derisively called a “door shaker.”

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Posted on July 7, 2009

By Patty Hunter

Another week in pizza hell.
Maybe it’s not that bad, most of the time, but every time I hear “Let’s rock and roll on that pizza” or “Let’s pull the trigger on it,” a little piece of me dies.
Unfortunately, it is part of my job description to grin at you instead of cringe and walk away shaking my head. But inside, oh inside, it is a different story. I am probably cursing the people who gave you life.
*
I discovered this weekend why I don’t normally drink at work. As wonderful as it is that my bartender training has (stealthily) included tasting the drinks I’m making, it is harder to keep my potty mouth under control. I think it’s a give-and-take situation, though; my smiles and laughing are suddenly genuine. I am happy to see you and blabber about soccer or probability theory. I really do hope you are enjoying your pizza, because it sure as hell smells divine. I am also less likely to take offense at your terrible sense of humor. Just please don’t laugh when I spill water on myself. Being contained by a space that is approximately two-by-twelve feet does not allow for many places to hide.

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Posted on July 2, 2009

By Patty Hunter

The last week was pretty uneventful. I only got yelled at twice on the phone by complete strangers, I didn’t drop anything on anybody, and only had two people leave gum on their plate. The kitchen didn’t even crash and burn. How did I possibly make it through the week, then, without the drama that fuels me? I don’t think I could have without the kind, thoughtful words of co-workers.
I work with my future brother-in-law. He is my rock at the restaurant. He has kept me from quitting or getting fired more times than I could possibly count. He switches stations with me if I’m scheduled to work an area that gets larger groups of people (there are only so many idiots I want to deal with at once) and listens to me bitch about his brother. He provides entertainment for his fellow employees, he plays pranks on the managers, mimics the unstable cooks, scares customers, and offers constant pearls of wisdom.

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Posted on June 24, 2009

By Patty Hunter

From the trenches of a Chicago pizzeria:
For as busy and understaffed as we were last night at work, and as sick, it went pretty well. No one made any major mistakes, there were no fights, we ran out of most of our appetizers and a majority of our light beers. But there is no night, ever, that does not provide an anecdote. My favorite from yesterday? There was a woman in her mid 20s with her mother and grandmother that provided a great reason why we should not always listen to our parents. I will provide the dialogue.

Me to the daughter: “What may I get you to drink?”
Polite daughter to me: “Can I have . . . ”
Mother interrupting her polite daughter: “Don’t ask her, you TELL her what you want.”
Daughter to mother: “Fine.”
Daughter to me: “I want…”
[Mother smiles and nods to herself]

So . . . now we teach our children how to not have manners?

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Posted on June 17, 2009

By Patty Hunter

People love to eat food they didn’t have to prepare and don’t have to clean up. It is a little vacation from kitchens with dirty counters and smelly garbage cans. It is a chance to eat food you know you could never prepare by yourself with your George Foreman Grill and subpar cookware. Those stories about your cute little waitress who showed you pictures of her dog do make great stories at the office.
On the other hand, do you have any idea how the restaurant staff perceives you? You probably had no idea what we were saying about you out of earshot. Can you even imagine what goes on in the kitchen? Yes, your food came out awesome. But chances are, the cook that night is a cokehead, the busser was hungover, your server hated your guts and the host warned everyone about what a pain you were. We’re half actors and half prostitutes in the serving industry.

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Posted on June 10, 2009

By Maude Perkins

Well, I can’t put it off anymore, I have to break the news. You may have noticed my recent disappearance from the barista scene. While I’m sure that most of you dear readers assumed I was merely off on a month-long cruise of the Mediterranean, perhaps celebrating my exciting Lisagor nomination, I am sad to say that has not been the case. Nor have I been in a bitter, paralyzing funk over not actually winning the Lisagor. I am happy to say that is also not the case. I knew I stood no chance against a competitor with “Katrina” in the title.
Truth be told, I have struggled in recent weeks to be inspired. It is difficult to pour my feelings onto this page without the daily brewing of corporation- and people-loathing, for I am a barista no more. My heart hangs heavy.

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Posted on May 14, 2007

By Maude Perkins

If my memory serves, my last posting found me quite delirious and tolerant of my customers. Yes, for that brief, fleeting moment, I acknowledged the possibility that not everyone was completely fucking stupid. But like I said . . . delirious and fleeting.
It wasn’t two days after I wrote that kind post that I wanted to shit in no less than twenty people’s coffees. It was almost as if the customers had read my nice words and subsequently united on a mission to return my life to a moderate-climate hell. They obviously didn’t like the friendly Maude. Which I understand, because it was creeping me out too.
It was a Friday afternoon that snapped me out of my sun-inspired jolliness. Nothing makes the hairs on your neck stand alert like the ringing of the school bell that signifies the commencement of Spring Break. The pre-teens swarmed like locusts that day, buzzing so loud that I nearly lost my voice shouting over them to confirm drink orders.
Likewise, there was an abundance of semi-retarded moms who contributed to my disgust. For example, the woman who ordered two large lemonades (not on the menu) and then, after receiving her two large lemonades, thought it was the best time to ask for them to be sweetened and shaken. Of course, I should have just known that. Lucky for me, limousines came and swept most of the idiots away for the week. Just about every last one of them went to Florida.

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Posted on April 11, 2007

By Maude Perkins

Enough exasperation. Spring is a-titillating, I am playful as a pup, and work has been full of random delights.
* I was deemed a “wise and wonderful barista” by a customer whom I had never seen before. I was genuinely touched by her compliment, as it is rare to have your sensitivity to detail acknowledged. Too bad my district manager wasn’t in earshot – you know, the one who thinks my personality sucks.
* Said district manager dropped by the store for her monthly visit, once again reminding us that nothing good ever visits monthly. Besides National Geographic.

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Posted on March 26, 2007

By Maude Perkins

Just about two months ago, I wrote about my distaste for the company’s policy of externally hiring people to be swiftly molded into managers, at the stress and expense of the baristas and the whole store in general (customers included, I might add). My inspiration to rant about that policy was our New Year’s gift from Corporate – an awkward and misfit assistant manager whose very presence added a tense stillness to our noisy bustling days.
I recall mentioning that a barista’s life is not for pussies. Rather, it takes a certain accrual of experience gained not by reading about hypothetical situations with characters named Tony Coffee Cake or Jose Espresso, but by actually getting burned, stained, and lid-lacerated hands. (Those lid lacerations, by the way, are just ever-so-slightly worse than paper cuts, if you can imagine. )
I have not gone far into detail about how the assistant manager affected our store dynamics. But let’s just say it took us weeks just to get her to pronounce “dolce” correctly.
And so, while I will spare you the gory details, I must say we were all correct and hardly surprised when she abruptly resigned. She peaced-out quicker than the fat kid in dodge ball.

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Posted on March 15, 2007

By Maude Perkins

Well, well, well. A recent internal memo – almost immediately leaked to the media – suggests that the Head Bean of the Corporation is feeling wistful for the days of coffee yore. Ahhh, the days before the automatic espresso bars so concisely poured perfectly-timed sterile shots; before customers knew how to ask you to put one-and-a-half Splendas in their lattes for them, despite the fully-loaded condiment bar in their certain, unavoidable paths. Think further back yet, to a time when your baristas could don tattoos, facial piercings and even personalities. Scary, I know.
Head Bean is certainly correct in his desire to make our stores less sterile; less . . . like McDonald’s. Of course he doesn’t specifically say that in his memo. But why don’t we just call it what it is? Liquid McDonald’s. Exchange the focus on smiles and happiness with a focus on enrichment; commodified internationally, sans clown.

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Posted on March 5, 2007