I Spit in Your Food

Meet Bob. Bob is our dishwasher. Well, one of our dishwashers. Our kitchen has roughly eight dishwashers to help control the massive volume of pots, pans, silverware, and dishes that we go through every day. The majority of the dishwashers are people who are developmentally disabled, with the exception of a few people to help keep things flowing smoothly and the disabled workers from having too many meltdowns. Then, there is Bob.
Bob is the one full time, unionized dishwasher who has been working in the kitchen for more then ten years. I think that all of the steam has seeped into his brain and crossed a few wires. Upon first glance he seems like a great enough guy. Normal, able to function in regular society. Which he is. Though he has a habit of commenting on how much he hates certain people. Such as his assistant dishwasher. The assistant works slow and is annoying, but I don’t think he is annoying enough to mention to anyone that walks by that he wants to kill him.
I don’t know about the rest of the public, but I don’t like being told when someone feels the urge to kill.
Or, this was one of my first experiences with communicating with Bob. As I was putting something away in my locker I asked Bob how he was doing. He responded with “I’m doing good.”
Excellent! He is doing good!
“You know what I hate? Those f—— who say hi to you at work but then ignore you outside of work. Gah how I hate those people!”
Wait…where did that outburst come from? I didn’t ask for an extra portion of insight into my co-workers with that “How are you?” question.
Bob does this all the time. Random comments spurt out of his mouth at the strangest times. I should start writing them down.
Bob. Our “mostly” normal dishwasher.

God save us. He wants to kill again.

On occasion we have customers come in and ask if we have any specials. This is a question that always confuses me. What do you mean by special? Do you mean a vast amount of food for the least amount of cost? Or do you mean a new dish that we only prepare once every couple of months, so the dish itself is special?
I assume that the customer means option number one.
I wonder what would make the customer think that one random day they could get more food for less than what they have been paying for the last year or two. Cost of purchasing food had been rising, yet our kitchen has not raised the prices of food for sale in several years in an effort to keep costs down for the students. So, where do you get the idea that we would suddenly lower our prices and give you more food? The idiocy of it all!
Of course, these are the exact same people who come in on Fridays and ask if they could have a plate of food for free when we close. I then explain that sadly, I cannot give away food to an individual. When they ask why they can’t have free food I am forced to explain that we donate most of our leftovers to the local homeless shelter. A noble cause that most people are delighted to hear we do. But there are a few people who stun me with their logic. “So why can’t I have any free food then?”
At that point I struggle to keep my face from distorting into disgust. What I want to say is “Become homeless and hope a space in the homeless shelter opens up. Then you can get free food.”
Instead I normally shrug my shoulders, tell the customer thats the way it is and walk away. I feel like sobbing over the lack of common sense people seem to have, or laughing over the sheer stupidity of the question.

Some customers make my day. Either through my ability to mock them or their ability to make me laugh. Often times it is both. I get to mock them AND they make me laugh. It’s like finding a free checking account that gives you interest on your balance.
The other day a woman walked up and asked me what sort of soup we would be offering that day for lunch. I had just clocked in 20 minutes before and did not know what was on the menu. So I did what any reasonable person would do. I responded with “No, I’m sorry. I don’t know what sort of soup we will be having. But you can come back in half an hour when we will be serving it and you can find out.” As I said this I was in a smiling mood. Obviously I was still within my first hour of work.
She responded with “Did you have to smile while saying that?”
“Yes.”
She then shook her fist in my general direction and walked away.
Apparently I was able to mock her and I didn’t even try. Change the scoreboard for the day to ‘Server: 1 Customer: 0′.
Later on in the day a man came through that I now call Shadow. He got that nickname not because he is sly or sneaky looking, unless you consider 300 pounds sly and sneaky, but because when he first introduced himself to me I was SURE he had said “Shadow”.
Shadow usually gets a box full of noodles and meat. Nearly every day he orders that. I am able to tease him about his lack of diet variety and vegetables, and he takes it with good taste.
One day he asked me why I always asked him if he wanted vegetables. I responded by saying there is always a chance and that there is a pool in the kitchen. I have January 28th.
Hooray for customers that make me laugh and I can mock. They are the buffer between me and me with a gun in the cafeteria.

I hate customers that ask questions. I expect the usual question or two such as “what is in this?” That I can understand and answer. What I cannot tell you is what ocean the fish is from that I am serving. Yes, I can go into the back and look on the label for you, but I can already tell you that it WILL NOT say what ocean it grew up in.
Yes, I have been asked that question. A man wanted to know what sort of fish it was (cod) and what ocean it was caught in. Excuse me? Was I just asked what OCEAN the fish came from? After I make the customers wait while I check on your silly and pointless questions I do not want to listen to your reasons for why you wanted to know. Stop talking! I honestly don’t care about what television show you watched that showed mutant fish coming out of the Atlantic ocean. I don’t care about your fear of contracting cancer from eating four or five ounces of fish once every two or three weeks.
Here, let me educated you sir. All fish has trace amounts of mercury in it.  That is the reason why it is recommended that pregnant women limit their fish intake during their nine months. You, a middle aged man have no fear of poisoning.
I’m sorry, was my word not enough two weeks ago?
We had the exact same fish today. And crazy fish man asked the exact same question. “Do you know what ocean the fish comes from?” Not to me this time, he asked my boss. She, being the kind, obliging woman told him she would go and look, the exact same thing I did two weeks ago. Only this time, she tore off the label to show to him. Proof that she, and I two weeks ago, did not lie about our lack of knowledge.
Take a chance crazy fish man, live a little. Chance cancer! After all, our economy is doing poor. The Canadian dollar is stronger than the US dollar, and India is no longer accepting US Dollars at its tourist spots. What better way to support our economy than contracting cancer and pouring thousands of dollars into the medical field?
I know I won’t complain.
Next time you ask me, crazy fish man, I’m going to lie.
From now on, the fish comes from the Bearing sea. At least for you.
Enjoy your fish, crazy fish man!

It seems as though some of our customers don’t know basic math. Many of our meals come in pagoda boxes that look similar to this. (It’s a link. Click on it.) So of course there is a limited amount of space which I can utilize when filling the customers orders. Because of this I have to know exactly what the customer wants, that way I can maximize the amount of food they get. Usually I will ask the customer if they want this, this and that included in their box. The customers that seem to have it down though, the ones who walk up and spout off what they want without waiting around and pondering, I don’t ask if they want anything extra. I’ve found that often times these people know exactly what they want, and want it in a very specific way, so asking if they want anything else is just wasted effort.
So, onto the math. Half and half=100%. At least in my world. So when a customer walks up and firmly states “I want half noodles and half vegetables.” I will fill up the pagoda halfway with the noodles, then the other half gets filled up with vegetables. There. 100%. Exactly what you wanted.
Me: “Would you like anything else?” (A force of habit and a way to make the customer feel as though I care about them.)
Customer who failed 1st grade math.: “Yes, I would like two scoops of meat, and put some rice on top.”
Me: (In my head) “Crap!” (no longer in my head) “Of course.”
The aftermath. A pagoda that has food spouting out of the top a good two or three inches. Impossible to close.

“I can has mathematical capable customers?”
“No, no mathematical capable customers for you.”

More about my coworkers. This time it’s about John. John is one of our cooks, a large, beefy man that looks like he could tear your arms off. The sort of man you show respect to, even if you don’t respect him at all. He is a great guy, cooking his food in a timely manner and always willing to do a little bit extra to make the day go by easier. His personality and sense of humor is, however, not so great.
One day I walked into the back to stop the annoying beeping of the deep fryer and “pull” some more food to the front. Pulling is the act of removing an item from an oven or warmer. The “front” is the area that the customers get to see, and place their order at.
John was in the middle of telling a story. I came in part way through, so I don’t know how the story came up but I was able to figure out that he was talking about a dream. And what a dream it was.
The first line I heard was “So there I was, knees on her chest, and hands wrapped around her neck, like this.” He then proceeded to form his hands in a mime of chocking someone. “And I was shaking her and shaking her till she stopped fighting. Then I woke up sweating. It was one messed up dream.”
So, John had a dream about beating his wife or a girlfriend, or some other sort of female company. And felt compelled to tell people in the kitchen about it.
I now affectionately call him “the wife beater” in my head.

I work with some interesting people. A few are fun, enjoyable, entertaining, delightful, attractive, intelligent…I could write more adjectives, but I’m sure you would find that boring.
On the other side of the spectrum are a few annoying coworkers. These people are idiotic, indecisive, unprofessional and lazy. Again I could write a few more adjectives, but then I would run the risk of boring you. Again.
I’ll start talking about my more annoying coworkers. I find them entertaining. In the “Let’s laugh at the idiot” way of entertainment. Zion. I find him to be the most amusing out of the group. He has this annoying way of ignoring his customers but butting in and trying to take over mine. I call it the envy syndrome. For example:
Customer: “What is in this unique looking slop?”
Me: “It is a cheese sauce poured over…”
Zion: (Speaking quickly to catch up to what I have already said.) “It is a cheese sauce poured over stuffed green peppers and garnished with deep fried okra shreddings.”
Often times Zion will ignore a customer that has just stepped up to the line ready to place their order and actually walk the fifteen feet to my end of the line where I am located to cut into my conversation and try to steal my customer. Meanwhile, I continue to serve my customer and hand them their plate. Zion, has now begun to try and begin a conversation with me, while trying to look busy by wiping away imaginary spills on the counter. I will then either direct Zion towards his waiting customer, or walk over and serve them myself, with Zion following in my footsteps. Either way he looks surprised to see a waiting customer at his station.
The envy syndrome in it’s complete cycle. And it repeats many times over throughout the day.
Entertaining coworker #1 out of the way.

I work in the food service industry. That is what my resume says. In reality I’m a guy standing behind a sneeze guard with a hair net that only partially covers my hair and a stain covered apron that was white at some point in existence.
My resume goes on to say that I am involved with food preparation. That means that on occasion I help cut potatoes for the mashed potatoes (we don’t even bother peeling them) and place food into a deep fryer. More on that “food” in a later post.
What my job entails is mostly being the face for the kitchen, a smiling, helpful face that must give you the impression that I am reaching near orgasmic satisfaction from dumping your food into a container. The worst part is, some customers actually seem to expect that the act of serving their every hunger oriented need should bring me the greatest joy known to exist.
I call that bull crap.
At least not out loud. Or around my bosses. I like having a job, it pays the bills. Paying bills is a good thing.
Why am I in such a job?
One that pays minimum wage.
One that makes me wear a smile all day.
One that makes me take bull crap from customers all day.
Because I can spit in your food.