No, You Don't.

So one of the pet peeves of the cheese department employees is people who come in and tell us how much cheaper they get certain cheeses at other stores. I don't know if this happens in other departments or not, but our cheeses are marked up in a very standard way. Some of them are probably more expensive than they are at other stores, but I also know for a fact that some of them are a lot less expensive. There are various reasons for this, none of them having anything to do with our trying to screw anybody out of fifty cents.
They are also cut and wrapped (for the most part) in house, and there is virtually always somebody on staff who can let you have a taste, cut any order to size, and help you find exactly what you are looking for. This is not the case at the chain stores. For some reason, people do not seem to recognize this, and not only do they not get it, but they feel the need to tell us about it. One thing that is repeatedly said is "I have to tell you..." followed by what kind of cheese they got for how much and at which other store.

In another stunning display of customer ignorance, when I asked a woman what I could help her find, she responded:
"You guys really need a Trader J0e's here. I can't afford what I want."
That one left me speechless.

"Hellooooo?! I'm here for my dog chicken."
He said it like he had been waiting forever, when in fact he had just walked up.
Luckily there was another person standing there, and she answered him before I got to.
"I'm sorry, what did you say?"
"Is Betty here? I'm here for my dog chicken."
"Betty has gone home for the day. Is there something I can help you with?"
"Yes, I am here to pick up my chicken."
"Oh, so you made a special order? Can you tell me your name?"
"Bob."

"I'm thirsty. I'm Thirsty. Moooom, I am sooooooo thirsty!"
The child was thirsty. He was sitting in a shopping cart about 100 feet from where I was working, and about fifty feet from the water fountain, from which his mother could easily draw him a free cup of water, were she not an idiot.
This went on for about ten minutes, after which I assume she finally broke out of her haze and hydrated him. Next thing I know, they are ten feet away, and he is crabbing again. Now, I realize that this is not the kid's fault, because he's about six, and it is past dinner time and probably nearing bedtime, and his mother is taking forfuckingever to grocery shop. I continue to ignore them as best I can, and then I look up and find the child, without his mother, rummaging in the cheese display. Before I can say or do anything, she meanders over, gazing stupidly at both the child and the cheese.
"Yes, that's cheese. But I can't have this so let's go back over there."
"But look at this-"
"I know honey, but mommy can't have cheese, so let's-"
She is interrupted by a loud pop, similar to the sound a Christmas Cracker makes.
"I didn't do anything. I don't know how that happened," said the child, looking up at his mother with absolute innocence.
"I know you didn't honey. Let's give that to the lady." She hands me what used to be a package of local herbed goat cheese.
"I didn't do anything. I don't know what happened!"
"I know honey. It's not your fault."
And she was right, in a way.

On Tuesday I showed up at work to find that the basement had flooded* and that we would not be opening the lounge. The live music was canceled, and there was a nice mildewy odor permeating the lower floor of the restaurant, which is where the bar is located. So, that was a nice start to my day. Anyway, I was the only person who was available to wait on any customers until the dining room opened upstairs. My first two customers were women, both of them were alone, and both were very nice and easy to wait on. They were obviously busy, one of them had paperwork and the other had a book, and so I got their orders and pretty much buggered off to leave them in peace. About fifteen minutes later, two women came in with a baby that couldn't have been two years old yet. Despite the fact that the lounge was closed and had obviously flooded, and despite the fact that the only place to sit was at the bar, where the stools are very high and where there is a damn bar and where you wouldn't want to put a baby if you had half a brain, they sat at the bar. With the baby. As soon as they put her in the chair she was yawning and rubbing her eyes. It was obviously nearing her bedtime. These women were, I figured out, the mother and the babysitter. They ordered food and cocktails, and proceeded to take up what limited space I had with a child who was soon yelping and bothering the other customers and act like it was perfectly natural.
I know that I am not the most kid-friendly person in the world, but I don't mind serving them when it is appropriate. And honestly, if we were the only open restaurant and they just needed something to eat, I would have understood. But to sit a kid in a completely unsafe chair at a bar when she is obviously tired and then feed her clam chowder (which was so hot she started screaming when she took a bite) and Caesar salad and let her scream in a room full of people who are trying to relax and enjoy a meal is just plain rude. All of the waitstaff were giving me looks of pity when I went upstairs to get some bread. I wanted to die. Actually, I wanted the women to die. But I didn't say anything. And I think maybe I should have. If anybody has a suggestion about what I might say (other than the expletives that immediately came to mind) in that situation is welcome to say so. Personally I feel that it is a manager's job to address guests whose behavior is affecting other guests, but none chose to come to my aid.
in other news, we had a meeting last week at the Local Restaurant with, among some other important people, the Director of Operations, during which Too Loud Trixie made a complete ass of herself and embarrassed everyone into a mortified silence. I used to think she was just a terrifyingly stupid redneck, but now I believe she is certifiably insane, or at least a sociopath. And hopefully she has just gotten herself fired. We'll see. The behavior in that meeting was bad enough, but she followed it up by talking about where to buy some pot in front of the 15 year-old daughter of one of our managers. I'll keep you posted. My fingers are crossed.



*I read later in the paper that we narrowly missed a very large flood- town-wide, because of an enormous ice floe on the river.

"What's your favorite?" asked the woman, looking over the dessert menu.
"I'm a big fan of the pot du creme," I answered, pronouncing the first word Poe as I had been taught by chef.
"Well, I think I'll pronounce it like the French would, and I'll have the pot du creme," said the woman's friend, with an extra emphasis on the t.

I'll be sure and tell the French chef that his French mother taught him the wrong pronunciation of that French word, I thought.
What I actually said, after a pause that was just long enough to let the other three ladies' discomfort register in their brains so that they wouldn't bring the troll back again, was
"Well okay then. Anyone else?" I had plastered on the kind of big, fake smile that one needs in order to survive in the service industry. They all ordered with the kind of pleading looks on their faces that one wears when one is hoping that you don't spit in their desserts, too.

A few weeks ago, I was working a stupid, stupid lunch shift at the Local Restaurant. It was loaded with leaf peepers, they all came in at once (off of buses), they all wanted separate checks, they were all on a tight schedule, and the kitchen was full of new students who couldn't even cook a blasted hamburger. One table had three young girls at it. A co-worker of mine came up and told me that they had completely stiffed him (no tip at all, for those of you unfamiliar with the term) a couple days before. He said I should make sure to tell them that their school cards only paid for the food and not the gratuity, because it was possible that they were confused, even though he had explained it to them. So, when I dropped the check, I sent over a manager (who is also an instructor at the school- this is how the restaurant/school relationship sometimes works) to make sure they understood. Then they stiffed me.

These school cards have been the bane of our existence at the Local Restaurant. What they are is basically $300 credit cards given to all new students, which they use to dine at the LR so they can experience the school and the food and the restaurant before they come in for class. The cards don't include gratuity, as I said, and a large percentage of the students don't tip. This leaves the professional wait staff stuck waiting on some really rude and obnoxious kids who take up all of our time and all of our tables, essentially for free.

After the girls left, I spoke to the chef instructor, and she said she was going to talk to them later, when they were in class. It was agreed all around that something needs to be done. Well, nothing was done. Or at least, no results were seen on our end. And the problem with a Culinary Institute is that new students are coming in all the time. It isn't like traditional college, where the new kids mostly arrive in the fall.

The other night, I was behind the bar, and lo and behold, one of these obnoxious young ladies arrives in full brigade (that's French for "cute little chef suit") in a big hurry. She was working in the kitchen, which meant that she had very limited time, and she had a cup in her hand. I looked up at her and smiled.

"What do you need?" I said, calmly. She immediately recognized me.
"Can I just get a ginger ale when you have a minute?"
"Of course," I smiled again, continuing to pour a glass of wine for an order that was going out to a customer. Then I started to make a martini. Normally, when I see a chef or a student chef coming, I reach over the bar, past any servers who are waiting for their drink orders, and fill their drink, because I know that they only have a moment and that they have to get back to the kitchen as soon as possible. This time I didn't feel any urgency at all. And sure enough, the little bitch ran back up the stairs to the kitchen without any ginger ale. Did she learn a lesson? I doubt it. Did I feel slightly better anyway? Damn straight.

So I guess I'll Just Sleep When I'm Dead.

Yep, I am still awake. I mean, I have slept a few hours, but not near as many as I should have. Last night was another slow one at work, and I would say roughly half of the customers I did have were crazy in one way or another.
There was the "I don't buy French wine" guy, who I believe was a car salesman. They are not known for their good taste, so I felt no urge to correct him). He was wearing sunglasses and never took them off throughout our entire exchange, though our entire exchange was conducted indoors. He was also wearing an incredibly gaudy gold ring, a Bee ehM dubbleeWe polo shirt(he had one parked in our lot), had a really bad mustache. He wanted "a good red" for under ten dollars, shot down virtually every suggestion I had, and answered any questions I asked (trying to narrow down what he wanted) in a hilariously egotistical manner. I gave up and walked away from him, and careened straight into a very diminutive man in his sixties who asked a million questions and hated everything I suggested to him. He kept talking about points, and Parker, and he had an eyePhone so he G00gle searched everything anyway. I don't mind people asking a lot of questions and wanting to be informed, but if our palates are so obviously different, why keep asking me what I think? And really, how does one answer the question
"Is this really worth fifty dollars?", armed with the knowledge that this annoying little man is going to come back in two weeks? Obviously he was setting a trap for me, and I had no intention of springing it.

I also had a very long exchange with the Nice Guy's wife. She was trying to decide what to get for NGs birthday celebration, and she seemed very wound up about getting it just right. I had stepped out front for a moment with my Regular Russian Customer, a youngish woman who has a very nice boyfriend and no friends in this town at all. She is very likable and though we have very little in common I think we might be friends if I were not about to leave town. Ah well. Anyway, when I came back, Adam was standing in the wine department with NG's wife. He had a pained expression on his ace and had removed his glasses, rubbing the place where they had rested on his nose. When he saw me he immediately brightened up, and then as soon as I got within a few feet of them he was off, blathering niceties over his shoulder and practically running back to the cash register.
She is a very nice woman, but she is obviously very concerned about getting this thing just right, which makes for a lot of indecision and more hand holding than I ever have to do with her husband. It was a long process, but thirty minutes later I finally had her out the door with a case of wine for the party and a bottle of rose' to go home and drink immediately.
At the end of the night, Stan and Adam and I chilled a Smuttynose Russian Imperial Stout while we ran through the store as quickly as possible, straightening and stocking and shutting things down. That took about three minutes, which was as much time as the beer needed. It was chilled to perfection. Stan divided it evenly between three glasses, and we all made the same face as we brought it to our noses. It smells awesome. And it tastes even better. It is hoppy, and malty, and creamy, and were I not so fucking exhausted I would have happily stayed for another. Three thumbs way up.
When I got home I sent the b.h. to bed. I grabbed a quick shower and finished the tofu curry, stupidly not opening another beer to go with it. I started watching an episode of Unc0rked, but Kilgor wouldn't stop whining so I shut it off and went to bed.
The wind was pretty nasty, loud enough that neither Kilgore nor I could quite relax, so I turned on the fan for some white noise. This had the effect of knocking him directly out, and I was awake for another hour, after which I slept fitfully and awoke feeling like shit. So here I am. The good news is that I finally uploaded some pictures I've been meaning to show you.

This is my new favorite coffee mug, courtesy of K. It looks just like the paper cups you see smashed in the street all over New York.



This is the hawk that I am fairly certain is nesting somewhere in the yard. She has been quite vocal recently. This picture was taken from here at the computer desk in the office.



This is the first icicle we ever grew in Georgia. Not the sheet of snow that is hanging precariously from our tin roof. We could hear that thing moving, very incrementally for a couple days after the snow. It crashed to the ground while we were out getting groceries.





Here's the long shot of said sheet, just before it fell:

Customer of the Day #4367.

The day started out innocently enough. I got up and left the house before I was truly awake, dropped the b.h. at work and proceeded to work myself. I finished my coffee just before I arrived and had my breakfast (yogurt and granola) when I got there. I still wasn't awake. By eleven o'clock we had only had about five or six customers. It was probably sixty degrees outside, but inside the store couldn't have been over fifty. I could not get warm. I paced around and looked for things to do. I skipped through radio stations on the Sirius XM thingie, trying to find something upbeat and not Billy Joel. There was a lot of Billy Joel. My co-worker Clay was enjoying it. He is not shy about singing out loud, which I find unusual for a country boy his age, but it is still new enough that I find it amusing. I put up some wine. I rearranged some stuff on shelves. I went next door for coffee. It warmed me up a little. Still the day dragged on relentlessly.
Natasha arrived at around twelve. I had been there for almost three hours, but it seemed like forever. She went to get lunch, which she was nice enough to split with me. Grilled fresh mozzarella and tomato with basil and pesto on pannini. Clay went to the hardware store, and when he came back he started replacing rood shingles. The smell of tar permeated the store. The few customers we had all remarked on it.
"It smells like gas," said one woman.
"Yes, he is tarring roof," said Natasha, in her heavily accented English.
"It smells like gas."
Natasha looked at me and rolled her eyes.
Later, we were outside. Natasha smoked while I stood and watched, trying to clear my head for a few minutes with fresh air. A man in a truck pulled up. He got out and went into the store, so I followed.
"Sorry about that smell," I said. "We're repairing the roof. The smell of the tar is killing me. I guess we should leave that door open."
"You're probably smelling gas. I have it all over me."
It did not occur to me to ask why he was covered in gas.
"Actually, now that you mention it, I do smell gas. It's a step up form the tar, though, so it isn't bothering me."
Later Clay came back in, his hands thick with mucky black tar. He was carrying an empty half pint bottle. Everclear.
"Is that your shift drink?" asked Natasha.
"Naw, man, I had to use it to get the rest of the tar off. Shit, I don't need a drink. I'm higher than a kite."
She looked at him quizzically for a moment, and then smirked and nodded in understanding. "If the boss come back, he's goeen to lock himself in back there."

A short while later, an older woman in large puffy white gym shoes came in. She poked her head around the corner, smiled briefly at us, and then turned her back and went toward the wine section. She was rummaging around in Rieslings before Natasha could get around the counter to help her. In fact, by the time Natasha had got to her, she had already pulled a very pricey bottle from an upper shelf (the shelf right above the sign that reads "Please ask for assistance with wines on upper shelves").
"Do you have another one like this?"
Natasha had taken the bottle from her and was inspecting the label when two more bottles came crashing down - on her head. I heard the crash, and before I could register what had even happened I saw Natasha, bent at the waist with both hands on her head, stumbling around. Clay got there first.
"It wasn't me! I didn't do it!" shouted the woman, in the manner of one who it had been and who had, in fact, done it.
I ignored her and instructed Clay to clean up the glass. Other customers had arrived, and while I was ringing them out I was ordering Natasha to sit down and Clay to get her some ice. While I was ringing up the last waiting customer, the woman who caused the whole thing poked her head around the corner again.
"I wasn't going to buy anything today anyway. I'll just come back."
I glared at her and didn't respond. She practically ran out. Stupid cow. Once I had finished with the other customers, I went over to inspect Natasha's foot, which had been hit just after her head. It probably kept the second bottle from breaking. It was swollen. So was her head.
The last hour was spent arguing with Natasha about whether or not she should drive (obviously not), whether she would go to the ER (not a chance), and what might happen if you drink alcohol with a concussion. In the end her stubbornness won out, and now all I can do is call her every once in awhile to make sure she isn't passed out. So far so good. Man, I'm glad this day is almost over.