So the other day at lunch, I had the pleasure of seeing one of our favorite crackhead customers. She was dressed in pajamas and was completely strung out. I wanted to slyly take a picture of her for you all to see, but I was scared that if she caught me, she'd beat my ass.
When she came in, she made a beeline for the bathroom and was back out within 30 seconds. I don't know what she did in there, but I was impressed. She then got into line, where our sweet employee Ms. W asked her if she had any money with her this time. Offended, our favorite crackhead flashed a big wad of bills. Satisfied, Ms. W continued with the lady's order.
At this point you may be wondering if we treat all of our crackhead customers so rudely. No, but we'd sure like to. You see, not all crackheads actually have the money for the meal we've just created especially for them. So that means it has to be thrown away because there's nothing worse than a crackhead's sandwich. It's always drenched in every kind of sauce we have and nobody -- I mean NOBODY (not even my husband) -- would dare take a bite of this disgusting concoction.
So why is this lady so special? Well, the day before, she came into the store, placed her crazy sandwich order, got to the register, and sadly announced that she must have "lost" her wallet. So, the kind lady behind her in line offered to purchase her sandwich. Here's how it went...
Ms. W: That'll be $3.49.
Crackhead Lady: Ah damn. I think I musta lost my wallet. I ain't got no money and I shore am hongry.
Nice Lady Behind Her in Line: Sweetie, the same thing happened to me once. I can buy your sandwich for you today.
Crackhead Lady (to Ms. W): Then make me another one. This lady's buying!
Gotta love the crackheads!
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Thankfulness
One of the most rewarding parts of being a small-business owner is how people really appreciate when you go out of their way to help them. Whether it's by giving an obviously worn-out mother a free cookie to help quiet down her screaming toddler or by not calling social services when you hear that same mother scream "SHUT THE HELL UP!" to the newborn in the stroller who's too young to eat a cookie, it's all about taking care of people.
And we don't just limit that to our customers. We take care of our employees as well.
Take A, for instance. Though it was debatable whether or not he washed regularly, he was an excellent employee.* My husband had taken him under his wing and was mentoring him on how much lettuce to put on a sandwich, when all of a sudden, the poor kid had had too much. His body went rigid, his eyes glazed over, and a low, guttural sound emanated from his throat.
At that moment, his body pitched backwards and hit the counter behind him. My husband rushed to help him, but A hit the floor. THUMP! That's when the shaking and the trembling and the jerking started happening.
My husband freaked. No one had ever mentioned to him that A had any kind of medical issues that might result in a seizure. He immediately dialed 911. Within minutes, the ambulance had arrived and our non-responsive employee was loaded up and taken to the hospital with the sirens blaring.
Shaken, D called in another employee to handle the rest of A's shift and waited for an update on his condition. The call came in just a few hours later. It was A, now recovered enough to talk on the phone. Their conversation went something like this:
Ring...ring...
D: Hello?
A: Hey, it's A.
D: Oh my God. It's so good to hear from you. How are you? Are you OK?
A: Man, don't ever call an ambulance for me again. I can't afford that shit. I just got the epilepsy.
The End.
Don't you just love a happy ending?
*What is the definition of an excellent employee, you may be wondering? Easy: one who shows up on time.
And we don't just limit that to our customers. We take care of our employees as well.
Take A, for instance. Though it was debatable whether or not he washed regularly, he was an excellent employee.* My husband had taken him under his wing and was mentoring him on how much lettuce to put on a sandwich, when all of a sudden, the poor kid had had too much. His body went rigid, his eyes glazed over, and a low, guttural sound emanated from his throat.
At that moment, his body pitched backwards and hit the counter behind him. My husband rushed to help him, but A hit the floor. THUMP! That's when the shaking and the trembling and the jerking started happening.
My husband freaked. No one had ever mentioned to him that A had any kind of medical issues that might result in a seizure. He immediately dialed 911. Within minutes, the ambulance had arrived and our non-responsive employee was loaded up and taken to the hospital with the sirens blaring.
Shaken, D called in another employee to handle the rest of A's shift and waited for an update on his condition. The call came in just a few hours later. It was A, now recovered enough to talk on the phone. Their conversation went something like this:
Ring...ring...
D: Hello?
A: Hey, it's A.
D: Oh my God. It's so good to hear from you. How are you? Are you OK?
A: Man, don't ever call an ambulance for me again. I can't afford that shit. I just got the epilepsy.
The End.
Don't you just love a happy ending?
*What is the definition of an excellent employee, you may be wondering? Easy: one who shows up on time.
Monday, August 2, 2010
How to Whip a 90-Year-Old Man
My husband is great with customers. He's always saying things like "yes ma'am" and "no ma'am" and "come back again soon." So when a sweet little old man walked up to my husband and asked him how old he looked, D said, "Sir, you don't look a day over 50."
To that the man bellowed, "Son, I'm 88 years old! Now shake my hand!"
D, slightly amused, offered him his hand. The old man grabbed it and squeezed the shit out of it, grinding all of D's finger bones together. D couldn't believe the audacity of this old man. It was right then and there that D started plotting his revenge...
Fast forward two years. Who does D finally see enter our store again? That same old man. Seemingly forgetful of crushing my husband's hand bones two years prior, he again walked right up to D and asked him how old he looked.
"Sir, you don't look a day over 95!" my husband replied.
"What?" the old man stammered, clearly surprised by the guess. "No, son, I'm 90. Now shake my hand!"
As soon as the old man lifted his hand, my husband grabbed it with all his might and squeezed it with every ounce of strength he possessed. The old man screamed in agony, "OWWWW! Let me go! Let me go!"
Den dropped it and stood there smirking. The old man, trying to figure out what went wrong, finally said, "You must be left-handed."
"No, sir, I'm not," Den replied, glowing with the knowledge that he had in fact just whipped a 90-year-old man.
To that the man bellowed, "Son, I'm 88 years old! Now shake my hand!"
D, slightly amused, offered him his hand. The old man grabbed it and squeezed the shit out of it, grinding all of D's finger bones together. D couldn't believe the audacity of this old man. It was right then and there that D started plotting his revenge...
Fast forward two years. Who does D finally see enter our store again? That same old man. Seemingly forgetful of crushing my husband's hand bones two years prior, he again walked right up to D and asked him how old he looked.
"Sir, you don't look a day over 95!" my husband replied.
"What?" the old man stammered, clearly surprised by the guess. "No, son, I'm 90. Now shake my hand!"
As soon as the old man lifted his hand, my husband grabbed it with all his might and squeezed it with every ounce of strength he possessed. The old man screamed in agony, "OWWWW! Let me go! Let me go!"
Den dropped it and stood there smirking. The old man, trying to figure out what went wrong, finally said, "You must be left-handed."
"No, sir, I'm not," Den replied, glowing with the knowledge that he had in fact just whipped a 90-year-old man.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
How NOT to Get a Job
Tip #1: When filling out your application and you get to the the math section, do not use the restaurant's table as your scratch paper.
Tip #2: If you do, don't use permanent marker.
Tip #3: 22+17+19 does not equal 28.
You're welcome.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
He'll Have That to Go, Please.
My husband has made it very clear to our employees that the customers are always right. Except when they're lying.
How do we know if they're lying? Is their mouth moving? Ha ha.
Except it's not really funny because it's true.
How did we become so jaded? Maybe it's the hundreds of phone calls we've had that go a little like this: "Hey man. I ordered five steak sandwiches with extra meat yesterday, and they all had mold on them. I'll be by later this afternoon to get my money back."
Yeah, right, crackhead!
Or what about this one? Our manager R was behind the line making sandwiches when she noticed a man coming out of our kitchen. Holding a drink cup in one hand, he had a bag of frozen chicken in the other.
Where, pray tell, did he get this bag of chicken? FROM OUR FREEZER! Now that takes balls. Imagine walking into a restaurant, going into their kitchen, opening their walk-in freezer door, rummaging through the food, and walking out with a bag of frozen chicken slung over your shoulder like Santa Claus. A really evil Santa Claus.
R walked right over to him and asked him just what he thought he was doing. His answer: "Ma'am, I was just getting a refill."
How do we know if they're lying? Is their mouth moving? Ha ha.
Except it's not really funny because it's true.
How did we become so jaded? Maybe it's the hundreds of phone calls we've had that go a little like this: "Hey man. I ordered five steak sandwiches with extra meat yesterday, and they all had mold on them. I'll be by later this afternoon to get my money back."
Yeah, right, crackhead!
Or what about this one? Our manager R was behind the line making sandwiches when she noticed a man coming out of our kitchen. Holding a drink cup in one hand, he had a bag of frozen chicken in the other.
Where, pray tell, did he get this bag of chicken? FROM OUR FREEZER! Now that takes balls. Imagine walking into a restaurant, going into their kitchen, opening their walk-in freezer door, rummaging through the food, and walking out with a bag of frozen chicken slung over your shoulder like Santa Claus. A really evil Santa Claus.
R walked right over to him and asked him just what he thought he was doing. His answer: "Ma'am, I was just getting a refill."
Sunday, July 11, 2010
He Must Really Like Our Sandwiches...
So the other day, my husband was behind the counter, helping a customer, when he heard a terrible retching noise coming from the back kitchen.
"What the hell is that?" he thought to himself. "Here, R, ring this guy up for me," he instructed our dedicated store manager as he walked to the back of the store.
What he discovered still haunts him today: an old man, puking in our three-basin sink.
"Sir, are you OK?" my husband asked the customer, trying not to puke himself.*
Without speaking, the old man stood up, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and walked back out the door to the lobby. And no, he did not rinse the sink out.
My husband cleaned up the mess and went back to the line to help customers. And that's when he saw it: the old man, sitting, eating his sandwich, in front of other customers, leaned over and puked AGAIN.
And then went right on eating. Now that's a dedicated customer.
*Important side story to understand how weak my husband's stomach is: About four years ago, our son, then two, sneezed. And I don't mean a sweet little "achoo" either. It was one of those ACHOO-and-now-three-feet-of-green-snot-is-hanging-out-of-my-nose-and-if-it-doesn't-get-wiped-off-soon-it's-gonna-fall-in-my-mouth kind of sneezes. We were in the car, I was driving, and we literally didn't have anything to clean it off with because I'm OCD and am constantly cleaning and throwing things away. So, I told my husband to do what any good mother was already thinking: "WIPE IT OFF WITH YOUR HAND!!"
He flinched, but he did it. My husband then gagged, turned, and puked out the passenger window. Except the window wasn't down all the way, so most of the puke landed on my husband's coat and tie he had put on that morning for church. Mind you, this all happened in the space of about 60 seconds at a red light. I'm just hoping my husband didn't get too much vomit on the van sitting next to us.
"What the hell is that?" he thought to himself. "Here, R, ring this guy up for me," he instructed our dedicated store manager as he walked to the back of the store.
What he discovered still haunts him today: an old man, puking in our three-basin sink.
"Sir, are you OK?" my husband asked the customer, trying not to puke himself.*
Without speaking, the old man stood up, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and walked back out the door to the lobby. And no, he did not rinse the sink out.
My husband cleaned up the mess and went back to the line to help customers. And that's when he saw it: the old man, sitting, eating his sandwich, in front of other customers, leaned over and puked AGAIN.
And then went right on eating. Now that's a dedicated customer.
*Important side story to understand how weak my husband's stomach is: About four years ago, our son, then two, sneezed. And I don't mean a sweet little "achoo" either. It was one of those ACHOO-and-now-three-feet-of-green-snot-is-hanging-out-of-my-nose-and-if-it-doesn't-get-wiped-off-soon-it's-gonna-fall-in-my-mouth kind of sneezes. We were in the car, I was driving, and we literally didn't have anything to clean it off with because I'm OCD and am constantly cleaning and throwing things away. So, I told my husband to do what any good mother was already thinking: "WIPE IT OFF WITH YOUR HAND!!"
He flinched, but he did it. My husband then gagged, turned, and puked out the passenger window. Except the window wasn't down all the way, so most of the puke landed on my husband's coat and tie he had put on that morning for church. Mind you, this all happened in the space of about 60 seconds at a red light. I'm just hoping my husband didn't get too much vomit on the van sitting next to us.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Trumped
And I don't mean The Donald-style. Unfortunately. In my 1100 sq. ft. house, I'd appreciate a gold-plated faucet everyone once in awhile. But I digress...
Let me back up. When I first met the man who would be my husband, his nickname was Uncle Remus. Not because he was a racist, but because he was a storyteller. The man could spin a web of character, plot, and conflict like nobody's business. He knew when to pause, which words to emphasize, and which words would paint the best picture of the tale he was telling.
Fast forward 15 years. Picture it: a little Mexican restaurant. A sweet, exhausted family of 4 sharing chips, salsa, and the ubiquitous cheese dip. My husband begins with a "You'll never believe what happened at the store today..."
Sometimes I tune out these days when he begins that way, but there was something in his voice that made us all perk up. I think it was about the time he got to the part about a man pissing in the corner of our restaurant.
That's right. A drunk/high/crazy man had walked into our restaurant, walked over to the back corner (yes, customers were not too far away), dropped trou, and proceeded to piss all over the back wall.
My husband saw it happening and had a shit fit! He started yelling and cussing and making the man clean up his own urine with the store mop.
I was laughing and nearly blowing chips and salsa out of my nose. And that's when my husband used his extraordinary story-telling skills to wow our 5 & 7-year-old kids: "Kids, I used bad words you've never even heard of before."
The kids' eyeballs got as big as saucers. Keep in mind that their list of bad words include hate, stupid, shut up, shut your mouth up, and idiot.
But that's when my 5-year-old baby, who had just started kindergarten, trumped his daddy.
"Daddy, did you use the F word?" he said sweetly.
"The WHAT word?" I asked unbelievably, not really expecting an answer.
"Fuckit. Did you say fuckit, Daddy?" my baby encouraged my husband.
That's right. Daddy was upstaged by a 5-year-old. Now he can never tell the guy-pissing-in-the-back-of-my-store story without following it up with the my-son-knows-the-F-word-and-tried-to-teach-it-to-me story.
Let me back up. When I first met the man who would be my husband, his nickname was Uncle Remus. Not because he was a racist, but because he was a storyteller. The man could spin a web of character, plot, and conflict like nobody's business. He knew when to pause, which words to emphasize, and which words would paint the best picture of the tale he was telling.
Fast forward 15 years. Picture it: a little Mexican restaurant. A sweet, exhausted family of 4 sharing chips, salsa, and the ubiquitous cheese dip. My husband begins with a "You'll never believe what happened at the store today..."
Sometimes I tune out these days when he begins that way, but there was something in his voice that made us all perk up. I think it was about the time he got to the part about a man pissing in the corner of our restaurant.
That's right. A drunk/high/crazy man had walked into our restaurant, walked over to the back corner (yes, customers were not too far away), dropped trou, and proceeded to piss all over the back wall.
My husband saw it happening and had a shit fit! He started yelling and cussing and making the man clean up his own urine with the store mop.
I was laughing and nearly blowing chips and salsa out of my nose. And that's when my husband used his extraordinary story-telling skills to wow our 5 & 7-year-old kids: "Kids, I used bad words you've never even heard of before."
The kids' eyeballs got as big as saucers. Keep in mind that their list of bad words include hate, stupid, shut up, shut your mouth up, and idiot.
But that's when my 5-year-old baby, who had just started kindergarten, trumped his daddy.
"Daddy, did you use the F word?" he said sweetly.
"The WHAT word?" I asked unbelievably, not really expecting an answer.
"Fuckit. Did you say fuckit, Daddy?" my baby encouraged my husband.
That's right. Daddy was upstaged by a 5-year-old. Now he can never tell the guy-pissing-in-the-back-of-my-store story without following it up with the my-son-knows-the-F-word-and-tried-to-teach-it-to-me story.
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