June 01, 2006

cold beer, cold cuts

The following takes place one day before Memorial Day, a particularly busy day for the Deli.

ColdBeer is a fucking pro at slicing meat. The guy can do things with a meat slicer that would give your grandmother an aneurysm. All Deli workers know that the Cold Cut counter is his domain. In fact, when the guy leaves the Deli for more gainful employment, a moratorium will be set up in his absence.

Regular customers know not to mess with the guy. A genius. A real genius.

After delivering a perfectly balanced pound and a half of Prosciuto to a new customer, the customer exclaims, "Wow! That's right on the mark. You didn't even have to weigh it."
ColdBeer shrugs, "Can I get you anything else?"
The customer replies, "Yeah...give me 1.67 pounds of Oven Roasted Turkey."

Ouch. This guy has done his homework. The Oven Roasted Turkey is exceptionally moist, making it difficult to slice at any size. My curiosity piqued, I turn from a bowl of Chicken Salad.

Unplussed, ColdBeer replies, "How would you like it sliced?"
"Shaved. But not falling apart." the customer returns with slanted eyes.

Damn. This guy is laying down the gauntlet. Even waiting customers have forgotten their place in line to see if the rumors are true. Can ColdBeer pull through? Murmurs fall over the crowd. People begin to make small wagers on the outcome.

ColdBeer pops his knuckles, and grabs a towel. He cleans the blade on Slicer #2, chooses the proper gauge, and goes to work. Each slice summons ooh's and moans from the audience. The challenger's head falls slightly with each cut.

ColdBeer turns. Triumph shines on his face. His eyes sparkle. For a moment, the growing audience is silenced as he slowly places a pile of Oven Roasted Turkey on the scale...........1.63! Everyone exhales. The challenger looks on, victorious. A glimmer of relief in his eye. And then, ever so slightly with his left hand, ColdBeer places the last 3 remaining slices onto the scale. 1.67! 1.67! The audience erupts with applause: cheering, whistling, and stomping their feet.

ColdBeer's challenger defeated. He mumbles to himself, and sulks to the Bakery.
A perfect bag of Oven Roasted Turkey in hand.

Posted by davidm at 11:38 PM | Comments (5) | TrackBack

May 30, 2006

kelso and the canary

"We need to start smoking out the Canary," I tell College Boy, "Seriously, she
is starting to freak me out."
"Maybe we could bake her some brownies. That would probably do it."
College Boy replies.

We nod in agreement. The idea of secretly drugging someone is wrong on so
many levels. My head full of visions of horny guys with Spanish Fly. But these
are exceptional circumstances.

The Canary is around 50, has 2 children, and has worked at the Deli for 2 years.
She's an assistant manager and while Kosher is on Sabbatical, she is in charge.
High strung does not begin to describe her. She works faster than anyone in our
dept. Flying in from the back of the store, she frantically yells at customers,
"Can I help you? Can I help you?" She swoops down on the last person in line not
being served. Most days, she moves in 50 directions at once - gets distracted,
moves on to something else. In her wake, a trail of unfilled Chicken Salad bowls
lie on the prep table.

On a slow day, I take my time doing easy tasks. If she catches me, I'm in for it.
"David, you need to get more Salami from the back; take out the trash; wash
these dirty spoons; sweep; and wipe this glass down - it's got fingerprints all
over it." She flies off to another employee. I shake my head, and try to digest
how my day just got complicated. All of a sudden, I'm the slow kid in first grade.

She once told me if I got caught putting cheese on the wrong side of a sandwich,
I would get fired.
"Don't forget to wear gloves, or you'll get fired."
"The dishwater needs to be at least 85 degrees, or you'll get fired."
"If you don't double-bag the trash can, you'll get fired."

She's not threatening me. She doesn't have the authority to fire me. She fears
the wrath of the big, bad, OCD corporate monster who will someday swoop in
and give her her notice. "I'm sorry," she will plea, "I will never put extra mayo in
the Chicken Salad again."

The Canary is a prophet of doom, warning us all against our impending job
terminations. I, being a masochist, always get a little glimmer of hope in my eye
from her admonitions.

Posted by davidm at 11:15 PM | Comments (8) | TrackBack

the refresh button

I began working at the deli counter of a popular, over-priced grocery store 2 months ago. Unemployed for the last year, this has been quite a shock to my
system. I'm not accustomed to doing things I don't want to do. I'm not whining
about my current situation, but taking on a menial job after doing what you damn
well please is quite draining.

For the past few weeks, I've spent my breaks writing about the job, the people I
work with, and my observations about the world of retail. Originally, I was going to
use the material to write a short story called "Zen and The Art of Chicken Salad."
I soon remembered that a work of fiction takes more effort than I'm willing to put
into it.

So, from time to time, I will post stuff here. Names have been changed to protect
the innocent or to more accurately describe the people involved. These are not
necessarily in any sort of sequential order.

I will update whenever I feel like it.

Posted by davidm at 10:47 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack