Thinking about my work career, in the area before I got into technology, it looked like this:
- Randall’s: Stocker (fall 94- spring 95)
- Randall’s: Deli Guy (summer 1995)
- Kumon: Grader / Instructor (summer 1996)
- Informal Classes: (fall 1996-spring 1997)
- Started an a small IT consultancy…
I would like to talk about my tenure as a Deli Guy, #2, above.
As far as your teenage jobs that make you wear a stupid get-up and use cleaning and bleach nightly, it wasn’t actually too bad. Working in the deli meant that you had basically 3 primary roles:
- Serve food from the deli ( it had usually been fried up hours before, and even then, dumping chicken out a bag and into a fryer wasn’t too hard )
- Slice meats and cheeses
- Serve cookies to little kids
In short, it was a pretty easy gig provided you could handle working with those slicers ( maybe I’ll write about my one-and-only accident with that one on another occasion ).
Now, after a certain hour at night, the bakery was empty which was conjoined with the deli area. So one night, nearing close I was standing there waiting to slice up some pastrami or Boar’s Head black forest ham when a panicked lady came up to me. Now panic is not usually a state associated with buying fine imported meat, so I was a bit on edge.
“I need you to make me a cake”
As a matter of fact, under my nametag it said “MEATOLOGIST” to let the world know that my skills were in the cured meats part of the universe.
“You need a cake,” I asked, hesitantly.
“Yes, and as quickly as possible, and I need it to say ‘Congratulations Billy.’ [ or somesuch ]”.
I was unprepared for the idea that I should have something to do with this sought item.
“Hold on just a moment,” I stated, to her obvious chagrin.
“Manager red-line to the deli,” I summoned out over the PA.
“Hey Steven, what’s going on?”.
“Uh, do we make cakes?”
“Sure there’s a big bakery right next to you, right?”
“No, I mean, do I bake cakes”
“Do you know how?”
“No.”
“Then, no.”
“Well I have a lady asking me for a cake”
“Well then give her one in the cooler”
“But she wants a message iced on it”
“…”
“I, uh, don’t know how to ice a cursive-y message on a cake, do you”
“Uh, no. Well, do your best and let me know if there are any issues.”
I have come to realize answers such as this are typical of managers, but I was unprepared for the answer at the time. I think the crestfallen look of my face gave away to the lady what the game was.
“Ma’am,” I started, “I cut meat here. I serve chicken over there,” I gestured leftward.
“I can give you one of those big blank cakes in the cooler and you can have cake. But I have no idea how to put a message on it. But I will try, but I’m not sure how well I can do. If you need a cake that badly, then I will try for you. Is this OK?” I tried to say this with the gravity that a doctor might say to an anxious parent whose child could only be saved by a daring cutting-edge technique.
She solemnly nodded.
I said: “Pick out the cake and I’ll get some icing”.
So I went to the baker’s table. Big waxy paper. Check. Funny thimble thing with a hole in it. Check. I went to the baker’s cooler and found a paint can of BLUE. I asked her if blue was OK. She assented and gave me the big white sheet-cake she had found. I guess she figured by giving me a cake shaped like a large “Hello, My Name Is” tag I might not screw it up too bad.
I fashioned a crude cone out of the wax paper and applied the tip. I believe I also took some scotch tape to make sure the tip stayed on. Given the lack of other backup cakes I didn’t want to ruin my only canvas.
I took a large frosting knife and smeared a dollop in the wax paper. I twisted up the top and the misshapen frosting cone was ready to go. I took a test sheet of wax paper and wrote my name. It came out badly. I pulled another sheet, slowed down and tried again. It looked serviceable.
I went around the table and started. Not having written in cursive for many years I was a bit hesitant but was able to write out that message in that diagonal y=.33x+4 upward line that says “Hey, this cake is fun”.
I looked at my handiwork and then at her. Her eyes were doe-like and seeking. I put down my sugary tube-ball of icing and walked the cake over to her. My eyes met hers and then she looked at the cake. She looked back up and me and said: “Not bad!”.
I gathered the plastic protector and sold her the cake. I turned around to the baking table which had smears of blue everywhere.
I put the tools of the trade away and cleaned up, dousing the table with disinfectant bleach before turning off the lights.
I headed back to my post to count out the remaining few minutes, praying that no one else had a cake emergency.
Thus when today the League posted Cake Wrecks, I immediately felt for those creators.
I find the thought of Monsieur Harms in the signature cap and apron of the Randall’s deli/ bakery attendee terribly pleasing. And that was good of you to help that lady. You know she felt you’d saved her event.
Its those little moments in customer service that sneak in between the torrent of complaints and customer dissatisfaction that can make even the dumbest job seem okay.
Yes, and that was even in the era of an alcohol-free Randall’s shopping experience: pre-Safeway buyout.