As our country's collective waistband expands so do the days of food celebration.
Polish up the confetti cannon, there are plenty of foodie days~how else can we let Pancake Day-Margarita Day-Donut Day-Pizza Day know how much we heart them?
Don't forget Pie Day-a day of fruit-filled crusts for the mathematically challenged in the crowd. Are you a big fan of Cordon Bleu? Circle April 7 on your calendar.
Apparently today is the day we are supposed to pay homage to a frickin' grilled cheese. Not sure where you stand on the issue, but when I go out to eat or find myself faced with a munchies at midnight conundrum, a grilled cheese sandwich is always on the top of my list.
I refuse to honor-celebrate-or in any way make a grilled cheese feel special today.
Because the grilled cheese can suck it.
You know who loves grilled cheese? Cheapskates. Penny Pinchers love that shit--they eat it up.
I give you Exhibit A ~ Asshat Alice and Exhibit B ~ her BFF Bitch-a-lot Betty.
Alice and Betty grind my gears. Eight out of ten complaints come via one of their computers. The other two are written in their chicken scratch and promptly stuffed in the complaint box. Yeah, you bet your ass I've considered dusting for prints--just for proof--self-satisfaction, but I refuse to waste the energy.
These two are exhausting.
What's their beef?
Oh, honey, that's an awfully long list--it begins with the "fowl" way their complaints are resolved and ends with how I'm ripping off by expecting them to weigh and pay for the ten soufflé cups of buffalo ranch sauce stuffed in their pockets to accompany the one dollar and thirty-two cents worth of chicken tenders they just weighed up.
Highway robbery, right? Fuck that-empty your pockets and put it on the scale-it's a goddamn cafeteria-unless you're purchasing a pre-priced sandwich, the cashier weighs everything but you when it is time to dig out the wallet.
I can count on both hands and feet the number of times I have wanted to not only tell these two hens where to go, but also include exact directions on how to get there. Instead, I bite my tongue and add their ass-hattery to my mental list of things that are going to make me laugh someday.
Guess what? Grilled Cheese Day 2014 is not the day.
Asshat Alice and Betty Bitch-a-lot just came in for lunch-I was alerted by their 350+ pound frames and the sounds of deep sighs and their under-their-breath comments "Oh, baby...that is so esssspensive" and "why do we subject ourselves to this day in and day out?
You and me both, Alice.
And, like clockwork, twenty seconds later the grill cook pokes his head in my office. "Hey, Bosslady--a customer wants to know if she can buy a half a grilled cheese sandwich".
I give him my pat answer in situations like these: "What the fuck do you want me to do with the other half?"
He stalls, rolls his eyes, shuffles his feet and asks the next standard question: "So, um that's a no then?"
Ball's back in my court--"Ah, NO".
I go through my usual spiel...it costs a buck seventy-five. Why can't they buy one and split it or take the other half home.
Cookie interrupts-"You know Betty gets the toots from the lactose." And then continues.
"It's Alice, she wants the half a sandwich-the whole thing makes her feel stuffed. She wants to know if she can get the combo thingy-you know the bag of chips and fountain drink for the extra buck--except she would like to sub the fries for the chips and wants to know if she can sub a cup of cheese sauce for the fountain drink. Alice wants to know if I can just pour the cheese on the fries--she doesn't like to have to pay by weight--that shit is expensive. She's going to drink the free water from the fountain.
I'm admittedly lost at the word "stuffed". Alice didn't pack on 200 extra pounds saying no to a half a sandwich. I can smell bullshit a mile away...it's one of my superpowers.
I'm seriously going to have a stroke. A stroke I tell ya. The coroner's report is going to list "that goddamn place" as my cause of death. Mark my words.
I take a deep breath and count to ten-while calculating Alice's grand plan in my head.
"So, Alice would like a half a grilled cheese sandwich-an order of fries-with a big ass cup of cheese sauce on the side for a dollar-eighty-seven?!?
Cookie, who has since copped a squat on a crate at this point-shakes his head and replies, "exactly".
And, we're back to my side of the court again.
As Cookie returns to the battlefield, I mutter to myself, Fuck You Alice.
And your goddamn grilled cheese sandwich.
I can't be the only one surrounded by whack-jobs...what is the most ridiculous thing a customer has asked you for?
You can email me @ firstname.lastname@example.org with a crazy-ass customer story--go on--get it off your chest--with your permission I will feature it here.
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