The bread was a big draw for diners who chose to eat at the Cooker. I know that because people told me, often emphatically. Since the bread was complimentary, served before the meal, and replenished as often as was wanted, perhaps it had something to do with the restaurant chain’s ultimate demise. When your best attribute is free that makes for poor profits.
The Cooker served both homemade rolls and fresh-from-scratch cornbread. In fact, they employed a person full-time to make only bread, all the time. The rolls were wheat (though by no means whole wheat) that wound around like small cinnamon rolls, but with no glaze or sugar. I never really thought they were all that great, but I was clearly in the minority with that opinion. The cornbread, on the other hand, was shaped in rounds, individually, and they were damn good. 22 fat grams (each!) worth of delicious. Each table was to receive one roll per person in a basket, and each basket got one piece of cornbread per table. Unless there were more than four people seated, in which case there could be two pieces of cornbread. But, of course, this was never enough for 98% of my tables. Which is understandable, I go through chips at a Mexican restaurant like a junkie blows through nickel bags, but damn! At least let me bring the people what they want, which is mounds and mounds of hot, free bread served with plenty of whipped margarine now. I was often ordered to bring a scoop of margarine for each piece of complimentary bread I served.
But the managers watched the coveted woven baskets with their single-ply wax paper sheets enveloping the fresh bread like hawks. Only 4×1+1 pieces of bread could make it out to the table, unless the table had specifically requested extra. Because if there was anything that the Cooker cowtowed to utterly and completely it was the whims of guests who took advantage of that very fact.*
Because explicit requests for extra bread were the only exception made as to how much went out on the first round, we exploited it. We lied. We could tell when a table was going to run us the entire time for more free, filling bread–maybe we’d waited on them before, maybe they’d told us they were starving, maybe they expressed their love of cornbread–and so when harassed by management about it we’d just fib a little. It got to be so prevalent, though, that I’m surprised the managers didn’t go ask patrons to verify if that was true. Of course, they’d never want to offend a valued guest, so we played that for all it was worth.
Danielle, the woman who was the sole bread baker there, was a tyrant. Her job was hard, no doubt. She had to make an extraordinary amount, dare I say a shit-ton, of bread. But that bitch was crazy. She would throw bowls when she got pissed, which was every Friday night, Saturday night and Sunday morning. They only scheduled her during the busiest hours because she was incredible at the baking part. The bread she made was consistently fluffy and soft or moist and savory, depending. And she did just fine, so long as there wasn’t a rush. But if there was a push at the door and production became too stressful for her–a low threshold to be sure–she would lose her shit.
Servers asking for bread when she was clearly busy was usually the tipping point. See, servers constantly have to ask those who work in the kitchen for stuff, despite not being their boss. ("How long on that steak?"; "Is there dairy in that?"; "Can you wash a few bowls?") Servers, the people separating the diners from their food, ask for knowledge, knives, help reaching, estimated time of arrivals, extra dressing and a billion other things. They are needy people who can’t do much for themselves back there besides ask.** Asking Danielle how much more time before the bread was ready could cause a melt down. She’d start cussing, as if under her breath, but everyone could clearly hear her. "Fucking bitchass kids ain’t gonna tell me what to do. They can kiss my black ass!"
If a waiter was unfortunate enough to have been out at his table for a while, perhaps getting railed by his guests about why they can’t be eating bread, and he came back to inquire with a bit of an edge to his voice, all bets were off. Danielle would start slamming shit. Doors to ovens, metal baking sheets (heavy, industrial ones that make a lot of racket), cutting boards, random passersby. "I’m gonna sue!," she’d yell. "This place is some bullshit. I can’t believe this shit. There should be three of me. Fuck you 18-year-old motherfuckers telling me what to do. I swear, I’ll sue!"
No one could ever figure out what she was going to sue over, but she was never fired. I imagine she went down with the sinking ship some years later.
*In fact, I heard once a manager say that he would get shit from the fellas upstairs if he had too few "comps" for the week. They’d say he wasn’t doing enough to satisfy the patrons.
**Some servers are also back-of-house employees, but even the most able server has his hands ties when it comes to access to items in the kitchen.
Last night I dreamed that the boyfriend and I went to our favorite bar (we don’t have a favorite bar) for a pint of our favorite beer (we don’t share a favorite beer) when, on a whim, I decided to get a giant tattoo of my favorite beer’s logo on my right forearm. It was wide, about six inches in width, and it wrapped completely around my arm, like a band. It was maroon and black. (Oddly, I have no idea what kind of beer it was, but the logo resembled one that a Yazoo beer might have. Frankly, it could have been worse. Could’ve looked like a Miller Lite logo.) In fact, it was a really well done tattoo in a design I really liked, despite the fact that the bartender did it on the fly with equipment he pulled from under the bar.
Then I started to wig. I had considered a tattoo so many times in my life, ultimately deciding to remain ink free. Why had I changed my mind? And with such immediate abandon? And why did I pick a freaking beer logo? I was forever branded a souse. I thought of all the gorgeous sleeves I’d considered, the elaborate scenes I’d imagined crawling across my back or snaking up my waist, but no. I’d gone and gotten a brew tattoo. On my fucking forearm where, unless it was winter, it couldn’t be covered up. I might as well have adorned myself with a giant pot leaf or crack pipe.
I also dreamed that I took off my bra to find heaps of cat hair in it.
I deleted the post that was here earlier. I don’t think I was totally out of line or anything, but I just hated seeing it every time I came back here. I don’t want this place to become a home for that kind of crap. I’d like it to be better than that. And so I removed it. My apologies to those who left comments.
I flew low and kept my nose clean for the first several months, always going directly home after my shifts. Either that, or I drove down to Murfreesboro to be with Cal. It took a while for me to wriggle out of my shell. It helped when Jolene began working there.
She was a grade beneath me in high school and, while we were by no means close, we ran in the same circles. She was a cheerleader the year I decided to quit. We’d end up at the same lame field parties or stupid school dance. It was a relief to see her show up one day at a new employee training class.
Jolene had long, chestnut hair that she spent a lot of time grooming. Sometimes she wore it in well-sprayed, hot rolled curls. Other times it would be stick straight and glossy, the effects of a vigorous blow out. She wore her makeup in thick layers, on her eyes, cheeks and her plush, wide mouth. Glitter eyeshadow and red lipstick in the daytime.
Jolene was the kind of girl who would go out for drinks with co-workers on her very first night, inviting herself if no one else did. And that’s exactly what she did working that first night of training at the Cooker.
"You have to come with me," she pleaded, grabbing my wrists and bending at the knee. "I have a fake ID that works every time. I’ll just order for you!"
"Okay, maybe." I mustered a doubtful reply, knowing full well I wouldn’t go. I was pretty well wedged up my boyfriend’s ass back then, a product of rampant insecurity. I’d never go out when I could run home to him instead.
I finished up my tables on that very slow Monday night, wiping down booths and tipping out before even 8:30. While settling up with the house the phone at the hostess stand rang. It was for me.
"Girl, you better get up here." It was Jolene. She was calling me from the pay phone at TGIFriday’s on Elliston. I could barely hear her over the roar of shitty pop music. "Everybody’s here, and we’re outside. It’s gorgeous out! Bring Lia, and I’ll order a drink for you."
I looked at my watch, then down at the paltry sum I’d earned that evening. I decided to go anyway.
"I don’t have anything to change into, but okay," I said. She assured me I looked hot then hung up.
By the time I arrived there was already a screwdriver, strong and tall, sitting beside Jolene in front of an empty chair. People I’d worked along side for weeks and weeks were suddenly completely changed. They were relaxed and already lubed up from the alcohol. Some of them even cheered at my arrival. These weren’t the same gruff, no-nonsense assholes I worked with day in and day out. No, with a few beers and a few hours away from kissing people’s asses and they became more than tolerable. They were really cool.
I drank too many screwdrivers that night. Three, I think. Jolene ended up leaving with the scruffy long-haired server who’d been bringing me cocktails all night without so much as asking for I.D. I crashed at Jeffrey’s house, the curly-haired, unassuming server guy who like Tori Amos as much as I did. I called Cal and told him I was sleeping at Jolene’s.
I went to class the next day with a monster headache and belly full of guilt.
Brittany was hired to blog by the news channel that runs the blog…How assinine is that?
Piss on Brittany. She, and they, are about as intellectually honest as
Shawn Hannity. I’ve no use for them beyond my own entertainment. Lots
of folks who don’t comment saw me depants the Left Liberal Baby Killers
there today. That’s the only reason I go there.
I need nothing from NiT. I want nothing from NiT. I don’t want to go the blog get togethers or belong to the clique.
If brittany forgot the Pan Galactic Blogger Blaster existed tommarow, I’d take it as a compliment.
For crying out loud… this blog and Vox’s blog… which by the way
I’m a big part of… make me a big part of the blogoshere. Why on earth
would I give a damn about brittany and NiT????…Answer me that.
As an online personality.. I find her loathsome.
Where I destroy NiT is with time of average visit.
No link, I wouldn’t do that to you. But I have to tell you that if this guy finds me loathsome then I’m doing far better than I thought. Go me.
I went outside with Tootie this morning to throw a ball around. Cooper decided it was too cold, so he stayed inside. I knew I was only going out there for a minute to entertain her in lieu of a walk (it’s snowing, that means to hell with a walk), so I was only wearing sweat pants, a t-shirt, a hoodie and sneakers. No socks.
When I went back to the side door to go in, I noticed the door was locked. Just the glass screen door, though. Cooper was on the other side begging to get out (he’s fickle like that), but I couldn’t get the door opened. I had accidentally pushed the lock latch on the screen door and was left out there to freeze. Cooper continued to whine and scratch.
I stood there for a full two minutes trying to decide what to do. I had no phone, no keys, no coat, NO SOCKS. How was I going to get to work? Snow accumulated on my fist as I gripped the door’s handle. In a fit of frustration I yanked backward, cursing my awful luck, when the screen popped open to a warm home.
Damn, I’m glad I wasn’t locked out. Today just got a whole lot more awesomer.
