The Evils of Inbreeding

Guy walks into the restaurant. Says his name is Andrew, he's here to pick up his food. Theo, how much time before Andrew's order is ready? "Oh, I think, ten minute. Food ready in ten minute." Ten minutes.

"Ten minutes?! I called you at five minutes before six and you told me it would be ready in half an hour, and it is now 6.45!!!"

Apparently someone's been counting.

Yeah, sorry about that, we're working on our speed and on our estimating abilities.

"This is simply unacceptable!!! You can't run a business like this and expect to keep customers!!!"

I'm a little aghast. I mean, how do you respond to someone standing right in front of you spouting off with such vehemence?

Yes, I understand. It's a frustration that I share.

"Well, you're going to lose customers and go out of business unless you can get your act together! This is just ridiculous!"

Ok, chief, thanks for the lesson in how to run a business. Clearly we're doing something right because, well, you keep dragging your sorry ass back here, ordering food, and paying us your hard-earned money, knowing that we're slow. In addition to which, I told your stupid self on the phone that I would call when the food was ready. Guess what, Einstein, there's a reason why I haven't called you yet. Perhaps I should give you a few seconds to figure that reason out. In the meantime, why don't you tell me how those eyes of yours got so close together.

I escape to the kitchen to pack the food up as Theo finishes each dish. I bring out one bag of food (it's a big order), and he asks which items are in the bag.

Uh, not sure, but you're free to check. "I'll take a look."

I've got the last item right here.

"What is it?"

Well, it's a noodle dish. "Which one?" I don't know [you dumbfuck, just take your food and leave. Here, I'll open up the container and breathe on your food while I try to answer your question.]. Looks like drunken noodles. "What are in these other boxes?" Your order. [What the fuck do you think is in the other boxes? Could you really tell the difference anyway?] "Well, I just want to make sure everything's here because you've fucked up my order before." I think everything's here. "Ok."

Enjoy your dinner! Come again!

After he's gone I make sure to inform Theo of my opinion of the gentleman. Theo agrees, and notes that Andrew's a regular customer. He adds with a chuckle that, next time, perhaps he should add some more hot pepper to Andrew's order.

Jesus, I think, if that's the worst that a food service worker will do when confronted with an asshole customer, we live in a world that is either truly beautiful, or one truly lacking in any real justice.

Press Any Key

Need to Batch! Press Any Key

That's what the credit card machine's little screen instructed its viewers to do when I arrived at work one day early on. Hey, Theo, what's up with the credit card machine? "Just push some button. It fine." Not satisfied to push just any key, I hit the enter key. That seemed safe. Enter is the action key, the go with the flow key, the don't rock the boat key. Unlike, say, the escape key, the cancel key. You know.

The screen went back to its usual display, something like "Account No." with an arrow or something - I never paid attention. Just followed the step-by-step instructions that Theo's buddy wrote up. Of course, the instructions weren't always right, but they were close enough.

The next time I looked at the machine was to run a credit card for a customer. At some point - just when remains a mystery - that same Batch screen reappeared. Shit! I clearly need to batch! But I also need to run a customer's card. So, again, I hit enter, and ran the card, just like normal.

At a slow period during the evening, I decided to respond to the needs of the machine. Why, you ask, would Takeout Lawyer start futzing around with the credit card machine when Theo was perfectly happy to just have me keep hitting any key to achieve normal functionality? For one thing, the machine kept insisting that Batch needed to be performed, and I presume the machine knows what it needs. For another, though this was a machine I'd never used in any manner other than that prescribed by Theo's buddy's instructions, I have a theory that says that things made for people to use are aimed at the lowest common denominator. That's why a camera comes with a 30-page instruction manual that you really don't have to read, and a pack of matches tells you how to strike one up. In other words, they make these things fool-proof, and Takeout Lawyer's no fool.

Hey, Theo. I'm going to try Batching this thing, ok?

Theories aside, I still didn't want to be responsible for screwing up the machine or the transactions already entered. If there's one thing I learned at the law firm, it was to cover my ass whenever possible by putting someone else on the hook (and to hide my identity whenever not possible).

Not that I had any freaking clue what Batching meant. But I found the manual (you guessed it - at least 50 pages long) and went to the section on Running a Batch. It didn't explain what Batching meant, but I forged on ahead. Almost immediately I ran into a problem. You'll not be surprised to learn that the manual is for a different model of machine. However, my theory held, and I was able to complete the Batch successfully. Reading the printout that the machine generated led me to believe that it had something to do with sending transaction information . . . somewhere, and clearing the machine's own local memory.

A few days later, Theo's buddy was there. He comes by almost every night to provide what I'm sure he believes to be help. More on that another time. He busied himself with the credit card machine, asked me what questions I had about it, and drew up a list of questions for Theo to ask the manufacturer the next day. A little while later, after he'd left, he called and asked me to add to the list of questions whether or not we take Discover. It was an idle question that I actually had, but one that would be easily answered by running a Discover card through to see if it worked. Theo's buddy asked me not only to add the question to the list, but also to walk Theo through the question. (When it comes to things outside his demesne, Theo is not what you'd call a details guy.)

Several days later, after Theo had failed repeatedly to call the manufacturer, after we'd lost tips because we didn't know how to add them to a bill, after me running Batches every once in a while as the machine demanded (and still not really knowing why), Theo's buddy took matters into his own hands, called the manufacturer, and got answers to the questions. Phew.

So, it's 11pm, I'm tired and wanting to leave, and Theo's buddy is insisting that I stay to hear the answers to all of our burning credit card machine questions. He keeps saying that he wants to get on with it so that he "can get [me] out of here," but he doesn't really make any move in that direction. I know that he's going to write up an index card with all of the instructions I'll need, but he seems to want me to receive the wisdom from him verbally.

The answer to my question of whether or not we take Discover Card was as follows (my thoughts in brackets):

"Ok, Takeout Lawyer (no, that's not what he called me), I asked this guy Robert who works for the company that makes these machines whether we take Discover Card or not.

[Already far, far too many words. It's late, you're keeping me here, I've already been paid, so I'm off the clock, and all you needed was four words AT MOST (We don't take Discover). Could've gotten away with as few as two (No Discover or, in the alternative, Discover? No.)]

As it turns out, the guy said that, with Discover Cards, if we want to take them, we have to pay these fees. There's like a setup fee, I think that's like $40, and then we'd have to pay a monthly fee, too, of like $20. I just don't think that

[What the flying fuck are you on about, dude? I don't give a crap about fees and shit. I just need a two-word answer here, man. You're wasting my sleep time. Hurry it on up!]

it's going to be worth it at this point to pay those kinds of fees just to take Discover. I mean, most people who have a Discover Card have wither a Visa or a MasterCard anyway, so

[Dude, this is fucking painful, man. I'm trying to show in a respectful and not incredibly impolite manner that I don't give a shit what you're saying right now and just want you to tell me the short answer and move on. Nope; can't think of a good way to do that.]

if someone tries to use one, just ask them

[I can see where this is going and, dude, I'm Takeout Lawyer; not a moron, ok?]

for a Visa or MasterCard, and I think that should be fine. At some point in the future when we're doing a lot more

[Christ, I will not be here in the future, ok? I'm concerned about what I need to know right now. And what I need to know right now is how the hell can I get you to piss off without, well, pissing you off.]

credit card transactions, we might rethink, but for now, Theo? I don't think we should be paying fees right now, right Theo?"

[Jesus, dude, just make the executive decision.]

It may have gone on longer, but I think I blocked it out.

At some point, when we were talking about how to enter tips into the machine - which is done in the Batching process, you'll be interested to learn - he said that he'd write up an instruction card, but wanted to tell me in person, too. Oh joy. I swear to God at some point, while he was babbling on about something particularly unimportant, he said: "I know this is all jumbled what I'm saying to you, but that's just how the words are coming out of my mouth right now so you'll have to bear with me." I'll refrain from comment on this.

After learning that we don't take Discover Cards, I decided to try to care about who actually gets paid the tips when people come in for pick-up (it happens once in a while). After a few misfires, Theo's buddy finally answered, well, I guess that Theo gets them, unless he decides that, because of the good service, the counter person should get them. Grumbles from the surly underling.

Even better, though, is that we have a cash register, but nobody knows how to use it.

No, that's not true. We all know how to use one button on it. The No Sale button. This opens the drawer so we can make change. Every time we hit it, the tape advances and prints something out, so we've got this long, curled-up strip of paper covered with meaningless printing repeated over and over and over. And absolutely no record of the cash we receive. I love it.

A Boy Named June*

So on my second day of work, I show up at my appointed hour, and, as the chef/owner, Theo, seems to expect, June is late.

I met June on my first day of work, when I remembered him as the sweaty, slow-seeming guy who took my order on that fateful day when I first visited the restaurant. He failed to alert Theo of my order (or so someone else said), turning a long wait into a very long wait. Fortunately for me, the waiting area of the joint was well-appointed with comfy chairs, books on Buddhism, and a thumb piano.

When June does arrive, he sets to work immediately, but something is amiss. Theo, calm and focused even with a dozen orders demanding his immediate attention, is snapping at June. Something about using the wrong cutting board. "OK, Theo, I got it." "No, not OK! You need to remember! I already tell you!" "OK OK." "No, not OK, you do it the way I tell you next time!" Jeezum, Theo, take it easy. June's a decent bloke and diligent prep cook/delivery man/stock boy, everyone makes mistakes.

A little while later, I'm standing next to June as he cuts broccoli. From across the central prep table, Theo turns and looks at the cut broccoli. June explodes.

"Fuck this shit!" He throws down his towel, knocking a large chef's knife onto the floor, and makes for the front exit. "You get the fuck out of here now!" Theo yells back. "Give me my fucking money!" June stops and moves back towards the cash register. "No, you stay out there! You get out there now!" Pointing towards the front exit. Theo goes to the cash register, asks me when June arrived. 5.15. Theo pulls out a ten and hands it to June through the window, June leaves.

"I glad he gone. He make me nervous. I have to watch when he cut to make sure he not make mistake." Well, Theo, now we don't have a delivery guy. "That ok. I feel better now, less nervous. June make me nervous. I can't trust him. He lazy. He don't know how to learn." Ok, Theo, but when people call and want delivery, I have to tell them we can't sell them food. "Oh, man, look at this broccoli. I teach him how to cut, but look at this shit. Too small." A catastrophe of unprecedented proportions.

Calm Theo has returned, but apparently he brought some need for self-justification with him. The rest of the evening Theo explains what a bad guy June is. "We worked together for ten years. He did lots of little jobs for me. But I glad he gone now. We find somebody else. Maybe I find hispanic woman who want to learn to cook Thai food."

Good luck, Theo. I'll just stand here, slice this red tofu, and re-adjust my opinion of my new boss.

*Names may or may not have been changed in protect the innocent, the not-so-innocent, and the currently unaffiliated.

I'm a lawyer working at a Thai takeout joint for $10 an hour. Plus dinner.

Long story short, I was an international transactional attorney working for a big firm when I was given the option of either moving to the Beijing (or as I called it, the Babe-jing) office or having the firm "find another way of helping [me] achieve my career goals."

I chose the infamous "third option": leave in favor of working on my house for a while. Off the conveyor belt, into the dark side, headfirst.

It was great. It _has been_ great, I should say. But I've got to get a job at some point, because the interest I get from my investments sure as hell ain't financing my law school loans or my mortgage. Or, indeed, my black beans and rice habit.

So one day a coupla weeks I ago I found myself at the new local Thai takeout place, located in a miniscule rowhouse basement on F___ Ave., with a friend, waiting for our food (the reviews in the neighborhood listserve all said two things: great food, long wait) and joking with the 50-year old white guy in a porkpie hat and leather jacket who was working behind the counter. Joking about government workers, joking - uncomfortably - about my friend and I having children together, joking about me working there. It's unusual, I thought, fleetingly, to see a middle-aged white guy, porkpie hat and leather jacket or no, working the counter at a takeout joint in D___. So last Thursday I found myself standing behind the counter, chopping ginger and red tofu, answering the phone, and asking the customers if they want their number 24 (that's the panang) with chicken, beef, or pork.