Today, as I was beginning the end of my shift at the Sandwich Shop, a young man from the college came in. He was strikingly handsome, and I shot him my best "I make-a da sammiches" smile, with my usual cheery, "I can help you whenever you're ready."
Oh dear Lord. I had no idea what I was in for.
"Yeah, I'll get a Chicken Caesar Salad," he said in a soft voice, gazing at me with doe-like, innocent eyes.
"Everything on that?" I asked sunnily, reaching for a grilled chicken for chopping-and-nuking.
"Yeah."
I breezed into the back, took out a salad container and lovingly shredded the enormous romaine leaves that were, for some reason, left whore, and arranged them so that they lay on the plastic in a pleasing manner. I then returned to the line and sliced cucumbers and arranged them artfully on the lettuce. Since Parmesan cheese goes on our Caesar salad, I reached into the cooler, pulled out the Parmesan, and shook that thing like it owed me money.
"STTTTTOOOOPPPPP!" he screeched, grabbing the countertop.
"What?" I asked, alarmed. My chicken beeped at me.
"Is that cheese? I'm allergic to cheese."
I stared at him, uncomprehending. It is a common known fact that Caesar salads have a good amount of cheese in them, in the salad and in the dressing. "All right, sir," I replied, a little shaken. I took the offending salad up in my hands sadly. "I'll make you a new one."
"Sorry," he grunted.
That bastard isn't sorry at all, I thought crankily to myself. My fake smile fell and I probably looked the pissed-off bitch I was. "It's all right, sir," I muttered, taking away my perfect Caesar and placing it in the cooler. My supervisor saw the whole thing and began speaking to him as I ripped more Romaine into a plastic container, not caring if it was a complete salad or not. I then savagely chopped cucumbers and threw them in there.
"Is it all right if I put croutons in there?" I asked. He smirked and laughed with his buddies then nodded. I put a cup full of croutons in. I then fetched the rapidly cooling chicken from the microwave and placed it in the container.
"Wait."
I looked up, loathing burning in my eyes. "Yes, sir?"
"Can you cut it up more and distribute it around the salad?"
This made me angry. "Of course, sir." I grabbed the chicken, diced it into tiny pieces, and tossed it evenly around the salad. "Is there anything else you'd like, sir?"
"She don't like me nomore," he giggled to his friends.
How astute, I thought sourly.
"Yeah, I want some broccoli and carrots."
"We don't have either or those, sir."
He looked shocked. "What do you have?"
"Everything you see here." I gestured to the line, which he could see clearly from his vantage point. He stared at it uncomprehendingly for a few minutes, then said, "Tomatoes."
I chopped two tomatoes and shoved them in the box. "Anything else?"
"No."
"Go on down to the register and she'll take care of you there."
Down at the register, my supervisor informed him that our Caesar dressing is 50% Romano cheese. He told her that was just fine, and asked for extra, please. I went to the back to avoid punching him.
Oh dear Lord. I had no idea what I was in for.
"Yeah, I'll get a Chicken Caesar Salad," he said in a soft voice, gazing at me with doe-like, innocent eyes.
"Everything on that?" I asked sunnily, reaching for a grilled chicken for chopping-and-nuking.
"Yeah."
I breezed into the back, took out a salad container and lovingly shredded the enormous romaine leaves that were, for some reason, left whore, and arranged them so that they lay on the plastic in a pleasing manner. I then returned to the line and sliced cucumbers and arranged them artfully on the lettuce. Since Parmesan cheese goes on our Caesar salad, I reached into the cooler, pulled out the Parmesan, and shook that thing like it owed me money.
"STTTTTOOOOPPPPP!" he screeched, grabbing the countertop.
"What?" I asked, alarmed. My chicken beeped at me.
"Is that cheese? I'm allergic to cheese."
I stared at him, uncomprehending. It is a common known fact that Caesar salads have a good amount of cheese in them, in the salad and in the dressing. "All right, sir," I replied, a little shaken. I took the offending salad up in my hands sadly. "I'll make you a new one."
"Sorry," he grunted.
That bastard isn't sorry at all, I thought crankily to myself. My fake smile fell and I probably looked the pissed-off bitch I was. "It's all right, sir," I muttered, taking away my perfect Caesar and placing it in the cooler. My supervisor saw the whole thing and began speaking to him as I ripped more Romaine into a plastic container, not caring if it was a complete salad or not. I then savagely chopped cucumbers and threw them in there.
"Is it all right if I put croutons in there?" I asked. He smirked and laughed with his buddies then nodded. I put a cup full of croutons in. I then fetched the rapidly cooling chicken from the microwave and placed it in the container.
"Wait."
I looked up, loathing burning in my eyes. "Yes, sir?"
"Can you cut it up more and distribute it around the salad?"
This made me angry. "Of course, sir." I grabbed the chicken, diced it into tiny pieces, and tossed it evenly around the salad. "Is there anything else you'd like, sir?"
"She don't like me nomore," he giggled to his friends.
How astute, I thought sourly.
"Yeah, I want some broccoli and carrots."
"We don't have either or those, sir."
He looked shocked. "What do you have?"
"Everything you see here." I gestured to the line, which he could see clearly from his vantage point. He stared at it uncomprehendingly for a few minutes, then said, "Tomatoes."
I chopped two tomatoes and shoved them in the box. "Anything else?"
"No."
"Go on down to the register and she'll take care of you there."
Down at the register, my supervisor informed him that our Caesar dressing is 50% Romano cheese. He told her that was just fine, and asked for extra, please. I went to the back to avoid punching him.
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