The Finite

So my first time on shakes wasn’t so good. But I’m pretty determined to improve. It’s rewarding but busy. I occupied a position akin to the soda jerk of olde. There’s something empowering about pouring a milkshake while “We Are the Champions” comes up on the radio. Of course, things always get crazy busy and I have to wash chocolate syrup from places on my body that I’d never expect to get chocolate on accidentally.

Milkshakes sound easy, right?

Milkshake = ice cream + time

Problem: The time machine is broken and the ice cream is really, really frozen. We don’t mess around. Or cheat and use softserve like other places. We scoop all of it, add cream and syrups. My forearms are getting huge from the scooping in combination with handling the fry baskets.

When DJ turned the radio to classical music, I felt like a ballerina. Pirouetting around from the mixer to the finishing area where I would grab the whip cream can, give it a couple of shakes, a mad dash to the front window after plucking the receipt from above the sink. Dodging the coworker holding a pan full of half cheesed pizzas and the other with the cake knife. Then the music was switched back to Metallica and I felt like a mosh-pitter again .

I like the random lolcat references sprinkled here and there. Like the “Innbocks” in the back office. Or this.

One day, one of the supervisors ran into the kitchen from the front. Apparently he had a mishap involving nachos because he was clutching his hand and screamed,

“AHH! IT’S LIKE CHEESY NAPALM!!”

So began my second week at the Grille. I was originally assigned to pizza subs and excited to learn a new skill. (Really. Remember, I’m still all “happy little worker bee” over here.) But at the last minute, I was boosted up to register. I immediately tried to plead my case on why this was a bad idea. (“But I’ve never worked a register before. This is my first job. I’m more likely than most people to be held up at gunpoint.”)

The person at the register, the registerer, controls everything, the orders, the front tables, the drinks. If the need arises, they can engage the bat signal on the roof and the manager (who may or may not be Batman) will take over for them.

Obviously, I don’t want this power. Most of you probably already know, but when I get nervous or thrust into social situations, I tend to salivate profusely and that I rarely, if ever, have a dry mouth. This makes it hard to talk and sing among other things.

Long story short, after pounding the touchscreen for three hours, I found myself actually beginning to like the job. I guess I was surprised by how much I missed the fresh air, and air-conditioning and, to a lesser extent, people.

I learned that eye contact seems to pressure people into ordering quickly. I prefer to let them take their time if no one else is waiting. I do this by staring off into space or a trash can while they peruse the menu. Surprisingly, I was a little hurt whenever people threw away their receipts. (“How could you?! I printed that especially for you!”)

Going back on the fryer was less fun by comparison and not just because I depleted my supply of chicken. I mean, the oil droplets don’t bother me anymore. The 300°+ oil droplets are like bug bites now. But I know now that there’s a much less sticky job at the front counter, where miscellaneous bits of french fries don’t litter the table, and the floor isn’t gradually becoming slicked over with oil. I also learned that pizza/subs/flatbreads may be the hardest job, second maybe to wraps/ice cream/expediting. Though I haven’t done either of the last two during “The Hammer”, the Sunday night dinner rush (because all the other dining courts are closed) when we serve, if not thousands, 3/2 of thousands of people.