This becomes a tipping thread in 3...2....1...

ah man this is great. i got a few of these mydamnself.

Which Jim's, Schmader?

The one on Hildebrand?

i feel sorry for people who haven't worked at least one hour in a restaurant

it's deeply comforting to learn that the staff at the Stranger were gainfully employed, once upon a time

Thanks for dealing with the hungry, washed (and unwashed) masses...so the rest of us didn't have to. Good service = good tip, it's how it should be. Don't be tightwads.

Great stories, and further reason for me to be happy that I have never (yet) had to work in the food service industry.

@5 from what I've heard, we should be the ones feeling sorry for you. But then again, I used to work at Value Village: covered in congealed fat, or grabbing a pair of blood-covered pants with your bare hands? You decide.

I waited tables across Seattle in the mid 90s, including Ray's and Daniel's. It was mostly a ton of fun, insofar as restaurant work is positively batshit crazy-making.

I remember the great and the terrible tippers among the local luminaries, particularly the athletes of the time. Gary Payton tipped well, but was pretty pleased with himself. Sam Perkins was generous and strangely hot with the bedroom eyes and smooth voice. And, of course, $5 Nate McMillan - tipped $5, no matter if it was just him and a salad, or him and his 10 buddies.

And John Curley's first wife still stands out as the most pain-in-the-ass customer I ever waited on.

I spent much (all?) of my youth in food service, and this article reminds me of how well I've got it as an adult.

Also, I really like eating at Septieme in the early/mid 90's. Smoking section only please, though. Even if I hadn't smoked back then, I always loved those little booths on the left—the wicker-appointed openness of non-smoking made me uncomfortable.

The best thing about doing manual labor and working in a dish pit was realizing I never wanted another job that involved wearing gloves.

Paul's story is crazy.

Kelly O worked at the Majestic in Detroit? Wowzers. I lived about 4 blocks from that place and danced my fanny off at the club portion of the establishment. Small world fo shizle.

If you've ever worked in food service I cannot recommend this read highly enough:http://libcom.org/files/abolish-restaurants.pdf

@3 - the Jim's on Hildebrand! Good place...I spent many a late night there. I never worked there, but I went to school down the road - we had the "Lasso Guy" back in my day. He'd stand outside the Jim's around midnight and practice his lasso-throwing in the parking lot. If it was hot, he'd strip down to his skivvies. He was there at least once or twice every weekend....

Shut up! The Ingleneuk Tea House burned down? How is that possible? They had the biggest strategic reserve of watery applesauce in the greater Philadelphia area! I went there once when I was in college because my friends and I thought it would be funny-ha-ha; instead, it was funny-damp-ick-hurry-let's-escape-before-the-waitress-gets-back-and-scolds-us-for-not-eating-our-applesauce-suddenly-Sharples-doesn't-seem-so-dire.

I loved reading all these stories you guys. My favorite line from all of them (tho they were all super) was from Lindy describing where she lived in L.A. as a "house shaped pile of mice".

This feature was more than filler - it was a good way for us readers to get to know the staff a bit better (and where was Mudede's story???). I promise to be nicer to you all from now on.

In 1974 I did backup prep at the Sourdough, the chief rival to Ivar’s on the waterfront. I made our ‘special chowder’ (Campbell’s, with filler) in two huge tureens ‘backstage’. One day a new kid was scrubbing the brick wall behind the tureens – with a toilet brush. I could see a mist of latrine juice emanating from his labors, so I protested. My boss, who was older (I was 19, he 20) stepped in to make the call. His Solomonic wisdom was unimpeachable: I had just made two huge batches of boiling hot chowder. ‘Germs,’ he reasoned, ‘get killed when stuff is hot.’ The chowder went on sale as planned.

But here’s the kicker. The toilet brush kid (I’ll call him ‘Brad’) almost got fired, but it’s cosmic/karmic that he didn’t. About a week later, screams were heard from the public dining area. A young mom was freaking out about her infant, whose throat was clogged with high quality Sourdough (adult-type) food. Plainly, the babe had not long to live. Its face was turning blue, Children’s was at least 45 minutes away, and first response teams were still in their infancy, like the child in crisis. Anyway, what followed was pure Errol Flynn. None other than bog-brush-wielding Brad entered the scene with style. Without any hesitation whatsoever, he grabbed the baby, somehow cleared its throat, and completely, utterly restored it to life, so that its hearty bawling basically brought everyone around to their knees. The mom recovered from her meltdown, the child perked and burbled, and Brad was the very model of humbleness and goodness.

Brad, wherever you are, somewhere there’s a Golden Toilet Brush Award waiting for you.

I've already told my "vomited green beer and corned beef on by a real red-headed leprechaun on St. Patrick's Day story here, so I won't bore you. But I have more than a few of these stories, and it's great to read yours.

Paul, the President of Ireland has seen much worse teeth than yours!

"I ordered a well-done New York steak 20 minutes ago—where is it?" "Cooking."

Maybe restaurants should include a note on the menu next to each item saying how long it takes to cook. It's easier to wait if you know in advance how long you'll be waiting, and it would help people on a schedule to choose a dish that won't make them late.

@18
> and where was Mudede's story???

You know as well as I that that communist shitbag has never had to actully do any work.

Ah yes, the huge vat of ranch and other condiments that servers have to pour into these tiny containers. Nothing makes your heart race more.
Having been a server does make you sympathetic. Sometimes at a restaurant at night, and friends wonder "Where's our server?" I imagine them doing side work or having to re-stock the chowder crackers.

I've worked probably DOZENS of restaurants. Oddly, most of them are no longer in business! At least two have burnt down. I recall a chef sniffing a piece of old fish, wincing, rinsing it under cold water, rubbing it with lemon, and cooking it anyway. That place had a barely working freezer, leaking roof, smelled of old, rotting fish, and had no hand washing sink. Another had an unfinished walk-in--I went to get fruit for garnish, and the pineapples looked carved out like canoes...full of GIANT rat turds. A chef who threw a knife at a rat in the kitchen, neatly beheading it...picked up the knife, wiped it on his apron and continued his work. So many horror stories.

Okay - BEST STRANGER POST EVER. RE-connect with your public, people. This is the key.

You've not truly experienced the food serving life until you've worked a drive-thru. People do weird shit in the drive thru & some keep the most mind blowing things in their car. Really - how & what you keep in your car truly defines your innermost secrets & they really shouldn't be viewed by innocent drive thru workers.

Thank God for immigrants. I'm just another one of your slacker contemporaries, but all I could think when I read the article was: What a bunch of spoiled brats and petty thieves. Ewww...you once had to work for a living! Who would ever hire a white kid for a job?

@21, right, and then the staff could also keep track of exactly how many orders are in front of yours and how long each of them take (factoring in of course the variable cooking speed of who is currently in the kitchen, what ingredients are in season and/or frozen, how many people are on break or going to go on a break in the near future, etc) and tell the customers the exact time it'll take for their food to be ready. sounds easy enough to me.. right?

I worked at a hotel doing banquet and meetings and got the stupidest questions ever.
One time, I was replacing the food and beverages for a hoity-toity group of business people who thought they were very busy and important. They were also the stupidest fuckers I've ever met.

Lady: "Excuse me, but could you PLEASE get us some more 2% butter." *rolls eyes in annoyance for having to talk to a little person*

Me: "Uh...did you mean 2% milk or butter?"

Lady: *speaks very slowly and clearly* "I want the 2% butter. You just had some. I. Want. You. To. Bring. Me. More. Of. That."

Me: "Sorry ma'am we don't have any of that. They don't make 2% butter, it's impossible, since butter is mostly fat."

Lady: "Listen, you had 2% butter earlier, just go bring me some of that. We had it earlier, so don't tell me you don't have it."

Me: "..Okay, I'll see what I can do".

That bitch had the audacity to call down to the front desk about me when I only brought her a bowl of butters and 2% milkers. The front desk, having been already warned said, "we're sorry ma'am, you must be mistaken, we don't carry 2% butter at this time."

This is the group of people I overheard saying "And then our company will be across 5 different continents".

"Hah! Only if you include north and south america as separate continents!".
SRSLY? WHO PAYS YOU PEOPLE?

I began my career in Food & Beverage the summer after my 7th Grade year, at a dining room of an insurance company that was only open for lunch. (Yes, I got the job because Papa Vel-DuRay worked for the company. Nanny Nanny boo boo.)

I weighed about 80 pounds, and was a busboy. I worked with a developmentally disabled fortysomething who was strong as an ox and very sensitive, tending to burst into tears if he thought he hurt anyone. Thus, I learned to endure pain with a smile on my face. Like the time he inadvertently ran over my foot with a portable steam table, or the time he accidentally pinned me up against a wall with a rolling salad bar.

(He really was a dear person. We ate lunch together every day, and he had all sorts of extremely reactionary political ideas, which he seemed to have gotten from the Dirty Harry movies. His dream was to get onto the company's security force, which probably would have been an improvement over that group of Barney Fifes.)

The Dining Room was an incredible example of early 60's high camp, with gold-veined mirrors on the ceiling, big poufy chandeliers, expansive windows overlooking mid-town Omaha, and original artwork by the corporate decorator (an incredibly flamboyant, chain smoking, cravat wearing, just-inside-the-closet type who mostly kept his job because he escorted the widow of the company's founder to the three or four social events she attended each year)

It was a popular place for employees - dirt cheap, but with a veneer of class, and they could bring relatives and friends in - so we were kept busy. After the first two summers, I was promoted to waiter, and then to my own gig: On Fridays, They operated something they called a "Chuck Wagon Buffet" in an adjacent private dining room. It was even cheaper, and had a western theme (hence the name). It had a salad bar and steam table (the same ones Jim had nearly killed me with when I was younger) with red-and-white checked tablecloths, little red glass candles, and western-y music on the stereo (the decorator, who by this time was quite fresh with me, had a big hand in developing this campy little enclave)

My big confession is this: In both the main dining room and the "Frontier Room" (the cheapo, old-westy, buffet) they served ketchup, mustard and mayonnaise in little stainless steel bowls with cute little spoons, on each table. Both Dining Rooms also had that ultra-modern innovation, smoking sections, and despite our always putting out clean ashtrays with every service, people in the smoking section would often use their plates for ashtrays. Many times, while clearing a table, ashes would fall off of the plates or ashtray, and into the little ketchup/mustard bowls. Instead of going back to the kitchen and setting up a new condiment service, I would just stir them up so the ashes wouldn't show.

At about the same time, I took another year-round, part-time job as a waiter/dishwasher/line cook at a diner called "The Bleu Ox" (their tagline was "Where an Omelet is a Complete Meal!"). There, I (mostly inadvertently) did all sorts of dreadful things to people's food. I blame it on the marijuana.

But that's another story. As is my years of experience as a banquet waiter, AV technician (yes, I was a dork) and meeting planner at the Westin, Four Seasons Olympic, and Sheraton. Someday we'll have to discuss it over hot chocolate spiked with Amaretto.

I made your tomato basil soup on broadway for a couple years.

Nothing awful happened with the soup.

The line however, (excluding myself and the other senior cooks) was staffed with heroin enthusiasts, non cooks, and general fuckups because the owner fgured we could train them and they would work for nothing. It's really amazing that the mediocre food that we DID manage to thump out with these burnouts was actually edible.

One evening during service, I reached into the ricotta cheese on the line and there were...little friends in there. I was horrified. Turns out the burnouts on the day shift had decided that rotating the prep was too hard so they just put it on top of old product.

I forgot to mention: As busboys, we wore black pants and shoes (steel tipped for me, after the unfortunate steam table episode) and white Nehru style jackets. As a waiter, I wore brown pants and jacket with white piping (to match the waitresses dresses) with a beige dress shirt and brown fake bow tie. All polyester, in that special 70's polyester way.

But for the Chuck Wagon, I wore the unheard-of-in-that-environment Jeans, a denim shirt, a red bandanna around my neck, and a "straw" (plastic) cowboy hat. I was the butchest 120 pound, closeted gay. fake cowboy ever! The decorator also wanted me to wear boots, but Papa Vel-DuRay, who had been friends with him for years and knew his kicks, thought that was a bit too much.

Catalina, those are so great. Thank you!

@30 That is what quality restaurants do with every meal they put out. That is the reason a well-done steak will come out at the same time as the mid-rare, the pecan crusted pork and the salmon in dill sauce even though they all have very different cooking times and different sides, which themselves have different cooking times. That is a pretty basic example of a four-top. Imagine about 6 of those four-tops. Maybe ten two-tops and maybe even some 5-6-9 and 12 tops thrown in. That is a pretty normal hour for a restaurant. So yeah knowing how long it takes to get a dish to a table is something every good restaurant does...but nice job on being jerky with your post.

Not enough discussion of tipping. Sorry, #1.

My main restaurant work experience was at the Il Mercato Italiano in Bellingham (in the trendy neighborhood of Fairhaven). I got the job through my friend Matt. We had become bus buddies on the little trolley-turned-bus that I rode daily to get to my temp job working as secretary for a motorcycle shop. Matt was a very nice guy, and as I got to know him, he mentioned they were looking for a second person at the cafe' he was working at. I was worried because it wasn't full time. He said, "Look, you are thinking too hard. You have no job lined up after this - a part-time job is better than no job." That put it in perspective. I hoped having my friend as my boss/trainer/coworker would be nice and not damage our friendship. Bellingham had a notoriously high unemployment rate. There was some industry in town, such as a few plants, but people who were there to live and work and not to go to Western and party, had a hard time competing with college kids who were willing to work for beer/pot money and not a steady living wage and benefits. My employment options were also somewhat limited because I didn't have a car and was under 21. Due to FAFSA parental income rules and selfish parents, I couldn't get any school aid until I was 24. Even community college is 6k/yr, books additional, in western WA and cost of living is high here. After trying to do it, I gave up on school for that time period and just concentrated on surviving for the next few years. Later when I finally did continue school, the only kids I knew working their way through school were stripping or selling drugs, or working two or 3 jobs (the cute girls who worked in steakhouses and sportsbars would go home with $200 on a Friday or Saturday night) and renting a room in basically flop houses where their stuff often got stolen. I knew I didn't have the energy to work two jobs (I had early MS, but didn't know it yet).

Matt taught me to pull a perfect shot of espresso, and he handled customers and busy times with his natural grace and good nature. We cut everything by hand, including cutting the foccacia bread into two sides for sandwiches, and vegetables for salads, and did dishes by hand. There deli case that contained the day's panini special (we made about 20 each morning) slicing meats and cheeses, large jars of fresh mozzarella balls, pestos and tapenades/spreads, and olives. I finally put up a sign that said " "Pit" is a verb" after having the conversation multiple times a day, of whether the customer wanted pitted or unpitted olives - I still don't know why anyone would want unpitted olives when they have the option of something that WON't break their teeth if they forget. I had to learn all of the cured meats/salamis on sight by name, including the ones that no longer had labels visible. Soprasata is one I remember that was popular and delicious. It was a funny yet embarassing day early on in the job when I didn't realize I had sliced a salami with the almost-unnoticeable paper casing still on (well, they say if you are going to eat rich meats , that you should try to include more fiber in your diet). I was too short and not strong enough to effectively use the meat slicer. I butchered (no pun intended) a lot of prosciutto while trying to get the hang of it. Matt did better, though he was only a few inches taller than me and might have weighed the same. Occasionally on the lunch rush it would be busy and I would try to be a good support to him, not mess anything up on the register, and keep a smooth flow of orders. One time we did have a communication breakdown and forgot one customer's order in a party of several. i remember he had a glass eye. They had gone upstairs (out of sight). He waited a good 20 minutes before coming down the stairs and we all realized we had forgotten his order. He got very angry and said he was a regular customer, and was not happy. I don't blame him. Matt took it in stride though, and after he was gone, he said, we run this place by ourselves, it gets busy, and I have made hundreds of orders excellently. I liked his mellow attitude, it countered my tendency to be overly anxious.

I was young and broke. I was living with an abusive and crazy boy - I cannot call him a man, though he was 7 years older than me, college educated (but not working or trying to work - he was burning through an inheritance while trying to "find himself artistically - bull!), and starting to lose his hair, I was the more responsible one, and he wanted bill $, the bastard (I didn't know at that time this was unfair, I had feminist ideas of pulling my weight, yadda yadda. I waited on that fool hand and foot, a LOT of work in itself - he was eventually diagnosed by a court-ordered shrink as a narcissist. No woman should come home with sore feet to a manboy who has spent all day on the couch, and cook him dinner, and often also one of his couchsurfing, equally useless guy friends too. My only excuse is I was young, stupid, loyal, and didn't want to go home to mommy or live with roomates - had had a very bad roomate experience prior to shacking up with this guy). As time went on, I hated going home to this poor little rich boy. I was and am an artist too - and my art actually looks like something - but I'm not precious/unable to deal with life, and I have worked since I was 12. I understand the Marxist/Leninist disdain for the artist who does not do other work, or does not value the worker, or especially lives off govt art grants, after years of such experience.

During quiet times in the cafe,' I liked making myself a coffee and panini (which, made with plenty of meat and cheese, was like a mini pizza, a treat for me I couldn't afford otherwise, or would have had to share with him. I now realize that when stressed and broke, I get secretive/hoarding about food - after realizing this pattern, I accept this as a very natural and very basic animal instinct that contributed to an eating disorder in my earlier years when I lived in a Brady Bunch house where it was "their food, our food." I had not gone into the restaurant field sooner, thought I enjoyed cooking, because I feared a flare-up of the disorder by working with food all the time, but it turns out that in my case, it is triggered by my economic and living situation stress and has nothing to do with working with food. A panini and coffee were my main meal of the day on the days I worked at the cafe', and I stole 1/2 hr of quiet time, eating in the upstairs dining area which was empty during anything but lunchtime, out of sight of the managers should they stop in. Technically, all the stubs of the salamis were fair game. I never wasted any, but there were plenty of stubs to keep my salami craving satiated. At times I have tried to be vegetarian as much as possible, but my genes want meat (my family are part Native and have diabetic tendencies) and salt (I have low blood pressure). There was no whole wheat bread, and no vegetarian options there other than salads that were too cold and insubstantial to be a square meal that I needed. So I enjoyed it while I could. Beggars can't be choosers and I knew it was temporary - I was already planning to try to move back to Seattle, without him. It got pretty bad and there was a few weeks where we had broken up and I was still living in the house with him, trying to get my stuff ready to move. He was sexually deviant (yes I know this is the Stranger, but he was that kind of crazy repressed Southern boy deviant, like a sick preacher) and totally taking advantage of me in every way he could, sexually, financially, my time, my energy, demanded all my attention, he was going to be the death of me (possibly literally - he got violent as well - he had watched his dad beat his mom - like I said, crazy southern boy with weird stuff from his childhood that was not worked out). So my hours there at the cafe', with my friend who was nice to me, well balanced, mellow, and not crazy, was an environment of respite, when it was quiet, especially as I could munch on salami ends and make myself a mocha, and nurse justifications of class/culture to myself as a near minimum-wage worker.

But - the cafe' was stinky. Despite its high-class aspirations, the smell of pungent cured meats and cheeses, combined with something they couldn't figure out that was wrong with the bathroom sewer system, led to a pretty noticeable stink (some days more than others). Customers, who were mostly well-off, middle-aged people in Eddie Bauer and Northface, did not mention it. But one time, a little girl immediately noted the stink, said something and held her nose all through the store. Her mom laughed embarrassedly and tried to get her to hush and said "No honey, it smells good!" But kids will usually tell the truth on something like this. But there was something even more gross about the bathroom - someone kept throwing and smearing poop, toilet paper and paper towels around like a chimpanzee. Since our customers were well-heeled and genteel for the most part, I tried to analyze who it could be, but by the time I left I hadn't yet figured out which customer it was. It happened three or 4 times while I was there (only about 3 months). Guess who usually cleaned it up.

One time the owners were in and I made a salad that they said "Who made this salad?" and I answered apprehensively, that I had. Turns out they were impressed by the presentation of the salad (though I actually realized only after I had served it to the patron that I had forgotten a couple items that were supposed to go in it). I've always had an eye for art and design and like to think I have good taste (which is why I was OK with working at this Italian food and wine import shop/cafe' and not at the mall food court, though I am sure the wages were the same, I might have gotten benefits at a chain, and I might have ended my day smelling like cinnamon rolls and not stinky cured cheese and sewer). I couldn't afford to go enjoy any of what was in the posh, "artsy" neighborhood where I worked, and my boyfriend didn't like to go out, and would have made me go dutch on anything there anyway. He would have wondered where I was and accused me of cheating on him had I not been home soon after work too, usually. Everyone back home who had been through Fairhaven said they thought it was my kind of place and I should live there - yeah, that'd be nice, but not on a working class wage. As I swept the store, I liked looking at the pretty labels of the import food items and trying to translate them. There was a wine room which I took inventory of a couple times (but could not sample the wine - when the shipments came in, my friend and the owners would sample a little bit of each case, they were worried if they let me have a sip they could get shut down - it was two brothers who had gone in on the venture together and the place was pretty new). Of course, I could afford nothing in the store, but also I thought that pasta was pasta, I was not going to pay $4 for imported spaghetti that for all intents and purposes looked everything like regular, grocery store brand spaghetti (and had the same ingredients - I checked), even if I could have afforded it. It also seemed wasteful to spend that much energy (petroleum, etc) shipping these things from the other side of the world, when most of the items could be produced in the states, or at least Central America or the Caribbean. California was settled by many Italians due to the similar climate, they grew olives, wine, etc. The Italian mineral waters seemed like the biggest waste of packaging and shipping.

I had a hard time trying to do the books/till at the end of the day - Matt ended up continuing to do it. I also had a hard time multitasking and remembering things - there were tables outside and upstairs, that sometimes I would forget to bus for an hour. Luckily we were usually pretty quiet and the owners were rarely around. Like I said, I had early MS and didn't know it. The trouble doing the books was very embarrassing and frustrating and prevented my upward mobility in this and other jobs. I also didn't know at the time that I had math dyslexia, found out years later but made sense when I looked back at math trouble all the way back to gradeschool (other grades were always a few grade levels ahead, math was always the hard one for me). I have learned now how to focus on my positives and not weaker areas when it comes to career. If I'd been able to start waitressing at a steak house or sports bar, I might have made bank in tips for a few years while I still had my looks, if I was fast enough on my feet, was bold enough to flirt with customers, could keep my mind on several tables at once, and quick with calculations of math in the dark. But I knew I couldn't do it. I'm now back in school with school loans rather than trying to do this, and it's fine. : )

I decided to leave the crazy southern boy (we had moved to B'ham together, I was quite happy to leave him there to continue his craziness a hundred miles from my home instead of running into him around town or worrying about stalking once I was back in Seattle. I had to leave some of my property in the house with him to get out quickly, it had gotten unsafe/too ugly. I did in fact have to get a restraining order when I got home, he followed me back, though he had no business to be in Seattle, he was also obsessed with another girl in Seattle who also got a restraining order. I heard he knocked up some poor girl - something he had tried to do with me - shudder - and took her home to his mommy, where I am sure they are parasites on the family fortune to this day.

When I told the store/cafe' owners that I would be moving back to Seattle in spring, they replaced me before I had given my notice, and then didn't tell me in language clear enough for me to understand (classic passive aggressive Pacific NW vagueness) until I showed up for work and they were training a new guy. Uh, awkward.

I found out from Matt later that one night after I was no longer there, he had brought some friends to the cafe' after hours, they had drunk a little too much before they got there and then continued to drink some more into the night at the cafe.' Matt, like most other 30-somethings in the area, lived with roomates and had no place at home he felt he could host his friends. The owners showed up at the store during the night and cursed him out and fired him in front of everyone. (Oh, now they would have to actually work their own store). When he described this to me, he seemed easygoing about it and amused, though a little contrite, but not too much so. He said his needs were light and he was going to focus on his metalwork which sold at renfaires and to such clients, and had enough steady business he thought that would be fine, and that the timing was actually fortuitous and he looked forward to it. I hope his move into working for himself turned out well, I have lost touch with him and forget how to pronounce and spell his complex German last name.
I will forever be thankful to my friend Matt for helping me out with a job during that time, and for being my friend while I was in Bellingham. I had a couple friends there that made things even remotely tolerable, they were good people.

At least none of you ever had to change your name because of a restaurant-related snafu. It was me, a local political blogger and his ill-behaved demon spawn that got me fired from my last food service job.
But thankfully, four years later I am working a fabulous job, supporting my family and tipping more than 20 percent.

now a travel agent, but my first job was at NW Coffee Company (long closed, though their smaller satelite store, Coffee Crew, north of there a few blocks, is still open) near U-Village, down from the Baskin-Robbins and Tullys. The owner was Rhonda Clark, and she was by no means bat-shit crazy, just cuokoo. At any one time, there were 20+ employees to cover all shifts. EACH and EVERY one of us was at one time or another accused of "losing" the money deposit from their shift, which was just inserted into the top of the shitty little safe in the back closet. Over time the amount missing would have added up to multiple of thousands of $$$$, yet not once did she ever call the cops to prosecute anyone. Coinidentely, during this time, the store had been broken into 7 times from 96-99 during my tenure. It must have been the god-dammed pink panther, because every new break-in was though a different port of entry, but again, no police contact or interviews with the staff to even POSSIBLY see who the culprit might be. So it makes you wonder.......

Rhonda was the person who was insistent during a staff meeting that all you need to have Velcro to work were two pieces of the soft, fuzzy sides (no bristly parts) to hold up the signs for pastries.

The eventual downfall of Rhonda and NW coffee Co. was caused by a $100 Business Card order placed at the Kinko's around the corner. See, she used some fancy-printed business cards for the pre-pay coffee cards (buy 25 and you'd get 35). A card of double grande mocha would cost $90. I found the order info she had placed for her original card order in the office and took it to the counter at kinkos, and voila! One week later, 30 of my best friends and I were drinking from the free fountain of coffee for 2 years before she closed the doors.

Remember, bosses....don't accuse an employee of theft when you know full well you did the deed. That employee might go and get back at you. Oh, and they might call the IRS about the different sets of accounting books you kept for the store (but never put out of site for us not to see). I hear the IRS did eventually come a callin'

Oh Bethany! it's hilarious after all these years to read your recollections of BOULANGERIE. Some of your memories must have "merged". Although I can certainly be described as diminutive (and ever more so with each passing year)and European(born in France), there is nothing diminutive nor European about Arthur, who was well over six feet tall and born in New York City). You say cool tile floors! I wish .... they were cement and far from cool. It was always blazzing hot in there from the oven. It may have seemed like a full Saturday to you, after having to start at 7:00 am, but we actually were open only half a day. I do aggree with you about the pastry. I miss it terribly also!
Leah Grossman

Oh Bethany! it's hilarious, after all these years, to read your recollections of BOULANGERIE. Some of your memories must have "merged". Although I can certainly be described as diminutive (and ever more so with each passing year)and European(born in France), there is nothing diminutive nor European about Arthur,who was well over six feet tall and born in New York City). You say cool tile floors! I wish .... they were cement and far from cool. It was always blazzing hot in there from the oven. It may have seemed like a full Saturday to you, after having to start at 7:00 am, but we actually were open only half a day. I do aggree with you about the pastry. I miss it terribly also!
Leah Grossman

Food service of any sort, the hardest job you'll ever hate .... I mean love, yeah love, that's the one.

That was my chosen career, because I fell in love with the challenge. Customers are pretty stupid, and my special skill was talking down to them while making them happy with the service ... I miss those days.

@21 Not entirely possible with all locations, it would depend on the setup

@30 Actually, you'd be amazed at how much waitstaff do keep track of, all the staff really. This is why you should always tip, even if they're having a bad day. ;)

@36, Close but not quite. There is more to it than that, food doesn't always take "such and such" time to prepare, depending on the kitchen capacity, training level of staff (they have to train new staff on the job for many positions), as well as any million of unforeseen possible incidents, and kitchens are ripe with accidents waiting to happen no matter how "safe" you make it. Unless it was all automated, the variables are innumerable and that's one of the traits of a good service employee, the ability to adapt to any surprise.

Any food service is the most difficult job in the entire country, just below military, seriously. I have burns in places that only my doctor ever sees, and I don't wear much clothing, cuts in places that look "suspicious" to people, and a fake smile that can fool even the best psychiatrist in the world, all from food service. I personally love the challenge, most don't last long in the industry, there are very few career people other than the chefs because of the stress level and physical requirements.

Bethany Jean you bring back fond memories of the times I spent behind the bar (and at the end of a ping-pong table) in Seattle. Just visited for Bumbershoot from NY and was handed a clipped version of the Stranger hanging on the cooler of the Roanoke by the lovely bartender Anita. Your recollection and your over-paid English Lit degree do justice to a fine neighborhood tavern with lots of stories behind it's ivy covered walls. See you next Labor Day at the 'Noke, I'm buying! Jolly Tom