Cookies, Cakes and Bread... Oh My!

My first job was in a bakery. But not a real bakery. More like the hub of a farmer's market. But not a real farmer's market.

It was this sketchy underground operation masquerading as a family-friendly food warehouse in the middle of white suburbia. There were all kinds of stands - meats, breads, cheeses, flowers, you name it. And while this place did produce delicious products, there was a whole other level of illegality going on. Firstly, and most mildly, every employee there was being paid under the table. The IRS must've turned a blind eye, but I wasn't complaining. Every Saturday, there'd be a wad of twenties taped to the fridge with my name on it. Secondly, there was absolutely drug trafficking going on. Some of the stand owners would take breaks throughout the day to go settle deals and smoke up in the basement. For the full effect, I want you to picture this basement. The place hadn't been cleaned ever. Not ever. It smelled of stale pee, leaky pipes, roaches, and new strains of bacteria that hadn't yet been studied. I was sure I'd contract smallpox just from exposing myself to that air.

But despite its obvious shadiness, it was the perfect place for my first job. (I even got used to coming home smelling like a foot. Apparently, that's what it smells like when every food in existence coalesces into one funky mix.) So now's the part where I describe the job and why they should never have hired us.

Part I: I Need My Baked Goods

This may have been a tiny "bakery" but it had every kind of confection you could want. Mature middle-aged adults suddenly went into a frenzy when our treats came into view. They would turn into Augustus Gloop scooping handfuls of chocolate from Wonka's river. Unable to stop themselves. They'd start at the cakes and pies, then hit up the candies and muffins, and finish out buying enough rolls and bread to feed Uganda for a month. This sounds harmless enough; who wouldn't want to share the joy of baked goods with these fine American consumers? Well, I wouldnt. Not after five hours of requests like these:

"Hello? Oh, hi. Yes. I would love to get sixteen of these rolls, twenty-five of these, twelve - no, thirteen of these, my husband loves these - and nine of those. Then I want three of these loaves sliced. And if you could slice them really thin, that would be great. And if you could triple bag each of those loaves? Thanks. Okay, then I want a pound and a half of the lemon squares and three pounds - no, four - of the chocolate pretzels. You know what? Make it five. Five pounds, yeah. My son Jimmy loves his pretzels. Oh, and when you box them, alternate dark chocolate with the milk chocolate. Ya' know... milk, dark, milk, dark, milk. Jimmy hates when they're all touching. When you're finished with that, I want that cookie, that cookie, that cookie, that cookie aaaaaaand...... that cookie. No, not that one... the sprinkles look weird. I wanted the one two cookies over. Yes. And then I want one of those cakes with the chocolate. Ya know the one I mean? With the chocolate? I'm gonna need you to cut that into ninths, then box it, bag it, box it again. Thanks... I'll meet you at the register."

Exhausted having read that? Well, I'm dumber having written it and angrier having lived it. I want to point out a few things here that made this one-sided conversation even  more infuriating  better. First of all, almost all of the items she requested were not by name. Instead, she'd make a vague pointing gesture in the direction of everything we sell. It was then up to me to tap into her thoughts and guess correctly. Secondly, I shouldn't be able to recite the branches of your family tree by the time I ring you out. The fact that your daughter is a Gemini and your husband is allergic to kiwi is irrelevant. Lastly, forget the petty details. I'm going to put the cake - chocolate, was it? - directly into a box with everything else you bought 'cause you just ordered for a half hour straight and the market's closing now.

Quickly, I learned how adamant people can be about their baked goods. But the woman I just described was nothing compared to the Saturday stampede. The market would close for the week every Saturday at 5:30, so in a sort-of last ditch effort of "everything must go", every item would go on sale. It became a source of impending doom for every employee on duty. We'd bite our nails as we watched the hands of the clock wind down. Then, like clockwork, 3:30 would arrive and a swarm of township residents with donuts for pupils would descend upon the market like locusts. People would stop by after a long stressful work week and take their frustration out on the high school kids with the muffins. If only we'd told them our products were fraudulent and frozen, that we didn't even own an oven, maybe they would've stayed home.

Part II: Worst Employees Ever

Besides the owner, the staff of the bakery consisted of almost exclusively high school students. I don't know what our boss expected of us at that age. We would generally only get through the first ten customers of the day before getting ornery and copping a stifled attitude with everyone that stopped by. We would be laughing with our co-workers, doodling with markers, and playing basketball with bread loaves. So of course we started to view customers as nuisances; how dare they interrupt our hang-out time to request a scone? Here it is... now go away.

 

And when we weren't leeching professionalism out of the place with our juvenile methods of customer service, we were leeching money out of the place. It's not like we would go into the register and steal twenties. But we were literally kids being given full reign of a candy store. We spent hours "testing the products to make well-rounded, accurate recommendations to customers". In other words, we would stuff our faces. For free. We'd eat a few rolls, a few muffins, a cookie, a donut, split a fruit tart, then slice up a baguette and pair it with turkey from the deli next door. Then we'd stick a few ones in the register and leave fatter and happier than when we arrived. Seriously.... probably shouldn't have hired us.

I also have to confess a certain lack of honesty with the customers. For example, one time, I was using the slicer to cut a loaf of bread for someone. Now, there's a rhythm and a sequence that's required to bag a sliced loaf perfectly and for whatever reason, this one just fell apart. So instead of letting the customer know that the gorgeous Five-Grain she was planning on serving at her dinner party now looks like I backed over it with my car, I dropped the evidence into a non-transparent bag, tied it up tight and sent her on her way. She did end up coming back to yell and lecture me on the importance of integrity, but I ended up just smothering my guilt with another creme donut and a pumpkin muffin.