The girl was uncomprehending, her face unlined but for the soft crinkle above her nose. She had mixed the ingredients for a large, cold-brewed vanilla latte but produced something much less than a large-sized beverage.
In the “large” transparent cup was only enough fluid to fill a container half its size, foam topping included. The girl — she preferred the title “barista” — knew exactly the proportions for a drink of this size poured over ice. I had asked for the drink without ice, or whipped cream topping.
She stared at the cup a moment and, finally, said, “I’m not sure what to do about this. I mean, you’re like asking for it without ice, and we always include ice. I mean, the recipe calls for it.”
“So, is this a problem?” I replied.
“Well, um, no ... not exactly,” she said. “It’s just that I don’t know the amount of ingredients to put in without the ice.”
The 20-ounce cup was holding what one would suppose was 10 ounces. I guessed at a glance she could double the mixture and not risk overflow. But then, I never have been a barista; there may be a complexity to the job that escapes my estimation. Also, someone behind the scenes might keep score on things like this, comparing amounts of fluid poured to the amount of money in the cash register.
I once held a job where exactly that kind of someone existed. For two summers during high school, I bagged groceries and helped stock shelves at a supermarket near home. The least appealing part of that job — besides rounding up abandoned shopping carts in the parking lot on 110-degree days — was re-shelving the items called “go-backs,” or merchandise people deposited around the store because they couldn’t be bothered with returning it to its proper place.
Maybe they would pick up a box of white rice instead of the brown rice they needed and realized their error four aisles later. Or maybe they decided they didn’t need rice after all. Onto the nearest shelf the rice would go, even if that nearest shelf was reserved for allergy medicine. Restocking go-backs involved cruising the aisles looking for out-of-place goods and putting them in a cart which I later emptied item by item when customer traffic was slow and I wasn’t needed to bag at check-out.
One colleague, a bagging veteran from way back, was more particular than most about the condition of the go-backs. Yes, some go-backs were damaged goods, dropped by customers who then didn’t want dinged cans or bent boxes. If the seals weren’t broken, they went back on the proper shelf anyway and discounted at the register.
This colleague, however, possessed a particular talent, he claimed. He insisted he could discern accidental from intentional damage — that is, he recognized which packages were torn and their contents consumed, which in the vernacular of the grocery business amounts to shoplifting. And, he believed he could tell who was doing the consuming, the customers or the employees.
Late one night as my shift was ending, he directed me to the storeroom adjoining the large outer entry where we unloaded inventory from trucks, reached into a small basket of damaged goods, pulled out a torn bag of Reece’s Pieces and said, “I know this is your doing. I saw you reach into this and grab a handful and eat it. I’ll have to report this to Merlin,” the supermarket’s general manager, who was not in the store at the time. Then the accusatory colleague dropped the bag back into the basket, scattering candies on the other goods and the floor, and bolted in three large steps through the storeroom door before I managed even a whimper of defense.
There’s a moment when a person meets an unfair charge or claim with sensory confusion as the brain tries to assess what the eyes and ears have presented against logic or belief. It’s the instant when one could be, as the saying goes, “knocked down by a feather” and not notice. One moment, your surroundings make sense and an assumption forms that they will remain in this order until you change them. The next moment, something unexpected kicks out the feet propping up this assumption and the brain hesitates like an engine with a drop of water in its fuel line.
Well, once my synapses resumed firing I moved to answer this allegation. When I caught up to him, the colleague refused to stop what he was doing to face me. He seemed certain of the charge and unconcerned with my response, a fluctuating mix of incredulity and outrage. Then he leveled another charge, still without looking at me or stopping what he was doing, that I wasn’t spraying the produce with cool water enough times to suit him.
This was the “pile-on” — a claim against procedure intended to suggest I was irresponsible and likely to be criminal as a consequence.
The colleague did not know at the time I had specific instructions on the care of produce that was given to me by our mutual supervisor, who already had left for the night. He also did not know that peanut butter was not among my favorite foods, so stealing Reece’s Pieces was nonsensical.
My parents were prepared to explain all this to him, and the general manager, the next day. They made an appointment to do so. The colleague, however, called in sick soon afterward. He called in sick the next two days, too. He looked fine to me though when he made his accusations.
After three days, he didn’t call. He didn’t show up again, either. By then, the general manager had dismissed the charge against me without prejudice. I continued working; the colleague, if I recall correctly, turned up at another store on the other side of town.
I doubt the barista with the coffee conundrum needed to concern herself with comparable banality. After looking at the half-filled cup, she said, “Well, I can give you a little more coffee or a little more cream, or I can split the difference, but I’m not sure how it’s going to come out.”
“How about a little more coffee?” I asked.
She reached under the counter into a small refrigerator and withdrew a carafe of coffee, poured until the tan-colored mixture turned a couple shades darker, then pulled out a quart container of cream and poured just enough to restore the drink’s original color. I presumed then that company policy dictated adherence to appearance over recipe.
Regardless, the drink tasted fine. I presume that’s all that mattered.
In the “large” transparent cup was only enough fluid to fill a container half its size, foam topping included. The girl — she preferred the title “barista” — knew exactly the proportions for a drink of this size poured over ice. I had asked for the drink without ice, or whipped cream topping.
She stared at the cup a moment and, finally, said, “I’m not sure what to do about this. I mean, you’re like asking for it without ice, and we always include ice. I mean, the recipe calls for it.”
“So, is this a problem?” I replied.
“Well, um, no ... not exactly,” she said. “It’s just that I don’t know the amount of ingredients to put in without the ice.”
The 20-ounce cup was holding what one would suppose was 10 ounces. I guessed at a glance she could double the mixture and not risk overflow. But then, I never have been a barista; there may be a complexity to the job that escapes my estimation. Also, someone behind the scenes might keep score on things like this, comparing amounts of fluid poured to the amount of money in the cash register.
I once held a job where exactly that kind of someone existed. For two summers during high school, I bagged groceries and helped stock shelves at a supermarket near home. The least appealing part of that job — besides rounding up abandoned shopping carts in the parking lot on 110-degree days — was re-shelving the items called “go-backs,” or merchandise people deposited around the store because they couldn’t be bothered with returning it to its proper place.
Maybe they would pick up a box of white rice instead of the brown rice they needed and realized their error four aisles later. Or maybe they decided they didn’t need rice after all. Onto the nearest shelf the rice would go, even if that nearest shelf was reserved for allergy medicine. Restocking go-backs involved cruising the aisles looking for out-of-place goods and putting them in a cart which I later emptied item by item when customer traffic was slow and I wasn’t needed to bag at check-out.
One colleague, a bagging veteran from way back, was more particular than most about the condition of the go-backs. Yes, some go-backs were damaged goods, dropped by customers who then didn’t want dinged cans or bent boxes. If the seals weren’t broken, they went back on the proper shelf anyway and discounted at the register.
This colleague, however, possessed a particular talent, he claimed. He insisted he could discern accidental from intentional damage — that is, he recognized which packages were torn and their contents consumed, which in the vernacular of the grocery business amounts to shoplifting. And, he believed he could tell who was doing the consuming, the customers or the employees.
Late one night as my shift was ending, he directed me to the storeroom adjoining the large outer entry where we unloaded inventory from trucks, reached into a small basket of damaged goods, pulled out a torn bag of Reece’s Pieces and said, “I know this is your doing. I saw you reach into this and grab a handful and eat it. I’ll have to report this to Merlin,” the supermarket’s general manager, who was not in the store at the time. Then the accusatory colleague dropped the bag back into the basket, scattering candies on the other goods and the floor, and bolted in three large steps through the storeroom door before I managed even a whimper of defense.
There’s a moment when a person meets an unfair charge or claim with sensory confusion as the brain tries to assess what the eyes and ears have presented against logic or belief. It’s the instant when one could be, as the saying goes, “knocked down by a feather” and not notice. One moment, your surroundings make sense and an assumption forms that they will remain in this order until you change them. The next moment, something unexpected kicks out the feet propping up this assumption and the brain hesitates like an engine with a drop of water in its fuel line.
Well, once my synapses resumed firing I moved to answer this allegation. When I caught up to him, the colleague refused to stop what he was doing to face me. He seemed certain of the charge and unconcerned with my response, a fluctuating mix of incredulity and outrage. Then he leveled another charge, still without looking at me or stopping what he was doing, that I wasn’t spraying the produce with cool water enough times to suit him.
This was the “pile-on” — a claim against procedure intended to suggest I was irresponsible and likely to be criminal as a consequence.
The colleague did not know at the time I had specific instructions on the care of produce that was given to me by our mutual supervisor, who already had left for the night. He also did not know that peanut butter was not among my favorite foods, so stealing Reece’s Pieces was nonsensical.
My parents were prepared to explain all this to him, and the general manager, the next day. They made an appointment to do so. The colleague, however, called in sick soon afterward. He called in sick the next two days, too. He looked fine to me though when he made his accusations.
After three days, he didn’t call. He didn’t show up again, either. By then, the general manager had dismissed the charge against me without prejudice. I continued working; the colleague, if I recall correctly, turned up at another store on the other side of town.
I doubt the barista with the coffee conundrum needed to concern herself with comparable banality. After looking at the half-filled cup, she said, “Well, I can give you a little more coffee or a little more cream, or I can split the difference, but I’m not sure how it’s going to come out.”
“How about a little more coffee?” I asked.
She reached under the counter into a small refrigerator and withdrew a carafe of coffee, poured until the tan-colored mixture turned a couple shades darker, then pulled out a quart container of cream and poured just enough to restore the drink’s original color. I presumed then that company policy dictated adherence to appearance over recipe.
Regardless, the drink tasted fine. I presume that’s all that mattered.
