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So I used to work in this bakery located in a supermarket. About a year in, when our supervisor suddenly needed to take an indeterminate amount of time off work for surgery because of an accident she had at the loading bay, I'm suddenly acting manager. Now, I'm on call all the time, even on my days off, and because the other girls like me more, they feel more comfortable calling me over every little issue. But you know what? Whatever. I thought, it'll look good on a resume, and most of these chicks were my friends, so I was never particularily annoyed at having to come fix something, except when I was woken up.
Anyway, I happen to be in the store doing some shopping myself one day I'm off duty, and I made the mistake of stopping by the bakery to see how everyone's doing. As soon as I round the corner, poor little Lexi, fourteen years old and pulling her Saturday shift to make money to buy her first car one day, descends on me like a starving dog.
"There's a lady over there." she says, pointing. "I think she might be crazy. She's got, I mean, she wants us to write on this cake for her, and she's just not listening."
Which wasn't helpful, but I look over at where she's indicating and I see the problem immediately. I've always been good at reading body language, and the woman standing in front of the cake display has BELLIGERENT BITCH written all over her, from the hands on her ample hips to the aggressive jut of her head. She's staring suspiciously in our direction, holding a sheet cake I can't quite make out from where I'm standing. She looks a little like Kathy Bates in Misery, which is to say solid in a farm gal type way, which a moon pie of a face clear of any makeup, and dressed in a scratchy looking sweater with jeans. I look down, and for some reason the fact that she's wearing thick boots that are melting snow and mud all over my nice clean bakery floor, which I'd had waxed the day before, just gets to me, and I decide right away I don't like her. Nevertheless, I put on a smile and head over.
"Can I help you with something, ma'am? I'm the manager."
She looks me up and down, and her lower lips curls a little. "You don't have a uniform on." she announces. (We were required to wear black pants with a white shirt beneath our black aprons, complete with a stupid tie.)
I keep smiling. Lexi is clutching my sleeve and standing half behind me, peeping out around my elbow like I'm her mother. "I just stopped by on my day off, and I heard you needed help."
She stares at me a moment longer, as though this might be something she could challenge me over, and then thrusts the cake she's holding at me. "I need something written on this."
I look. The day before an item is due to come off the shelf for freshness' sake, we usually reduce it half price, and this was one such item, knocked down to 8.50 from 16.99. It's a quarter slab carrot cake. Ordinarily, quarter slabs are the best to write on, because they leave you so much space, but with some of them this isn't the case. Our carrot cake was pretty fancy, with the entire surface covered in I believe walnuts, rosettes, and little carrots made of icing. There's no room to write even 'happy birthday'. This has happened before, and I usually just apologise to the customer, point out that the cake's design leaves no room for inscription, and suggest a different one. Store management doesn't like us messing with the cake's design, especially since it usually takes up time we could be doing other work in, and with the sheer amount of baking we had to do each day we were on a pretty tight schedule all the time. They either pick another, or decide to go without writing. I've honestly never had an issue. Until now.
"I'm sorry, ma'am," I say, "but that cake is far too ornamental for me to fit anything on. If you would like to pick a different cake, we would be happy to write on that for you. Which is free of charge, of course." I add, because I've already got her pegged as the type who hates paying for anything.
Sure enough; "There are no other reduced cakes. If I have to pick another one, I want you to reduce it for me."
And you know what? If she had been someone else, someone nicer, if she hadn't just demanded it of me, I might have even offered it myself. Not for half-price, but I would have knocked a few bucks off, because I believe that's the sort of thing that keeps customers coming back.
Not this lady. She gets nothing from me.
So I smile, apologise, and say I can't do that. She glares at me and insists she wants THIS cake written on then, because it's for her church. Lexi has a death grip on my arm now and is begging me with her eyes to resolve this and not leave her to this psycho hose beast. So I decide, know what? Fine.
"Ma'am, if you really have your heart set on that, I can remove some of the ornamentation, smooth the icing as best I can, so we can fit a small inscription on there. It might take me a while though to make sure it's presentable."
"I don't care. I want this one."
So I head off behind the counter, with this lady trailing behind me like she expects me to make a break for it. She stands there sighing explosively and looking at her watch every other second while I tie my hair back, put on a spare apron and some gloves. It takes me maybe fifteen minutes to fix up this stupid cake so I can write on it. I take a certain amount of pride in my job, and as much as I dislike this lady, I can't bring myself to just take a knife and whack off a layer of icing messily. Oh no, not me. Damn it. I have to mess around with this thing, painstakingly using a series of knives to seperate each little carrot and rosette and clear off all the nuts, all the while trying to keep the icing beneath smooth. I hate fiddly little work like this, but I can't stop myself.
"I want those." the bitch demands suddenly, pointing at the little carrots and rosettes sitting on a piece of wax paper I've taken off.
"You want me to see if I can find some way to arrange them back on after?"
"No. I want them. Put them in a container for me."
I grit my teeth and do what she asks. Then I ask what she wants on the cake.
"I want you to write 'Happy Easter, Jesus is Risen' on it."
Just as I'm about to set piping jelly to cake, she decides to test me with, "Do you need me to spell it out for you?"
My hands go very still. The girls in the Deli, who share the area with us, are watching from a distance with the keen-eyed anticipation of sharks who smell blood in the water. I'm not known for my temper, but surely this will push me over the edge. And it very nearly does. Instead, I take a breath and say very flatly without looking up, "I'm sure I can manage."
So I write her stupid inscription on her stupid cake. I hand it across the counter of her and she rolls her eyes elaborately. "Finally."
"I'm glad I was able to help." I'm not even trying to put on my customer service face now. If looks could kill, there would be nothing left of her except for her fucking messy boots and the lingering aroma of melted fat. "Will that be all?"
She looks at the cake, looks at me, and says, "8.50 is too much. I'll give you eight dollars for it."
That's it.
I snatch the cake out of her hands so quickly I'm a little amazed the edges of the plastic case don't slice her hands open. I'm smiling now, allright, a taut, feverish affair that feels nailed to my face. "You know what, ma'am? I've been thinking about it, and I don't think Jesus deserves a reduced cake from a supermarket bakery." And I pull off the plastic cover and tip the whole cake into the garbage can. "Jesus only deserves the best."
Unsurprisingly, she was furious and called the store manager down. Unfortunately for her, he was actually a pretty cool guy (not to mention he was too terrified of losing another supervisor because we were strapped for workers), and he basically pulled the "My hands are tied" routine. She left, swearing she'd never spend money there again, which was fine with me especially since I'd never seen her there before.
The bad side of this story is that she basically ruined whatever drive I had for helping out customers. I was never impolite, but after that I was far less willing to make concessions and do extra work on cakes for people the way I had for her.
Also, I guess this is my first post or whatever, so hi. People keep telling me I need to share my war stories, so I guess I finally decided to.
Anyway, I happen to be in the store doing some shopping myself one day I'm off duty, and I made the mistake of stopping by the bakery to see how everyone's doing. As soon as I round the corner, poor little Lexi, fourteen years old and pulling her Saturday shift to make money to buy her first car one day, descends on me like a starving dog.
"There's a lady over there." she says, pointing. "I think she might be crazy. She's got, I mean, she wants us to write on this cake for her, and she's just not listening."
Which wasn't helpful, but I look over at where she's indicating and I see the problem immediately. I've always been good at reading body language, and the woman standing in front of the cake display has BELLIGERENT BITCH written all over her, from the hands on her ample hips to the aggressive jut of her head. She's staring suspiciously in our direction, holding a sheet cake I can't quite make out from where I'm standing. She looks a little like Kathy Bates in Misery, which is to say solid in a farm gal type way, which a moon pie of a face clear of any makeup, and dressed in a scratchy looking sweater with jeans. I look down, and for some reason the fact that she's wearing thick boots that are melting snow and mud all over my nice clean bakery floor, which I'd had waxed the day before, just gets to me, and I decide right away I don't like her. Nevertheless, I put on a smile and head over.
"Can I help you with something, ma'am? I'm the manager."
She looks me up and down, and her lower lips curls a little. "You don't have a uniform on." she announces. (We were required to wear black pants with a white shirt beneath our black aprons, complete with a stupid tie.)
I keep smiling. Lexi is clutching my sleeve and standing half behind me, peeping out around my elbow like I'm her mother. "I just stopped by on my day off, and I heard you needed help."
She stares at me a moment longer, as though this might be something she could challenge me over, and then thrusts the cake she's holding at me. "I need something written on this."
I look. The day before an item is due to come off the shelf for freshness' sake, we usually reduce it half price, and this was one such item, knocked down to 8.50 from 16.99. It's a quarter slab carrot cake. Ordinarily, quarter slabs are the best to write on, because they leave you so much space, but with some of them this isn't the case. Our carrot cake was pretty fancy, with the entire surface covered in I believe walnuts, rosettes, and little carrots made of icing. There's no room to write even 'happy birthday'. This has happened before, and I usually just apologise to the customer, point out that the cake's design leaves no room for inscription, and suggest a different one. Store management doesn't like us messing with the cake's design, especially since it usually takes up time we could be doing other work in, and with the sheer amount of baking we had to do each day we were on a pretty tight schedule all the time. They either pick another, or decide to go without writing. I've honestly never had an issue. Until now.
"I'm sorry, ma'am," I say, "but that cake is far too ornamental for me to fit anything on. If you would like to pick a different cake, we would be happy to write on that for you. Which is free of charge, of course." I add, because I've already got her pegged as the type who hates paying for anything.
Sure enough; "There are no other reduced cakes. If I have to pick another one, I want you to reduce it for me."
And you know what? If she had been someone else, someone nicer, if she hadn't just demanded it of me, I might have even offered it myself. Not for half-price, but I would have knocked a few bucks off, because I believe that's the sort of thing that keeps customers coming back.
Not this lady. She gets nothing from me.
So I smile, apologise, and say I can't do that. She glares at me and insists she wants THIS cake written on then, because it's for her church. Lexi has a death grip on my arm now and is begging me with her eyes to resolve this and not leave her to this psycho hose beast. So I decide, know what? Fine.
"Ma'am, if you really have your heart set on that, I can remove some of the ornamentation, smooth the icing as best I can, so we can fit a small inscription on there. It might take me a while though to make sure it's presentable."
"I don't care. I want this one."
So I head off behind the counter, with this lady trailing behind me like she expects me to make a break for it. She stands there sighing explosively and looking at her watch every other second while I tie my hair back, put on a spare apron and some gloves. It takes me maybe fifteen minutes to fix up this stupid cake so I can write on it. I take a certain amount of pride in my job, and as much as I dislike this lady, I can't bring myself to just take a knife and whack off a layer of icing messily. Oh no, not me. Damn it. I have to mess around with this thing, painstakingly using a series of knives to seperate each little carrot and rosette and clear off all the nuts, all the while trying to keep the icing beneath smooth. I hate fiddly little work like this, but I can't stop myself.
"I want those." the bitch demands suddenly, pointing at the little carrots and rosettes sitting on a piece of wax paper I've taken off.
"You want me to see if I can find some way to arrange them back on after?"
"No. I want them. Put them in a container for me."
I grit my teeth and do what she asks. Then I ask what she wants on the cake.
"I want you to write 'Happy Easter, Jesus is Risen' on it."
Just as I'm about to set piping jelly to cake, she decides to test me with, "Do you need me to spell it out for you?"
My hands go very still. The girls in the Deli, who share the area with us, are watching from a distance with the keen-eyed anticipation of sharks who smell blood in the water. I'm not known for my temper, but surely this will push me over the edge. And it very nearly does. Instead, I take a breath and say very flatly without looking up, "I'm sure I can manage."
So I write her stupid inscription on her stupid cake. I hand it across the counter of her and she rolls her eyes elaborately. "Finally."
"I'm glad I was able to help." I'm not even trying to put on my customer service face now. If looks could kill, there would be nothing left of her except for her fucking messy boots and the lingering aroma of melted fat. "Will that be all?"
She looks at the cake, looks at me, and says, "8.50 is too much. I'll give you eight dollars for it."
That's it.
I snatch the cake out of her hands so quickly I'm a little amazed the edges of the plastic case don't slice her hands open. I'm smiling now, allright, a taut, feverish affair that feels nailed to my face. "You know what, ma'am? I've been thinking about it, and I don't think Jesus deserves a reduced cake from a supermarket bakery." And I pull off the plastic cover and tip the whole cake into the garbage can. "Jesus only deserves the best."
Unsurprisingly, she was furious and called the store manager down. Unfortunately for her, he was actually a pretty cool guy (not to mention he was too terrified of losing another supervisor because we were strapped for workers), and he basically pulled the "My hands are tied" routine. She left, swearing she'd never spend money there again, which was fine with me especially since I'd never seen her there before.
The bad side of this story is that she basically ruined whatever drive I had for helping out customers. I was never impolite, but after that I was far less willing to make concessions and do extra work on cakes for people the way I had for her.
Also, I guess this is my first post or whatever, so hi. People keep telling me I need to share my war stories, so I guess I finally decided to.
biscuit.
!!!
That is officially awesome! Hahahahahaha!
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