How to make a club sandwich
Where: A small restaurant in upstate New York. There was a lunch counter, seating maybe 10 people, and about one dozen square tables with chairs. Red checked tablecloths. Entrance to the kitchen was two steps up, one small set of stairs on either side of the cash register. Customers could not see much, but voices carried.
‘Working at the Spoon’ is the first in a series of posts about my adult work life before going to college and obtaining a degree in Social Work. These posts are based, in part, on my personal experiences.
In other words, these posts are ~90 fiction, 10% autobiographical.
I did get blasted for making a club sandwich wrong.
Names, locations, dates, and circumstances have been changed to protect myself from lawsuits.
How to make a club sandwich
I heard the back door of the restaurant slam shut just as I was getting ready to cut the club sandwich.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“That’s not how we make a club sandwich at ___!”
“And I told you I’m the cook here,” the cook/owner (c/o) yelled at me.
Knife in hand, I did a quick inventory: Toast, mayonnaise, lettuce, tomato, and turkey.
“What the hell am I missing? Do you need to bless the damn thing before I serve it?”
Boy, I was ticked, because one of our best customers was going to have to make his lunch “to go,” because he had been waiting so long.
Because, once again, “the boss” had walked out the back door and just disappeared.
“Watch your mouth, Beth, I’m your boss,” he muttered under his breath, and he started reassembling the club sandwich.
“I was on a BREAK.”
C/o wouldn’t make eye contact with me, just finished making the damn club sandwich.
C/o’s wife was doing the wild thing with an out of town trucker.
He was trying to catch them in the ACT.
Trouble was, his wife was ALWAYS doing the wild thing with other guys.
“Hey, I can leave right now,” I told cook/owner.
C/o whipped around and looked at me, eyes wide with horror, “No, I need to be home for dinner, you need to work till 7, ’cause A’s been cookin’ all day.”
Snorts were heard around me, as the dishwasher and the other waitress tried to contain their laughter.
Yeah, A had been cookin’ all day, but no one believed for a minute that she was cookin’ lamb chops.
“Hey _, get your hands off your Johnson, wash them slimy paws, and then finish my $%^& sandwich,” our hungry customer yelled back.
About 30 people cracked up, diners and staff alike.
“And don’t forget my chips and pickle, asshole.”
We all lost it again.
The dishwasher was laughing so hard he got the hiccups, then had to get to the bathroom fast.
C/o finished making the sandwich (imagine what this “club sandwich” looked like, having been taken apart and put back together).
Then c/o slammed out the back door, and was gone for the day.
To this day, I still don’t know what I did wrong with that damn sandwich.