Patriot_sPizza
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C. Munny: Pizza Oven Vortex
“Aw hell,” I thought, as I watched the woman walk hurriedly down the sidewalk toward the front door of the restaurant, large cardboard pizza box in her hand. She was wearing her blue smock bearing the name of the dog-grooming establishment down the block.
I’m more often amused than angered by customers’ idiosyncrasies, readily apparent in exchanges with me, their server. But after my share of encounters with this woman, I’d decided that she was a pain in the ass.
“Dog Shop” orders are a hassle, involving a litany of “extra thisses,” “hold the thats,” and “easy on theotherthings.” And requests to divide food orders in multiple boxes in complex proportions involving advanced mathematics. We offer local businesses a discount, but in truth, we should charge the dog shop lady extra for the inconvenience of it all.
And the complaints, man alive! When this woman walks out of the restaurant with a carry-out order, it’s always even money that she’ll come back later to protest something. You’d think we were the biggest piece of shit restaurant in the city, except that a few days later she’ll call to place another order.
An hour prior, the woman picked up a barbecue chicken pizza, with no onions and light sauce. She now made her way back through the door with the box, rushed up to me and sighed:
“You know I only complain when there is something seriously wrong.”
What?! Put together all of the complaints I’ve ever received from other customers and they’d be four score and seven complaints short of this lady’s body of bitching! And I would have told her that, except . . .
I bit my tongue. Literally. And it hurt like hell.
“Whut iz za pwoblum, mam?” I managed to mumble in agony.
I’m pretty suave for a pizza guy….
Oblivious to my condition, the dog shop lady went on to explain that, after walking back the pizza to her place of business, and letting it sit for 45 minutes because she was busy, the pie was “cold and dry” when she settled down to eat it. Then she opened the box, exposing to me what was indeed a cold, dry pizza.
I suggested to the woman that her pizza looked very much like one that had been sauntered through the cold and then left to rest for an hour — “pizzamortis” (an industry term) had set in.
Also, I pointed out that she had altered the normal proportion of dry (i.e. cheese, dough) and moist (i.e. sauce) pizza ingredients resulting in a dryer end product in the first place.
My sarcastic tone was not appreciated. She demanded that I take her complaint to the guys in the kitchen.
“I will tell them in Spanish,” she said.
“Knock yourself out,” I replied, pushing open the swinging door to the kitchen.
I’m far from fluent in Spanish, but I know enough to recognize that, basically, the woman was telling the cooks the same thing she told me, and they were telling her the same thing I told her.
They conversed, I shook my head from time to time, and every once in a while threw in a “right” or a “that’s what I told her” in English. I felt very cosmopolitan.
But the dog shop lady wasn’t backing down. She began to get more animated, picking up slices of petrified pizza and waving them around as if they were exhibits A, B, and C that she wasn’t crazy.
The jury wasn’t buying it. I noticed one of the cooks, Javi, begin to make his way toward the pizza oven. Gerardo, who cooks and manages the kitchen, secured himself with a dishrag to the grip on the back door. The two men nodded at each other, and Javi bellowed in a low resonating voice:
“RETRO IN VENTUM!” (Or something like that, my Latin’s a little rusty.)
The dog lady was pretty tough, as well….
Javi then rapped three times on the side of the great steel oven, pulled the door handle, and ducked out of sight.
Hurricane strength winds filled the room, furiously drawing objects toward the belly of the furnace. The pizza oven vortex upended the dog shop lady and took her headfirst into the oven. She went screaming and blind, as the force had pulled her trademark blue smock up and over her face.
I’d instinctively grabbed the lever on the commercial dishwasher. But the air current raised me off the ground and the door of the machine up with me, altering the angle and twisting my wrist. I could no longer maintain my grip. I released the lever, went tumbling into the pizza oven and into the abyss!
I was lost in space and time. In what seemed to be at once a brief second and an eternity, I saw my life to that point unfold before my eyes: times of joy, sorrow, love, and longing—supplemented by a few modest accomplishments, and many unfortunate misjudgments, in between long periods of procrastination.
I was floating, and then suddenly began to free-fall. I hollered helplessly, fearing the worst, before landing roughly, but safely, with a thud.
I was in a small enclosure. It took me a moment to adjust to the light gleaming above me. My body rested on cardboard boxes, but I smelled refuse and detected a faint odor of petrol.
I peered out to find that I was in a dumpster behind the Marathon station at Touhy and Western avenues. I hopped out, brushed myself off, and looked at my watch. No time had passed at all.
“Do you know how I got here?” inquired a voice beside me. I looked down at the dog shop lady sitting on the curb of the parking lot.
“Cold pizza complaint?” I joked. She looked at me puzzled.
“The last thing I remember was making a pick up order for a pizza,” the woman mumbled to herself as she began the walk back to the dog-grooming store on Western Avenue.
Hmm. She didn’t remember any of it. Maybe being the second through the pizza oven vortex, the full effect was lost on me. But really, I didn’t understand a thing about what I’d just experienced.
I hoofed it back to the restaurant a couple of blocks down the street. Once inside, I walked to the kitchen and through the swinging door still rubbing my lower back where I’d landed on it in the dumpster. Javi was on the grill with his back to me.
“Javi, what the f*ck, man?” I moaned.
“Next time, hold on,” he replied without looking.
Will do, my man. Will do.
“Aw hell,” I thought, as I watched the woman walk hurriedly down the sidewalk toward the front door of the restaurant, large cardboard pizza box in her hand. She was wearing her blue smock bearing the name of the dog-grooming establishment down the block.
I’m more often amused than angered by customers’ idiosyncrasies, readily apparent in exchanges with me, their server. But after my share of encounters with this woman, I’d decided that she was a pain in the ass.
“Dog Shop” orders are a hassle, involving a litany of “extra thisses,” “hold the thats,” and “easy on theotherthings.” And requests to divide food orders in multiple boxes in complex proportions involving advanced mathematics. We offer local businesses a discount, but in truth, we should charge the dog shop lady extra for the inconvenience of it all.
And the complaints, man alive! When this woman walks out of the restaurant with a carry-out order, it’s always even money that she’ll come back later to protest something. You’d think we were the biggest piece of shit restaurant in the city, except that a few days later she’ll call to place another order.
An hour prior, the woman picked up a barbecue chicken pizza, with no onions and light sauce. She now made her way back through the door with the box, rushed up to me and sighed:
“You know I only complain when there is something seriously wrong.”
What?! Put together all of the complaints I’ve ever received from other customers and they’d be four score and seven complaints short of this lady’s body of bitching! And I would have told her that, except . . .
I bit my tongue. Literally. And it hurt like hell.
“Whut iz za pwoblum, mam?” I managed to mumble in agony.
I’m pretty suave for a pizza guy….
Oblivious to my condition, the dog shop lady went on to explain that, after walking back the pizza to her place of business, and letting it sit for 45 minutes because she was busy, the pie was “cold and dry” when she settled down to eat it. Then she opened the box, exposing to me what was indeed a cold, dry pizza.
I suggested to the woman that her pizza looked very much like one that had been sauntered through the cold and then left to rest for an hour — “pizzamortis” (an industry term) had set in.
Also, I pointed out that she had altered the normal proportion of dry (i.e. cheese, dough) and moist (i.e. sauce) pizza ingredients resulting in a dryer end product in the first place.
My sarcastic tone was not appreciated. She demanded that I take her complaint to the guys in the kitchen.
“I will tell them in Spanish,” she said.
“Knock yourself out,” I replied, pushing open the swinging door to the kitchen.
I’m far from fluent in Spanish, but I know enough to recognize that, basically, the woman was telling the cooks the same thing she told me, and they were telling her the same thing I told her.
They conversed, I shook my head from time to time, and every once in a while threw in a “right” or a “that’s what I told her” in English. I felt very cosmopolitan.
But the dog shop lady wasn’t backing down. She began to get more animated, picking up slices of petrified pizza and waving them around as if they were exhibits A, B, and C that she wasn’t crazy.
The jury wasn’t buying it. I noticed one of the cooks, Javi, begin to make his way toward the pizza oven. Gerardo, who cooks and manages the kitchen, secured himself with a dishrag to the grip on the back door. The two men nodded at each other, and Javi bellowed in a low resonating voice:
“RETRO IN VENTUM!” (Or something like that, my Latin’s a little rusty.)
The dog lady was pretty tough, as well….
Javi then rapped three times on the side of the great steel oven, pulled the door handle, and ducked out of sight.
Hurricane strength winds filled the room, furiously drawing objects toward the belly of the furnace. The pizza oven vortex upended the dog shop lady and took her headfirst into the oven. She went screaming and blind, as the force had pulled her trademark blue smock up and over her face.
I’d instinctively grabbed the lever on the commercial dishwasher. But the air current raised me off the ground and the door of the machine up with me, altering the angle and twisting my wrist. I could no longer maintain my grip. I released the lever, went tumbling into the pizza oven and into the abyss!
I was lost in space and time. In what seemed to be at once a brief second and an eternity, I saw my life to that point unfold before my eyes: times of joy, sorrow, love, and longing—supplemented by a few modest accomplishments, and many unfortunate misjudgments, in between long periods of procrastination.
I was floating, and then suddenly began to free-fall. I hollered helplessly, fearing the worst, before landing roughly, but safely, with a thud.
I was in a small enclosure. It took me a moment to adjust to the light gleaming above me. My body rested on cardboard boxes, but I smelled refuse and detected a faint odor of petrol.
I peered out to find that I was in a dumpster behind the Marathon station at Touhy and Western avenues. I hopped out, brushed myself off, and looked at my watch. No time had passed at all.
“Do you know how I got here?” inquired a voice beside me. I looked down at the dog shop lady sitting on the curb of the parking lot.
“Cold pizza complaint?” I joked. She looked at me puzzled.
“The last thing I remember was making a pick up order for a pizza,” the woman mumbled to herself as she began the walk back to the dog-grooming store on Western Avenue.
Hmm. She didn’t remember any of it. Maybe being the second through the pizza oven vortex, the full effect was lost on me. But really, I didn’t understand a thing about what I’d just experienced.
I hoofed it back to the restaurant a couple of blocks down the street. Once inside, I walked to the kitchen and through the swinging door still rubbing my lower back where I’d landed on it in the dumpster. Javi was on the grill with his back to me.
“Javi, what the f*ck, man?” I moaned.
“Next time, hold on,” he replied without looking.
Will do, my man. Will do.
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