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For whatever reason, people assume you should have encyclopedic knowledge about all things yeasty when you work in a bakery. People will wander up to you and begin to talk vaguely about some bread they "had once, like, ages ago that might've been, yanno, oh, BELGIAN or something, and it's got, like, this stuff in it that tastes really good? You know?" And they make all these big expansive hand gestures while they speak, as though sweeping your arms around like you're trying to swat a mosquito is suddenly going to spark intuition in me. And then they act genuinely surprised and put out when all I can do is stare blankly at them, a bag of bagels clasped in my limp hand.
Worse still are the customers that are home bakers themselves and don't actually wish to buy something. No, what they want is to quiz you on something. Anything. Anything they know that you don't so they can go home and pet one of their seventeen cats and snort with self-satisfied mirth while kicking their stubby little legs in glee.
If I sound bitter, it's because I am. This stuff happened on a weekly goddamn basis.
Anyway, I did make it my business to know everything I could about our products, which only seems fair. Understand, we baked what would seem to be an unreasonable variety of goods every damn day, but we also carried several other products that were already made; you know, WonderBread (which isn't really fucking bread and I could never stop that sneer trying to tremble into existence on my upper lip whenever someone asked for it), some of the more elaborate cakes, and specialty breads, gluten-free. It's a lot to keep track of, and it's no wonder that I miss a few. Or, uh, sixteen.
So I'm standing there one day towards the end of my shift when my brain is already good and fried from standing in front of the oven for eight and a half hours when this fellow comes up to me. "What's in this?" he demands, holding up a loaf of factory-made bread.
I look. Shit. I can't think right now. It's called simply 'Sixteen Grains', which I think is more grains than any person reasonably needs. I mean, come on. Besides, I'm seriously drawing a blank right now. But he's looking at me, and I need to come up with something.
"Um." I say, wisely. My left shoulder rises and falls weakly. "Well, sir, it's got sixteen delicious grains."
"Yes, but what are they?" Damn. I knew he wasn't going to fall for it but it was worth a try.
Well, shit. Okay. Easy ones first.
"Well, there's, you know, wheat . . . " I'M A GENIUS, HURRRR. "And, um. Flax. And millet? I guess."
He keeps looking at me expectantly. I wish I hadn't set my coffee down just moments ago. I could have tossed it in his face and made a run for it. I have tomorrow off, damnit!
I'm starting to sweat now. What kind of asshole company puts sixteen grains in something, anyway? ". . . oats. " It's all I've got. But he still wants more. Man, look at me. Look into my eyes. Don't you see I've been beaten into submission by your kind? Don't you see I barely have a will of my own anymore? WHAT ELSE DO YOU WANT FROM ME?
"And?" he prompts me.
" . . . wood?" I offer lamely. It's the best I can come up with.
Behind me, the other bakery girls erupt into sputters of ill-contained laughter. I might have lost all respect as a supervisor just then.
Although, it did make me feel better when he just said, "And what else??"
At least I'm in the proper company.
For the record, I made up the rest of the grains. Most of them were just nonsense words with "stone ground" or "sprouted" tacked on as descriptors. Maybe I have a promising future as a wine server. Then I can just use the words "naughty bouquet" to describe everything and I'll never be required to think again.
The best part was that for the rest of the week my co-workers loved to come up to me whenever I was making something and ask, "So, does that have stone ground hiffersack in it, then?"
How about HAHASHUTUP.
Worse still are the customers that are home bakers themselves and don't actually wish to buy something. No, what they want is to quiz you on something. Anything. Anything they know that you don't so they can go home and pet one of their seventeen cats and snort with self-satisfied mirth while kicking their stubby little legs in glee.
If I sound bitter, it's because I am. This stuff happened on a weekly goddamn basis.
Anyway, I did make it my business to know everything I could about our products, which only seems fair. Understand, we baked what would seem to be an unreasonable variety of goods every damn day, but we also carried several other products that were already made; you know, WonderBread (which isn't really fucking bread and I could never stop that sneer trying to tremble into existence on my upper lip whenever someone asked for it), some of the more elaborate cakes, and specialty breads, gluten-free. It's a lot to keep track of, and it's no wonder that I miss a few. Or, uh, sixteen.
So I'm standing there one day towards the end of my shift when my brain is already good and fried from standing in front of the oven for eight and a half hours when this fellow comes up to me. "What's in this?" he demands, holding up a loaf of factory-made bread.
I look. Shit. I can't think right now. It's called simply 'Sixteen Grains', which I think is more grains than any person reasonably needs. I mean, come on. Besides, I'm seriously drawing a blank right now. But he's looking at me, and I need to come up with something.
"Um." I say, wisely. My left shoulder rises and falls weakly. "Well, sir, it's got sixteen delicious grains."
"Yes, but what are they?" Damn. I knew he wasn't going to fall for it but it was worth a try.
Well, shit. Okay. Easy ones first.
"Well, there's, you know, wheat . . . " I'M A GENIUS, HURRRR. "And, um. Flax. And millet? I guess."
He keeps looking at me expectantly. I wish I hadn't set my coffee down just moments ago. I could have tossed it in his face and made a run for it. I have tomorrow off, damnit!
I'm starting to sweat now. What kind of asshole company puts sixteen grains in something, anyway? ". . . oats. " It's all I've got. But he still wants more. Man, look at me. Look into my eyes. Don't you see I've been beaten into submission by your kind? Don't you see I barely have a will of my own anymore? WHAT ELSE DO YOU WANT FROM ME?
"And?" he prompts me.
" . . . wood?" I offer lamely. It's the best I can come up with.
Behind me, the other bakery girls erupt into sputters of ill-contained laughter. I might have lost all respect as a supervisor just then.
Although, it did make me feel better when he just said, "And what else??"
At least I'm in the proper company.
For the record, I made up the rest of the grains. Most of them were just nonsense words with "stone ground" or "sprouted" tacked on as descriptors. Maybe I have a promising future as a wine server. Then I can just use the words "naughty bouquet" to describe everything and I'll never be required to think again.
The best part was that for the rest of the week my co-workers loved to come up to me whenever I was making something and ask, "So, does that have stone ground hiffersack in it, then?"
How about HAHASHUTUP.
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