Okay so Swine Flue has ravaged my workplace, schoolplace and homeplace. No doubt it's affected you (the reader) as well, in some form or another.
Anyway.
Due to this inconvenient slew of illness, I was on a hiatus. No doubt you noticed and wondered if I'd died.
I know you love me.
But I thought that if you are in fact sitting sickly in your bed, deciding to wander to a personable blog about fast food, that you would not appreciate a negative post. So. I've decided to list all the things I absolutely love about Wendy's, in no particular order.
What I love about working at Wendy's--
The sheer fact that we have a cleaner called "Dazzle".
Our cleaning towels are color-coded.
Visa-vis markers are everywhere, so employees can write messages to each other on the counters.
Having a "dream team" of co-workers who I love to work with.
Being forced to wash our hands every five minutes (I'm OCD, hush hush.)
While working drive-thru, it's not necessary to ask "Is this for here or to go?"
Being paid to play in the water (AKA, washing dishes).
Seeing a newbie come in and getting retribution for how I was treated as a newbie (it's all fun and games...).
Cleaning the dining room late at night, when it's quiet and calm.
Listening in on customers' conversations (come on, everybody does it... right?).
When one of my friends comes in and orders just to see me.
When there are fresh fries up.
The smiles on customer's faces when they utter "thank you."
When customers say "thank you."
When a customer gives me any sort of gratification for doing my best for them.
Being able to watch Jim Cramer while I'm working the evening shift.
Sketching during my break.
The smell of fresh chili.
Piling oodles of ketchup packets into customer's "to-go" bags (it feels funny on my hands).
When an exchange student comes in, and I have to reword things because they don't speak fluent English.
When a really cute guy comes in and smiles a lot at me (I am sixteen, ya'know).
And, finally... payday.
Feel better, if you're sick. And if you're not sick, tell someone else to feel better. You're of no use to Wendy's if you have an icky stomach!
(Totally joking by the way about that last part. Seriously, feel better. You don't deserve to hack your brains out. :P )
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Friday, October 23, 2009
Pardon my Sniffles
Nothing is grosser than someone in food service sneezing all over the place.
...Especially while carrying your food.
Never mind the fact that the food is wrapped. Germs are crafty critters, and somehow (despite our obsessive hand-washing) manage to bound from person-to-person. This is especially terrifying now, because of the swine flu (we won't get into the politics of that) that seems to be ravaging schools and workplaces.
I admit that it's gross. Nay, it's downright nasty. Food-service employees actually shouldn't be to work if they're sick--And I expect nothing less from you than to request your food re-made. You didn't pay for germs, you paid for delicious never-frozen food served to you on a worn plastic platter.
But please, if you do request as such, do it with politeness in mind. We didn't sneeze/cough/dribble on your food on purpose; on the contrary, we probably feel terrible and awkward about it. We might even be psychic: "He definitely wants a new burger, I just know it"-- but we did by no means intend to infect you with the plague. On top of that, if we're sneezing/coughing/dribbling, that means we're probably sick, and feel gross and yucky anyway.
So, here's the deal. We'll re-make your food with just as much love as the first time (maybe even more) if you ask politely. Some examples might be:
"I'm sorry that you don't feel well...but could you please remake my (food item)? There's no rush on it, I just want to make sure I'm not passing anything around."
Or even just make up an alternative excuse. We may be smart, but we're too scatterbrained to notice if you lie about the quality of your food.
"Hey these fries are a little old, would you mind making a new batch? No rush."
"I'm really sorry, I must not have spoken right... can I get EXTRA (topping) on this? I think you pressed 'no' instead." -- This would be after you carefully take the infected food item and take the topping off of it, of course. We won't know the difference as long as you're silent as a ninja.
Notice my use of 'no rush.' Being in fast food, we're always trying to get things done quickly, under the stress of impatient customers. We delight when someone decides they're going to let our hearts run at normal speed.
But you know the ultimate BEST thing you could do for an employee (especially if they're under eighteen)?
Complain to the manager.
"They've been coughing all over the place. That's not sanitary. I hate to be so blunt, but it would probably be a good idea to send them home."
We'll earn respect points from our boss for coming in sick (hopefully, anyway!), and we'll get a free day off. Customers are happy because they don't get sick. The only downside to this is that the manager will have to call someone in to fill a shift...
The meat:
Sickness is icky. To keep from eating food infected by the employees, stretch the truth a little to get your food re-made. Maybe even request that an employee get a day off, or change positions.
...Especially while carrying your food.
Never mind the fact that the food is wrapped. Germs are crafty critters, and somehow (despite our obsessive hand-washing) manage to bound from person-to-person. This is especially terrifying now, because of the swine flu (we won't get into the politics of that) that seems to be ravaging schools and workplaces.
I admit that it's gross. Nay, it's downright nasty. Food-service employees actually shouldn't be to work if they're sick--And I expect nothing less from you than to request your food re-made. You didn't pay for germs, you paid for delicious never-frozen food served to you on a worn plastic platter.
But please, if you do request as such, do it with politeness in mind. We didn't sneeze/cough/dribble on your food on purpose; on the contrary, we probably feel terrible and awkward about it. We might even be psychic: "He definitely wants a new burger, I just know it"-- but we did by no means intend to infect you with the plague. On top of that, if we're sneezing/coughing/dribbling, that means we're probably sick, and feel gross and yucky anyway.
So, here's the deal. We'll re-make your food with just as much love as the first time (maybe even more) if you ask politely. Some examples might be:
"I'm sorry that you don't feel well...but could you please remake my (food item)? There's no rush on it, I just want to make sure I'm not passing anything around."
Or even just make up an alternative excuse. We may be smart, but we're too scatterbrained to notice if you lie about the quality of your food.
"Hey these fries are a little old, would you mind making a new batch? No rush."
"I'm really sorry, I must not have spoken right... can I get EXTRA (topping) on this? I think you pressed 'no' instead." -- This would be after you carefully take the infected food item and take the topping off of it, of course. We won't know the difference as long as you're silent as a ninja.
Notice my use of 'no rush.' Being in fast food, we're always trying to get things done quickly, under the stress of impatient customers. We delight when someone decides they're going to let our hearts run at normal speed.
But you know the ultimate BEST thing you could do for an employee (especially if they're under eighteen)?
Complain to the manager.
"They've been coughing all over the place. That's not sanitary. I hate to be so blunt, but it would probably be a good idea to send them home."
We'll earn respect points from our boss for coming in sick (hopefully, anyway!), and we'll get a free day off. Customers are happy because they don't get sick. The only downside to this is that the manager will have to call someone in to fill a shift...
The meat:
Sickness is icky. To keep from eating food infected by the employees, stretch the truth a little to get your food re-made. Maybe even request that an employee get a day off, or change positions.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
I'm Sorry Ma'am, It's Just Policy---
There's a special word at Wendy's that we use more often than not. Yes; it's uttered at a higher quantity than even the word "sorry". Well maybe not as much as "sorry", but pretty darn close.
It's called "policy." And it's kind of the law.
There are two problems with policies. One: if you ignore them, you'll get in mucho trouble. Two: if you follow them too closely, you'll end up with irritated customers.
In short, policies really are just these simple rules that are typically used to regulate hygiene and product cost. Don't put a lid on the chili if the order is for the dining room, because that's unnecessary lid usage--even if the chili will be cold before the rest of the food gets out. Wash your hands every time you go from dining room to behind the counter, even if you didn't touch anything. The list goes on and on and on. They take up time and energy, and usually end up with customers raising their eyebrows suspiciously.
"Why follow them if they're such a bother?"
Well, there are special times in every restaurant franchise's life when a certain location is examined. This is called "auditing." Basically, some really ritzy people come in with clipboards and stare at the employees.
And the tables.
And the food.
Oh yeah and they eat our food, too.
They make sure our water to beans to meat to sauce ratio is perfect for the chili. Each mustard "W" on the bun of every sandwich must be perfectly squirted. The shake machine must be clean, the salad station spotless, the frosty machines stocked and at the correct texture. On top of all this, they also thoroughly examine each of the employees' behaviors; which is where the policy problem comes in.
If we decide to slip up and wash our hands for fifteen seconds instead of twenty, we get marked down. Trouble succeeds if we get a bad grade. Sooooo... we try our best to follow them.
The Story:
This doesn't really count as a single happening, but more of a collective of them.
I have got to say that my personally least-favourite oh-gosh-I-wish-I-could-just-dump-this-in-the-ditch-across-from-my-house policy would be the one concerning refills. Particularly, the policy regarding the fact that refills must be made in new cups with new lids, with customers standing there, puzzled, half-empty cups dangling idly in their grip.
The last part of that isn't actually written in the policy, but it always results from it. "Oh, you don't have to get a new---- okay. :(" So it might as well be written.
(If you're confused at all, I can enlighten you. I don't know if it's because our location is super retro or what, but the drink tap/dispenser is behind the counter. Meaning customers can't get their own refills. I'M SORRY.)
And for some reason, saying "I'm sorry Ma'am, it's just policy--" doesn't cut it. I always get dirty looks. Therefore, I'm filled with trepidation when someone gallivants up to me with an empty cup.
The Meat:
Policies are our law and we HAVE to follow them. If something seems ridiculous, it's actually not because we're paranoid or germaphobic or cheapskates, it's because we want to keep you and our location safe. You may be a bit caught off-guard at first, and we know you will; but you're all smart cookies. You can recover. And we thank you for that.
It's called "policy." And it's kind of the law.
There are two problems with policies. One: if you ignore them, you'll get in mucho trouble. Two: if you follow them too closely, you'll end up with irritated customers.
In short, policies really are just these simple rules that are typically used to regulate hygiene and product cost. Don't put a lid on the chili if the order is for the dining room, because that's unnecessary lid usage--even if the chili will be cold before the rest of the food gets out. Wash your hands every time you go from dining room to behind the counter, even if you didn't touch anything. The list goes on and on and on. They take up time and energy, and usually end up with customers raising their eyebrows suspiciously.
"Why follow them if they're such a bother?"
Well, there are special times in every restaurant franchise's life when a certain location is examined. This is called "auditing." Basically, some really ritzy people come in with clipboards and stare at the employees.
And the tables.
And the food.
Oh yeah and they eat our food, too.
They make sure our water to beans to meat to sauce ratio is perfect for the chili. Each mustard "W" on the bun of every sandwich must be perfectly squirted. The shake machine must be clean, the salad station spotless, the frosty machines stocked and at the correct texture. On top of all this, they also thoroughly examine each of the employees' behaviors; which is where the policy problem comes in.
If we decide to slip up and wash our hands for fifteen seconds instead of twenty, we get marked down. Trouble succeeds if we get a bad grade. Sooooo... we try our best to follow them.
The Story:
This doesn't really count as a single happening, but more of a collective of them.
I have got to say that my personally least-favourite oh-gosh-I-wish-I-could-just-dump-this-in-the-ditch-across-from-my-house policy would be the one concerning refills. Particularly, the policy regarding the fact that refills must be made in new cups with new lids, with customers standing there, puzzled, half-empty cups dangling idly in their grip.
The last part of that isn't actually written in the policy, but it always results from it. "Oh, you don't have to get a new---- okay. :(" So it might as well be written.
(If you're confused at all, I can enlighten you. I don't know if it's because our location is super retro or what, but the drink tap/dispenser is behind the counter. Meaning customers can't get their own refills. I'M SORRY.)
And for some reason, saying "I'm sorry Ma'am, it's just policy--" doesn't cut it. I always get dirty looks. Therefore, I'm filled with trepidation when someone gallivants up to me with an empty cup.
The Meat:
Policies are our law and we HAVE to follow them. If something seems ridiculous, it's actually not because we're paranoid or germaphobic or cheapskates, it's because we want to keep you and our location safe. You may be a bit caught off-guard at first, and we know you will; but you're all smart cookies. You can recover. And we thank you for that.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
We're Sorry
I've been thinking all day about the first secret I'd unfold. I thought about the many witty, clever situations I could present to you all, in witty, clever fashion with witty, clever vocabulary. Maybe even some sentence variation...
But then, as I was giggling in my own amusement at memories past, I realized that none of them really mattered. They're cute, but they can be saved for a later time.
If for some reason I disappear off of this planet or I'm struck comatose, I want to leave you with something worthwhile---
We. Are. Sorry. We really are. When we say we're sorry, we most definitely definitely deeeefinitely mean it in the most honest, truthful, modest, possible way.
If something turns out incorrect, it's not because:
-We have something against you.
-We're trying to screw up your order for laughs.
-We're bored.
-We're not trying.
When we do mess something up, it IS because:
-We're trying to get your food out to you as fast as possible.
-There was an unavoidable error in communication.
-We misheard.
-And, oh my goodness, the unthinkable: we actually made a mistake!
If you're sitting back and blushing in your chair/bed/couch, thinking "Wow, maybe I'm not treating the employees very well--" then I applaud you. You're the rare breed that has a sensitivity for other human beings.
And if you're part of the VERY rare, awesome breed of people that can grin through a three-minute wait on fries and say "No, it's alright!" then you might deserve a kiss. Or a hug, if you're otherwise obligated.
The Story: I was working an unexpected six-hour shift. I... actually got the hours mixed around; while I thought I was working 5pm to 11pm, I was working 11am to 5pm.
I had to stop in the middle of a movie, the middle of breakfast, and the middle of a philosophical discussion with my mom-- threw my uniform on and bulleted out the door.
It was a really bad time to come in late. Saturday lunch rushes are terrible (almost as bad as Sunday): kids are home and hungry, it's nice out, mom and dad aren't too busy. People were flooding in and I was the only one on front counter.
Now I should tell you, before I go on, that the registers at my particular Wendy's workplace only let employees erase one step without a set of keys (which only a manager has).
Therefore, when some classy family man came in and ordered a medium #2 combo with a coke, I couldn't do anything when he said:
"Hey can I get only tomato, mayo and ketchup on that double--and extra lettuce. And for the chicken club, I need American cheese instead of swiss, and extra tomato. Uh, nevermind; just put two slices of tomato on."
Um.
Yeah okay sure, sir, you got it.
So I wrote it down on the back of a receipt and shoved it in the face of the sandwich maker.
"CAN YOU MAKE THIS?"
She sighed. "I can't keep making these special unless you ring it up."
"I know. I'm sorry."
It took three tries to make those sandwiches correctly. I swear I'd never seen someone's face so red before. He barely said a word to me, never smiled, just kept scowling as he stood in the corner, partially-unwrapped burgers crumpled in his white-knuckled grip.
I was terrified. Would I get written up for this? Fired? Chastised? Oh, heaven forbid that my Manager even take me aside and look at me funny; that'd break my poor little heart.
So I said sorry. I folded my hands and stood in front of the man. I paused, spine curled like a dog with its tail between its legs.
"I cannot express how sorry I am about this. I am so sorry."
He just scowled at me.
Being honest, here, we were trying our best. Everyone was frazzled. It was busy, drive-thru times were sky-high, and there was always a wait on fresh fries. The line never got shorter. We were tragically understaffed and I had come in late, snapping my routine in two, so I was unfocused and jittery.
We're typically good people. If we weren't, we would have been fired a long time ago. Nobody who's not nice (...or at least interesting) can't make it in an industry that relies so heavily on customer service. We try so, so hard to please the customer, that if the customer doesn't acknowledge it, we're nearly heartbroken.
The Meat:
Uh, please, suck it up and at least muster a smile. I'm sure five minutes isn't as long of a wait on meat as it seems. We try our best--if you try your best for us, I promise both sides will leave with a more fulfilling experience.
But then, as I was giggling in my own amusement at memories past, I realized that none of them really mattered. They're cute, but they can be saved for a later time.
If for some reason I disappear off of this planet or I'm struck comatose, I want to leave you with something worthwhile---
We. Are. Sorry. We really are. When we say we're sorry, we most definitely definitely deeeefinitely mean it in the most honest, truthful, modest, possible way.
If something turns out incorrect, it's not because:
-We have something against you.
-We're trying to screw up your order for laughs.
-We're bored.
-We're not trying.
When we do mess something up, it IS because:
-We're trying to get your food out to you as fast as possible.
-There was an unavoidable error in communication.
-We misheard.
-And, oh my goodness, the unthinkable: we actually made a mistake!
If you're sitting back and blushing in your chair/bed/couch, thinking "Wow, maybe I'm not treating the employees very well--" then I applaud you. You're the rare breed that has a sensitivity for other human beings.
And if you're part of the VERY rare, awesome breed of people that can grin through a three-minute wait on fries and say "No, it's alright!" then you might deserve a kiss. Or a hug, if you're otherwise obligated.
The Story: I was working an unexpected six-hour shift. I... actually got the hours mixed around; while I thought I was working 5pm to 11pm, I was working 11am to 5pm.
I had to stop in the middle of a movie, the middle of breakfast, and the middle of a philosophical discussion with my mom-- threw my uniform on and bulleted out the door.
It was a really bad time to come in late. Saturday lunch rushes are terrible (almost as bad as Sunday): kids are home and hungry, it's nice out, mom and dad aren't too busy. People were flooding in and I was the only one on front counter.
Now I should tell you, before I go on, that the registers at my particular Wendy's workplace only let employees erase one step without a set of keys (which only a manager has).
Therefore, when some classy family man came in and ordered a medium #2 combo with a coke, I couldn't do anything when he said:
"Hey can I get only tomato, mayo and ketchup on that double--and extra lettuce. And for the chicken club, I need American cheese instead of swiss, and extra tomato. Uh, nevermind; just put two slices of tomato on."
Um.
Yeah okay sure, sir, you got it.
So I wrote it down on the back of a receipt and shoved it in the face of the sandwich maker.
"CAN YOU MAKE THIS?"
She sighed. "I can't keep making these special unless you ring it up."
"I know. I'm sorry."
It took three tries to make those sandwiches correctly. I swear I'd never seen someone's face so red before. He barely said a word to me, never smiled, just kept scowling as he stood in the corner, partially-unwrapped burgers crumpled in his white-knuckled grip.
I was terrified. Would I get written up for this? Fired? Chastised? Oh, heaven forbid that my Manager even take me aside and look at me funny; that'd break my poor little heart.
So I said sorry. I folded my hands and stood in front of the man. I paused, spine curled like a dog with its tail between its legs.
"I cannot express how sorry I am about this. I am so sorry."
He just scowled at me.
Being honest, here, we were trying our best. Everyone was frazzled. It was busy, drive-thru times were sky-high, and there was always a wait on fresh fries. The line never got shorter. We were tragically understaffed and I had come in late, snapping my routine in two, so I was unfocused and jittery.
We're typically good people. If we weren't, we would have been fired a long time ago. Nobody who's not nice (...or at least interesting) can't make it in an industry that relies so heavily on customer service. We try so, so hard to please the customer, that if the customer doesn't acknowledge it, we're nearly heartbroken.
The Meat:
Uh, please, suck it up and at least muster a smile. I'm sure five minutes isn't as long of a wait on meat as it seems. We try our best--if you try your best for us, I promise both sides will leave with a more fulfilling experience.
How Can I Help You?
I turned sixteen on April 24th, 2009.
It was a great day. I was allowed to drive, allowed to date, allowed to go out by myself and-- what I was dreading-- legal to get an actual job.
But see, there was a problem that caused me to stop flailing my arms excitedly in the air; actually, a few problems.
One, I have slight motorphobia.
Two, high school boys are icky.
Three, I have a relatively mellow social life.
That only left me one option for my first baby step into adulthood:
Get
Yourself
A
Flipping
Job.
So I did. I took a work permit, rode my bike down along the street, and applied to nearly every place that would look me in the eye. Actually I'm kind of exaggerating with that. I only stopped at three places.
And one of them happened to be Wendy's. Lucky, lucky them; I had a friend who used to work there, and said that they were always desperate for employees. Unlucky for me, because drawing pictures and writing stories all day sounded like a much better way to spend my time than working as a dancing grease monkey.
Oh well. They most likely wouldn't like me anyway. And that's probably why they called me and said I could start on Saturday. Working for three hours? What an absurd amount of time to not be doing anything creative! What a beat down on my freedom and dignity! I wasn't going to take that.
Buuuut I did.
And I've learned some things.
I think it's been, what, three months?
Okay so you're actually probably most likely wondering why I'm off on this tangent. And why the title of the blog is the fast-food version of a Catholic practice. Well, my dear friend, let me educate you--
For those of you who don't work or have never worked in fast food, there's a lot you need to know about us fast-foody-workers. We're tough. We're crazy. We're... feet-kissers. We keep deep, dark secrets. Believe it or not, we are actually real people; and no matter how much we smile and nod and laugh when we make a mistake, we're actually not dumb.
Those deep, dark secrets need to be let out. Come into my office, and I'll educate you.
It was a great day. I was allowed to drive, allowed to date, allowed to go out by myself and-- what I was dreading-- legal to get an actual job.
But see, there was a problem that caused me to stop flailing my arms excitedly in the air; actually, a few problems.
One, I have slight motorphobia.
Two, high school boys are icky.
Three, I have a relatively mellow social life.
That only left me one option for my first baby step into adulthood:
Get
Yourself
A
Flipping
Job.
So I did. I took a work permit, rode my bike down along the street, and applied to nearly every place that would look me in the eye. Actually I'm kind of exaggerating with that. I only stopped at three places.
And one of them happened to be Wendy's. Lucky, lucky them; I had a friend who used to work there, and said that they were always desperate for employees. Unlucky for me, because drawing pictures and writing stories all day sounded like a much better way to spend my time than working as a dancing grease monkey.
Oh well. They most likely wouldn't like me anyway. And that's probably why they called me and said I could start on Saturday. Working for three hours? What an absurd amount of time to not be doing anything creative! What a beat down on my freedom and dignity! I wasn't going to take that.
Buuuut I did.
And I've learned some things.
I think it's been, what, three months?
Okay so you're actually probably most likely wondering why I'm off on this tangent. And why the title of the blog is the fast-food version of a Catholic practice. Well, my dear friend, let me educate you--
For those of you who don't work or have never worked in fast food, there's a lot you need to know about us fast-foody-workers. We're tough. We're crazy. We're... feet-kissers. We keep deep, dark secrets. Believe it or not, we are actually real people; and no matter how much we smile and nod and laugh when we make a mistake, we're actually not dumb.
Those deep, dark secrets need to be let out. Come into my office, and I'll educate you.
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