Sprinkles And Splatters, Or My Experience With Quiche Por-Ce-Lorraine
Editor’s note: This picture arrived in my inbox last week with the following story.
I work at a popular American restaurant chain that serves basic diner food 24 hours a day. Since I just started, I have been saddled with the night shift. This means I am usually the only server on the clock from midnight to six a.m. I am not alone, though. I work with a night shift manager and a cook. I have to bake pies, bus the tables from other servers, and stock the server’s station for the morning rush. Until this week, nothing weird had happened during my shifts. Then the coke head came in.
She was thin and grinding her teeth and, to my surprise, completely open about the fact that she had coke on her. She was supposed to take it home to her husband. She needed a quiche to go. She had to use the bathroom. Boy did she use the bathroom.
I did not think about how good she smelled after she came out of the restroom until later, of course. She was wearing perfume, lots of it. Now I know why. She had to find a way to camouflage the smell of what she did.
We found out after she left that the walls of the Ladies' Room were covered in poop. It was like a giant child had gone off the deep end with an over-sized brush and a limitless amount of brown paint. The stall was Polockesque, as my mother-in-law would say. And where you might expect to find poop, the changing table, I found remnants of coke lines. She had the gall to tell me she didn’t do all the coke and that she saved the lion’s share for her husband. What kind of person tells a complete stranger that she didn’t do all the coke? Besides, we all know she may not have done all the coke, but she did most of it. I noticed she even left some for the next baby who was going to have its diaper changed.
The thought that someone had to clean up her artwork scared me to death. I did everything else during the night shift. Please, God, I thought, don't tell me I have to wash the poop off the walls too. Luckily for me, poop detail was not in my job description; it was in the cook's. And this is why I wrote in to PoopReport. I thought you might want to see a picture of a fry cook dressed up for battle against poop-covered walls. Here you are. I don’t think this guy is paid enough.