Diary of The Food Whore

My second trick  AV (After VaCay…. yes… that is how I track time now. ) was a huge family gathering at a gorgeous park.  They went ‘country chic’ - red and white check, canning jars with wildflowers, rustic picnic tables with hay bales (which give me hives, thankyouverymuch)  And they wanted country food; baked beans, cornbread with honey butter, potato salad, cole slaw…. you know the drill.  And they wanted fried chicken.   But not just any fried chicken.  They wanted it from a little family owned deli in their neighborhood and wondered if we would be offended to have the chicken supplied from there.  

Offended at not having to bread/fry/sweat over 300 pieces of chicken?    Um…. yeahhhh that would be a resounding NO!

So we made arrangements with said deli, and found that the owners would be out of town that particular weekend, but their staff is fully capable of handling such an order and it would be no problem.   It was in the books.  Pick up chicken at 4:00 p.m.  It will be ready.   Checked and double checked.

And checked again that week just because even though I was still in “AV” up tempo mood, I was slightly concerned over the owners being gone.  Now, my staff is fully capable to handle anything in my absence, and I certainly was not questioning their judgement, but I also remember the time someone on my staff burned 8 large pans of lasagne because they got distracted by something shiny in the parking lot.   (Another story for another time…)

So we’re on site, I am avoiding the hay bales - as I said they give me hives.  Like - not so much hives as welts.  Big ones.  Red splotchy welts that only a cocktail of Benadryl and more Benadryl can take the edge from.  If I am lucky.  Once I had to have a steroid shot.  And the steroid shot didn’t make me puff like the doctor said it would, but it did make me feel like I wanted to crawl out of my skin, which is how the welts made me feel, so I saw no benefit to it at all, and told my doctor that as I gritted my teeth and twisted my neck like a crack addict on a 3 day binder.

 

Anyyyhewwww….

It was about time for me to make the run back to town for the crispy bird.   4:00 pick up, 4:45 service.  Perfect timing to keep the chicken reasonably hot, but for certain still crispy.

I should have known what I was up against as I entered the back door of the deli and saw the workers snapping one another with the towel.   We will just call them “Twit and Twitette” because the other names I came up with that day keep getting me blacklisted here at Wordpress.

Twitette looked at me and said, “You’re early. ”   I looked at the clock and she was right - it was 3:57, so I thought - you know - stupidly that she was making a funny.   I chuckled, played along, and she said, “Dude… you’re totally early.  You’re not supposed to be here until 4:45.”  

That’s Dudette to you, Twitette.

“Um, no.  I am supposed to be here at 4:00… picking up hot chicken”

“Um, no, you are supposed to be here at 4:45 to pick up hot chicken.”

As she said this she snapped her gum and rolled her eyes, clearly annoyed with my raised eyebrow and lame attempt to hide my look of panic.

“Pick up time is 4:00.  It was triple checked.”

“Well my note says 4:45.”  This time she shot a look of defiance to Twit who was standing there hand placed way too close to “male scratching range” for me, and I swear if he had scratched I would have lunged.  (Clearly, not enough lemon drops on the VaCay)

“Can I see your note?”

“No”

“Why?”

“Because you can’t”

“Can you check the note again please?”

“No”

“And why?”

“Because I don’t want to.”

I finally had to rationalize with myself that going toe to toe with what looked to be a 17-year old version of Courtney Love was not going to end well in any way. 

“Look, I don’t have time for any of this.  Neither do you.  You have exactly 45 minutes to give me 300 pieces of hot and crispy chicken so I suggest you get started.”

She started to say something and Twit had the brains to tell her that I was right - that they needed to get started.   I called The Partner and told her to stall, and I found a place by the back counter to lean on and watch, hoping my unpleasant presence would keep them moving.  In doing so I found the infamous note…   “Chicken to be ready at 4:00 sharp!  They are serving at 4:45 sharp.  Put in foil boxes in back room.  Do not be late!”

Vindicated I casually waved the note in the air as Twitette shot me an eye-rolling glance out the corner of her eye.  She had the actual nerve to say, “See, I was right” and being in  no mood to be mature about any of it at this point I walked over and held it up about 4 inches from her face.

“Dude.  Oh Shit.  Dude.  My bad.”

Totally your bad.

I said nothing, instead went out to the van to take a call from The Partner letting me know they were caught up in a game of horse shoes and no one was in a hurry to keep on schedule.

At 5:25 I arrived on site and no one was the wiser, everyone was thrilled, the food (chicken included) was fabulous, and all was well with the world.

And then my phone rang.  “Dude.  You’re not gonna tell my boss about all this, are you?  I mean.  Whatev.  If you want to be all old and cranky and shit, but you got the chicken, right?”

Yeah.  Because calling me old and cranky is exactly how you become my new BFF.

The best part of that conversation was realizing I had mindlessly leaned against a wall of hay.

 

Good times, people.

This entry was posted on Thursday, September 10th, 2009 at 9:49 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.