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Hard work is no problem, if your boss is an OK dude

Holiday my ass

I didn’t get home until after midnight tonight. Today (yesterday) was maypole day, which is a federal holiday, so not a damn thing was open. But Joey’s was. That means we had a lot of orders. Dude. We had a lot of orders.

On any given evening, we’ll usually have two drivers on mopeds and two with cars. This is the most effective way to deal with orders at varying distances from the shop: if it’s five or more kilometers away, a car driver usually takes it, unless it’s especially busy. Using this system, we can usually keep the que of orders below five. This means that whenever I’m heading out on a delivery, I punch in on the computer that the address has been taken by me, and I see at most five deliveries qued up for when I get back. (Generally there’s maybe one left by the time I’m back, because the other drivers snap them up.)

Tonight, we had at least seven drivers for the entire evening. There were times when eight and nine people were driving. Even with that many drivers, I never saw the que dip below 20 orders. It was absolutely insane.

The guys in the kitchen kept remarkably cool, despite how hectic the day felt, but I find that very typically German. Racing in and out of the kitchen to scoop up a new order or two to deliver, I had to yell to the chefs just a meter or two away from me, because there were so many pans and things banging around.

More deliveries != more tips

I guess I let the business get to me, because I certainly seemed flustered on at least one delivery I did. It was quite away for a moped delivery, but it was ready and I was the first one back to the shop that time, so I took it. The place was nested in a maze of one-way streets, making getting to it an absolute bitch. It was also around 7pm, near the university district, meaning the sidewalks were packed and I couldn’t hop up onto them and cruise around ignoring traffic laws.

When I finally did find the building, which I’d passed back and forth several times while walking on the sidewalk, because the street address plaque was completely obscured by construction scaffolding, I rang the dude on the top floor and then took a quick nap in the elevator on the way up.

The guy answers the door, speaks very competent German, but with an American accent I can hear clear as day. I ask him, in English, “So, where are you from?” And he smiles and says, “New York.” When I tell him I’m from Philly, he’s practically ecstatic in disbelief, and we chat for awhile about what he’s doing in Germany. Not wanting to overstay my welcome, and not wanting to let that que of orders back at the shop get any longer, I bid him adieu and head out.

Back at the shop, I scoop up a new order, but get stopped by the boss.

“Were you just at [such-and-such an address]”?
“Yup, that was me.”
“The guy just called and says you didn’t give him any change back.”
“I didn’t?”
“He says he gave you a 50.”
“He did? I don’t really remember that.”
“He also says you forgot the cigarettes.”

At this point I tap my coat pocket and, feeling that they’re gone, declare that I definitely gave them to the guy, because I’d totally put them in that pocket before leaving. So if I don’t have them anymore… that means I gave them to him. Right? Right??

So now I have to drive back there, obviously, and give this guy €25. What a jerk, right? This only sucks because if he really doesn’t have the cigarettes, that means I’m out €4, which is like 10 deliveries’ worth of tips. Damn!

On the drive back, see the pack of cigarettes lying in the road, hopelessly flattened by the wheels of many passing BMWs. I circled around and scooped up the pack in a lull in the traffic. (I parked the moped at the curb and walked over to get them, so don’t picture me rocketing down Türkenstrasse and snatching them up off the ground while moving, all Legolas style or something.

So I did lose €4 on that delivery, but the dude was kind enough to tip me €2 for coming the whole way back. Still, €2 seems a little stingy for an American.

Greatest boss in the world

The night was long and arduous. By the time we closed at 11pm, we hadn’t even begun the after-hours work, which basically consists of scrubbing down every surface in the place. But fortunately with so many drivers on, we were able to split up the load and knock everything out in a very short amount of time. Then the fun began.

There is a 10:30pm deadline for employee orders. Usually each driver will take a pizza home with them after the shift, as we get 75% off. Tonight, as I was running between deliveries, I noticed the clock at 10:32pm and shouted an order before running out the door. The guys in the kitchen heard me fine, and yelled back, approximately, “No. No fucking way.” I was starving by this point and argued right away. I said, again approximately, “Dude, I don’t care if you’re busy. Just make me a damn pizza, because I am not going home without having eaten.”

One of the kitchen guys calls me over, tells me to set down the pizzas I’m carrying and take off my helmet (it was so busy, I didn’t even take my helmet off coming in and out of the place). He then leads me over to the back wall, and points to a sheet of paper taped up there. At the top of the sheet, it says “McD List.” He tells me that they in the kitchen are so freaking sick of pizza today, that there won’t be any employee orders. So I should write down what I want from McDonalds, and they’ll send someone over to pick it up for me.

I really wanted an Odin Pizza, but I understood the situation and wrote something down. I did my last run, came back and helped clean up, and by the time it was all over, the food had arrived.

The lot of us sat out in the restaurant area and pigged out. I’d just gotten my tips settled, so I pulled out my cash and asked how we were going to settle everything. I’d come a bit late to the table, so I wasn’t sure what was up, whether we had separate receipts for each order, or what. The guys at the table just yelled over to Ben, the boss, “Thanks, boss!”

I look over at Ben. He looks at me steadily, hoping I’ll understand. I kind of do, but the American and Catholic parts of me are screaming to pay someone. He waves me off, and says, “Fuck that. Just eat up.” I laugh and sit down with everyone else, take a huge bite out of my Big Mac, and shout “Thanks, boss!” Everyone laughs and echos the sentiment, yet again.

Ben laughs, too, still at the computer settling the records for the day, then says, “Go grab a beer, you bastard. On the house. Everything’s on the house tonight.”

So I did.

It is amazing how much a free burger and a beer does for employee gratitude. I want to work for these people now.

The other day, Alex came in during the daytime shift to check his hours for the week, and Ben asked whether he could fill in for someone in the evening. Alex had been looking forward to having the night off, but money is money, and favors are favors, so he said that he would. That night, at about 9pm, when things were starting to calm down, Ben sent him home, made him a pizza himself, and didn’t charge him for it.

It’s all about the little things in life. (Although I hestitate to dub anything as epic as an Odin Pizza “little.”)