Sometimes my job world collides with someone else's job world, and sometimes that it adds to both our days in a fun commiserating-laughing-with-a-stranger kind of way. And sometimes, like today, we are both worse off for the interaction. And so, an open letter to the girl and the guy at the over-priced but super tasty Los Angeles hamburger place that we have ordered a staff-wide lunch from a disastrous three times:
Dear Girl and Guy at the Over-Priced But Super Tasty Los Angeles Hamburger Place,
Hey, your hamburgers are really good. Like, very delicious, which is why- despite my warning cries- on the rare occasion that the star of our show comes into the office for more than an hour, he wants to order everyone's lunch from your restaurant. Your tiny little pretentious hamburger restaurant. I thought, naively, that after you refused to put cheese on a burger because it didn't come with cheese on your menu, and wouldn't substitute a turkey patty for a beef one in either of the two hamburgers that our star ordered last time, that my days of listening to you sigh on the phone when I called in a large order for pick up were over. As did I think that my days of calling back and listening to you sigh once again when I listed off the many items that you forgot were also over. Alas, I was wrong.
See, today our star popped into the office and suggested that we order from your restaurant, as if he had completely forgotten the incident a few weeks ago when he yelled at you through me after you refused to put lettuce- which you serve- on a burger- which you also serve- because you said that they cannot be served together. With either no memory of the past, or a wide-eyed optimism that this time things would be different, he placed his order for two hamburgers that apparently- though they are on your menu- you don't serve anymore, and I knew that we were in for a lovely afternoon. Me, you, and all the people I work with who are prone to fits of rage when such things as their non-dairy dressing on the side get screwed up.
So after you told me that the kitchen was going to be "really pissed at you" when I finished telling you which burgers my company would like to exchange several hundred dollars for, I waited a few shocked minutes, and then headed over to pick up our food. Remember when I got there and I asked if I could use an empty counter to take the food out and double check our order? Remember how you looked at me as though I had just asked to use that counter space to drink the blood of your first born? I do. I also remember how you told me that you had already checked, as if pretentious burger place employees never make mistakes, and as if you and your cohorts in particular hadn't already wasted dozens of minutes of my time in return trips for forgotten items.
But, I have to say, that was one delicious burger that I wanted to punch you in the face over. So thanks. And stop being such an a-hole.
Somewhat yours,
K
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