Whatever your character flaws, they come up in your work, whatever that work may be. I’m terrified of displeasinganyone. I want to get a smile from every customer. In order to do this, I ask too many questions: Would you like vinaigrette also on the lettuce? Can I cut your sandwich in half?
Halfway through my first day, the manager of the sandwich line came up to me. “Would you do me a favor?” he asked, putting a gentle hand on my shoulder. I knew from my experience at Reader’s Digest that if you’re a manager and you want to criticize somebody, you should touch them at the same time. This seems to ground the criticism.
“Sure,” I said.
“Would you please not cut everybody’s sandwich in half? If they ask you to cut it in half, then do that. But don’t offer to cut everybody’s sandwich in half. You’re slowing the line.”
He was right. I knew he was right. The expertness with which I was handled fit neatly with the philosophy of the place. We served excellent food. And we ate the food we served. (Each worker is entitled to a free sandwich and a drink.)
I remember working as a dishwasher years ago. We used to wash the dressing off the salad and serve it again. Seltzer was put in the pastry displays overnight so that “today’s baked goods” stayed damp enough to keep up the illusion. None of this was happening at Cosí.
One day when we’re only moderately busy, I hear somebody say, “Slow G.”
“Who’s that?” I ask.
“Just an expression we use,” I am told.
“What does it mean?” I ask.
“Slow Grandpa,” I am told.
“Is that me?” I ask.
And there is a terrible silence.
“Slow.” That was the word that stuck. I head over to Grand Central, down into the basement and up the escalator. I can’t say for sure if the escalator is running or not. That’s how tired I am. Tired and disheartened.
The next day I try never to pause at the bread board. Always to grab my loaf and move right down the line, cutting it open at another station. As soon as I get a piece of bread, I begin to wave it in the air and call out for the next customer at the top of my lungs. Usually there’s so much other noise going on that you don’t hear yourself, but once there is a lull in which mine is the only voice. I notice. So does everybody else, and at least one person snickers.
It isn’t until the Tuesday of my third week on the job that I make a sandwich you might have taken a picture of. Up until then I’d always thought, “God, I hope nobody opens the bread and sees what a mess I’ve made.” But finally, on day 12, I hit my stride. I am still slow, but I think I see competence off in the distance.
The day I quit, I go down to shake hands with my manager. She is in her office, eating her complimentary Cosí sandwich. We shake hands.
“So, I have to know,” I say. “Has anybody ever been slower?”
There is a pause as she chews her sandwich. She swallows. “Plenty of people are slower,” she says. “A million people are slower.”
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