The newest thing that pisses me off about work and, ensuingly, about our nonstop comparisons to Chipotle, is that our “cold table” starts with cheese and ends with sour cream (or guacamole, but that’s extra). That means that when I say “Would you like cheese?” and you say “Yeah, cheese and sour cream” you’re skipping the salsas. I don’t care that their dairy shit is all in the same place–ours isn’t. Yes, we can go back and do salsas, but by then, you’ve fucked up the process sufficiently that I can’t tell you what kinds of salsas we have, and you’re left doing the reach-over. Sticking your hand, which is just dripping with dead skin flakes and parasites, dangling inches over our salsas so that I know exactly which one you’re pointing at when you say “what’s that one there?” It isn’t like we tilt the glass covering our germ-free salsas towards us in a manner to dissuade you from infecting our food with poo particles and flesh-eating bacteria. Oh, wait, we do. But you aren’t deterred. You want cheese, but you also want sour cream. And while I’m spreading out the sour cream, you want to point at salsas.
You not-paying-attention motherfucker.
And while I’m at it, we have four fucking kinds of salsa. Don’t come up and say “Yeah, I want cheese, sour cream, and salsa.” We have four kinds of salsa, and some fuckers want to look at our pico de gallo and call that salsa, and some of you want to look at the mild ancho and call it salsa (no one’s confused by the roasted corn salsa, though. You say “corn” and I know exactly what you’re talking about. Even though there’s onions, green bell peppers, jalapenos, and cilantro in it, too, making it more of a salsa. But not a relish. Stop fucking saying “corn relish”). I’m perfectly fine with people saying “tomatoes” in stead of “pico” at this point, because people say “tomatoes” and I’ve accepted that. But when you say “salsa” I want to stick our dehydrated hot peppers up your nose.
Oh, and I got promoted to “shift supervisor”. Woo woo.
