meish dot org: life, unfolding

Waiting for marmite on toast in the deli-from-helli this morning, I was standing next to an old man, who asked for a toasted bagel and a strong cappuccino. He was about 5’3″, wrinkly and pink, in a typically English kind of way, wearing a cravat and a heavy coat, though it was a delicious spring morning for the first time in weeks. He greeted the serving staff (this morning: DishPig and BadCop) amiably and with familiarity. His accent was pure Kensington. They chatted for a while.

Then BadCop asked him if he wanted chocolate sprinkles and he said

“Si, por favor.”

She looked at him twice.

When DishPig handed him the coffee he said

“Gracias”

in a completely Englishman-speaking-foreign accent. Grassy-arse.

DishPig said “I’m not Spanish. I’m Armenian.”

“Oh,” said the man, looking utterly crestfallen.

BadCop gave him his change and he pocketed it, with a concerned expression on his face, thinking, thinking.

And then, as he left the shop, he pipped a cheery “Arrivaderci!”

BadCop rolled her eyes in contempt at his departing figure, and I waited for my breakfast.

Asked for: hummus and roasted vegetable on a brown baguette, no butter.

Got: White buttered baguette. That’s it.

So I had to go back and complain, especially because the latte I asked for was actually dishwater or camel spit or something, as well. So I wait in the queue again, and who do I get to serve me? Bad Cop. Of course.

So after I explained the problem, this is what happened….

Bad Cop: So what you want lady?
Me: ….
[Bad Cop turns away and shouts at the DishPig in Armenian for two minutes]
Bad Cop: What you want lady?
Me: Roasted vegetable and….
Bad Cop: No roasted vegetable lady. What you want?
Me: I’ll have chicken tikka with salad instead
Bad Cop: Which one lady?
Me: Er…chicken tikka?
Bad Cop: Which one lady?
Me: What?
[She points at the solitary dish of chicken tikka in the cold cabinet. There is no Chicken Schnitzel for miles.]
Bad Cop: Chicken Schnitzel?
Me: Chicken Tikka?
Bad Cop: Yes I know, which one lady?
Me: What?
Bad Cop: Which one lady?
[I point to the exact same metal dish of Chicken Tikka, just stuck there looking lonely in the middle of the nearly-empty cabinet]
Bad Cop: Yes lady, yes [in a tone that implies that I am five years old, foreign, deaf and very very stupid]
[She puts it in the empty baguette hands it over. No salad, of course, and she charges me twice.]

So apparently it now appears she has some sort of double vision thing going on as well as the forgetfulness and surrealism that usually make up her personality.

As you may remember, as well as bizarre morning marmite rituals, the Armenian deli around the corner does delicious food, but getting hold of it sometimes requires a surreal transaction with good cop/bad cop staff, and you may not necessarily get what you asked for. Here are a few classic examples from recent personal experience:

Sigh.

The thing is, bad cop seems to only be able to process one conceptual ingredient at a time. Ask for mozarella and avocado on brown and you get cheese and ham on a bagel. She just fixates on the concept of “cheese” and the rest is mere detail. It’s refreshing, if a little…um…surprising, sometimes.

Every lunchtime is an adventure. Who else can claim the same?

The day starts well when it starts with an invigorating blast of Jesus and Mary Chain – their debut single, Upside Down is still a classic, seventeen years after its release.

Woah. Woooooooah. Now I feel really old. That was one of the first singles I ever bought. Gulp.

Anyway, mornings also start well when they start with Marmite on toast and latte from the local caff. Well, at least they start surreally. The people who work there have a sort of Good Cop – Bad Cop thing going on. You go in and depending on who you get serving you, you might be in and out in the time it takes the bread to brown, or it could be a lot longer than that. If you get the Good Cop, you place your order, she prepares it, and then you leave. Simple. Uncomplicated. Straightforward. If you get the Bad Cop, woe betide your hangover – you’re in for a long ride.

The Bad Cop woman snaps, in her thick Armenian accent, “Yes lady, what you want?” As soon as you open your mouth to ask for some Marmite on toast, she turns around and starts ordering the KP around [tangent: I once worked in a kitchen where the KP (Kitchen Porter, for the uninitiated) insisted on being called the Dish Pig]. So you’re stuck there with a half-formed request on your lips, stomach rumbling. A minute later, she turns around and says “Who’s next please? Yes lady?” and then fixes you with a steely glare and says “Bagel with cream cheese?”

“No,” you say, “Mar-”

“Marmalade on Ciabatta?” she growls.

“Er, no…toast with M-”

“Mayonnaise?” she says, already grabbing the catering-sized jar off the shelf.

“Marmite,” you mumble through your hangover “just toast and marmite. And a latte”

“You want brown bread white bread?” she queries, already putting white bread in the toaster and pushing the slot down.

“Yes, white is fine,” you say, resigned to white bread anyway.

She’s not so much Bad Cop as Vague Cop, I suppose.

Then halfway through preparing your toast, she asks the next customer “Yes lady, what you want?” and then ignores her, or leaves your toast cooling on the metal countertop [tangent: what's the name for the beads of moisture left on the counter by hot toast? Toast sweat?] while she goes to beat up the DishPig or make a Bacon and Jelly Bap or whatever. When she returns to your toast, she puts way too much marmite on it (toast should be lovingly caressed by marmite, vegemite, etc, not slathered in it) and then wraps it in greaseproof paper and thrusts it at you saying “fifty-five p, lady”

“Er,” you say, fumbling for change “…and my latte?”

She barks in Armenian at the DishPig, who grudgingly shuffles over to the coffee machine thingy and then promptly makes you a cappuccino, with extra sugar.

Nothing like a perky start to the day, eh? The fun thing is that I get to do this every single morning and although Bad/Vague Cop recognises me every day, and will happily make conversation about what I was wearing three weeks ago last tuesday, or the bloke with the nice tie who I took there for lunch last June, she refuses blindly to apply that same photographic knowledge to my order, which is the same every single morning without fail, and has been for the last eighteen months, at least.

Marmite. Toast. Brown bread. Latte. No sugar. �1.95. I even have the right change ready. Sigh.

Woman in fur coat outside Armenian sandwich shop: (alone and loudly, to her small dog, on a lead)

“…of course when she’s on her way to lunch, she runs twice as fast as him.”

I think my brain has finally reached total capacity.

I went to the sandwich shop across the road, and when the counter assistant asked what I wanted, I blurted out my network password.

Then I went to the vending machine back in the office to get a can of diet coke, and put in my money followed by my ATM pin number.

And I just answered the phone saying “phone.”

My head hurts.