
After a couple of weeks on the job customers wanted to give me tips, but I shyly refused their money since management never mentioned tipping and there was no container. Besides, putting money in my pocket while working felt like stealing. Then one morning, a regular brought me a homemade tip jar, with colorful flowers finely painted on the glass. It was lovely. "You're such a great girl, you should get a little something extra from us." She said with her chin out, smiling. She was a beautiful lady and not just because of her gift. She had a refined quality, a gracefulness, like a retired ballerina. She was tall with long slender arms, a neck like a swans and long grey hair that she twisted into two tight buns at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were like two wild sapphires behind soft folds of ivory skin. I thanked her then asked the owner what she thought about the tip jar. She had never considered the idea of her counter personnel receiving tips and had no problem with it. As long as I remembered to take my tips at the end of my shift. Like a teenager would forget about something like that.
I loved everything about working for La Farine: the French pastries, the breads, the bakers, the customers; it was all special to me. There was something unique about La Farine then, and the customers, which made me feel like I was a part of an extended family. Even though we were located on busy College Ave. near the Oakland/Berkeley boarder, when you walked in you could just as well be in a quaint patisserie off of an obscure street in Paris' Latin Quarter. I think what also attributed to this feel were the old wood and glass display cases, along with a large family-style table, made of oak, which sat in the corner near the windows. It felt homey and welcoming. Customers would sit at that table with their daily pastry, coffee or tea, papers and books, and quietly converse with each other.
After a month I became quite proficient in my duties and to their surprise, I started asking the bakers questions: "Where did you learn to bake?" "How do you make the infamous morning bun?" "How is it the "swiss twinkie" is so crunchy yet it looks just like a small butter croissant?" Many of them only spoke Spanish, and I cursed my step-father for not teaching me, when he spoke it perfectly. Instead they would smiled at me and show me how everything was made. As I watched them, I had the feeling that what they were doing was art. I'd never been to a museum or an art exhibit, and I'd only seen Bob Ross paint pictures on TV (Who can forget The Joy of Painting?). Still, as I watched them kneed the different doughs, cut up green apple for my favorite croissant, or slice and ice a beautiful dark chocolate cake called the Reien de Saba, the cake that would get me fired, I knew this was an art I wanted to learn....
I am in such suspense!!! And I am getting the picture that I need to have a snack with me when I read your blog.. because you describe food too well. :-( How very distressing and "Dickens" of you.
ReplyDelete"Her eyes were like two wild sapphires behind soft folds of ivory skin" - - *this* is perfection.
Thanks for the information, we will add this story to our blog, as we have a audience in this sector that loves reading like this”
ReplyDeleteFood Display Cabinets