On tournament days, it feels like the beer cart can never come around enough for the golfers. It takes roughly 35 minutes to do every cart run, excluding the first 3 holes at my golf course. It is common for golfers to try and order from across a fairway in order to be met twice in one run. The landscape architect must have kept thirsty golfers in mind while designing our cart paths meandering around the holes. (I blame the same architect for the moguls that almost kept me stranded in my first storm!)
One especially cold, rainy tournament in 2009, Mr. P and his group were ready for a beer on hole 4. Because we drive around the course backwards, hole 4 is always the last hole we cart-girls visit. However, while driving on the cart path along the fairway of hole 8 it is possible for golfers on hole 4 to try and order a beer from across the rough. On any other day I would have been happy to hop off the cart the fight my way through the weeds to hand Mr. P. his Stella Artois but on tournament days we try to be extra structured in our cart runs in order to be extra efficient. When Mr. P. shouted in the wind for his Stella I told him that I would be back in 5 minutes to which he doubted. He was very familiar with the course, but still bet against my return by hole 5 in my time frame. He still insisted on his Stella now, but I decided to make things a little more interesting. I told Mr. P. that if I didn't serve him his beer in 5 minutes then I would pay for it. He agreed to this and I hopped on the cart as fast as I could so that I didn't have to be down $6.25. I rounded the tee of hole 8, hoping that they would wave me by, but of course not! I served the foursome a beer each, a couple chocolate bars, chips and sandwiches and then took my time to make sure my adding was correct in my mind, all the meanwhile stressing over the ticking timer hanging over my head. In my imagination, I could see Mr. P. glancing at his watch and anticipating a late return. I was determined to win!
With the pedal to the floor I raced (I use the word "raced" loosely) along the fairway of hole 7, reaching the tee-block in good time. Again, I try to seem cool while I rushed through their order while the golfers politely make slow and long small talk. As one may gather, I am a fairly chatty person myself (hence my nickname, Kathy) so I naturally chatted back. Luckily I speak at mach speed when necessary so when I responded to the friendly group, they looked at me rather dumbfounded as I watched them translate my quick words into a more appropriately spoken English. I hopped onto the cart once more and sped around the rounded cart path to the green of hole 6, one group of golfers away from Mr. P. Time was cutting close, but I still felt as though I had a chance, just so long as I served the next group quickly. I stopped to ask them what they wanted and they ordered what would take me the longest to prepare: hot apple cider with brandy. Thankfully the apples had already been picked, pressed, packaged and heated, all that was left for me to do was the pour it into the portable coffee cups and add the brandy...simple enough. But keep in mind that our less-than-lovable beer cart wasn't designed to carry coffee urns efficiently. As I fumbled the cups in an attempt to be swift and struggled to pull the urn of cider to the edge of its shelf. Lauren always insisted on measuring the shots of brandy and although I considered skipping this step, I decided that I didn't want to taint the delicious cider with too much or too little brandy (however I'm sure the guests would not complain about an extra ounce or two!) One shot, two shot, three shot four! I have over come my clumsiness now and I served those ciders like a professional! I know at this point that I must have lost my bet with Mr. P. I drove over the hills to find Mr. P. just about the tee off at hole 5. When I stopped the cart, Mr. P. playfully tapped his watch. I handed him his Stella and started to pull out my wallet when he burst into laughter and admitted that he had cheated in our bet. Little did I know at the time that all of those friendly golfers ordering apple ciders were in cahoots with Mr. P! Yes, I had taken just a little over 5 minutes to return to him, but Mr. P. asked his surrounding golfers to try and stall me with tricky orders and chatter before I would reach him. Mr. P. paid for his Stella and continued golfing in the rain and I drove back to the club house to warm up.
Maybe I should have treated Mr. P. to his beer anyways, after all he was the same Mr.P. that pushed me up the hill by hole 14 on a dreadful cold tournament earlier in the season.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Mayo Cyclists
Serving at a golf course is different from serving at a tradition style restaurant in a number of ways. First, at a golf course, much of the serving is outdoors on a power cart in the sunshine, rain, sleet, snow, mini-tornadoes, lightening and then some (of course, the sunshine is preferred by most beer cart girls). Second, you don't usually get to forget about your customers, as they often return, and third, if you want to avoid serving altogether, you can cook. Perhaps the last one isn't true for all golf courses, but thankfully for me it is true at mine.
One afternoon, in my first summer working for the golf course, a large group of cyclists stopped in for lunch while they were passing through the countryside. Lauren and I were serving indoors during a fairly busy lunch hour when each of the men from the cycling group approached the bar to order their fuel. This group, Lauren explained, stops in once or twice every summer and always ordered the same thing. This visit was apparently no exception when each cyclist paid precisely $7.75 for lunch for a grilled chicken sandwich and a water. I was relieved to hear that the group of roughly 10 cyclists ordered a simple item on the list, which called for less running about and efficient timing. I started the orders while Lauren continued serving at the bar. I plopped 10 grilled chicken breasts and 10 buns onto the grill. While the chicken simmered, I had to be speedy with my tomato slicing, a skill which I am still mastering today. (It is harder than in seems to cut a tomato with the same thickeness from top to bottom...or maybe I'm tomato challenged.) After I sliced a tomato and half into 10 pieces I flipped the chicken and prepared the lettuce on the top bun of each set, leaving the bottom piece to toast even more on the grill. It was almost time to feed the hungry cyclists, but not before I added my personal touch: mayo cyclists. I consider myself somewhat of an artist. In the kitchen I enjoy being creative with plate presentation and in this case, that meant using the mayo container carefully to dispense the mayonnaise into a picture of a cyclist. I had finished about 3 of my mayo masterpieces when Lauren came back to the kitchen to check on my progress. Though she seemed amused by my efforts, she suggested the traditional mayo zig-zag for the remaining sandwiches in order to save time. I finished each of the remaining sandwiches and brought them out to the cyclists, who had found a spot on the patio overlooking hole 8. When I placed the first mayo-cyclist-sandwich before the first man, he burst into a delightful chuckle. I found it was necessary to explain to the others in the group that I would have painted the cycling athlete on each of the sandwiches had Lauren not insisted on the time-saving zig-zag. At least a few of the cyclists got to appreciate my handy work.
After this, I made mayo masterpieces my kitchen trademark. Most of the time I made a decorative W.W., the initials of the course for which I worked. On ladies night I would often make a smiley face. If I knew the recipient of my sandwiches, I would often include their name in mayo. In fact, Steve became accustomed to my personalization. He would playfully give the other servers a hard time when his sandwich arrived with the boring (but time efficient) mayo zig-zag.
The next summer I spent on the course, I crossed paths with the same group of cyclists. This time, I had just hopped off the beer cart to find Sarah beginning to prepare the multiple grilled chickens. I popped my head into the dining room to find the cyclists waiting patiently for their favourite W.W. menu item. When I returned to the kitchen, I offered Sarah the next cart run to which she happily agreed. She had become fed up with making lunch orders and wanted a turn in the breeze. Perfect! Now was my chance to revive the mayo cyclists, since Lauren had the afternoon off and could not interfere with my new talent of Pictionary, condiment edition! Following the same old grilled chicken sandwich routine I prepared the meals and then carefully, yet quickly dressed each dish with its own mayonnaise cyclist. I carried out the sandwiches to the table of cyclists and placed the plate in front of the first guest. He glanced at his plate and this time, his chuckle had matured into a full roar of laughter. It appeared that he had remembered me too! Once I had delivered all of the sandwiches I stayed to chat for a moment or two with the group. They told me that they tell the mayo cyclist story wherever they go, including Paris, France, where they had participated in a race in the time between our two encounters. It delighted me to discover that my little act of kitchen boredom inspired my table to share it with people half a world away. Maybe by now my mayo cyclists have traveled even further!
This post is dedicated to Mr. F., who is featured in my post "You Know You Work Too Often When...". May you have unlimited lime wedges in Heaven. :)
One afternoon, in my first summer working for the golf course, a large group of cyclists stopped in for lunch while they were passing through the countryside. Lauren and I were serving indoors during a fairly busy lunch hour when each of the men from the cycling group approached the bar to order their fuel. This group, Lauren explained, stops in once or twice every summer and always ordered the same thing. This visit was apparently no exception when each cyclist paid precisely $7.75 for lunch for a grilled chicken sandwich and a water. I was relieved to hear that the group of roughly 10 cyclists ordered a simple item on the list, which called for less running about and efficient timing. I started the orders while Lauren continued serving at the bar. I plopped 10 grilled chicken breasts and 10 buns onto the grill. While the chicken simmered, I had to be speedy with my tomato slicing, a skill which I am still mastering today. (It is harder than in seems to cut a tomato with the same thickeness from top to bottom...or maybe I'm tomato challenged.) After I sliced a tomato and half into 10 pieces I flipped the chicken and prepared the lettuce on the top bun of each set, leaving the bottom piece to toast even more on the grill. It was almost time to feed the hungry cyclists, but not before I added my personal touch: mayo cyclists. I consider myself somewhat of an artist. In the kitchen I enjoy being creative with plate presentation and in this case, that meant using the mayo container carefully to dispense the mayonnaise into a picture of a cyclist. I had finished about 3 of my mayo masterpieces when Lauren came back to the kitchen to check on my progress. Though she seemed amused by my efforts, she suggested the traditional mayo zig-zag for the remaining sandwiches in order to save time. I finished each of the remaining sandwiches and brought them out to the cyclists, who had found a spot on the patio overlooking hole 8. When I placed the first mayo-cyclist-sandwich before the first man, he burst into a delightful chuckle. I found it was necessary to explain to the others in the group that I would have painted the cycling athlete on each of the sandwiches had Lauren not insisted on the time-saving zig-zag. At least a few of the cyclists got to appreciate my handy work.
After this, I made mayo masterpieces my kitchen trademark. Most of the time I made a decorative W.W., the initials of the course for which I worked. On ladies night I would often make a smiley face. If I knew the recipient of my sandwiches, I would often include their name in mayo. In fact, Steve became accustomed to my personalization. He would playfully give the other servers a hard time when his sandwich arrived with the boring (but time efficient) mayo zig-zag.
The next summer I spent on the course, I crossed paths with the same group of cyclists. This time, I had just hopped off the beer cart to find Sarah beginning to prepare the multiple grilled chickens. I popped my head into the dining room to find the cyclists waiting patiently for their favourite W.W. menu item. When I returned to the kitchen, I offered Sarah the next cart run to which she happily agreed. She had become fed up with making lunch orders and wanted a turn in the breeze. Perfect! Now was my chance to revive the mayo cyclists, since Lauren had the afternoon off and could not interfere with my new talent of Pictionary, condiment edition! Following the same old grilled chicken sandwich routine I prepared the meals and then carefully, yet quickly dressed each dish with its own mayonnaise cyclist. I carried out the sandwiches to the table of cyclists and placed the plate in front of the first guest. He glanced at his plate and this time, his chuckle had matured into a full roar of laughter. It appeared that he had remembered me too! Once I had delivered all of the sandwiches I stayed to chat for a moment or two with the group. They told me that they tell the mayo cyclist story wherever they go, including Paris, France, where they had participated in a race in the time between our two encounters. It delighted me to discover that my little act of kitchen boredom inspired my table to share it with people half a world away. Maybe by now my mayo cyclists have traveled even further!
This post is dedicated to Mr. F., who is featured in my post "You Know You Work Too Often When...". May you have unlimited lime wedges in Heaven. :)
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Cart Versus Kathy
The beer cart supplied at the golf course is sub-par (although technically, that would mean a birdie... so let's say it was a triple bogey of a machine!) The poor girl had a vast array of mechanical issues, she was just too far gone. The most common problem was its delay in response to the gas pedal. Instead of moving, the cart often screamed due to a loose belt, which you can imagine irritates concentrating golfers to no end. I don't know how many times golfers refused a drink only to have me stick around for a few more seconds with the pedal to the floor leaving them confused and convinced that I was either deaf or vapid. This cart and I had a number of altercations over the past two summers, including my first beer run alone when I was stopped by a helpful ranger (who I called Johnny Apple Seed) who had spotted my blown tire from a fairway away. Beer Cart-1, Kathy-0. As I drove along I didn't notice due to the bumpy cart path conditions. He drove back to the club house to bring me the spare beer cart and in the meantime I stood on the tee of hole 13 for the first time. I had experienced the delight of bent grass beneath my feet before and I was looking forward to my first beer run alone so I could sneak away from the path on a deserted hole and feel the spongy, smooth grass on my bare toes. Lauren, the food and beverage manager, and I later had laughed about my disappearance. Ever since then I think she doubted my beer cart driving skills. (I wish she had been around on the multiple occasions which called for me to reverse through the winding forest along hole 14!) While I waited for Johnny, I pulled broken tees from the grass and tidied up the cigarette butts. Eventually he returned to rescue me and the two of us loaded the stock from the broken cart into the replacement, which was much speedier than our usual one. On some bumps I could be launched a foot off of the seat (and I begun wearing sports bras).
I am not the only one who had trouble with the beer cart's mechanical problems. Some time during my first summer working at the course the parking brakes on the cart had become disabled. Without a block of wood behind one of the wheels and some strategic wheel turning, the cart was known for rolling away. Unfortunately on one tournament day, Renee parked (or believed she had parked) the cart outside the kitchen to reload it. One member, Mr. L.R., and one of our grounds crew members, Keith, discovered this problem first hand when their cars had been smashed into on two separate occasions from the runaway. On one of my brakeless cart runs, I stopped to serve a guest some Gatorade at the bottom of the hill by the green of hole 9. In order for the cart to stay put, I had the right wheels on the grass beside the fence and the left wheels on the cart path. I finished serving the thirsty golfer and hopped back onto the cart, forgetting that I had turned the wheels full-lock to the right, pointing at the cedar fence that lined the green of hole 9. I pushed the gas pedal and was jolted forward, without enough time to straighten the wheel. (The one time there is no screaming-belt delay into motion!) I had crashed into and over the cedar rail fence and ripped its posts right out of the ground. Beer Cart 2-0, Kathy-0. To my horror, the polite Gatorade drinker witnessed the whole event, but thankfully pretended not to notice. But it wasn't over yet, I still had to reverse over the fence again and return to the cart path. I'm sure at this point I looked as red in the face as a tomato, but there was no time for embarrassment! I needed to flee the scene before anymore witnesses could appear. I reversed over the fence posts and continued my cart run, trying to think of a good lie to tell the ranger when I bumped into him on the course. By hole 6, I stopped the ranger and told him that the fence at hole 9 had been banged up by some reckless cart driver (this wasn't entirely a lie I suppose). He zoomed off to investigate and I was in the clear! When I returned to the club house I was trying to contain my laughter as it must have been quite a show. Tanya from the proshop and my food and beverage colleague Maddy were in the kitchen when I blurted out my confession and we all cracked up. Tanya told me that the ranger was out on the course scouting out a scratched or dented golf cart, but we all agreed to keep my embarrassing accident a secret. I blame it on the brakes! If I could have parked normally, I wouldn't have hit a thing. Lauren's doubts of my driving expertise were illegimate, I swear!
Last summer, on the day of the first tournament of the season, I looked out the window to discover the horrid weather. It was the beginning of May and the rain was being blown horizontally by the freezing wind that shook the trees, and I live in a valley! I could only imagine how windy the golf course would be. Not only were the conditions poor but so was the temperature, I believe it was somewhere in the single digits without windchill. Thankfully I was prepared. My shift began at 2 o'clock and I knew that whoever was on the cart would be dying to have a break as soon as I arrived. I put on my long johns and layered up, anticipating my bones becoming cold and wet. Sure enough, when I arrived I was immediately asked to take over the cart, for which I agreed. Why not? It was an adventure, and after surviving the terrible storm from the summer before I felt invincible! I made my way on the cart to hole 17, where I met Steve, the GM. Looking as miserable as me, he gave me a better pair of mittens to wear for the rest of the cart run than my old softball batting gloves. I served his group hot drinks and continued on my way, at this point, the rain turning into sleet. The poor unreliable beer cart had become tired from her several cart runs already, and I knew that she was having trouble. The first uphill battle wasn't for a few more holes, but I was already worried about it. It was the steepest hill on the course, and even on a clear day, the cart had trouble on it. As I entered the forest by hole 14, I tried my best not to lose any of the speed that I needed to climb the hill. But sure enough, the cart found itself a few inches shy of making it up the hill, screaming from the pain of trying. I tried again after rolling backwards down the hill, but no cigar. Without a radio to call in my trouble, I was left at the bottom of the hill in the forest. Beer Cart -3, Kathy -0 Luckily, a familiar face came to my rescue! Mr. P. was a frequent member of the course and had become one of my favourites over my time working at the course. After being stranded for a few minutes, Mr. P and his fellow golfers pushed the cart up the hill while I sat on the seat steering. They had been to the course often enough to understand the issues our tired, little cart had and it became a laughing matter within minutes. When I returned to the club house, Lauren was not happy. I did finally arrive back a good twenty minutes later than expected, but I ensured her that the cart could not handle another try at the hill. She criticized my driving by claiming that she had no problems with the cart on the run she made without remembering that she had the advantage of making the first beer cart run of the day whereas I was stuck with a cart with its tongue hanging out. In any case, the cart was given a rest and the tournament continued problem free, despite Mother Natures sense of humour, and Lauren and I were able to laugh about it later, without the stress of serving the miserable golfers looming over our heads.
Thanks to Tom, the grounds crew manager, the performance of the beer cart has definitely improved! I'm sure that the beer cart girls will get a better score this summer!
I am not the only one who had trouble with the beer cart's mechanical problems. Some time during my first summer working at the course the parking brakes on the cart had become disabled. Without a block of wood behind one of the wheels and some strategic wheel turning, the cart was known for rolling away. Unfortunately on one tournament day, Renee parked (or believed she had parked) the cart outside the kitchen to reload it. One member, Mr. L.R., and one of our grounds crew members, Keith, discovered this problem first hand when their cars had been smashed into on two separate occasions from the runaway. On one of my brakeless cart runs, I stopped to serve a guest some Gatorade at the bottom of the hill by the green of hole 9. In order for the cart to stay put, I had the right wheels on the grass beside the fence and the left wheels on the cart path. I finished serving the thirsty golfer and hopped back onto the cart, forgetting that I had turned the wheels full-lock to the right, pointing at the cedar fence that lined the green of hole 9. I pushed the gas pedal and was jolted forward, without enough time to straighten the wheel. (The one time there is no screaming-belt delay into motion!) I had crashed into and over the cedar rail fence and ripped its posts right out of the ground. Beer Cart 2-0, Kathy-0. To my horror, the polite Gatorade drinker witnessed the whole event, but thankfully pretended not to notice. But it wasn't over yet, I still had to reverse over the fence again and return to the cart path. I'm sure at this point I looked as red in the face as a tomato, but there was no time for embarrassment! I needed to flee the scene before anymore witnesses could appear. I reversed over the fence posts and continued my cart run, trying to think of a good lie to tell the ranger when I bumped into him on the course. By hole 6, I stopped the ranger and told him that the fence at hole 9 had been banged up by some reckless cart driver (this wasn't entirely a lie I suppose). He zoomed off to investigate and I was in the clear! When I returned to the club house I was trying to contain my laughter as it must have been quite a show. Tanya from the proshop and my food and beverage colleague Maddy were in the kitchen when I blurted out my confession and we all cracked up. Tanya told me that the ranger was out on the course scouting out a scratched or dented golf cart, but we all agreed to keep my embarrassing accident a secret. I blame it on the brakes! If I could have parked normally, I wouldn't have hit a thing. Lauren's doubts of my driving expertise were illegimate, I swear!
Last summer, on the day of the first tournament of the season, I looked out the window to discover the horrid weather. It was the beginning of May and the rain was being blown horizontally by the freezing wind that shook the trees, and I live in a valley! I could only imagine how windy the golf course would be. Not only were the conditions poor but so was the temperature, I believe it was somewhere in the single digits without windchill. Thankfully I was prepared. My shift began at 2 o'clock and I knew that whoever was on the cart would be dying to have a break as soon as I arrived. I put on my long johns and layered up, anticipating my bones becoming cold and wet. Sure enough, when I arrived I was immediately asked to take over the cart, for which I agreed. Why not? It was an adventure, and after surviving the terrible storm from the summer before I felt invincible! I made my way on the cart to hole 17, where I met Steve, the GM. Looking as miserable as me, he gave me a better pair of mittens to wear for the rest of the cart run than my old softball batting gloves. I served his group hot drinks and continued on my way, at this point, the rain turning into sleet. The poor unreliable beer cart had become tired from her several cart runs already, and I knew that she was having trouble. The first uphill battle wasn't for a few more holes, but I was already worried about it. It was the steepest hill on the course, and even on a clear day, the cart had trouble on it. As I entered the forest by hole 14, I tried my best not to lose any of the speed that I needed to climb the hill. But sure enough, the cart found itself a few inches shy of making it up the hill, screaming from the pain of trying. I tried again after rolling backwards down the hill, but no cigar. Without a radio to call in my trouble, I was left at the bottom of the hill in the forest. Beer Cart -3, Kathy -0 Luckily, a familiar face came to my rescue! Mr. P. was a frequent member of the course and had become one of my favourites over my time working at the course. After being stranded for a few minutes, Mr. P and his fellow golfers pushed the cart up the hill while I sat on the seat steering. They had been to the course often enough to understand the issues our tired, little cart had and it became a laughing matter within minutes. When I returned to the club house, Lauren was not happy. I did finally arrive back a good twenty minutes later than expected, but I ensured her that the cart could not handle another try at the hill. She criticized my driving by claiming that she had no problems with the cart on the run she made without remembering that she had the advantage of making the first beer cart run of the day whereas I was stuck with a cart with its tongue hanging out. In any case, the cart was given a rest and the tournament continued problem free, despite Mother Natures sense of humour, and Lauren and I were able to laugh about it later, without the stress of serving the miserable golfers looming over our heads.
Thanks to Tom, the grounds crew manager, the performance of the beer cart has definitely improved! I'm sure that the beer cart girls will get a better score this summer!
Thursday, February 24, 2011
The Love of a Good Woman
As a beer cart girl, there are many things that you have to do to humour the guests. But no one had ever done anything like this before...
Mr. L always liked to entertain himself by making harmless passes at the beer cart girl of the day. One day, I asked him if he needed anything and he replied "just the love of a good woman". I laughed and tried to think of a witty response but ended up telling him that we had unfortunately sold out. For the weeks following, I was trying to think of a better response for Mr. L and couldn't seem to come up with anything. He continued to ask me for the love of a good woman and I continued to tell him that our stock was delayed.
In June, I went up North to visit my roommate. While she gave me the house tour, I was looking casually at her father's library collection. One spine especially caught my attention; "The Love of a Good Woman" a collection of short love stories by Alice Munro. This was the response I was looking for!
When I returned home, I was telling my boyfriend's mother about Mr. L and my idea to give him Munro's book on his next visit to the golf course. The next day, she had bought me the book and I was prepared to hop on the beer cart and give Mr. L exactly what he was asking for.
Later that week, after storing the book on the stocking shelf for a few days, I had seen on the tee-sheet that Mr. L was on the course. I loaded the cart and set the book on the dashboard and searched for Mr. L, hoping that he would say his catch phrase to me. As I was driving past hole 9, he was driving down another path, and I missed him on my route. When I went back to the club house, my manager Lauren, insisted that I go directly to hole 10 to deliver the book. Without restocking the cart, I hopped in and made my way across the parking lot.
I stopped the cart next to Mr. L and his group. I look at him with a grin and said "Can I get you anything?" to which he replied "Just the love of a good woman". Yes! Just what I wanted to hear! "I'm so glad you said that Mr. L" I said as I hopped out, Munro in hand. Mr. L looked very confused as I handed him the novel. He read the author's name out loud and laughed as he found the title. Finally, I was able to give him the love of a good woman.
Mr. L always liked to entertain himself by making harmless passes at the beer cart girl of the day. One day, I asked him if he needed anything and he replied "just the love of a good woman". I laughed and tried to think of a witty response but ended up telling him that we had unfortunately sold out. For the weeks following, I was trying to think of a better response for Mr. L and couldn't seem to come up with anything. He continued to ask me for the love of a good woman and I continued to tell him that our stock was delayed.
In June, I went up North to visit my roommate. While she gave me the house tour, I was looking casually at her father's library collection. One spine especially caught my attention; "The Love of a Good Woman" a collection of short love stories by Alice Munro. This was the response I was looking for!
When I returned home, I was telling my boyfriend's mother about Mr. L and my idea to give him Munro's book on his next visit to the golf course. The next day, she had bought me the book and I was prepared to hop on the beer cart and give Mr. L exactly what he was asking for.
Later that week, after storing the book on the stocking shelf for a few days, I had seen on the tee-sheet that Mr. L was on the course. I loaded the cart and set the book on the dashboard and searched for Mr. L, hoping that he would say his catch phrase to me. As I was driving past hole 9, he was driving down another path, and I missed him on my route. When I went back to the club house, my manager Lauren, insisted that I go directly to hole 10 to deliver the book. Without restocking the cart, I hopped in and made my way across the parking lot.
I stopped the cart next to Mr. L and his group. I look at him with a grin and said "Can I get you anything?" to which he replied "Just the love of a good woman". Yes! Just what I wanted to hear! "I'm so glad you said that Mr. L" I said as I hopped out, Munro in hand. Mr. L looked very confused as I handed him the novel. He read the author's name out loud and laughed as he found the title. Finally, I was able to give him the love of a good woman.
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