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. :)
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