Wednesday, April 28, 2010
A big thank you
Thank you to all those friends who found the time to nominate me for Australian Country Style magazines Country Chef of the year. It's with great excitement that I learned that the magazine had chosen me to be this years winner. Its a great time for me personally & also for the fabulous team I have a the Red Velvet Lounge who include Jenna, Ben, Sally, Shell, Cat, Sarah, Jess, Imke, Penny, Ben, Lewis, Kira & Em-well done all of you & thanks as always for your efforts.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Do I look too critical in this?
Have you ever had to really honest about the quality of the food you have just consumed & let the person responsible know that it wasn’t very good at all?
When you stop and think about this on the surface it seems a very simple premise.
You eat a meal, it’s no good for various reasons & you pass on the criticism as you see it.
But what if tears well up in the person eyes? What if they look like they are about to explode with fury? Or what if they just blink at you indifferently?
I would suggest that with each reaction we would all probably tailor our next response accordingly. After all, it would be a pretty callous person that doesn’t take into consideration someone’s feelings when offering critical advice. But by sugar coating it, do you lose the thrust of the message, or is the only way to bludgeon them into the realization that it was crap?
Over the years I have experienced the ‘bludgeon’ method more times than I would like & embarrassingly, more times than I have admitted, until today.
At the time, it is an awful experience, one of the worst I have ever endured & has left me feeling humiliated at times. But with the passing of time, the message at the core of the criticism resonated long after the way it was delivered has dissipated.
In my role within a large restaurant group years ago I once had the unenviable task of having to critique a range of meals that the head chef of one of the restaurants had devised. The management & the owner were all very reluctant to openly speak about their misgivings of the food as this chef had a fine pedigree and they never dealt directly with any issues, but thats another story.
Sadly though, the menu in this instance was seriously not up the standards of which he had once earned his impressive reputation. In fact, I felt he had taken the job within the organization solely for the generous salary and was slumming it with us until a position more worthy became available elsewhere.
The day arrived and we were assembled in the dining room until a precession of indifferent dishes made their way to our stunned table. I glanced over to the kitchen a few times to see him glowering at us, his jaw set in steely determination as we tasted each plate. The food was not very good at all and I felt very sorry for him at what was to follow. Overcooked this, undercooked that, in one case completely sour tasting, read ‘off’ ingredient. Shabbily conceived & hastily banged together dishes which reeked of negligence. In short, a disaster.
Was this what happens I thought, scaffolding this sorry scenario onto my own occupation in a moment of self doubt? You strive your entire career, honing your skills, studying the disciplines of the kitchen, enjoying some successes until inexplicably, somewhere you lose your way & find yourself having your food critiqued by a management group that doesn’t quite know what to say to you-only that they aren’t happy.
Cue me, newly appointed Mr Fix it, or rather cynically as I was to learn later, Mr-get-your-hands-dirty-cause-we’re-not-prepared-to.
We sit around the table making awkward small talk until he ambles over from the kitchen & sits down, breezily gesturing that it was good to get this over with. In my minds eye, I imagine myself purposefully loading bullets into the chamber of a pistol as he chats away oblivious.
The eyes of the owner & management come to rest on me & I catch one of them give the merest hint of a nod before I brandish my observations & pull the metaphorical trigger, telling him what I thought of the food.
He is totally shocked & it rattles me a bit to see such an industry heavy hitter flounder so, regaining my composure, I pull the hammer back and discharge again.
This time his reaction is of defensive anger, reeling at his flesh wound he begins to counter attack & calls not only mine but the entire credibility of the organisation into question.
Calmly I reload a third time, aim and release the ammo. This time it stops him, deflating before us into a pool of knowing remorse, giving up the fight that he knew would eventually come.
Why did it have to come to this I thought as he walked away dejected? He must have known what he was serving wasn’t up to par?
It wasn’t a pleasant experience and one I would handle differently today however some things need to made very clear in order to make speedy and effective change. Even if this is done in the gentlest of ways, people still get their feelings hurt because most of us are either ill prepared top accept criticism or not prepared to give it directly. My conclusion: sometimes its better just to be upfront about these things and get it over with. You might disagree.
Fast forward a couple of years & I found myself in exactly the same situation as the chef in question, having to face some hefty criticism about my proposed menus. Big difference was that I wasn’t slumming, nor had I taken a job just for money alone and most importantly, I believed that I had concieved a good menu of dishes.
I had to cook my menu for a panel of assembled people who in turn dissected and critiqued. The info was then passed on to me to make the desired changes.
After getting over the initial shock of this I just accepted it. A few menus & months later I decide to challenge the criticism on day.
I came out to the table & felt myself becoming anxious, all of my muscles straining with tension not because I knew I had done anything wrong, quite the contrary, I thought I was on the very right track.
However it wasn’t quite the bloodletting I had anticipated with the mood buoyantly bobbing along nicely, relieving me somewhat but ultimately giving me a false sense of security.
One guest stated that he would not have plated the dish the way that I had. He also said that he would have omitted that ingredient & substituted it with this ingredient and added another ingredient altogether. All eyes at the table moved from him over to me.
For a moment I didn’t know what to say & the words hung in the air and seemed to expand like helium balloons in unison with the response that was formulating in my brain, both threatening to explode.
Then it struck me. He’s right! He wouldn’t have done it the way I would, if he had, we would both be presenting the same dish. What he was suggesting however was not even a similar dish to mine but an entirely different one-kind of like calling grilled fish & boiled potatoes, steak and chips.
I turned to him & pointed this out & then reminded him that the culmination of this particular dish has come about after much consideration, testing, was entirely my concoction and shaped by my hands & I think the dish is fine just the way it is thankyou. All eyes at the table then moved from me to him.
‘Well’, he said, ‘since you put it that way, I guess the dish IS fine the way it is.’
And in this case, it was!
When you stop and think about this on the surface it seems a very simple premise.
You eat a meal, it’s no good for various reasons & you pass on the criticism as you see it.
But what if tears well up in the person eyes? What if they look like they are about to explode with fury? Or what if they just blink at you indifferently?
I would suggest that with each reaction we would all probably tailor our next response accordingly. After all, it would be a pretty callous person that doesn’t take into consideration someone’s feelings when offering critical advice. But by sugar coating it, do you lose the thrust of the message, or is the only way to bludgeon them into the realization that it was crap?
Over the years I have experienced the ‘bludgeon’ method more times than I would like & embarrassingly, more times than I have admitted, until today.
At the time, it is an awful experience, one of the worst I have ever endured & has left me feeling humiliated at times. But with the passing of time, the message at the core of the criticism resonated long after the way it was delivered has dissipated.
In my role within a large restaurant group years ago I once had the unenviable task of having to critique a range of meals that the head chef of one of the restaurants had devised. The management & the owner were all very reluctant to openly speak about their misgivings of the food as this chef had a fine pedigree and they never dealt directly with any issues, but thats another story.
Sadly though, the menu in this instance was seriously not up the standards of which he had once earned his impressive reputation. In fact, I felt he had taken the job within the organization solely for the generous salary and was slumming it with us until a position more worthy became available elsewhere.
The day arrived and we were assembled in the dining room until a precession of indifferent dishes made their way to our stunned table. I glanced over to the kitchen a few times to see him glowering at us, his jaw set in steely determination as we tasted each plate. The food was not very good at all and I felt very sorry for him at what was to follow. Overcooked this, undercooked that, in one case completely sour tasting, read ‘off’ ingredient. Shabbily conceived & hastily banged together dishes which reeked of negligence. In short, a disaster.
Was this what happens I thought, scaffolding this sorry scenario onto my own occupation in a moment of self doubt? You strive your entire career, honing your skills, studying the disciplines of the kitchen, enjoying some successes until inexplicably, somewhere you lose your way & find yourself having your food critiqued by a management group that doesn’t quite know what to say to you-only that they aren’t happy.
Cue me, newly appointed Mr Fix it, or rather cynically as I was to learn later, Mr-get-your-hands-dirty-cause-we’re-not-prepared-to.
We sit around the table making awkward small talk until he ambles over from the kitchen & sits down, breezily gesturing that it was good to get this over with. In my minds eye, I imagine myself purposefully loading bullets into the chamber of a pistol as he chats away oblivious.
The eyes of the owner & management come to rest on me & I catch one of them give the merest hint of a nod before I brandish my observations & pull the metaphorical trigger, telling him what I thought of the food.
He is totally shocked & it rattles me a bit to see such an industry heavy hitter flounder so, regaining my composure, I pull the hammer back and discharge again.
This time his reaction is of defensive anger, reeling at his flesh wound he begins to counter attack & calls not only mine but the entire credibility of the organisation into question.
Calmly I reload a third time, aim and release the ammo. This time it stops him, deflating before us into a pool of knowing remorse, giving up the fight that he knew would eventually come.
Why did it have to come to this I thought as he walked away dejected? He must have known what he was serving wasn’t up to par?
It wasn’t a pleasant experience and one I would handle differently today however some things need to made very clear in order to make speedy and effective change. Even if this is done in the gentlest of ways, people still get their feelings hurt because most of us are either ill prepared top accept criticism or not prepared to give it directly. My conclusion: sometimes its better just to be upfront about these things and get it over with. You might disagree.
Fast forward a couple of years & I found myself in exactly the same situation as the chef in question, having to face some hefty criticism about my proposed menus. Big difference was that I wasn’t slumming, nor had I taken a job just for money alone and most importantly, I believed that I had concieved a good menu of dishes.
I had to cook my menu for a panel of assembled people who in turn dissected and critiqued. The info was then passed on to me to make the desired changes.
After getting over the initial shock of this I just accepted it. A few menus & months later I decide to challenge the criticism on day.
I came out to the table & felt myself becoming anxious, all of my muscles straining with tension not because I knew I had done anything wrong, quite the contrary, I thought I was on the very right track.
However it wasn’t quite the bloodletting I had anticipated with the mood buoyantly bobbing along nicely, relieving me somewhat but ultimately giving me a false sense of security.
One guest stated that he would not have plated the dish the way that I had. He also said that he would have omitted that ingredient & substituted it with this ingredient and added another ingredient altogether. All eyes at the table moved from him over to me.
For a moment I didn’t know what to say & the words hung in the air and seemed to expand like helium balloons in unison with the response that was formulating in my brain, both threatening to explode.
Then it struck me. He’s right! He wouldn’t have done it the way I would, if he had, we would both be presenting the same dish. What he was suggesting however was not even a similar dish to mine but an entirely different one-kind of like calling grilled fish & boiled potatoes, steak and chips.
I turned to him & pointed this out & then reminded him that the culmination of this particular dish has come about after much consideration, testing, was entirely my concoction and shaped by my hands & I think the dish is fine just the way it is thankyou. All eyes at the table then moved from me to him.
‘Well’, he said, ‘since you put it that way, I guess the dish IS fine the way it is.’
And in this case, it was!
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Food as reward-the slippery slope
For a great deal of us, food, or at least the promise of it, is seen & accepted as a reward of some kind. This is not unlike the stories from people that I know who have spent times in the armed services or AFL footy teams where alcohol is routinely doled out as certain milestones are achieved or marks on one’s metaphorical belt are notched.
As a new parent I grappled with this notion regularly when fatigued by my parental duties & witnessing firsthand the disintegration of my beloved wife’s mind & body due to the crushing regimen of rearing kids.
Occasionally, like a trapped spy, I was broken, defeated & like a blathering mess I caved, choked & shamefully gave up the noble fight.
It started one day in, you guessed it, the supermarket.
Like many metropolitan big box grocers, this one had the requisite hundred check outs & as is custom, only three were staffed. The snaking queues waiting to make purchase writhed from foot to foot, hip to hip gaining considerable agitation as each transaction made no incremental decrease from its head to its tail.
Then like an archaic prophecy, disaster struck. Every small child & toddler swathed in the neon light of the building began to show signs of a mass hysteria that only parents can understand & like dogs attuned to the higher frequencies, we become alert & our senses sharpen.
Witching Hour was upon us.
For the uninitiated, Witching Hour is a time nearing dinner time, when small children weary from a day’s activity and often hungry, display an uncanny resemblance to Linda Blair’s character in the Exorcist.
Translation: Witching Hour is not a lot of fun-for any living person in the immediate vicinity.
So after waiting my turn & finally reaching the Nirvana of the checkout despite having three wailing & flailing chilluns & trying to smile benignly against the glowering stares of judgmental septuagenarians I found that after unloading my Humvee of packages that the aisle was in fact closed.
‘Closed?’ I mouthed loud enough for one of the check out chicks to over hear, the corners of my lips quivering, the word sounding to my ears as if in a vacuum.
In the eye of this maelstrom my children were suddenly washed over with a hushed reverie of an all knowing, higher learning, collective quantum leap of human evolution. As they age specifically became aware of their advantageous position, being 2 4 & 6 respectively, the pester power of their demands became an irresistible and unmovable force.
Before my brain melted my survival instinct kicked in from the very depths of my being and from somewhere my guardian angel shined down on me.
The salve that soothed this mêlée came in the form of three talismans, known as Caramelo Koalas.
As a cooling hush reigned down, my groceries were processed and I was aware of the beeping of the scanner and soon we were in the car, on the way home.
Thanks be thy to ye good God Cadbury.
But I had been forever changed. I was now forged like the hammering of Damascus steel, into a new element, one that could be bent and shaped by circumstance and the fear of pester power.
I had crossed over to the dark side of: Food as reward!
Cue the thunder & lightning & Cut! It’s a wrap!
As a new parent I grappled with this notion regularly when fatigued by my parental duties & witnessing firsthand the disintegration of my beloved wife’s mind & body due to the crushing regimen of rearing kids.
Occasionally, like a trapped spy, I was broken, defeated & like a blathering mess I caved, choked & shamefully gave up the noble fight.
It started one day in, you guessed it, the supermarket.
Like many metropolitan big box grocers, this one had the requisite hundred check outs & as is custom, only three were staffed. The snaking queues waiting to make purchase writhed from foot to foot, hip to hip gaining considerable agitation as each transaction made no incremental decrease from its head to its tail.
Then like an archaic prophecy, disaster struck. Every small child & toddler swathed in the neon light of the building began to show signs of a mass hysteria that only parents can understand & like dogs attuned to the higher frequencies, we become alert & our senses sharpen.
Witching Hour was upon us.
For the uninitiated, Witching Hour is a time nearing dinner time, when small children weary from a day’s activity and often hungry, display an uncanny resemblance to Linda Blair’s character in the Exorcist.
Translation: Witching Hour is not a lot of fun-for any living person in the immediate vicinity.
So after waiting my turn & finally reaching the Nirvana of the checkout despite having three wailing & flailing chilluns & trying to smile benignly against the glowering stares of judgmental septuagenarians I found that after unloading my Humvee of packages that the aisle was in fact closed.
‘Closed?’ I mouthed loud enough for one of the check out chicks to over hear, the corners of my lips quivering, the word sounding to my ears as if in a vacuum.
In the eye of this maelstrom my children were suddenly washed over with a hushed reverie of an all knowing, higher learning, collective quantum leap of human evolution. As they age specifically became aware of their advantageous position, being 2 4 & 6 respectively, the pester power of their demands became an irresistible and unmovable force.
Before my brain melted my survival instinct kicked in from the very depths of my being and from somewhere my guardian angel shined down on me.
The salve that soothed this mêlée came in the form of three talismans, known as Caramelo Koalas.
As a cooling hush reigned down, my groceries were processed and I was aware of the beeping of the scanner and soon we were in the car, on the way home.
Thanks be thy to ye good God Cadbury.
But I had been forever changed. I was now forged like the hammering of Damascus steel, into a new element, one that could be bent and shaped by circumstance and the fear of pester power.
I had crossed over to the dark side of: Food as reward!
Cue the thunder & lightning & Cut! It’s a wrap!
Monday, April 19, 2010
Not a big production just little people, little lives.
The outdoor fire was set, a rag tag assemblage of chairs and cushions were strewn around it.
The torches were loaded with new batteries, the house sparkled after a spruce up, curries, fragrant, were bubbling on the hob, the roti bread were resting, relieved that they would be momentarily spared having just sacrificed one of their number.
The puppy barking heralded the arrival of our guests at dusk.
The cat, sensing food and company, slinkily snaked around my feet, purring and raising his chin to be scratched.
The next car arrived and at once the yard seemed to be alive with happy shouty, excited children.
Hugs and kisses were warmly exchanged. The fire was lit, drinks were poured and we all settled into a comfortable familiarity.
Zig zag’s of shaky torch light strobed our faces as if in a bush nightclub, flashing teeth & sparkling eyes.
The magic fairy of friendship had settled amongst us and the stories streamed to the backdrop of the children’s games.
Then it was time to eat, everyone pitching in, scooping rice, ladling curries, tearing at the bread. After second helpings, the eating rhythm slowed and we sat back in our chairs, hands across our bellies.
The laughter rang out in the two small rooms, soaking into each corner, like a happy stain
I imagined this positive energy secreting itself into our walls and making a nest, it made me smile.
Then, the children whooshed past us, like a colourful conga line led outside by the eldest who was dolling out the lollies, behold, a bureaucrat in born!
The conversation became more reflective, insulated from the clamor of the little table.
A sense of melancholy crept into it but was seen off by the announcement of:
Chocolate mousse!
From tea cups, we delicately spooned the rich dessert which was over the top lush, eagerly watched over by the eldest, who had made it.
I was very proud of her.
Soon, the littler ones were yawning, running out of steam and it was time to go.
Belongings were gathered up, glasses drained and chairs were scraped, the sounds of people leaving.
The red tail lights down the driveway, like “little glowing eyes”, the middle one said sleepily as the embers of the fire flashed on and off against the breeze.
We all trundled off to bed.
The dirty dishes and empty bottles lay where they were left, the only evidence of a casual meal with friends.
The torches were loaded with new batteries, the house sparkled after a spruce up, curries, fragrant, were bubbling on the hob, the roti bread were resting, relieved that they would be momentarily spared having just sacrificed one of their number.
The puppy barking heralded the arrival of our guests at dusk.
The cat, sensing food and company, slinkily snaked around my feet, purring and raising his chin to be scratched.
The next car arrived and at once the yard seemed to be alive with happy shouty, excited children.
Hugs and kisses were warmly exchanged. The fire was lit, drinks were poured and we all settled into a comfortable familiarity.
Zig zag’s of shaky torch light strobed our faces as if in a bush nightclub, flashing teeth & sparkling eyes.
The magic fairy of friendship had settled amongst us and the stories streamed to the backdrop of the children’s games.
Then it was time to eat, everyone pitching in, scooping rice, ladling curries, tearing at the bread. After second helpings, the eating rhythm slowed and we sat back in our chairs, hands across our bellies.
The laughter rang out in the two small rooms, soaking into each corner, like a happy stain
I imagined this positive energy secreting itself into our walls and making a nest, it made me smile.
Then, the children whooshed past us, like a colourful conga line led outside by the eldest who was dolling out the lollies, behold, a bureaucrat in born!
The conversation became more reflective, insulated from the clamor of the little table.
A sense of melancholy crept into it but was seen off by the announcement of:
Chocolate mousse!
From tea cups, we delicately spooned the rich dessert which was over the top lush, eagerly watched over by the eldest, who had made it.
I was very proud of her.
Soon, the littler ones were yawning, running out of steam and it was time to go.
Belongings were gathered up, glasses drained and chairs were scraped, the sounds of people leaving.
The red tail lights down the driveway, like “little glowing eyes”, the middle one said sleepily as the embers of the fire flashed on and off against the breeze.
We all trundled off to bed.
The dirty dishes and empty bottles lay where they were left, the only evidence of a casual meal with friends.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Wednesday, April 07, 2010
Reincarnated as a Food Rep
What fresh Hell is this?
Being a believer of sorts in reincarnation, I mean why not? We are driven by some sort of ‘energy’ & to think that this ‘energy’ simply dissipates when we shuffle off this mortal coil doesn’t make sense. Especially when we know that the elements are not finite, like water, what there is, there is. It’s with this logic that I observe that there must be a whole lot of this energy being re-morphed into a dizzying array of entities both inert & well, err, not inert.
I often joke with my spawn that when it’s my turn to come back, if I’ve got anything to do with the decision, it will be as something annoying & true to my nature, something like Head lice would make sense. My kids are unanimous in their agreement.
Truth be known, the worst fate that could be doled out to me would to come back as a sales rep for a big food multi.
No disrespect to those that knock on the doors of hospitality businesses throughout the land, I’m sure many of you find elements of the job rewarding.
However to me, the thought of peddling these wares for a living fills me with dread.
Probably due to the spicy foods I ate for dinner the night before & in the darkest hours before dawn, my reoccurring nightmare unfolds with Groundhog Day repetition.
I am wearing an ill fitting sparkly suit, pointy shoes & blonde tips in my fashionably scruffy hairdo. My tight trousers belt strains against my protruding belly rather like a tourniquet (Maybe this is not a dream/nightmare?) & I clutch a folder filled with freshly minted colourful flyers of food specials.
I enter the establishment right as the clock chimes ‘Lunch service’. All of a sudden I am aware that several hundred pairs of vaguely familiar eyes are peering at me with the disdain for those who have forgotten that you never talk to the kitchen during this time, a disdain usually reserved for food reps that usually start every conversation by stating: ‘I used to be a chef’, cue the rolling of eyes for anyone who hears it.
Those familiar eyes then morph into every work experience kid, first year apprentice or trainee that I have met. I usually wake up twitching & sweaty at this point.
My wife, well versed in this, at times, nightly saga, has learnt just to kick at me with her legs, without actually fully waking. I think it’s her way of showing empathy.
Interestingly though, some fact about reps are worth considering.
Why, for instance do many of them insist on coming in during service?
Why also, do many of them drop in unannounced & then get shirty when you can’t spare a moment to regard their new Panko-breadcrumb-entombed-chicken-Wingding special & whistle appreciatively at its competitive price?
Also, while I’m on it, why do some of them think that I will drop a valued supplier just because they have undercut them by a few bob? Do they think I’m a mercenary or something, does loyalty count for nada these days?
Finally it makes me curious when I am asked if I would be interested in purchasing a pallet of beer batter pre mix, that my business is lumped in with the broad church of operators that make up the client list of some of them.
I get fatigued at times from saying: ‘Oh I wouldn’t buy that, we make that here’ or ‘No thanks, I make my own’. Often these are met with a quizzical, almost school Master-ish & mildly disapproving look over their ordering clipboards.
I’m happy to admit that the words “We make it here” spoken frequently in our workplace, might be as annoyingly repetitive to those poor reps as my nightmares are to me. Maybe thats just my 'annoying' personality trait coming out & maybe it could be why I'm to be forever haunted by those nasty dreams? What goes around, as they say, comes around.
Being a believer of sorts in reincarnation, I mean why not? We are driven by some sort of ‘energy’ & to think that this ‘energy’ simply dissipates when we shuffle off this mortal coil doesn’t make sense. Especially when we know that the elements are not finite, like water, what there is, there is. It’s with this logic that I observe that there must be a whole lot of this energy being re-morphed into a dizzying array of entities both inert & well, err, not inert.
I often joke with my spawn that when it’s my turn to come back, if I’ve got anything to do with the decision, it will be as something annoying & true to my nature, something like Head lice would make sense. My kids are unanimous in their agreement.
Truth be known, the worst fate that could be doled out to me would to come back as a sales rep for a big food multi.
No disrespect to those that knock on the doors of hospitality businesses throughout the land, I’m sure many of you find elements of the job rewarding.
However to me, the thought of peddling these wares for a living fills me with dread.
Probably due to the spicy foods I ate for dinner the night before & in the darkest hours before dawn, my reoccurring nightmare unfolds with Groundhog Day repetition.
I am wearing an ill fitting sparkly suit, pointy shoes & blonde tips in my fashionably scruffy hairdo. My tight trousers belt strains against my protruding belly rather like a tourniquet (Maybe this is not a dream/nightmare?) & I clutch a folder filled with freshly minted colourful flyers of food specials.
I enter the establishment right as the clock chimes ‘Lunch service’. All of a sudden I am aware that several hundred pairs of vaguely familiar eyes are peering at me with the disdain for those who have forgotten that you never talk to the kitchen during this time, a disdain usually reserved for food reps that usually start every conversation by stating: ‘I used to be a chef’, cue the rolling of eyes for anyone who hears it.
Those familiar eyes then morph into every work experience kid, first year apprentice or trainee that I have met. I usually wake up twitching & sweaty at this point.
My wife, well versed in this, at times, nightly saga, has learnt just to kick at me with her legs, without actually fully waking. I think it’s her way of showing empathy.
Interestingly though, some fact about reps are worth considering.
Why, for instance do many of them insist on coming in during service?
Why also, do many of them drop in unannounced & then get shirty when you can’t spare a moment to regard their new Panko-breadcrumb-entombed-chicken-Wingding special & whistle appreciatively at its competitive price?
Also, while I’m on it, why do some of them think that I will drop a valued supplier just because they have undercut them by a few bob? Do they think I’m a mercenary or something, does loyalty count for nada these days?
Finally it makes me curious when I am asked if I would be interested in purchasing a pallet of beer batter pre mix, that my business is lumped in with the broad church of operators that make up the client list of some of them.
I get fatigued at times from saying: ‘Oh I wouldn’t buy that, we make that here’ or ‘No thanks, I make my own’. Often these are met with a quizzical, almost school Master-ish & mildly disapproving look over their ordering clipboards.
I’m happy to admit that the words “We make it here” spoken frequently in our workplace, might be as annoyingly repetitive to those poor reps as my nightmares are to me. Maybe thats just my 'annoying' personality trait coming out & maybe it could be why I'm to be forever haunted by those nasty dreams? What goes around, as they say, comes around.
Thursday, April 01, 2010
Positions vacant redux
Hi all.The Red Velvet Lounge needs a skilled, passionate chef or cook to work Frid & Sat evenings from 3pm to about 11pm & Wednesday day shift. The job may evolve into a couple more shifts but that depends on the person. Its an exciting opportunity for the right person & living in Cygnet would be advantageous.
enquiries on 03 6295 0466 or theredvelvetlounge@bigpond.com
enquiries on 03 6295 0466 or theredvelvetlounge@bigpond.com
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