Life Lessons Learned at the Barrel

I had breakfast with a friend at the Cracker Barrel the other day. As usual, the second I walked in, all five of my senses simultaneously pulled a gun on my consciousness and forced it against its will to bring up a terrifying mosaic of sights and sounds from when I worked at the Cracker Barrel when I was in college. That I continue to patronize this place is a testament to their amazingly satisfying food.

It's been eleven years since I last removed that cursed brown apron embroidered with my name in yellow cursive and that single blasted star announcing to the world that I had graduated from a sub-human lifeform (no yellow star) to the dung on the bottom of the totem pole on which the management wiped their slip-resistant shoes on the way out the back door to suck down a non-filtered Camel (one yellow star). Ah, yes - those were the days.

My wife and I started working there 3 months after our wedding. We had somehow survived that first quarter with only the income from my minimum-wage part-time job at the school bookstore. As the Hamburger Helper began to dwindle we were faced with the cold realization that we were going to have to get real jobs. A friend from school told us she made good money at the Barrel. We believed her.

If you or anyone you know have information on the whereabouts of a Deana Armistice, email me ASAP. I have a package for her.

It's truly a sad thing that a four-month period of my life continues to haunt me all these years later. I don't believe in psycho-analysis, but it would be interesting to hear what a shrink would make of the recurring dream I have every two or three months in which I find myself at the Cracker Barrel, stressed to the limit and about to pour someone's coffee, when I realize that I'm missing several crucial articles of clothing. The patron of course declines the coffee and I stand there trying to decide what will put my job in the most jeopardy - failing to keep my tables turning or failing to cover up. I always come to the same conclusion and keep my tables turning and burning while neglecting my own personal dignity until I wake up sucking my thumb and my wife shaking me and saying, "Greg, you have clothes on. It's just a dream."

So, I've decided it's high time I found the silver lining on this ominous cloud of evil. To try to get the monkey off my back, I will brainstorm and share with you some of the important lessons I learned while working at the Barrel. My theory is that if I find something beneficial in that experience, I might be able to avoid having night terrors on the eve of my next breakfast appointment. Some of these lessons may seem obvious, but this is all I've got.

1. Never let a crack addict sleep on your couch. I learned this one vicariously. At the Cracker Barrel in Nashville, Tennessee, c.1996, at any one time there were 5-6 employees performing the daily task of finding a place to sleep "just for tonight." One day, a Good Samaritan single mother-of-one said, "yes." While against all odds she and her baby girl woke up the next morning unharmed, she did find that all her tips from the previous day's double shift had vanished, undoubtedly converted into an illegal substance coursing through the veins of her beneficiary, whom she would never see again.

2. In the restaurant business, if you are not addicted to nicotine you will forever be on the outside looking in. The first time I walked into the break room, I instinctively stopped, dropped, and rolled. No one was visible above the chest and yet they were all laughing and yucking it up as if they knew who else was in the room. When I asked if there was a break room for the nonsmokers, I was met with cold silence. I can only guess how many people were giving me the evil eye. Someone said, "This is the break room for the nonsmokers." From that day forward I was treated as a segregationist.

3. When working with illegal aliens, you will need to learn their language in order to get anything done. This was only a temporary setback since my wife took four years of Spanish in high school and taught me the necessary phrases. Only now does it strike me as ironic that I was living in America and learning Spanish so that I could work side-by-side with Hispanics.

4. Tears will get you nowhere in the blue collar world. How I learned this one is not important.

5. Never assume that a broad-shouldered, heavily-muscled individual with a military-short haircut and a name tag reading "Tommy" is a male. And not your boss. Kinda got off on the wrong foot with the general manager. Things went downhill from there. And I'll go ahead and admit she played a crucial role in my learning lesson #4.

6. The notion that a customary tip is 15% is a lie from the bowels of Sheol. A tip is a dollar. If you wait on one person and all that person orders is a sugar packet, a tip is a dollar. If you wait on a party of 20, they take up all your tables for the whole night, and every single one of them orders a t-bone, three 34oz. rootbeers, a chocolate cobbler, and a pound of fudge from the gift shop, a tip is a dollar.

Again, if you or anyone you know have information on the whereabouts of a Deana Armistice, email me ASAP. I have a package for her.

7. The health inspector in Nashville, Tennessee is a blind, deaf-mute sociopath with a nasty disdain for humble countryfolk. A lot of this I've blocked out because the food tastes so good. The World's Fattest Man still haunts me. All I'll say is I never order sweet tea, grits, sugar-cured ham, dumplins, stew, salad, or ketchup at the Barrel. And I never send my food back if the order is wrong. Oh, people, please - trust me, just eat whatever they put in front of you. Please.


My goal is to have ten lessons here, so give me a minute.

Okay.

8. There is no reason on earth to call a locksmith if you lock your keys in your car in the parking lot of a Cracker Barrel. The cooking and dishroom staff have all the tools and skills necessary to get you on your way, regardless of the year, make, and model or any security system you may have installed. This one saved me and my young bride about $50 late one Sunday night. Thanks again, Jesus Gonzalez and Tucker Brown.

9. I'm sorry. I can't think of any more.

There. I feel better. Of course, the real test will be next month when Dave and I meet again for breakfast.