Wednesday, December 4, 2013

I made him a sandwich and never saw him again

In my younger, more foolish years, I was not well-acquainted with hummus. In fact, at the time of this story, I'm not sure I'd even tasted it yet. I did know, however, that it came in a variety of flavors and textures. Also, I had a very stylish white sweater vest with a hood. And with that background, begin.


I was working food service at SUNY Geneseo, making subs. When I arrived for my shift, I noticed we were missing a container from the sub cart, but I couldn't recall what usually filled that spot. I figured if anyone came asking for it, I'd look for a refill.

An hour or so later, a boy came in and asked for a hummus sub. (We counted hummus as a meat substitute; it was spread on about half an inch thick.) That's what we were missing. I explained that I would need to check in back to see if we had any more; he agreed to wait.

I checked where we usually kept it, none there. I knew we had recently switched from a creamy hummus to a grainy hummus, so I asked my manager if it was being kept somewhere else. She suggested taking the container from the salad bar cart, since that was closed for the evening. I grabbed a container, double-checked it with her to ensure it was indeed hummus, and brought it out.

I felt bad, so I put on a bit extra. The boy graciously accepted my apologies for the delay and took his sandwich. Ten minutes later, he was back. I looked up, puzzled.

"Um, hi again. Can I help you?"
"Uh, I don't think that was hummus."
"Oh. What was it?"
"Garlic."

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