Chef Poophead
‘If you’ve ever met a psycho, you’ll know what I mean’.
Poophead was our head chef at Cafe Fig Tree, and God knows why. Poophead had been there for years, and like dead wood everywhere, he believed he was a law unto himself. He never listened to anyone, especially not the people paying his wages. Some people can get away with being dickheads, but the rule is the goods/skills etc you bring to the table has to outweigh the bad/dickheadishness. That’s why Gordon Ramsey is allowed to be a foul-mouthed prick, what he brings to the table outweighs the smattering of C*%#’s that flow from his mouth like water from a fountain cherubs wang. Unfortunately, like X-factor rejects have proven time and time again, the most talentless schlubs are always the most convinced of their uniqueness and giftedness. Poophead was the type of guy who thought being a prick enhanced his aura of specialness, but he lacked any redeeming features to back-up his narcissism and arrogance. Have you ever met a weed smoker who thinks their stoned ramblings make them profound? Poophead was a meth smoker, which is like a weed smoker on well, meth. Poophead was unapproachable and unpredictable. As the managers, Christy and I were both entitled to, and expected to make changes to the menu. We were expected to adjust the menu in response to the changing wants and needs of our customers, and to ensure customer satisfaction by returning any meals they were unhappy with to the kitchen and arranging replacement meals. We were also according to our contracts, entitled to a lunch off the menu during our break. Poophead, did not like to do any unnecessary work, and in his eyes any work was unnecessary, but particularly any work that did not feed his idea of what he was worthy of. Preparing meals for the café managers was one of these tasks he felt was below him. In the tradition of all great passive aggressive he would expend great effort doing the shittiest job possible, far more effort than it would take to just do the fucking job. We suspected he was spitting in our meals, so Christy and I decided to started putting our meals through as customer orders and wiped them from the system later. Once Poophead got wind of the game we were playing, his rage at being denied the chance to spit on our food couldn’t be contained. He reported us to Don, which only made him look more pathetic than he already looked. When your manager has to design elaborate charades just to get you to do your damn job, you rarely receive the sympathy you are expecting to sooth your sense of betrayal. Poophead didn’t scare me, I have met plenty of bullies in my time and as far as bullies go, he was pretty impotent. Spitting is pretty gross, but quite frankly your average pre-schooler eventually moves on from spitting to the really savage stuff like loudly pointing out women’s moustaches so in the scheme of things his methods were pretty stunted. Yes, the kitchen is the Chef’s domain, but if no-one wants the food you cook, you are lording over an imaginary kingdom. Unfortunately, like even the most remedial of pre-schoolers Poophead slowly learned how to be more of a dickhead. Peoples tyres were being slashed and deflated in the parking lot. More specifically Christy and I were finding our cars with flat tyres far too often to be an unlucky coincidence.
