One month in and we’re ok. 
We didn’t know what to expect from Scarborough, so when the lines began to form and stretch toward our front door we were more than surprised.  We were in the weeds.  No time for advertising.  I had this whole plan that we were go from business to business with samples.  That I would blog every day and people would read it and love us and feel like they know us and want to meet us.  But at the end of a three hour rush, while I’m scarfing down lunch- a “mess-up” wrap and half a broken cookie, I can only think about the next twenty minutes. 
About dishes that need washed and tables that are crumby.  About cookies that need baking and tomatoes to be sliced. Everything is so fast, and I love it because we need the business and I hate it because I spend more time bent over a cutting board than interacting with people.  

Today I saw a review online- one of those sites where people can go in and report on their eating experience. He said that our food was bad and we weren’t friendly.  And my heart just dropped out of my chest onto floors that need sweeping.  

"Don’t cry," Rich says, and I wasn’t going to, but my feelings are hurt.  Like when you tell a boy that you have a crush on him and he laughs about it with his friends.  The rejection of some person I don’t even know and will (obviously) never see again stings.  Because I wonder if it’s true.  Maybe our food really is terrible.  Maybe we’re not nice people.  I’m embarrassed for us, and I’m worried that everyone will see this
review.  

I’m scooping giant chocolate chip cookies as my mind gets crazy. They’ll stop coming to our shop, I think to myself, and within a month we’ll end up broke and alone, watching cable TV until they finally disconnect it.  

I don’t know what to do with negative feedback.  It stresses me out.  And, amidst my thoughts of panic and disappointment I hear this quiet voice, one I barely recognize, and I am reminded that each day is new. Each Day.  That all I’m asked to do is the very best that I can.  That we can.  So tonight I’m still a little bit sad.  But I’m not defensive and I’m not defeated.  

It’s raining, and it’s a Saturday.  And other than a small group of friends, most people don’t even know
we’re open.  So it shouldn’t be busy, we remind each other.  It’ll take time for people to realize that we’re here. 
We say this so that we’re not surprised when it’s slow.  So that we don’t get depressed or nervous or start to second guess every decision we made leading to today.  It’s definitely going to be slow, I say.   So when a line builds at 11:30AM and doesn’t let up for three hours, we know another kind of nervousness.  Here’s the thing, and I’m not making excuses for us, but it was our first day here, so… I guess I am making excuses.  We offered fries with each sandwich, because now we have a frialator.  It’s self-enclosed so there’s no need for a hood, a pretty nifty piece, actually.  Except for the fact that it takes 4 minutes to cook fries, and it’s only big enough to cook 2 orders at a time.  So when we’re backed up ten orders, that’s a minimum 20 minute wait… just for French fries.  Our TV isn’t hooked up yet, and the music that is pumping from our laptop to the strategically placed speakers, dies out every time the computer starts to hibernate. Which is every 5 minutes.  And the worst part of it
all is that I’m somehow clueless today.  I stand in the middle of the kitchen looking from side to side, unsure of
what to do. I open paper bags and label wraps, I check the fryer-timer again and again, willing it to go
faster.  But mostly I just avoid eye contact with people who have waited 20 minutes for food.  I wonder where they came from, and how they knew about us.  I wonder if they’ll be back or if they’ll tell their friends to stay away.  


So we go back to the drawing board.  We kill the fry idea, and discover a local kettle-cooked chip company.  We decide to hire someone and within (literal) moments, we are referred to a girl who might just be perfect for the job.  And finally, it’s the end of day one, still raining harder than ever and we sit on bar stools with two cups of soup, our backs to the piles of dishes and disarray behind us.  Rich laughs out loud, and  I know why. 

It's Barely 9AM and temperature outside is reading 90 degrees.  From my battery-operated radio every station is tuned into the weather.  Where it will be hottest.  Where it will be coolest.  What to do.  What not to do.  It's all the same information we hear in January.  Expect then they're talking about ice storms and blizzards. Snow, just the thought of it makes me feel like I've lived another life.  It's hot, there's no doubt about it, and I slurp down bottles of diet Gatorade.  The sweat runs down my eyes, but it doesn't sting.  I lick it off my lip, but it tastes like water.  This must mean something, but I have no idea what.  The day is busy, in a slow kind of way.  Customers take their time ordering and I don't rush to whip out egg sandwiches. 

It must have been quarter to noon when the lights went out.  Nothing dramatic- a deep sigh as the fans slow to a stop and the rattle of refridgeration cuts to silence.  I've just finished making a wrap and he glances at my overhead lights (or lack therof) but says nothing as he waves and leaves.  I move quickly to the power box, convinced that I've blown a fuse.  Or rather, blown all of the fuses.  I know that the refridgerators are working overtime in this heat, and I appreciate their hard work.  And the freezer and the electric grill and the small portable frialator.   Just please, don't quit on me now! I mutter out loud.  Not when it's a hundred degrees out.  Not when I'm counting on you most!  But the switches aren't blown, or maybe they're so blown that it's not even registering on my power box.  Cindy, my sweet landlord stops by and says that she's lost power and have we?  Oh no!  Could it be that I've singlehandedly powered off our take out stand and three entire rental properties?  I'm in the midst of apologizing and planning an emergency rescue for the 12 pounds of (used to be) frozen lobster meat when we notice people spilling out of the surrounding buildings.  The power is out all down the strip.  It wasn't me.  It turns out that I am, in fact, not the source of all energy, (despite my recent elation at several really nice reviews by people who are kinders than we deserve). 

And so, for two hours we operate without electricity.  The line is out to the road (which, for us, means about 5 people) as I make cold wraps and lobster rolls to order.  Working with cash and rounding down prices so that everyone can pay and no one goes hungry.  And people are incredible.  There's no complaining (except for one annoyed man who thought it was "a little strange" that we had no power and I still had on the radio.  I guess his doesn't have batteries).  My customers are worried that I'm going to overheat.  They wait 20 minutes in temperatures that are reading 104 in the shade for wraps that aren't even grilled off.  They're cold, like the deli wraps you'd get at a supermarket.  I'm embarrassed and grateful and we continue this way for a solid two hours until someone mentions to me that there's power again.  There's been power for the last 30 minutes, he says.  Didn'tcha know?  I didn't.  Because in my worry, I had turned the main power switch to off.  We have a laugh as I switch it all back on while Rich pulls up with 160 pounds of ice.  Ice that we no longer need for lobster.  And the final customers pull away as we grab another gatorade and sit on top of the ice, trying to chill out. 

There are so many Canadians in Old Orchard this week.  It's a holiday up north and Canadian currency is strong against the dollar, which explains why the streets are packed with tiny Toyota hatchbacks.  All of them speak French, some of them English.  And it's hard for me because communication and the swapping of stories is key to our business.  It's how we connect with our customers.  It's my favorite part.  So this week was difficult.  There was more sign language than normal.  Pointing and acting.  Trying to explain the nature of english muffins and aioli. 

Just yesterday a man pulled up in a cross-over minivan.  He pointed to our special sign and said.  "5."  Our special happens to be a honey mustard chicken wrap, and I had just run out of chicken.  And honey mustard.  I shook my head, "it's going to be 30 minutes, I called out," as I searched the space for the plug to our portable fryer and pulled the frozen chicken tenders from the (bottom) of our chest freezer.  "I'm out of chicken."  He stared at me.  Then pointed to the sign again.  "Sorry," I shook my head,  "it will take almost a half hour. I have to cook more and make more dressing..."  I found the plug and started the fryer, pulling together the ingredients for honey mustard.  Meanwhile the man who wanted the wraps gave me a long hard glare before getting in his minivan and slamming the door.  He pulled away from the curb with the touch of a squeal, but I barely noticed.  I was too hot and stressed about chicken and still flying off the adrenaline of a two hour rush.  It wasn't until later that I realized that this customer probably only understand the shook of my head.  He probably didn't understand the whole bit about running out.  He might have just thought that I was refusing him service.  Because he wanted five.  Or because he didn't speak English.  For the first time, I watched a customer leave angry and I didn't do a thing about it.
 
 It's easy to care about most of our customers.  I ask questions and we trade bits and pieces of ourselves, looking for connections and things that we recognize.  We exclaim with delight when we discover the other person lived in a town next to the one we once visited during a junior high school field trip.  Anything to affirm each other.  To say that we are more than just a face.  But without the language I am at a loss.  

The annoyed would-be customer came back for breakfast today.  He ordered two sandwiches, not quite looking at me.  Turning his back once he'd paid, while I made them.  He didn't drop his change in my tip jar.  Who could blame him?  I wanted to apologize but I'm not sure what for.  For not understanding or not being understood?  How do you apologize for being raised in a different culture?  For speaking a different language?  So I didn't say a thing.  Instead, I made those two breakfast sandwiches to be the best he'd ever have.  I apologized through eggs and garlic butter.  Because food cross all lingual boundaries.  It might be the only thing that does.