Strawberry banana juice

I’ve started working at the hamburger shack. It’s not really a shack- it’s actually pretty nice, but I need to beat everyone else to the belittling punch I imagine is lurking, so that’s what I call it.
I have to wear a chef’s jacket. And on the dominating level I don’t care about all this- a job is a job is a job and this is not even my primary, but my tertiary money making scheme- but on the submerged level, the snotty, classist (racist?), spoiled level I think wearing a chef’s jacket and doing counter service is demeaning. I never felt that way about waitressing, so this must be a reflection on how I think about counter service people as opposed to waiters and waitresses. But in trying to gather my feelings on counter people I’ve encountered I don’t have any conscious thoughts or generalizations stored about them.
Mostly it’s the uniform in conjunction with the counter that heebiejeebs me. Uniform-less counter service would sit much better with me.
People use tip jars much more frequently than I’d supposed.
Yesterday, I asked a man on his way out how the food was, and he replied, “Well, actually, the portions were way too small for the price, I really didn’t like it.” Sigh. I know that I asked, but just nod or smile or something. Some might argue that an honest answer is acceptable, or even just, in such a circumstance, but those people are wrong. In fact, they’re the kind of rude, pushy people who answer questions like that in the first place and so, by a wicked tautology, can never understand why they’re wrong. It’s one thing to complain in a way that might make your meal better (“this is too salty,” ”too over-cooked”) and another just to, like, register your complaint with people who are only trying to be polite.
The hovering owner, who drinks about 10 cups of coffee a day and constantly has a cigar in his mouth, heard and said, ‘What was that?” and tried to engage the guy about the whole thing, hoping to convince him he was wrong, which is totally futile, but entirely in keeping with his pushy, puppyish, smarmy sales style.
There’s another guy who keeps coming in, and every time he complains about how the neighborhood has been entirely gentrified and it’s a shame, a travesty. Yesterday he got two gelati, one for himself and one for his dog.