Shift Notes 004
The key to employee retention is Grease (the musical)
A weekly journal of pizza parlor chaos in small-town Maine, as told by an ex-ad-creative with questionable life choices.
Sunday
St. George Pizza is being blackmailed by a fifteen-year-old girl. Our dishwasher.
Over the past few months, this teen has watched smugly as we’ve tested, trained, and ultimately terminated several of her classmates that weren’t up to the sudsy responsibilities. With each cheese encrusted plate that was left unscoured, it became clear that she was the only local sophomore fit for the job.
In other words, she had us exactly where she wanted us. But this precocious adolescent wasn’t looking for money, trade secrets, or even extra pepperoni on the pie we send her home with every shift. She was after an audience—specifically, butts in seats for Medomak High School’s production of Grease, where she was running the lights.
When she first mentioned taking time off for the performances, it seemed a mere scheduling note. But the frequency of rehearsal recaps betrayed her stereotypically sullen delivery, and it became clear that...the kid cared about this. All of us working one Friday night were floored when she ceased spraying down pizza pans and flatly said, “you guys should come see the show.”
So we did, because we both love and fear her.
On a grey Sunday afternoon a few weeks later, the St. George adults loitered in the high school parking lot. Not to nostalgically rip a clandestine cig but rather to divvy up the $20 (!) tickets to the musical’s matinee. Upon entering the theater, the horrifying realization was made that our assigned seats were two rows from the stage. Acceptable accommodations for, say, parents or other immediate family members, but weird and near-creepy for a group of otherwise unrelated, middle-aged co-workers.
George scanned the room and spotted a safer selection up against the wall, next to the student-run soundboard. We settled in, draping our winter coats over the velvet chairs. Our closest neighbor, an elderly man, leaned over and mock-whispered, “they put the bad kids in the back!” To which I laughed and replied, “that’s why we’re here!”
He gave me a blank stare and turned his attention back to the curtained stage. Well damn. As these mid-pubescent performers would soon find out—tough crowd.
To the kiddos credit, they gave it their all. For the next hour, the St. George crew sat trapped, er, enraptured as the 2025 MVHS Players sang, danced and lit the hell out of Grease. As the lights went up, we gave an enthusiastic performance of our own, hooting and hollering for the cast and crew. The four of us looked at each other, full of pride—not only for our teen colleague, but also ourselves. We’d survived a literal high school musical.
This touching moment abruptly ended when we noticed the other attendees weren’t headed for the exits. I frantically flipped through the program. It was only intermission. Fuck.
The next ten minutes ticked by as we denied, bargained with, and ultimately accepted our fate. It was as the lights began to dim again that one of us (who shall not be named to protect their identity) asked, “what if...we left?” Mutual agreement was rapidly met and we slipped out as the opening notes of “Beauty School Dropout” began to play.
The afternoon air felt different than it had an hour prior. Fresher. Freer. We bounded into the parking lot with the youthful assurance that “nothing could stop us.” Then, a-different-someone-who-will-not-be-named couldn’t find his keys.
If you are thinking, “Megs, that would simply be too ironic if the keys had fallen out in the original second-row seats that you all fled, before fleeing...again,” you’d be correct. All the same—that is exactly what happened.
A plan was formed. Two of the crew would head back inside for a key reconnaissance and retrieval mission. I would man the other getaway car, idling directly outside. And most essentially, the remaining operative would fast-track it to the closest dive-ish bar and order a round of drinks and nachos.
Despite paranoid claims that “Kenickie saw me!” the goods were extracted from the theater without incident. We joked about our immature antics over beers and returned home to our grownup lives. And minus a few days of humming “Summer Lovin’” it seemed like this saga was behind us.
Then, on the following Friday night, the dishwasher squeezed soap onto a sponge and said, “So, the spring musical...”
Monday
Chocolate Chip Cookies
This recipe was developed to get people off my freakin’ back.
It all started last winter, when I wrote “chocolate cake” on our first-ever menu—the intention being to swap it out in a week or two with another accessible dessert. But as things made almost exclusively of sugar are wont to do, it quickly gained a fan club, with in-the-know customers calling to exclusively order slices.
As someone who doesn’t consider themselves a particularly adept baker, this cake craze was flattering. And terrifying. My limited skillset was no match for the demand, nor was our KitchenAid mixer, which eventually fell to the viscosity of the rich frosting — the old girl groaning and gushing motor oil directly into the batter before letting out a final gooey gasp.
My amateur tools and I were limping along when we mercifully transitioned to warmer weather and soft serve service. But as quickly as the sunny days appeared, they absconded…along with my will to live. Cake time again, bitch.
But then I had a thought—people also like cookies, right? From a culinary concept, they were perfectly in line with the St. George Pizza ethos—aka something that would be served at a third grader’s birthday party. And from a preparation perspective, of course they’d be easier!
oF cOUrse ThEy’D bE eAsiER!
Ingredients:
2½ cups all-purpose flour (300g)
¾ teaspoon baking soda
¾ teaspoon salt
1 cup (227g) unsalted butter, softened
¾ cup (165g) light brown sugar, packed
½ cup (100g) granulated sugar
1 large egg
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
1½ cups (270g) semisweet chocolate chips or chunks
Preparation:
Step 1
Sift flour, baking soda, and salt into a bowl. Set aside.
Step 2
Lose your mind over the presentation of this “epicurean experience” by painstakingly sourcing enamel trays, antique plates, vintage glass milk jugs and doilies. DO NOT FORGET THE DOILIES.
Step 3
Designate the dessert as “warmed”. Don’t bother assigning a specific person to reheating duty. Have each order be a jolt to your nervous system when you remember it at the register minutes later.
Step 4
Drop everything in the middle of a busy Friday night service to drive over to the nearest market. Buy the milk you forgot to purchase prior to this moment. Apologetically serve the couple who has been waiting just a smidge too long for their dessert tray.
Step 5
Try not to burn each tiny treat as you take orders, prep food, clear tables, help with dishes, run pizzas, answer the phones, explain to an octogenarian customer that “no, we cannot fully turn off the music playing at an already atmospherically low volume.”
Step 6
Admit defeat and order an industrial mixer during a Cyber Monday sale.
Step 7
Put cake back on menu.
Tuesday
One afternoon, I spent more time than I’d like to admit making the Official Invite to our holiday party:
Responses have varied from
to:
Will be reporting back from said event in a future Shift Notes.
Wednesday
The villain of this story is named Chad. I know.
Prior to these halcyon pizza days, I was an advertising creative working on a slew of big brands—one of which being the bro-friendly Old Spice. My copywriter Tara and I used to reflexively write “Chad” into those scripts as placeholder designation for a dumbass dude—trendy typecasting to be adjusted in a later draft.
Guess those manifestation TikToks I scroll past have some merit, because the latest dipshit to wreak havoc in my life possesses the very name we repeatedly invoked to sell deodorant and body sprays.
The brand this boomer-aged Chad aligns himself with is not one of satirically masculine body care but rather a safe, Swedish stalwart—Volvos. As the owner of six vintage vehicles (all in varying states of decay), one could say Chad is a motor vehicle enthusiast. But I feel they would be overlooking his more obvious passion—parking.
The closest neighbor to St. George Pizza, Chad owns an equally old building down the block. His space once housed an antique store, and through the large front windows a neglected mannequin watches among the other untouched ephemera as this man moves his cars around all goddamn day.
According to an incredibly reputable source (…Chad), the town was incensed by his decision to shutter the shop, where consignors were making some side cash. They *allegedly* retaliated by revoking all the parking spots surrounding the building. And apparently, the only thing he can now do with his fleet is to station it directly in front of our pizzeria.
George and I have both pleaded our case over the past year. We asked Chad to refrain from squatting outside our building during service hours so that our customers who most need the proximity—elderly, families, those with disabilities—can have it. He agreed.
But throughout the week, from the shadows of the prep station, I stare in disbelief as Chad inflates yet another flat tire and moves a rusting 240 wagon or defeated V70 six feet forward into a technically different spot. Still within our prime parking zone, of course.
With the weather becoming frigid, so has my attitude—I return his limp waves of a lug wrench with a bitchy stare. He blinks and I think, “Fucking Chads.”
Thursday
The argument was over what most married couples fight about: the 1989 movie, When Harry Met Sally.
See, we run these weekly events at the restaurant:
1st Thursday: Bingo
2nd Thursday: Trivia
3rd + 4th Thursdays: Screenings
And to make things “simpler”, George and I decided to feature films that best represent the current month’s mood. Two pictures, that while in the same seasonal spirit, diverge in style, tone and intended audience. We had breezed through the October movie selections, playing The Shining one week and House the next. Nothing to it!
But then we arrived at November. What I believe to be the worst month (midnight-level darkness at 4pm, cold without the charm of snow, a general aura of “brown”), is severely lacking in cinematic representations. Even still, we felt initial confidence as we penciled The Fantastic Mr. Fox into that 3rd Thursday slot. Arguably Wes Anderson’s best work, this animated caper is the most charming depiction of the penultimate month put to film. With scenes jam-packed full of foliage, feasts and family, it has the viewer twitching for Thanksgiving.
Ok, great, nailed it. Now, what else? We debated indie cult favs, classics we could never play due to the nightmare human who directed them, even additional on-the-nose animations. Nothing felt quite right.
“Let’s just do When Harry Met Sally,” George sighed. A man….and cinephile…defeated.
I pondered the possibility. The Meg Ryan and Billy Crystal romantic dramedy does check a lot of autumnal boxes: thick sweaters, crunchy leaves and the increasingly urgent panic of being single as a cold and lonely winter fast approaches.
But unfortunately for Miss Ryan’s residuals, I was in a spiral of self importance. I wasn’t an event planner goddamnit, I was a motherfucking programming director! This pizzeria, nay, this town, NAY THE WORLD needs cultural curation! We couldn’t pair one charming, family friendly, mainstream hit with another! Take that shit to Chuck-e-Cheese!
I blew my previous screentime reports out of the water that week, dedicating countless hours to scouring the deepest depths of Letterboxd for the perfect flick. George pleaded with me to just pick a movie, any movie. “I have standards!” I scoffed
This debate made it off our TV room’s couch and into St. George’s kitchen, as we continued to squabble over these self-imposed screening selection rules through a dinner service. Right when we were reaching Siskel and Ebert levels of animosity, someone stepped in to save Slice Nights.
A DJ.
Specifically, he was a musically inclined customer who asked if we’d be interested in adding vinyl DJ sets to the Thursday lineup.
Meaning, we’d only need one movie a month.
And with that last minute booking, marriage saved.
Friday
I can only remember a single classmate’s name from first grade: Leah Canali. Have we spoken since attending Johnson School in Nahant, Massachusetts decades ago? No. But I did just google her to discover that she is now an accomplished singer/songwriter whose music stylings are frequently featured on Drag Race. And that counts for something!
To be fair, our bond was likely broken by the fact that I moved to Vermont in the second grade, never to return. “Sorry toots, I got farm friends now.”
That said, how many of you are actually staying in close touch with schoolmates you met while eating glue (JUST ONCE, TO SEE HOW IT TASTED)? Well, if Warren Community School’s 1964 first-grade class is any indication, 13 people are.
When St. George received a reservation for a “large group” the day after Thanksgiving, I’d assumed it was an extended family looking for an excuse to relieve the building familial tensions that arise during holiday house arrest.
Imagine my surprise when the organizer of the crew, Barbara, walked in at 4pm sharp on the night of the booking and announced an elementary school reunion. The rest of the class progressively piled in, pulling off their cold winter jackets to exchange warm hugs. They ordered a medley of pizzas and “large” rum and Diet Cokes, god bless ‘em—all to be shared at their communal tables.
It was a sweet affair to witness, with the former first-graders abandoning auxiliary seating to crowd around a single four-top. The chatter went on for hours, with excited debates about standard subjects like the Patriots and Tony’s hip replacement (“he can still work that dance floor like no other!”).
They closed down the joint, heading out at Maine Midnight—8pm. But not before turning to each other to say “same time, next year?”
I thoroughly enjoyed reading every sentence and am living vicariously through your pizza shop baking tales and small town gossip. No notes, more please!
MAINE MIDNIGHT