Little Caesars

 Several years ago, I walked into a Little Caesars to pick up a couple of “Hot N Ready” pizzas which, in my case, was more of a “Warm N Wait” situation as there were no pepperoni pizzas on deck. 

Taking a seat, I began to observe the well-oiled machine that was Little Caesars. I quickly surmised that the heavyset mustachioed gentlemen with the buzz cut (whose name had to be Mike) was the manager and he was running the drive-thru window.  

On the other side of the kitchen resided two teenage pizza artisans mechanically churning out pies while wearing headphones. Mike was a beast. He inspected, sliced and boxed the product in what appeared to be one effortless motion before handing it to the customer. So, when Mike stopped and stared intently at a large pizza for several seconds, I knew somebody had just lost their chance at employee of the month.

I could almost hear Mike’s internal dialogue as he gesticulated his exasperation by raising his hands and exhaling loudly. It was clear he found himself in a conundrum. Does he let this culinary infraction stand and get the merchandise out the door or does he confront the issue head-on? 

Eventually he turns toward the prep-station, abomination in hand, and taps the closest of his sous chefs on the shoulder. Both of them remove their headphones just in time for Mike to present the pizza and ask whatever everyone else in the room knew to be a rhetorical question: “What is this!!?”

Glancing at each other, one of them timidly offered, “A large supreme?” 

Mike’s glare could have withered an artificial fern. “And what is all over it!!?” 

Still not sensing an ambush, the same young man earnestly responded, “Toppings!!?”

Mike looked like he was going to burn that mother down. Through gritted teeth, he managed to get out, “And why are there so many of them!!?”

This was not what I, or his colleagues, expected to come out of his mouth. I was mentally prepared for any number of scenarios ranging from wrong toppings to contraband body hair, but I was not expecting a volume discrepancy.

Clearly as flummoxed as me, the duo’s spokesman elaborated by admitting that he had been generous with the toppings because he felt that the customer would appreciate a hearty pizza. 

Mike, now looking to the heavens for strength and hitting every syllable as if it owed him money, said, “You don’t work at Papa Johns! Is there a Domino’s logo on your shirt!!? THIS. IS. LITTLE. CAESARS!!! We could have made 3 supreme pizzas with that many toppings! Don’t let it happen again!”

Without waiting for a response, Mike turned on his heel and returned to his staging area to contemplate the repercussions of not hitting his daily numbers.

The two employees shrugged at each other, repositioned their headphones and went back to prepping pizzas. I tried to imagining the conversation when they got home and their parents inquired about their day. Parents who had painstakingly taught their children about self-sufficiency, work ethic and taking pride in your craft. Then, in an instant, Mike the human demotivational poster brought the walls of excellence crashing down.

My pizza, which had not yet been prepped, became collateral damage from the ToppingsGate scandal. When we opened the boxes at the house, each slice contained a single, orphaned peperoni. My wife frowned and asked why there weren’t more toppings. She suggested that I should have said something at the store. I informed her that had I complained to management about the scarcity of my toppings, either Mike or myself was going to catch a charge.