The next order, to be filled by my new friend Dewey, was my pet peeve. A stereotypical math professor, mid-forties, short, overweight, balding, with wire-rimmed glasses and an almost cartoonish voice, just HAD to make the inevitable request. “I’d like a double decaf mocha java latte cappacino frappe with extra foam and chocolate sprinkles on the top.”
It’s always some pretentious jerk just ahead of me that orders the most labor-intensive, time consuming coffee drink known to humanity. You’ve all seen it: the poor attendant has to pack the coffee in this little metal thingy and shoot the water through, and then take forever the way they steam the milk at decibels exceeding those at most airports, and delicately scoop it in being ever so sure to get that mixture juuuuuust right. It takes FOREVER and it drives me nuts.
Suddenly to my amazement, Dewey had no sooner begun the task of filling the special coffee order when, without missing a beat, he rotated toward me and effortlessly took my order while filling the other. Multi-processing the likes of which Bill Gates had never imagined, THIS WAS BRILLIANT!
“I’d like a roast beef sandwich on 9-grain.”
“And what would you like on that?” Dewey asked.
Such an innocent question. And such an innocent answer.
“Everything on it.”
The first hint that something might be wrong was the amount of clicking and whirring I heard coming from Dewey’s computer brain, a sign that it had to “think” about the order. The preceeding coffee drink had long since been filled to the great satisfaction of the jerk who had preceeded me - why should my order be a problem?
The answer was suddenly revealed as the automaton sprang into action. Two slices of 9-grain bread were placed on the cutting board and quickly spread with mayo and dijon mustard. And regular yellow mustard. And honey-mustard. Odd, I thought. Maybe a house special? Anyway, on went the roast beef, tomatos, pickles and lettuce, all with lightning speed and meticulous precision. Then came the sprouts. Sprouts on a roast beef sandwich?
Whoever did the programming apparently didn’t speak delicatessen-ese. “Wait” I interjected “no sprouts...” but it was no use. Dewey was already on to the bacon, liverwurst, meat balls and meat loaf. “What in the world...” I thought, but by now, generous portions of Honduran, Ethiopian, Guatamalan, and several other varieties of coffee beans had found their way into my sandwich, followed by a wonderous assortment of free trade oolong, orange pekoe, and Darjeeling teas, and a large ladle of soup du jour!
It dawned on me. I did say “Everything on it” but where would “everything” end? Apparently not with the several bottles of Odwalla juice drink that somehow got stacked in there, nor with the white chocolate chip macadamia nut cookies. Things took an alarming turn for the worse when a protracting arm reached into the kitchen and came up with various brillo pads, detergents, towels - the phrase “everything but the kitchen sink”? No longer applicable! There was the kitchen sink in my roast beef sandwich!
Berift of a kitchen sink to keep him occupied, Louie, the green robot, came out to investigate and he too was included for my gastronomic enjoyment, following brother Huey who had been added just moments before. Then came the previous customer’s double-decaf mocha java latte frappe, extra foam, chocolate sprinkles and all. I strongly suspect he really wasn’t such a bad guy, but he was livid.
“Hey! That’s MY double-decaf mo...urk” and into my sandwich he went.
I ran for my life and got out the door just in time to witness the ever obliging Dewey take the entire Tasty Bytes Delicatessen, building and all, and add it to the burgeoning contents of my roast beef sandwich. Nothing left? Hardly! The inspired chef, now outside, was discovering a whole new realm of “Everything.” Streetlights, not to mention the streets themselves were now between the two slices of 9-grain bread that defined the outside bounds of my sandwich! The BART station and city library were next.
