Serving Up the Sizzled Bird

I takes 30 minutes to master a computerized cash register, regardless of previous educational experience. Twenty-five of those minutes are spent figuring out the reverse-think that the damn things run on. Example: two large cokes = super; two; sodas; subtotal; total--thud, the drawer slams into your stomach. "Have a nice day."

But high-tech machinery is now part of all fast food joints, and last summer had nothing to do with Whoppers or McSundaes or Gino's Glants. For three, months, chicken was the name of my game, Alex's Chicken plus, to be more specific.

In the midst of Baltimore's recently rejuvenated Inner Harbor--that city's version of Faneuil Hall--sits an outpost of youthful chicken slingers clad in the orange and black colors of Alex's little kingdom. Moored in the harbor's greenish-brown water in the moth-balled U.S.S. Constellation, cousin of Boson's Constitution, and a favorites among the hordes of tourists who swarm through the twin glass-enclosed pavilions every day in the slimmer. They gawk at the awkward old boat and munch on Alex's chicken.

Getting a post on Alex's staff requires no references. The manager asks you to fill out a napkin with name and telephone number, and before you can say "extra seasoning," you've got your multi-head T-shirts and grease-stained apron. Training begins immediately, with stern warnings about accuracy and whispered tales of employees skimming off the top at a clip of $120 a day. Like most, I struggled not to bless customers with extra change and never had time to consider seriously any plans for extra-curricular profits.

Money hassles were commonplace; just because Alex's was the cheapest joint on the pavilion everyone and his nagging kids assumed we wanted to rob them of precious pennies. But after wrangling with the manager--who would leave to add up all of the employee's money--disgruntled customers usually sauntered away, comparing Alex to various unflattering chicken parts.

The manager tried to save money by keeping precise charts of discrepancies in each expected total and actual total. The owners even held a contest to reward the cashier with the highest combined accuracy and quantity. Grand prize: a salary increase of $17.23, which I won.

Soda presents a major challenge in the battle of man versus machine, particularly at Alex's where the instrumentation is exclusively state of the art. The Coke-spitting units have to be programmed for the desired amount of soda and an appropriately sized cup. On my maiden run, however, I paired a small cup with a large soda, creating a substantial overflow, which mostly ended up on my orange-and-black Alex's uniform.

And of course there was the Chicken Plus-legs, thighs, wings gizzards, livers, fries, cole slaw, spare ribs and hot sauce-all of it covered with the same film of grease and breadcrumbs that coated the furniture, the utensils, and before long, the employees. Typical conversation at the counter:

Chicken Plus Person: "Can I help you?"

Customer #1: "No thanks, I'm just looking."

Customer #2: "Could you help me please?"

CPP: "Sure, what would you like?"

#2: "I'd like some chicken."

CPP: "What kind of chicken would you like?"

#2: "Light meat."

CPP: "How about a Breast-Plus Box-$2.20, with tax." ($2.99 by summer's end.)

#2: "No. Given me some wings and fries, and a medium grape."

CPP: "We only have coke, orange, sprite, or Tab."

#2: "How' bout root beer?"

CPP: "No."

#2: "Just give me the chicken."

CPP: "That comes to $1.99, out of $2.00?"

#2: "Keep the change."

#1: "Can I get a little service; seems like I've been waiting all day."

Winning the cost-efficiency prize did not endear me to my co-workers, and interaction was often tense. Eight of us worked within 25 square feet, each slowly frying under the super-heat lamps designed for the chicken orders. I tried to avoid discussing the outside world:

Alex's Veteran: "You gonna work here full time?"

Alienated Rookie: "No, only until I go to school in the fall."

AV: "What school?" (Already hostile.)

AR: "College, up north."

AV: "Sounds cool. What school?"

AR: (To customer) "Can I help you?" (Aside) "Harvard."

AV: "Hey, I've heard of that place." (Sounds disgusted.) "Isn't that up north?"

The average matriculation at Alex's was two weeks. Standing for eight hours daily, with only one 30-minute break, provided little incentive for further advancement in the chicken world, particularly when you had to do a lot of "plugging."

With bare hands, you "plugged" a chicken, separating raw hearts, gizzards, necks, and livers from freshly killed birds. The only question was how many chicken you could separate before your stomach revolved a full 360 degrees.

After a morning with these fowl innards, employees hit the bricks, our ration of Alex's Plus in tow, and sought suitable trades with other food merchants. It's not that we didn't have pride in our own product-we downed plenty of it, as my weight will attest-but by mid-summer fruit-shakes, pepperoni pizza, and bran muffins were a welcome relief.