Memories of Bakery Bleu

By Lisa Maliga, copyright 2015

Consolidating my archived emails, I came across some that were labeled Bakery Bleu. Ah yes, the first bakery I ever worked at, the one described in my novel, Notes from Nadir. The one where I met Gordon, the owner and baker. A quick Google search revealed that things had changed since that interview back on a beautiful warm and sunny April day. No longer was the bakery there—it had vanished. 

Here’s an excerpt from Chapter 19 ~ The Boss of Bakery Bleu

Upon entering the bakery, I noticed a bin of unwrapped baguettes on the counter. I saw a variety of rolls and sweet rolls on the shelves, and behind the man who stood at the counter, were rows of different kinds of breads.

I met Gordon, a tall auburn haired man bordering on pudginess. He wore a navy polo shirt with the golden-brown Bakery Bleu logo [a pair of crossed breadsticks] above one of his manboobs. He shook my hand and sat down across from me so he could see both me and all the baked goodies to the north.

“Do tell me about yourself,” he said in a hearty voice. His accent wasn’t local, that’s for sure. He sounded English. Of course, I didn’t think he wanted to know about my personal history but about how valuable I’d be as a minimum wage slave, I mean, employee. I smiled, and for once, I wasn’t unhappy about sitting across from the man even though he could only offer a part time job. I pulled out a pale blue resume and handed it to him. He nodded and looked at it. I knew he was probably surprised when he saw the word Dreamweaver on the bottom where I listed a few web related things.

“You had your own business,” he studied that piece of paper atop the black table. “You lived in Los Angeles…what’re you doing here?”

Much as I want to, I couldn’t avoid that question. The man was scrutinizing me now. I looked at his dark eyes, then down at the table. “Cheap rent. I live with my mom.”

He had a genuine, hearty laugh. It sounded so wonderful after not hearing much of it that year. And I laughed out loud myself. It was true, that cliché about laughter being healthy.

“I did too when I first moved here from London.”

“Not London, Kentucky?”

He smiled broadly and I was feeling more comfortable with this man I had just met. “England.” He replied, though I knew the answer and he knew I knew that he was from across the pond.

“The people are so boring here,” I said. Oops, not the kind of thing to say in a job interview, especially as I was applying for a job where I’d be waiting on those boring people. But this didn’t really feel like one. “I didn’t say that,” I said.

He leaned forward a bit, covered his ears and replied, “I didn’t hear that!”

God, we were like teenagers on a first date.

He began speaking of the duties. The first date was over; it was a real job interview. He went over them: waiting on customers, taking calls, helping out with orders, mopping up… “It’s not General Motors,” he said. “We’ve all got to pull together.”

Like team spirit? I thought, but left that unsaid.

He complained about how slow business was. And the customers’ taste in bread. “The baguettes are too hard!” he mocked, using a higher pitched voice. He shook his head and in his sexily deep voice said, “I lived in France for eight years. A baguette is CRISP. Here they think it’s burned. I offered to sell them dough if they want soft baguettes.”

I chuckled at that image.

“Look, I only have one important question for you…” he paused with the drama of a stage actor.

Hmm, this was getting interesting. 

To read more, click NOTES FROM NADIR.

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Week 2 Feb. 2009 – Karate Chop Funhouse

The nearby martial arts studio was hiring a front desk assistant part time. Nothing too strenuous; no heavy lifting, just answering the phone and basic data entry. Mom was optimistic about the job for one reason: it was within walking distance.

I walk into the studio with the wooden wind chimes hanging on the door and the scent of fruity incense wafting through the air. The co-owner, Deborah, wears an embroidered and shiny black karate outfit, white socks and black canvas Mary Jane type shoes. In the back office with some pictures of young martial artists on the plywood walls I notice two cheaply upholstered chairs near the wall and on the opposite side is a rocking chair. Somehow a martial artist sitting on a rocking chair looked for unmartialartslike. Back in California when I visited my Tibetan-born teacher he sat on the floor. And he was at least twice her age.

Her eyes rolled and popped a lot as I was to learn over the next 15 minutes of interviewdom. She leaned forward in the rocker a lot as she shifted and seemed uncomfortable being confined to a single area. Her organization skills were minimal she confessed. Certain words made impressions upon her and the fact that organized was listed as an attribute on my resume contributed to my eligibility. She eagerly described how she had seen my resume and told her costar/husband that she was changing the job’s position to that of personal assistant rather than a mere receptionist. She gave me the impending schedule. Monday and Wednesdays from 4:30 to 8:30 and then it seemed that Tuesdays would be helping out in the office with organizing. Thursdays would entail personal assisting in her home about 8 miles away. Not just personal assisting, as the jobs she cited: “cleaning the kitchen, mopping the floor, vacuuming, dusting, and doing laundry…” were those of a maid. I was eligible since I was of the female persuasion. Upon learning I was single and unburdened with offspring, her eyes rolled to the heavens and happiness overtook her horseyesque face. She had just found the perfect maid!

She then informed me about her family – obviously the husband, but also she had a preteen and a fully fledged teen – both boys. Her father-in-law, a sprightly 79-year-old, also shared the split level home. I learned that her eldest son played many musical instruments including keyboards and mandolin. She sold his talents along with the fact that he often changed his bed, [hmm, nothing mentioned of nocturnal emissions], and was a neat freak who straightened out his own closet. The youngest son was a slob, and wasn’t discussed in nearly as glowing terms. She enjoyed going on about “my” duties and how I’d clean and take charge of all manner of domestic chores that I loathed, like laundry for five people, cleaning bathrooms, and swatting her in-law out of the way if he got into it.

I politely informed her that while I had various types of office jobs in Los Angeles, including home offices, all positions involved office work—not janitorial duties. That didn’t seem to register. Nor was I frank with her and tell her that I wasn’t a maid and I was only “interested” in office work.

Deborah discussed a 2-week trial period and being paid in cash during that time. The previous employee, an older lady with diabetes, was mentioned. There had been an eye rolling episode ignited by the memory of other applicants, especially young males whom she didn’t want around her sons on those festive cleaning days. Having posted on Craig’s List and been flagged after stating that she only wanted mothers and/or grandmothers, she rolled eyes dramatically as she quoted “it’s considered sexist.”

The co-owner of the karate chop funhouse was glad to see I’d provided my email addy. She was into email as she hinted there’d be emails exchanged a lot if I got the job. Hmm, mail about how I missed a spot on that toilet upstairs? I was way too familiar with junk mail--even had a special folder for it. Her email name was discussed and the fact that martial artists enjoy comparing themselves to animals and she was dubbed a puppy as she liked to play a lot. I thought that maybe she could play at cleaning up her own house.

I was handed her business card which featured her color photo. She wanted 2 or 3 references, and as I was getting up to leave, she stated: “in this day and age, you could be a child molester…” and I didn’t show the fact that I was offended at such a crass and inaccurate statement. I said I’d email her that afternoon with my references. I was eager to depart from that place. Couldn’t get to my car fast enough and my mind was replaying the scenario and the indignity of being asked to be not only a personal assistant, but also a maid. And I threw away her card so I didn’t have her email address.