Front Street – a ‘boulevard’ where the ‘dangdest’ things happen to the guilt-ridden Front Street is where people are subject to get busted for ridiculous schemes, tricks, gambits, plans, and maneuvers because they believe no one is watching them.
Front Street – a ‘boulevard’ where the ‘dangdest’ things happen to the guilt-ridden
Front Street is where people are subject to get busted for ridiculous schemes, tricks, gambits, plans, and maneuvers because they believe no one is watching them. But, someone is always watching.
The Inglewood vegan diner, Stuff I Eat (114 Market Street, Inglewood) is on Front Street this week for all the wrong reasons, as folk might imagine. Located south of Florence Avenue and East of La Brea, the joint is opulent and the food complimentary for the most part, but, the counter help – oh, the counter help! Not intelligent.
Visionary and owner Chef B will not like the way certain of her charges treated patrons, recently.
Unbeknownst to the people at Stuff I Eat, a fairly well-known Los Angeles journalist, whose reputation has been dyed in public scrutiny, popped into the diner, Friday, Nov. 2, at 3:27 p.m. That was me. I visited Stuff I Eat for three reasons – for food to elevate my sagging energy level; sample vegan cuisine for a change; and patronize the local economy at an African American specialty restaurant in Inglewood.
I placed an order for a side salad with tuna and an order of sweet potato pie. The gentleman asked if I’d like avocado with the salad. I declined. The time was 3:27 p.m.
A woman ahead of me was presented her to-go order, but after checking it out, complained an item was omitted. The employee who made the order blurted in the patron’s face –”oh shi-!”
Not – “Oh, sorry, excuse us or we will get it might, ma’am!”
The time was past 4 p.m., now. We had been there more than 30 minutes for a small salad and an order of pie. I assumed the salad ingredients had already been harvested and the pie was already baked. So, I asked the counter guy about our order.
“Does a salad require 30 minutes?”
The cashier passed the question on to the food preparer, “Why does a salad take 30 minutes to make?”
She responded brusquely and loud enough for everyone in the restaurant to hear:
“It don’t take thirty minutes – it takes however long it takes for me to make it!
Well, excuse me, Madame!
When alas the order arrived, it was wrong. I asked for tuna minus avocado; it came with avocado minus tuna. I was given a refund, though I didn’t request one. I guess my order was just too much trouble. Needless to say, I never sampled Stuff I Eat.
The order taker/cashier, a young man, was polite and gracious, but the food preparer was having a fretful Friday.
One has to wonder if the anemic economy in Black American communities has more to do with how we disrespect one another than anything else.
Would the food preparer at Stuff I Eat have spoken so rudely in the presence of White patrons?