Baker

I liked baking when I had such a job previously (three years ago almost exactly) but I have mixed feelings about resigning myself to once again enter the vast working bazaar of food service. On the one hand, it's almost guaranteed to lead to new acquaintanceships and quite possibly a regular stream of free sandwiches. On the other, there is a distinct whiff of down-and-outedness that clings to the food service world like none other.

But after an unpleasant string of weirdo interviews lately, I decided last night that it was time. I resolved that my goal today should be to look for work at as many bakeries as I could find. New Orleans is the kind of place where boutique eateries occupy more aggregate floor space than private residences, so I felt assured of success. My plan was to wake up and begin geographically working my way through the parts of the city with the highest concentration of such places. (In some neighborhoods the atmosphere for bistros is so fecund that one will spontaneously sprout up below ground, right in the middle of a sewer main, and the city will have to call in a road crew to auger it out.)

I'd walk in the door of that bakery cold, right off the street, and I'd request employment with just the right mix of bravado and courtesy. "That young man has gumption," the owner would say to the assistant manager as soon as I left. "That's what we need more of around here. Gumption."

I went to two bakeries and had no success. Then I went home to eat a big bowl of leftover lasagna and lay down for awhile.