My Korean Deli_ Risking It All for a Convenience Store - Ben Ryder Howe [46]
However, she also decided to reduce the amount of meat Dwayne could put on sandwiches from .37 pounds to .14, and ended a long-standing policy of delivering sandwiches to customers’ homes. In addition, despite their excellent names, about half the scratch-off lottery tickets have been eliminated—there will be no more “Cash-word,” “Cash in a Flash,” “Cash City” or “Stacks of Cash.” Also, no more “Set for Life,” “Stinkin’ Rich” or “Money Tree.” And on top of that, we have resolved one of the most controversial business issues of our time: there will be no television in the store, mainly because of the distraction it creates for workers. Oh, and one other thing: Kay has, as stealthily as possible, started raising some of our prices, mainly on things that people don’t buy very often, like aluminum foil and playing cards.
With all this in mind, I decide that the best strategy is to ease the new coffee in as subtly as possible and hope that no one notices.
Unfortunately, there’s no such thing as subtle with the new coffee. Houston Brothers smells like it has the power to stain walls. No coffee brewed in this deli has ever had an aroma this powerful. Should I open the door? Throw it down the drain? Run the air conditioner? This is too strong. Go away, coffee smell! You smell too good!
Just then I see Andre, the dishwasher at the prison, standing across the street and waiting for the light to change.
Oh no. Not Andre. Not now. Why him of all people? Andre probably drinks eight cups of coffee a day. I don’t know how he sleeps.
“So, did you hear what the mayor said?” he asks as he walks in. The store is empty.
“No. What?”
“He said New York is a luxury item, like something you would buy at Tiffany’s. It’s not something you’d find at Wal-Mart or Costco.”
“He said that?”
“It’s here in the paper, look.”
I take the Daily News from Andre’s hands and nonchalantly pass him his coffee, which I’ve already prepared the way I know he likes it, with five spoonfuls of sugar. As I pretend to read the article, he takes a sip.
Then he puts the coffee down on the checkout counter.
“Is that the regular coffee?” he asks. “It tastes strong. Did you put in too many packets or something?”
I come clean immediately and explain that we have started brewing a new brand, while Andre stares at me emptily. Meanwhile, the cup sits there on the counter, getting cold.
Finally he takes another sip and says, after a nail-biting wait:
“Tastes a little like dirt. Is that what they call ‘earthy’? But I like it. It’s not bad.” He takes another sip. “I can get used to this.”
Massive relief. My first convert. As a show of appreciation, I tell Andre it’s on the house, which prompts him to salute me with a kind of mock toast before going outside, lighting a cigarette and heading back to the detention center.
Strange, isn’t it, how easy some things turn out to be.
THE NEXT DAY as I’m looking through the window I again see Andre coming toward the store, only this time with a decidedly different expression.
“You changed the price of coffee!” he seethes as he bursts through the door, wagging his finger and practically quivering with rage.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold on. We raised the price of a small cup by ten cents.” I’m caught off guard. Customers are in the store, watching. This looks as if it could get ugly.
“Ten cents?” Andre sputters. “Ten cents!” A vein in his temple is pulsing as if there’s an angry worm inside, and his eyes are blinking madly.
“Yes, ten cents. A dime. I don’t want to sound insensitive, but what’s wrong with that?”
“Don’t you know,” Andre bristles, “that the price of a cup of coffee in New York is sixty-five cents?”
This is brilliant. Why? Because it’s ridiculous. There’s no set price for a small coffee in New York any more than there’s