Tuesday, March 23, 2004 | 8:10 a.m.
The longest five minutes on the planet is the time it takes to bake a pretzel.
At the Thomas & Mack Center.
During intermission.
For the Monster Truck Jam World Finals.
"We need pretzels!" the cashier bellowed as four lines of hungry fans trailed into the center of the concourse.
These people must not eat all day, saving room for pretzels that can be baked only eight at a time.
"Two minutes! Give me two minutes!" I hollered back through the window, then stared desperately at the oven timer that slowly counted off the seconds.
I thought I'd evolve a thumb before it dinged. (Note to self: Thank Mommy for the college education.)
Some of us are not cut out for food service work. But the Thomas & Mack allows service clubs and fraternal organizations to raise money by working the stadium's concession stands.
The next time you're standing in line for a soda or licorice vine, remember that the person slinging hot dogs or ringing up beers is likely a banker or doctor or slot mechanic the rest of the time.
And the buffoon working the pretzel oven probably never even knew where those big fat doughy twists came from until that very night.
News flash: It is not the Pretzel Gnome.
Fast-food work requires special talent, and I don't have it.
This is not something learned Saturday night. The lesson emerged in college about 25 years ago when I took a summer job at a now-defunct roast beef sandwich chain called Rax.
When it became apparent that it was not safe to leave me unattended with a meat-shaver, I was assigned to making french fries.
Having been raised by a mother who believed that every object on Earth had or was destined to explode, catch fire and "burn you so bad it'll ruin your summer," I had a serious aversion to standing in the same room with vats of boiling oil.
I stood as far from the fryer as possible and stretched as far as my arms would reach to dunk and remove the baskets.
Forget Eastern religion. Yoga was invented in the fast-food kitchen.
Two days later, I was standing by the side of the road in the hot Florida sun wearing a "Beefy the Bull" costume and waving people into the restaurant.
Then came Wendy's. God help the Wendy's worker who is color blind. Condiments were to go on the burgers in a specific order, which was determined by color. If someone ordered only two or three condiments, workers still slapped them on in order, sans the colors in-between.
I couldn't have remembered the proper color order if they paid me $100,000 a year. I don't know whether current employees still have to load the ketchup before the mustard.
But they have to remember to ask customers about 50 questions about food they don't want before they can punch in whatever it is the customers do want. The cash register won't let them move on without asking.
For me, it would be akin to having to recite "Jabberwocky" before the elevator doors would open every day.
"Sue! We need more pretzels!"
The oven timer ticked slower than a time clock on a Friday afternoon.
Be kind to that burger flipper. He's probably smarter than you.
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