The earliest rumblings of the beast’s coming was announced days before it arrived.
It started with preparations: cleaning, organizing, making and unmaking. We met in backrooms, sitting in silence as we listened to our fearless leader instruct us, assign us, organize us. I had learned from the past that only the strongest leaders would be victorious.
We worked until all there was left to do was wait. We counted down the minutes, counted down the seconds, until it was finally upon us.
It came early Sunday morning.
The phone rang at exactly 12, right on time. My co-workers and I all looked nervously at each other, our hands hesitating until finally, the bravest of us reached out and answered the call.
“Hello, thank you for calling Sonny’s, how can I help you?”
“Yeah, I’d like to order 6 large pizzas. And could they be ready for 5:30? We need our Super Bowl food!”
It had begun.
From then on the phone was a ball of noise, giving us no reprieve from the pizzas barreling out of the oven. The thick mozzarella stick grease coating our hands, with a cloud of french fry salt descending upon us. The air was abuzz with movement, the door revolving and customers packing in. They nervously took a glance at the television, counting down the seconds until the game began, when the chaos would either reach its head or dissolve completely.
I looked to my war-torn coworkers, sweat beading on their brows, legs starting to waver. I watched as my friend fainted, quickly being consumed by unfolded pizza boxes. We did not stop. We did not mourn.
We had work to do.
And when the game finally began, we collectively held our breath as the mob fought their way out the front door, leaving a few of their trampled compatriots to pick themselves up off the floor and limp their way back to their cars. The phones fell mute, their shrill ringing evaporating on the air, the flow of orders coming to a standstill.
But in reality that’s not what it was like. In New Hampshire, if the Pats aren’t playing, it seems like no one really cares. It was more-or-less a normal Sunday night at Sonny’s, save the very few bigger orders that came in at 4:30. After the game started we could even sneak in some homework.
There was no Super Bowl panic, no pizza-motivated fistfights, our tips for the night weren’t even anything to gawk at.
But the dread I felt leading up to the infamous night was real. During Super Bowls’ past, my previous food service jobs were mobbed with angry Patriots fans, some painted navy blue and white and screaming about their chicken wings. Something about football makes us crazy.
But just because good ole Sonny’s wasn’t wracked with customers doesn’t mean other places weren’t. At previous jobs, we often doubled our staff for Super Bowl Sunday shifts. Minimum wage workers are not known for being the most organized bunch, but you can believe we had extensive meetings on roles and how to do them the week before the game even aired. Working at a pizza shop during football games should be considered a sport all its own.
That’s not even an exaggeration. According to Fox Sports, the sale of slices of pizza goes up by 350 percent on Super Bowl Sunday. That means your average Joe pizza maker is likely going into overtime with the football players you’re watching on screen, and trust me, they will both be feeling it in the morning.
Making the pizza isn’t the only sport of the night, delivery drivers also get their fair share of action. With all the beer being consumed, which inevitably leads to the “Super Bowl Sunday Sickness,” delivery drivers have to go into overdrive. According to Fox Sports, Dominos delivery drivers total around 4 million miles on the fated Sunday, which is equivalent to about 8 trips to the moon and back.
Americans are also expected to eat 1.38 billion chicken wings (USA Today), 139 pounds of avocados (Parents.com), 8.2 million pounds of tortilla chips (Parents.com), and 11.2 million pounds of potato chips (premiofoods.com). The Super Bowl is the second largest food holiday in the United States, only topped by Thanksgiving.
1 in 7 Americans ordered take-out on Sunday, and even though I got off relatively easy doesn’t mean other food service workers across the country did. Many of them had to endure the angry customers and short-staffed panic and the burning pizzas I shudder to remember.
It goes without saying that fast food workers are put to the test during this time of the year. We see people at their meanest and angriest. So next year, when you go into a Sonny’s-like establishment to pick up your greasy, delicious pizza and wings and you come face-to-face with the tired and confused minimum wage worker, be kind.
And don’t forget to tip.
