In Germany, to become a baker, you need to finish a three-year apprenticeship. If you pass the final exam, you can call yourself a journeyman. After several more years and another rather expensive exam, you can call yourself a master craftsman. You need at least a passed apprenticeship to be allowed to open a bakery and must be a master craftsman to offer apprenticeship.

I always liked working with food and have a knack for baking, so I decided to either become a cook or baker. I pass my exam as a baker as best of my class but I discover during my apprenticeship that I suffer from such severe skin sensitivities that I cannot work with flour and dough on a daily basis.

Also, due to the rapidly declining respect for blue-collar jobs, I find myself unwilling to endure the horrible working conditions bakers, cooks, and other labourers have to endure. So, I finish further education and enter a white-collar career.

Still, I love to bake and often bring my very professionally made baked goods to parties, potlucks, and other events. These are the silliest reactions and dialogues I have gotten as a reaction.

Guest: “Hmmm! This bread is delicious. And it looks good! Is it homemade or from a real baker?”

Me: “Yes.”

When I give some of my recipes after people asked for them:

Colleague: “Oh, my, your cake looked so good and had such a great taste! I tried your recipe recently and it didn’t work at all. What brand of [random ingredient] do you use?”

Me: “Well, mostly [Generic Brand].”

Colleague: “That can’t be; that’s just cheap trash! I used [Overpriced Stuff with unnecessary additives] that’s much better!”

Or, if a special brand has to be used:

Colleague: “No, no, no, that can’t be so important. All kinds of [ingredient] are the same! That’s just an overpriced brand!”

Finally, my favourite comment:

Acquaintance: “Uh, a certification as a baker? Who needs that? Everyone can bake. You just need to throw stuff together. They should just scrap all that nonsense and let everyone just open a bakery if they want to. You learn all that stuff in passing.”

No, dear people, that’s not how it works and many really can’t.

A woman comes up and slams her hand on the bakery case and gives me the “come over here” finger.

Me: “Hi there, how can I help you?”

Customer: “Come over here, now.”

We walk over to the donut case where she waves her hands at the donuts.

Customer: “Y’all got any of those corsage donuts?”

Me: “I’m… not sure. Do you mean our croissant donuts?”

Customer: “No! Corsage donuts!”

Me: “Can you describe them to me? I’ve never heard of a donut with that name.”

Customer: “I call them corsage donuts! How do you not know what I’m talking about?! Corsage donuts!”

Me: “O-okay. Let me go talk to our donut maker. I’ll be right back.”

I go into the back and ask my donut guy if all the donuts he made for the day are out in the case. He says yes, so I go back to the woman.

Me: “All right, ma’am, I’m really sorry, but it looks like all the donuts have been made for the day, so what we have is what we have.”

Customer: “But you don’t have the corsage donuts! I want the corsage donuts! This is ridiculous! CORSAGE DONUTS, YOU STUPID GIRL!”

She stormed off. I still have no idea what kind of donut she was looking for. Our grocery store does have a policy where we can give people items for free if they’re unhappy, so if she had just described them to me, I probably could have found something similar and given it to her for free.

A mother and her bride-to-be daughter were in to look at the wedding cake they’d ordered for the wedding that was scheduled in two days. Seeing a cake on the counter, the bride started ranting and raving about how this cake was wrong and it wasn’t at all what she ordered. She then proceeded to smash the cake with her fists.

Well, she was right. It was nothing like she ordered. It was what another couple had ordered for their wedding.

The police let her clean her hands before they put on the handcuffs.

I work in a bakery as the only woman. The guys are still surprised whenever I carry really heavy stuff or fix things. 

Some of our ovens are built like a closet, with the “shelves” being metal and heated to the appropriate temperature. The breads are baked in sets of metal molds set on rolling wagons that fit into these shelves, putting each batch of molds above a shelf. The oven is about two meters deep, fitting two wagons. 

For some weeks, we’ve had issues with these wagons getting stuck, especially the one in the back. They go in fine, but getting them out sometimes takes a lot of swearing and several big, strong guys pulling — a lot of fun in front of metal heated to 250° Celsius.

I’ve heard a lot of grumbling about it, but the first time I see it happen is also one of the worst times; the wagon is stuck almost all the way back, meaning they can’t even reach it with their hands. Three guys are trying to pull it out with some L-shaped metal pieces. 

Ten minutes pass, and someone’s bleeding after slipping. I get a bandaid.

Me: “Can I take a look? I mean, if it goes in easily, it should come out easily, too, right? Obviously, brute force can’t be the answer.”

Coworker: “No, we’ve got it, don’t worry. We’ve gotten all the others out, too!”

Twenty minutes pass, someone’s gotten himself burnt, and the third one nearly cracks his head open after falling backward when the hook slips off. I’ve offered to look several times, basically begging at the end. 

Finally, they give up and retreat to discuss how to distribute the remaking breads on our other oven types. Obviously, this is unfixable! 

Sensing my chance, I grab a long wooden hook and my phone, turn on the flashlight and drop down onto the floor to look at the wheels. I’m assuming I’m guessing wrong, because surely, the issue cannot be that the wheels have only turned halfway and thus being dragged sideways instead of rolling.

This has gone on for weeks, after all. One of them would have checked! 

Lo and behold, the back wheels have gotten stuck sideways. I maneuver the hook into place on the wheel and give it a sharp pull, and the wheel turns into a proper-ish position. After repeating that for the other wheel, I grab the metal hooks, position them, plant my butt on the floor and my feet against the doorframe, and push and pull backward with all I have… and the wagon comes forward, screeching and reluctantly, but forward it comes. 

And that’s how a problem that had progressed to the point where the replacement of a whole, expensive oven was being discussed was solved by simply replacing a few wheels, and how my big strong coworkers learned that asking someone who can’t solve things with brute force to have a look is a good idea.

It’s my first day in a bakery. I am given a tour and a quick brush over everything and then the manager teaching me decides I am to try to serve the next customer. Great! Let’s get started, right?

My first-ever customer is the most snobbish and stuck-up man you can imagine; he orders from the tips of his lips with great disdain, looking down his nose, turning his body away. I keep smiling and remain friendly because he’s my first customer — let’s be positive!

I pack his order: one pain au chocolat. I make the receipt and try to escort the customer back to the till, carrying their purchase, which is the routine I have been taught.

The customer is ignoring me.

Me: “Sir, it’s this way; please follow me.”

I am speaking increasingly louder, thinking maybe he’s hard of hearing. I’m fully extending my free open hand in the right direction. I have to repeat myself three times before he finally decides to move, without a word, and he gets ahead of me, leading the way himself.

I drop off his pain au chocolat bag and let the cashier know it’s for this customer. He acknowledges me with a nod and a thumbs-up. All good. I turn back to the customer:

Me: “All right, sir, your purchase is with our cashier right there.”

I extend my arm, with my hand fully open to point the way, two metres away only. The man is now looking at me with eyes wide and mouth slacked, and he still won’t say a word. I don’t know if he’s confused, shocked by something, or just not understanding me, but it’s awkward.

Me: “Whenever you are ready, we are.”

He still won’t move or say a word.

Me: “So, thank you for shopping with [Bakery], and have a nice day!”

I took a few steps back, turned around, and left, not knowing what else I should have done. From the corner of my eyes, I saw the customer go, “Hmmpft!” and stomp out. I figured he’d bought his things and just could not suffer us any longer and had to make a show of going. 

I didn’t think about this anymore until a good thirty minutes later. I was in the back, about to leave, when a coworker brought back a bag asking, “What’s this?!” acting all confused. I recognized it; it was the pain au chocolat of my first customer!

He had no idea whose it was or who’d made the bag — despite the receipt on it having my name — nor how long it had been there. All other employees were gathering and going, “I don’t know.” I tried to interject to say it was me and ask what happened but, again, no one seemed to see or hear me.  

I went home, seriously questioning if I had suddenly become invisible.