“Most of you know Meg,” I said to the staff when we were all assembled late Monday morning. “She’s been a valuable advisor to The Pizza Lab. Now I’ve asked her to take a more involved role. She’ll be joining me as co-manager in the short term. It’s my hope that she’ll take over as sole manager in the next few months, and eventually become co-owner of the business.”
None of the staff said anything at this announcement, but I could tell at a glance they weren’t thrilled. I didn’t blame them. Some of them had been with me since the beginning. None of them had been offered co-ownership, but now I was bringing in Meg from the outside, promoting her over them, and likely giving her part of the business. And it’s not like they’d come to trust my judgment on these matters. Less than a week had passed since the Michael disaster.
I felt bad handing Meg over to a hostile audience, but the time had come to figure out whether she could handle a staff. If she couldn’t, she’d want to think twice before closing her cake business. I stepped aside and let her take the floor.
“I love pizza,” Meg said, stepping forward. She had on her chef’s coat again, buttoned up and spotless. “I mean, I really, really love pizza. Ty has impressed me with the changes he’s made since taking over this place. He improved the branding, the decor, the music. He’s added desserts and hot drinks. He’s made the place profitable. But the area that has changed the least is the pizza itself. Now it’s time for that to improve as well.”
“You don’t like our pizza?” asked Abigail, one of our part-time staff.
“I think you make an average pizza,” Meg replied. Her voice was firm, but not unkind. “I see room for experimentation and growth.”
“What if we’re not capable of making it any better?” Tom asked. Being short-staffed, I’d brought him back after Michael let him go, despite his limitations.
“None of you has to worry about developing better pizza recipes,” Meg said, meeting each person’s eye. “That’s my job. I’ll run the experiments. And when it’s clear we have a winner, I’ll teach you all the new recipes. Fair?”
Tom frowned. “What if we can’t carry them out as well as you can?”
Meg exhaled. “Look, you want to know the truth?” Her voice rose slightly. “The truth is, to make this place a world-class pizzeria, I’m going to need a fabulous staff. Will everyone in this room qualify? I doubt it. But I’m committed to working with each of you to help bring your pizza making up to the new Pizza Lab standards.”
“What standards are those?” Abigail asked, arms crossed.
“Everyone will be expected to make a quality pizza in no more than two minutes.”
The staff groaned. “You’re timing us?”
“Two minutes?”
“What if it has a ton of toppings?”
“For each topping beyond the first, I’ll give you another ten seconds,” Meg replied calmly. “How’s that sound?”
“Impossible,” Tom said flatly. “I’ll never make them that fast.”
“I’m willing to put in the time to train you if you’re willing to learn,” Meg said, holding his eyes. “But whoever would rather quit than learn can leave now.”
Abigail pulled off her apron, slammed it on the counter, and walked out the door.
“Anyone else?” Meg asked, her expression unreadable.
I fought the urge to jump in, to chase after Abigail, to smooth things over. But I needed to see if Meg could handle a staff. I decided to give her more rope. Perhaps enough to hang herself with.
“I brought a stopwatch,” Meg said, holding it up. “Each of you will get a chance to make a pizza. You’ll be timed. And you’ll get feedback, not just from me but from anyone else on the team who has something to add. Now, who wishes to go first? Or would you like me to?”
“You go for it,” Tom said.
My gut told me Meg intended to go first all along, but it was clever, letting the staff think it was their idea. Maybe she wasn’t going to be hopeless at management after all.
Meg handed Tom the stopwatch and stepped up to the counter. “Tell me when to start. You’ll stop the clock as soon as the pie is in the oven. Ty, what kind of pizza am I making?”
By the time we opened each day, I liked to have a number of pies ready to sell as slices. That always included a cheese, a pepperoni, a mushroom, and a bacon, our most popular pies. But I also liked having some more interesting ones in the mix so the customers didn’t get bored. I knew the staff was feeling defensive with Meg taking charge, and I thought it would be good for morale to give her one of the harder ones. “You’ll be making the Harvey Reese special.”
“What’s that?” Meg asked.
The staff chuckled. Someone snorted. Everyone relaxed a bit. “Can everyone please inform our new manager what’s on the Harvey Reese?”
“Sausage and black olives,” they chorused.
“Interesting combo.” Meg rolled up her sleeves. “Ready when you are, Tom.”
“Go!” He pushed down the button, perhaps a fraction of a second early.
Meg grabbed a round of dough, pushed it out on the counter, then in one fluid motion, had it up in the air.
“Damn,” someone muttered.
In no time, the dough was down on the tray. Meg grabbed the ladle of sauce, poured it on, then spread it out. Both her hands plunged into the cheese. She laid on an even layer, then started with the toppings. The two-topping pie slowed her down, but not by much. She slid the pie into the oven and shut the door. “Stop.”
“One minute, thirty-eight seconds,” Tom said, sounding impressed despite himself.
Meg turned around. “Does anyone have any feedback for me?”
“That was way cool how you threw it in the air,” Dedrick said, grinning.
“I’m happy to teach anyone who’d like to learn.” Meg’s voice softened a bit. “Anything I could have done better?”
“You went a bit too heavy on the olives,” someone added from the back.
“Good to know,” Meg said. “It’s my first time making a…what was it called again?”
“Harvey Reese,” everyone said.
“Right. That guy.” Meg might be the only person on campus who didn’t know the name of our starting quarterback. “I’ll work on that. Who would like to go next?”
“Let’s see what the owner can do,” Tom said.
“OK, I’ll give it a shot,” I said, stepping forward. The mood was still tense, but no longer felt toxic. “I’ll make the bacon pizza. Tell me when to start.”
Unlike Meg, I didn’t throw mine in the air, nor did I manage to finish my pie in under two minutes, but I was only seven seconds over. Could I get my time under that two-minute mark Meg wanted us all to hit? I thought so. I’d had plenty of practice over the last few months, but speed had never been my focus, and I’d never had a coach to help me improve.
Everyone took their turn. Dedrick came in at two minutes and three seconds, the fastest of the staff. I gave Tom the easiest one, the cheese pizza, but he still clocked in the slowest at three minutes and eight seconds. He hung his head when his time came in.
Meg jumped in before he could spiral. “I want to be clear: no one is going to be fired because of their pizza time. Not right now, anyway. Mostly, I want to see improvement. If I see you’re working hard and your times are getting better, I’ll be patient.”
“But ultimately, we’ll need to get under the two-minute mark?” Tom asked.
“Correct. All of our pizza makers will need to make acceptable pies in under two minutes.”
Tom sighed and pulled off his apron. “I’m never going to get that fast.”
“Not everyone needs to be a pizza maker, Tom,” I said. Meg glared at me but didn’t say anything. At least not then. After the staff training ended, she asked to speak to me privately.
“Everyone on staff should be able to make a pizza,” she said, closing the door to the office.
“Even those who work the early morning and late night shifts?” I asked, leaning against the wall.
“Ideally, them too.”
I sat down behind the desk, which now sat in the middle of the office instead of up against the wall, since I no longer needed the room to sleep. “But we don’t even make pizza then.”
“Exactly.” She gestured to the schedule pinned on the wall. “So those are perfect shifts to try out new staff. That way, we won’t waste time training them to make pizzas until we’re sure they’re keepers.”
I rubbed my temple. “But then you’ll want them trained too?”
“Absolutely.” She placed her hands on the desk and leaned over. “Once new staff members have proven themselves, they can apprentice during the morning, and when they can make a good pie in under two minutes, we can start giving them day shifts.”
“Why do we need so many pizza makers?” I asked. “At two minutes per pizza, one person can make thirty pizzas an hour. We rarely sell more than that.”
“The first reason is flexibility.” She ticked off a finger. “It’s easier to create shifts if everyone is qualified to do everything, and we don’t need to make sure we always have a specialist on hand.”
I groaned. “If half our staff quits because they can’t make a pizza in under two minutes, how much flexibility have we really gotten?”
“I hear you.” She gave a small sigh. “I need to chill out a bit at first. I can’t have everyone walking out the door on day one. But long term, it would greatly increase our flexibility if everyone could bake.”
I rolled my chair back a few inches. “You said that’s your first reason. What’s the second?”
“If I took a job at a pizzeria and never got to make a pizza, I’d be crushed.”
“But that’s you,” I said, pointing at her. “You’re obsessed.”
“Exactly.” Her smile was tight, unapologetic. “I can’t stomach the idea of making an average pizza. And if I’m building and managing a staff, I want them to feel exactly the same way.”
I gave a wary chuckle. “Do we really need to build a staff of mini-Megs?”
“Think of that girl who quit today. Did she sound excited to develop a killer pizza?”
“No,” I admitted. “She was happy with good enough.”
“Exactly. If she remained on staff, I guarantee she’d complain about me behind my back and maybe even to my face.” Her face broke into a smile. “But a staff of mini-Megs will love working for Queen Meg.”
I swiveled slightly in my chair. “But where do we find an army of mini-Megs?”
“We don’t need an army. We need a dozen.”
“I’m concerned we won’t find any.” I gestured to the door. “Look at my staff now. There’s not a single mini-Meg among them.”
“That’s because you sell an average product.” She locked eyes with me. “And Megs detest average pizza.”
“You believe that if we sell an exceptional product, we’ll attract better staff?”
“Absolutely.” She nodded once. “I may have dreamed of working for Camilla’s, but the Pizza Hut down the block from me was hiring the entire time I was in high school, and I never once considered applying.”
“Even if you’re right, we need to keep our doors open long enough to first develop an exceptional product, then we’ll need time for word to spread to the mini-Megs across campus, if they even exist, then we’ll need even more time to train enough of them to handle the demand.” I stood up to face her. “This isn’t going to take weeks. If we’re lucky, it will only take months, not years. If we lose all our staff in the meantime, we’ll never survive long enough to transition to this new dream staff of yours, even if they do exist.”
“Understood,” she said, finally softening. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll ease up on the current staff for now. I’ll even let Tom stick around as a non-baker if you insist. In exchange, you promise to let me hire and train all new staff my way. Deal?”
“I’m still not convinced this ideal staff of yours exists. If we find enough mini-Megs to run this place, I’m all for hiring them. But if not, we’ll hire whoever we can get to keep the doors open.” I stuck out my hand. “Deal?”
“Deal.” Meg shook my hand. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of the staff, but you’re all over the place when pounding out the dough. Next time, keep your elbows tucked in and try to avoid unnecessary motion.” She smoothed the front of her shirt. “Work on that, and within a week, I expect you’ll be making pies in under two minutes.”
“That means you’d let me make pizzas under your auspices?”
“I’d think about it,” she said with a wink. “But let’s see you get under two minutes first.”
Each day before the pizzeria opened, Meg let the entire staff come in to make pizzas. It didn’t matter if you were on shift that day or not. If you wanted to spend an hour making pizzas under Meg’s direction, you were welcome. Those who came got paid for the hour, got feedback on their pizza making, and got timed on Meg’s stopwatch.
We used every pizza that came out of these training sessions for slices throughout the day. But until you could make an acceptable pizza in under two minutes, Meg wouldn’t let you bake during pizzeria hours.
That led to one big problem. When training began, we had exactly one person who could make a pizza in under two minutes, and that was Meg herself. She could have compromised and allowed two-and-a-half-minute pizzas for the first few weeks, but as I’d learned, Meg wasn’t the queen of compromise. Instead, she worked double shifts each day, making all the pizzas herself.
Soon, the sight of Meg throwing the pizzas became synonymous with The Pizza Lab. And when there were no regular pizzas to be made, she’d experiment. Among the slices for sale, there was always at least one experimental pie. We even gave a 20% discount to anyone buying a slice from each batch and sharing their feedback. Not surprisingly, that first week, Meg’s experiments rated far higher than our standard, with a crispier crust, a chunkier sauce, and cheese that stretched a mile. By the second week, one of Meg’s experiments became our new standard.
That wasn’t the only change going into week two. I feared Meg would work herself into exhaustion, and I knew only one way to dig her out without forcing her to compromise. So I worked on my technique, keeping my elbows in and eliminating unnecessary movement. It took me almost a week, but I finally made a pie in under two minutes. Dedrick also broke the two-minute mark, though he was so focused on The Midnight Snack that we didn’t expect him to make many pizzas. Still, as Meg had said, the more qualified pizza makers we had, the more flexible we’d be.
And we needed every bit of flexibility we could get. Our remaining staff members were all improving, but their numbers were also dwindling. We lost two more that first week. My own hours, rather than going down as I’d hoped, were back on the rise. Even though I’d gotten Meg’s go-ahead to make pizzas again, I barely did. She was still the master, and as she was almost always in the pizzeria, I rarely needed to get my hands dirty. Instead, I did everything else: I took orders, ran credit card transactions, heated slices, ordered supplies, and even swept the floors.
We needed staff, and we needed them badly. It wasn’t like we lacked applications. But for the first two weeks, Meg turned every one of them down.
“I love watching you throw the pizzas,” I heard someone say. “Can you teach me to do that?”
I came out of the office to see Carlos standing in front of the pizza counter, talking to Meg. He’d been a periodic customer since we opened, but after Meg arrived, I’d seen more of him.
“What do you think of the pizza here?” Meg asked. She tossed a pizza in the air, though as she wasn’t even five feet and Carlos was at least six foot four, it didn’t reach the top of his head.
“It’s been getting better,” Carlos said, eyes following her movements.
“Glad you’ve noticed,” she said as she put the dough on the tray. “But that makes it sound like it’s not up to your standards.”
He gave a sheepish grin. “I don’t want to insult the chef.”
“No insult taken. It’s not yet up to my standards either.” She ladled on a scoop of her new, chunkier sauce and spread it out with practiced ease. “What’s your favorite pizza?”
Carlos straightened. “I’m a Chicago boy. No better place than Gino’s East.”
“A deep dish man. I see.”
“That’s not to say I only like it thick,” he added, holding up both hands. “Before college, I went on a summer program in New Haven, and I’d stand in line night after night for Pepe’s.”
She slid her pie into the oven, then turned to face him. “And you want me to teach you how to throw pizza?”
“I’d love to learn.”
“Why?” she asked. “As another skill to have in your back pocket? Or are you hoping to do something with your pizza making?”
Carlos let out a short laugh and rocked back on his heels. “Why? You’re not hiring, are you?”
“Could be.”
“Right now,” he said, voice lowering as he leaned on the counter, “I’m working at the school cafeteria shoveling slop four hours a day. When our meat comes in, you know how it’s labeled?”
“How?”
“Fit for human consumption.” He shook his head in disgust. “My family’s from Argentina. We marinate our meat for three days. What Americans consider fit for human consumption, we wouldn’t feed to our dog.”
Meg nodded slowly. “Here’s the deal, Carlos. No one makes a pizza here during open hours until they can make it to my standards in under two minutes. Until then, I can offer you either the breakfast or late-night shift, but we don’t make pizza on those shifts.”
He tilted his head. “When would I train to make pizza?”
“In the hour before the pizzeria opens,” she said, resting her hands on the edge of the counter.
He exhaled through his nose, considering. “How long should it take me to get under two minutes?”
She gave him a look. “How hard are you willing to work?”
“As hard as it takes,” he said, nodding without hesitation. “I’m just wondering, based on your experience, how long it takes someone to get there?”
“Based on my experience?” She wiped her hands on her apron and looked him square in the eyes. “More than half the staff will never make a pizza I’d be willing to serve to my customers in under two minutes.”
Carlos glanced at the oven, then back at her. “That’s why you’re always out here? No one else can meet your standards?”
“That’s right.”
He let his eyes drift around the pizza prep area. “And the way the pizza is now—that’s how it’s going to stay?”
“This is The Pizza Lab. We’re always looking to make improvements,” she said. “I’d be awfully disappointed if our pizza wasn’t vastly better six months from now.”
“Now you’re speaking my language.” Carlos grinned, his whole face lighting up. “Once I get approved, would you be opposed to experimenting with a little Chicago Deep Dish?”
“Not at all.”
He offered her a hand across the counter. “Then count me in.”
She hesitated for just a second, then shook it. “Care to hang onto your job in the cafeteria until you’re sure you can pass muster?”
He shook his head, grinning. “Nah, I have no intention of failing. I’ll see you tomorrow for training.”
When Carlos left, I asked, “Could that be your first mini-Meg?”
“He’s anything but mini,” she replied. “Maybe we should call him macro-Meg?”
“Why him? You’ve turned everyone else down.”
“Everyone else was just looking for work. He wants to learn to make great pizza.”
“And you’re sure he’ll get there?”
She gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I’m not sure of anything other than wanting to give him a try.”
“Let’s hope he succeeds. I’m getting sick of the double shifts.”
“And I’m getting tired of being the only one on staff who cares about making an exceptional pizza.”
It took Carlos five days to make his first pizza in under two minutes. Despite starting his training weeks later than the rest of the staff, he became the first—other than Dedrick and me—approved to bake during opening hours.
“How’d you pick it up so fast?” I asked. He and I were working alone behind the counter as Meg finally took a shift off.
Carlos slid a pie into the oven and brushed flour off his hands. “Practice.”
“All the staff have been practicing.”
He gave me a sidelong glance. “They’ve been practicing here. But how many of them went home and practiced on their own?”
I leaned against the prep table. “I’m guessing not many.”
“I’ve been putting in at least two hours a night. I’ve almost got the toss down, but I won’t try that during open hours until I can do it more consistently.” He grabbed a rag to wipe the counter.
I raised my eyebrows. “How do you like working for Meg?”
Carlos grinned as he reached for a fresh dough ball. “She’s awesome. Who wouldn’t like working for her?”
I didn’t answer. Most of the staff found her difficult, if not downright impossible. Of course, none of them had spent their evenings perfecting their technique. Like it or not, Carlos was the best hire to come through the door since I bought the place. The only question was: were there enough people out there like him to fully staff a restaurant?
“You mind if I experiment a little on the next staff pie?” he asked, already reaching for the sauce.
“Feel free,” I said. “Just don’t experiment on any customer pies until Meg signs off.”
“Understood.” He nodded, spreading the sauce with a measured hand.
“And I don’t care if you are six foot four, don’t eat the entire thing. I’d like to try your experiment for myself.”
He laughed as he reached for the cheese. “I’m six foot five, actually, and one thing I can do is put away pizza. But I’ll try to save you a slice.”
I chuckled and shook my head. Who was I to give anyone a hard time for eating too much staff pizza? Wasn’t that exactly how I’d gotten started?
