Hi All-
Hope this finds everyone well. I checked back on this blog a week or so ago, and was shocked to see how many people still check in every once in a while.
Is there something or someone that's still pointing to Server Stories? If so, I'd love to know who or what is doing this so I can thank them... and of course, I'd also like to thank you for checking in as well, dear readers!
No promises, of course, but I'm getting that writing itch again... atually, the itch never went away, but now it's unbearable, like ants crawling beneath my skin, frantically searching for a way to claw out. I have a little free time coming up the week in between Christmas and New Years. I thought I'd maybe take some time and write a story or two, just for old times' sake.
Any particular person in Server Stories you'd like to read more about?
Showing posts with label Serving. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Serving. Show all posts
Friday, December 16, 2011
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Who's to Blame?
Preface:
I’ve classified servers into three categories.
‘The Natural’- People born with the traits to serve. You’ve seen them- easy smile, quick wit, great multitasking skills, and the ability to move quickly while making it look effortless.
‘The Grinder’- People that work hard to make up for their lack of natural talent. They have to force themselves to step out of their comfort zone, but they find a way to get things done, and generally become successful after a little time and practice.
‘Waste of Perfectly Breathable Air’- The final type of server is the one you hate to see on the floor plan. This class of server lacks natural talent, not unlike the Grinder. However, the lack of self motivation and effort renders them practically useless on the floor. No matter how good the management, it seems one slips through and sets up camp in every restaurant.
Who's to Blame?
After a couple months of serving, I’m finally good enough to take care of my tables and have a conversation in a side station without falling into the weeds. It’s really given me an opportunity to learn about my fellow servers. It’s also given me a chance to observe their style, to spot their strengths and weaknesses.
This morning, there are five servers on the floor.
Anita is a natural. Smart, funny, gregarious, and hard-working, Anita usually takes home the biggest tip percentage of any server in The Restaurant.
I’m a grinder. I’ve worked through my shyness, and I’m nipping at Anita’s heels in terms of daily tip percentage.
The Deaf Server is a grinder. She would be a natural, except for the fact that she can’t hear… at all. Completely deaf since a childhood illness, The Deaf Server has worked to learn how to read lips. Now her only shortcoming is that tables can’t flag her down by calling her name, so they have to physically grab her as she walks by. Couple this with the fact that she hates to be touched, and you end up with some interesting confrontations in her section.
The last two servers are wastes. The Penguin (so named because she is cut from the same body mold as Danny DeVito’s character in Batman Returns) likes to park herself against the back wall, out of customer sight so they can’t flag her down. She moves as little as possible. She never helps other servers. Her only redeeming quality is that she’s friendly to her tables and she only smells bad towards the end of a shift.
Angie S (so named because there is also an Angie D at The Restaurant) is similar to The Penguin, except she leans against a wall in full view of the customers. However, rather than making her more accessible to customers, Angie S tends to look at customers trying to get her attention, and then look away. I often seriously wonder if she is on the spectrum.
Today, it’s a busy shift. The five of us have full sections, with Anita, The Deaf Server, and I each taking an extra table.
I’m currently getting refills, pulling down a stack of napkins, and holding a light-hearted conversation with a nearby table, all while trying to remember an order that I have to punch into the computer. Angie S is taking her sweet-ass time at the touch screen. I look at her section. It’s filled with two-tops. Why in God’s name would it take two full minutes to punch in an order?
Now two minutes doesn’t sounds like a long time, but in serving time, it’s an eternity. Just try to hold your breath for two minutes.
When she finishes, she picks up her book and walks away. I jump on the computer and pound in the order before it falls out of my head. My memory is only good for a short time. Too many games of beer pong in college.
I hit the send button, and the small printer next to the computer spits out the chit. I notice an extra ticket when I pull the chit to put it in my book. Angie S never bothered to take hers. I take a quick look: two Chicken Caesar salads, two Diets.
Quickly counting in my head, I figure that she had 7 keystrokes. Nice.
On my way back to the kitchen, Angie S’ table stops me.
“Could you get us some refills please?” a slightly-perturbed gentleman asks. Both he and his companion are down to straws and ice.
“Of course,” I say. I grab both empty glasses and turn towards the kitchen. Angie S is standing against the wall, looking right at me. When she sees me looking, she looks away, ignoring not only me, but her other tables, all of which need something. I can tell because they’re all doing the short-arm wave. This happens when people want to get your attention while not drawing attention to themselves.
I return to Angie S’ table, drop off the drinks, then head towards my section. I get about two steps before a claw-like hand clamps down on my forearm. It’s another of Angie S’ tables. Refills and another ramekin of ranch dressing.
This is going to be a problem. Angie S’ section is between mine and the kitchen entrance. I can’t get to the kitchen without going by her tables, and I can’t go by her tables without being asked for something.
“Angie, I think your tables could use some refills,” I say as I pass. I try to keep my tone as non-confrontational as possible.
I refill the drinks for her table and grab the ranch dressing from the line. As I step back out onto the floor, I’m surprised to see Angie S still standing in the exact spot she was when I went into the back.
I shoot her an inquisitive look.
She rolls her eyes and looks out at her tables. “They’re fine.”
“If they’re fine, why have I gotten refills for half your section?” I can feel my blood boiling.
“Don’t worry about it. They’re fine.” She shrugs and settles back into doing nothing.
Fuming, I fly back to my section, which is now in dire need of attention thanks to Angie S’ apathy.
I spend the rest of the shift waiting on my tables as well as getting refills and pre-bussing her tables.
Towards the end of the shift, I’m finally caught up. I walk up to the host stand to see if I’ve been cut.
Kathy, the high school hostess, asks me how it's going. She's probably just trying to be friendly, but I haven’t had a chance to vent to anyone about Angie S.
A torrent of profanity flies out of my mouth, momentarily shocking her. That’s what she gets for trying to make friendly conversation.
Kathy, recovering, laughs and says, “You know how there’s two Angies, right?”
“Yeah?”
“Know how I learned to remember which was which when I first started?”
“Tell me.”
“Well, Angie S' tables would always come up here, asking if they were supposed to pay up front because she took so long to check back after she dropped off the check. I just remember thinking that "Angie sucks", hey... "Angie S!”
I laugh and walk away. I do my side work and head to the back to cash out. I get all my chits in order, cash first, then credit cards, then any special coupons or comps. I face all my bills, count out what I owe the house, and get ready to hop into the office.
Angie S comes around the corner and steps in front of me.
“Ladies first!” If anyone else had said it, I would have laughed. I debate on asking her why she thinks she qualifies to be called a "lady", but I decide not to push the issue and sit back down. Cashing out doesn’t take more than about two minutes. I’ll be going home in four rather than two. Angie S heads into the office.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m still waiting outside watching the fruit flies buzz around the overflowing ashtrays on the counter. I poke my head in the door. Angie S has all her chits spread out in front of her, and she’s still organizing them. Unbelievable.
I stand there, waiting for her to finish. When she’s finally done, she counts out her money.
“I didn’t make shit today. People are such cheap asses!” She complains loudly. She waddles towards the front door.
“If you’d get off your fat ass and hustle a little bit, maybe they wouldn’t be so fucking tight, you dumb bitch! Get your head out of your ass. How the hell do people like you make it through life without an illustrated guidebook?”
Ah, the things we think but do not say.
When Angie S is out of earshot, I ask the manager why she keeps Angie around when it’s obvious she doesn’t work very hard.
“She’s got good availability. It’s too much trouble to hire and train a new server.”
Hmmm… I see people come in almost daily to fill out applications. I know that there has to be at least three applicants each week that would do a better job than her. Makes you wonder who to blame- Angie S for being a waste of perfectly breathable air, or a manager that’s afraid to spend some extra money and sacrifice a little time to strengthen the staff in the long run. My vote is for the manager. Angie S can't even get out of her own way.
I’ve classified servers into three categories.
‘The Natural’- People born with the traits to serve. You’ve seen them- easy smile, quick wit, great multitasking skills, and the ability to move quickly while making it look effortless.
‘The Grinder’- People that work hard to make up for their lack of natural talent. They have to force themselves to step out of their comfort zone, but they find a way to get things done, and generally become successful after a little time and practice.
‘Waste of Perfectly Breathable Air’- The final type of server is the one you hate to see on the floor plan. This class of server lacks natural talent, not unlike the Grinder. However, the lack of self motivation and effort renders them practically useless on the floor. No matter how good the management, it seems one slips through and sets up camp in every restaurant.
Who's to Blame?
After a couple months of serving, I’m finally good enough to take care of my tables and have a conversation in a side station without falling into the weeds. It’s really given me an opportunity to learn about my fellow servers. It’s also given me a chance to observe their style, to spot their strengths and weaknesses.
This morning, there are five servers on the floor.
Anita is a natural. Smart, funny, gregarious, and hard-working, Anita usually takes home the biggest tip percentage of any server in The Restaurant.
I’m a grinder. I’ve worked through my shyness, and I’m nipping at Anita’s heels in terms of daily tip percentage.
The Deaf Server is a grinder. She would be a natural, except for the fact that she can’t hear… at all. Completely deaf since a childhood illness, The Deaf Server has worked to learn how to read lips. Now her only shortcoming is that tables can’t flag her down by calling her name, so they have to physically grab her as she walks by. Couple this with the fact that she hates to be touched, and you end up with some interesting confrontations in her section.
The last two servers are wastes. The Penguin (so named because she is cut from the same body mold as Danny DeVito’s character in Batman Returns) likes to park herself against the back wall, out of customer sight so they can’t flag her down. She moves as little as possible. She never helps other servers. Her only redeeming quality is that she’s friendly to her tables and she only smells bad towards the end of a shift.
Angie S (so named because there is also an Angie D at The Restaurant) is similar to The Penguin, except she leans against a wall in full view of the customers. However, rather than making her more accessible to customers, Angie S tends to look at customers trying to get her attention, and then look away. I often seriously wonder if she is on the spectrum.
Today, it’s a busy shift. The five of us have full sections, with Anita, The Deaf Server, and I each taking an extra table.
I’m currently getting refills, pulling down a stack of napkins, and holding a light-hearted conversation with a nearby table, all while trying to remember an order that I have to punch into the computer. Angie S is taking her sweet-ass time at the touch screen. I look at her section. It’s filled with two-tops. Why in God’s name would it take two full minutes to punch in an order?
Now two minutes doesn’t sounds like a long time, but in serving time, it’s an eternity. Just try to hold your breath for two minutes.
When she finishes, she picks up her book and walks away. I jump on the computer and pound in the order before it falls out of my head. My memory is only good for a short time. Too many games of beer pong in college.
I hit the send button, and the small printer next to the computer spits out the chit. I notice an extra ticket when I pull the chit to put it in my book. Angie S never bothered to take hers. I take a quick look: two Chicken Caesar salads, two Diets.
Quickly counting in my head, I figure that she had 7 keystrokes. Nice.
On my way back to the kitchen, Angie S’ table stops me.
“Could you get us some refills please?” a slightly-perturbed gentleman asks. Both he and his companion are down to straws and ice.
“Of course,” I say. I grab both empty glasses and turn towards the kitchen. Angie S is standing against the wall, looking right at me. When she sees me looking, she looks away, ignoring not only me, but her other tables, all of which need something. I can tell because they’re all doing the short-arm wave. This happens when people want to get your attention while not drawing attention to themselves.
I return to Angie S’ table, drop off the drinks, then head towards my section. I get about two steps before a claw-like hand clamps down on my forearm. It’s another of Angie S’ tables. Refills and another ramekin of ranch dressing.
This is going to be a problem. Angie S’ section is between mine and the kitchen entrance. I can’t get to the kitchen without going by her tables, and I can’t go by her tables without being asked for something.
“Angie, I think your tables could use some refills,” I say as I pass. I try to keep my tone as non-confrontational as possible.
I refill the drinks for her table and grab the ranch dressing from the line. As I step back out onto the floor, I’m surprised to see Angie S still standing in the exact spot she was when I went into the back.
I shoot her an inquisitive look.
She rolls her eyes and looks out at her tables. “They’re fine.”
“If they’re fine, why have I gotten refills for half your section?” I can feel my blood boiling.
“Don’t worry about it. They’re fine.” She shrugs and settles back into doing nothing.
Fuming, I fly back to my section, which is now in dire need of attention thanks to Angie S’ apathy.
I spend the rest of the shift waiting on my tables as well as getting refills and pre-bussing her tables.
Towards the end of the shift, I’m finally caught up. I walk up to the host stand to see if I’ve been cut.
Kathy, the high school hostess, asks me how it's going. She's probably just trying to be friendly, but I haven’t had a chance to vent to anyone about Angie S.
A torrent of profanity flies out of my mouth, momentarily shocking her. That’s what she gets for trying to make friendly conversation.
Kathy, recovering, laughs and says, “You know how there’s two Angies, right?”
“Yeah?”
“Know how I learned to remember which was which when I first started?”
“Tell me.”
“Well, Angie S' tables would always come up here, asking if they were supposed to pay up front because she took so long to check back after she dropped off the check. I just remember thinking that "Angie sucks", hey... "Angie S!”
I laugh and walk away. I do my side work and head to the back to cash out. I get all my chits in order, cash first, then credit cards, then any special coupons or comps. I face all my bills, count out what I owe the house, and get ready to hop into the office.
Angie S comes around the corner and steps in front of me.
“Ladies first!” If anyone else had said it, I would have laughed. I debate on asking her why she thinks she qualifies to be called a "lady", but I decide not to push the issue and sit back down. Cashing out doesn’t take more than about two minutes. I’ll be going home in four rather than two. Angie S heads into the office.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m still waiting outside watching the fruit flies buzz around the overflowing ashtrays on the counter. I poke my head in the door. Angie S has all her chits spread out in front of her, and she’s still organizing them. Unbelievable.
I stand there, waiting for her to finish. When she’s finally done, she counts out her money.
“I didn’t make shit today. People are such cheap asses!” She complains loudly. She waddles towards the front door.
“If you’d get off your fat ass and hustle a little bit, maybe they wouldn’t be so fucking tight, you dumb bitch! Get your head out of your ass. How the hell do people like you make it through life without an illustrated guidebook?”
Ah, the things we think but do not say.
When Angie S is out of earshot, I ask the manager why she keeps Angie around when it’s obvious she doesn’t work very hard.
“She’s got good availability. It’s too much trouble to hire and train a new server.”
Hmmm… I see people come in almost daily to fill out applications. I know that there has to be at least three applicants each week that would do a better job than her. Makes you wonder who to blame- Angie S for being a waste of perfectly breathable air, or a manager that’s afraid to spend some extra money and sacrifice a little time to strengthen the staff in the long run. My vote is for the manager. Angie S can't even get out of her own way.
Sunday, July 31, 2005
Valerie Gets Canned- Part II
-Preface-
When we left off, Valerie was scrubbing floors. The corporate office sacked the regional manager. I am at school in Jersey while my girlfriend is working at The Restaurant. She calls me with regular updates. I'm nervous, as I wrote an email that laid out all the problems that Valerie is causing. She hasn't been fired, and I'm wondering if I've been laid out to dry.
-Valerie Gets Canned, Part II-
I'm in my dorm writing a paper for one of my Anthropology classes. It's a five-pager. In high school, a five-page paper is intimidating. Now it's a breeze. I've been writing for an hour and I already have seven pages. I just have to pare down the flowery language and I'm good to go. There's a party tonight that I don't want to miss.
The phone rings. It's my girl. She's calling from The Restaurant.
"She's still here." She's whispering. She must be on her cell phone in the back.
"Is she still washing the walls?" I love the mental picture of Valerie on her knees with a bucket of soap and a sponge, Cinderella-style.
"No... the new regional made her clean out the entire dry storage. She's still in there. This place reeks like bleach!"
"How's the new regional treating everyone?"
"She's strict, but she loves me... I think she might be a lesbo. She made me unbutton a few buttons on my shirt. My boobs are almost hanging out." I like this new regional manager already.
"Oh, yeah? How are the tips today?"
"Actually, really good." No surprise there. How you look can effect your tip, regardless of your skills as a server. (More on this in another post)
"Nice. People are pigs. Hey, I have to finish this paper, then I'm going to go out. Ice block party tonight. You working tomorrow?"
"Yeah."
"OK. Can you call me if anything else happens?"
"Sure... by the way, what's an ice block party?"
"We got a 300 lb. block of ice. We set it up on a stand and use an iron to melt grooves in it. Whoever wants a shot stands at the bottom with their mouth on the end of the groove. We pour in the booze from the top, and by the time it gets to the bottom, it's ice cold."
"Sounds like fun! Wish I could be there..." I can hear her pouting. Truth of the matter is, I wish she could be here too. When you're at school, you forget what it feels like to get a hug from a loved one.
"I know, baby. I wish you could be here, too. Give me a call tomorrow, ok?"
"Will do. I better get back..." Click.
OK, back to the paper. I hate Foucalt....
---
The phone is ringing. So is my head. Jaeger is the devil, especially when it's being poured down an icy chute. I grope for the phone in the dark.
"Hello?" My eyes are still closed. A little monkey is playing conga drums in my skull. Every time I move, he playes louder. I try to stay still.
"You sound like shit." Is that a hint of glee I hear?
"Thanks. What time is it?"
"Eleven your time." I've been asleep for five hours. Super.
"What's going on?"
"I just got here. She's still here, but now they have her cleaning the ceiling tiles. The reason I called is that there are two people from corporate here." Forgetting my headache, I shoot out of bed onto my feet.
"You think they're going to fire her today?" I pace nervously while my mind races. Is this it? Will they finally get rid of her? Who will the be the new GM? Man, my hardwood floor sure is dirty. Where are my shower slippers? Shit, she's talking again.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"I said 'I don't think so.' They wouldn't make her keep cleaning if they were going to fire her, right?"
"Honestly, I don't know. I'm going to be in my room all day. Call me if something changes."
I hang up the phone. I wonder out of my bedroom into the common room. The light streaming through our lone window hurts my eyes.
My roommate is gently shooing out some girl he picked up last night. She leaves reluctantly. Time for her to embark on the Walk of Shame.
He looks like hell. I figure I probably look just as bad. We look at each other. Without saying a word, we turn and head back to our beds.
---
I'm finally able to get out of bed around 2. My roommate and I head out for lunch at Hoagie Haven, home of the greatest cheese steaks on Earth. We need grease if we're going to rebound for another party tonight. I love college.
When we get back about an hour later, the red light on the phone is blinking. There is a message. My roommate checks first.
"Must be you. My voicemail is empty." He tosses me the handset, plops on the couch, and flicks on the TV. He finds an NCAA basketball game and zones in.
I check my voicemail. Four messages. The first is from my parents. Just checking in. The next three are from my girlfriend.
"Call me back!"
"Where are you? You better not be sleeping! Call me back!"
"I can't believe I can't get a hold of you! You said you'd be in your room all day. Call me back!"
Weird. She's not the type to call and leave a bunch of messages. Hmmm... I pick up the handset and call The Restaurant.
"Thank you for calling The Restaurant, this is Rena speaking, how can I help you?"
"Rena, it's me. Is the woman around?"
"I was wondering when you were going to call. You ain't gonna believe this shit! Here she is."
"Hello? They did it! They canned her ass! HA!" She's screaming into the receiver. My mind goes numb. I recover quickly and start dancing a little jig, laughing hysterically. My roommate watches me with mild interest.
"Tell me everything!"
She launches into the story.
Valerie has been cleaning the place from bottom to top. She was washing the ceiling tiles, but when she got to the final tile, the corporate G-Men stopped her. They lead her over to one of the tables. Nobody can hear anything until Valerie stands up and starts screaming, "This bullshit! You can't fire me! I managing partner!"
Valerie invested some money into the franchise a while back. She gets a percentage of the store's profits.
Apparently, The G-Men anticipated this. They open a briefcase, write her a check, hand it to her, and point her towards the door. She's screaming as she's leaving.
"You can't do this! This bullshit! I sue your asses!"
As she's leaving, still raving, a man walks in. He's about 6'4'', and he looks a bit nervous. The G-Men speak to him for a moment. They then ask the staff to gather in the back.
Once everyone is there, the G-men introduce the tall man as the new general manager, Randy. Then one of the G-men explained what happened.
"The corporate office felt it may be time for a change for this store. When we arrived a few days ago, we realized that The Restaurant was in a lot worse of shape than we anticipated. In fact, it was rotten to the core. We made Valerie clean up her own mess, as you may have noticed. However, we left one ceiling tile untouched." He points to the uncleaned ceiling tile. It's yellow, on the verge of brown. The contrast with the gleaming white ceiling tiles is astonishing. "Every time you look at that tile, I want you all to think about what each of you can do to prevent the same sort of thing from happening."
The G-men pack up their stuff an leave.
In the coming weeks, Valerie's absence was easily noticable. From the associates (servers, bartenders, cooks, busboys, hosts) a mild euphoria permeated The Restaurant. From the managers, astonishment and disgust. Valerie had been doctoring her cost numbers for months. Food cost jumped four points, beverage cost jumped 2. For those of you counting at home, that adds up to about $4,500 in missing food and liquor.
And from me? Well, I'm just amazed at the power of one well-written email.
When we left off, Valerie was scrubbing floors. The corporate office sacked the regional manager. I am at school in Jersey while my girlfriend is working at The Restaurant. She calls me with regular updates. I'm nervous, as I wrote an email that laid out all the problems that Valerie is causing. She hasn't been fired, and I'm wondering if I've been laid out to dry.
-Valerie Gets Canned, Part II-
I'm in my dorm writing a paper for one of my Anthropology classes. It's a five-pager. In high school, a five-page paper is intimidating. Now it's a breeze. I've been writing for an hour and I already have seven pages. I just have to pare down the flowery language and I'm good to go. There's a party tonight that I don't want to miss.
The phone rings. It's my girl. She's calling from The Restaurant.
"She's still here." She's whispering. She must be on her cell phone in the back.
"Is she still washing the walls?" I love the mental picture of Valerie on her knees with a bucket of soap and a sponge, Cinderella-style.
"No... the new regional made her clean out the entire dry storage. She's still in there. This place reeks like bleach!"
"How's the new regional treating everyone?"
"She's strict, but she loves me... I think she might be a lesbo. She made me unbutton a few buttons on my shirt. My boobs are almost hanging out." I like this new regional manager already.
"Oh, yeah? How are the tips today?"
"Actually, really good." No surprise there. How you look can effect your tip, regardless of your skills as a server. (More on this in another post)
"Nice. People are pigs. Hey, I have to finish this paper, then I'm going to go out. Ice block party tonight. You working tomorrow?"
"Yeah."
"OK. Can you call me if anything else happens?"
"Sure... by the way, what's an ice block party?"
"We got a 300 lb. block of ice. We set it up on a stand and use an iron to melt grooves in it. Whoever wants a shot stands at the bottom with their mouth on the end of the groove. We pour in the booze from the top, and by the time it gets to the bottom, it's ice cold."
"Sounds like fun! Wish I could be there..." I can hear her pouting. Truth of the matter is, I wish she could be here too. When you're at school, you forget what it feels like to get a hug from a loved one.
"I know, baby. I wish you could be here, too. Give me a call tomorrow, ok?"
"Will do. I better get back..." Click.
OK, back to the paper. I hate Foucalt....
---
The phone is ringing. So is my head. Jaeger is the devil, especially when it's being poured down an icy chute. I grope for the phone in the dark.
"Hello?" My eyes are still closed. A little monkey is playing conga drums in my skull. Every time I move, he playes louder. I try to stay still.
"You sound like shit." Is that a hint of glee I hear?
"Thanks. What time is it?"
"Eleven your time." I've been asleep for five hours. Super.
"What's going on?"
"I just got here. She's still here, but now they have her cleaning the ceiling tiles. The reason I called is that there are two people from corporate here." Forgetting my headache, I shoot out of bed onto my feet.
"You think they're going to fire her today?" I pace nervously while my mind races. Is this it? Will they finally get rid of her? Who will the be the new GM? Man, my hardwood floor sure is dirty. Where are my shower slippers? Shit, she's talking again.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"I said 'I don't think so.' They wouldn't make her keep cleaning if they were going to fire her, right?"
"Honestly, I don't know. I'm going to be in my room all day. Call me if something changes."
I hang up the phone. I wonder out of my bedroom into the common room. The light streaming through our lone window hurts my eyes.
My roommate is gently shooing out some girl he picked up last night. She leaves reluctantly. Time for her to embark on the Walk of Shame.
He looks like hell. I figure I probably look just as bad. We look at each other. Without saying a word, we turn and head back to our beds.
---
I'm finally able to get out of bed around 2. My roommate and I head out for lunch at Hoagie Haven, home of the greatest cheese steaks on Earth. We need grease if we're going to rebound for another party tonight. I love college.
When we get back about an hour later, the red light on the phone is blinking. There is a message. My roommate checks first.
"Must be you. My voicemail is empty." He tosses me the handset, plops on the couch, and flicks on the TV. He finds an NCAA basketball game and zones in.
I check my voicemail. Four messages. The first is from my parents. Just checking in. The next three are from my girlfriend.
"Call me back!"
"Where are you? You better not be sleeping! Call me back!"
"I can't believe I can't get a hold of you! You said you'd be in your room all day. Call me back!"
Weird. She's not the type to call and leave a bunch of messages. Hmmm... I pick up the handset and call The Restaurant.
"Thank you for calling The Restaurant, this is Rena speaking, how can I help you?"
"Rena, it's me. Is the woman around?"
"I was wondering when you were going to call. You ain't gonna believe this shit! Here she is."
"Hello? They did it! They canned her ass! HA!" She's screaming into the receiver. My mind goes numb. I recover quickly and start dancing a little jig, laughing hysterically. My roommate watches me with mild interest.
"Tell me everything!"
She launches into the story.
Valerie has been cleaning the place from bottom to top. She was washing the ceiling tiles, but when she got to the final tile, the corporate G-Men stopped her. They lead her over to one of the tables. Nobody can hear anything until Valerie stands up and starts screaming, "This bullshit! You can't fire me! I managing partner!"
Valerie invested some money into the franchise a while back. She gets a percentage of the store's profits.
Apparently, The G-Men anticipated this. They open a briefcase, write her a check, hand it to her, and point her towards the door. She's screaming as she's leaving.
"You can't do this! This bullshit! I sue your asses!"
As she's leaving, still raving, a man walks in. He's about 6'4'', and he looks a bit nervous. The G-Men speak to him for a moment. They then ask the staff to gather in the back.
Once everyone is there, the G-men introduce the tall man as the new general manager, Randy. Then one of the G-men explained what happened.
"The corporate office felt it may be time for a change for this store. When we arrived a few days ago, we realized that The Restaurant was in a lot worse of shape than we anticipated. In fact, it was rotten to the core. We made Valerie clean up her own mess, as you may have noticed. However, we left one ceiling tile untouched." He points to the uncleaned ceiling tile. It's yellow, on the verge of brown. The contrast with the gleaming white ceiling tiles is astonishing. "Every time you look at that tile, I want you all to think about what each of you can do to prevent the same sort of thing from happening."
The G-men pack up their stuff an leave.
In the coming weeks, Valerie's absence was easily noticable. From the associates (servers, bartenders, cooks, busboys, hosts) a mild euphoria permeated The Restaurant. From the managers, astonishment and disgust. Valerie had been doctoring her cost numbers for months. Food cost jumped four points, beverage cost jumped 2. For those of you counting at home, that adds up to about $4,500 in missing food and liquor.
And from me? Well, I'm just amazed at the power of one well-written email.
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Valerie Gets Canned- Part I
-Preface-
This is a longer story, so I'm breaking it into two parts. The first will deal with the events leading up to Valerie's firing. The second will deal with the day prior to and the day of her termination.
-A Description of Valerie-
Look in past posts, including The Captain and Valerie, Ranch Dressing, and a Birthday.
-Valerie Gets Canned, Part I-
As you've seen in posts past, Valerie is a tough cookie. By "tough cookie", I really mean "a cold, selfish, unsympathetic, heartless, Napoleonic (Bonaparte, not Dynamite) little wench." The servers hate working with her. She cares little for anything but herself and her bottom line.
Here are some brief examples that reveal the true character of Valerie:
-A server home from school works a six-hour shift. She heads to the back, where she sits outside the office, separating her checks into cash, credit, and other (coupons, comps, etc.).
Tomorrow morning she leaves for Purdue to buy books. She has managed to scrape together $60 on a slow shift, just enough to afford her Econ book. She's hustled on her feet all day. I can tell she's dead tired. She goes into the office to check out with Valerie.
There's a problem. She can't find one of the $2 off coupons. Valerie can let this slide. She doesn't. The server slams her book down on the desk and storms out of the office, heading to the back door. Soon she is knee-deep in the dumpster, looking for the coupon. By some amazing stroke of luck, she finds the coupon. She returns to the office, stinky and bitter. It gets worse.
She counts down her money. She now only has $40. She has to borrow money to get her books.
I can't prove that Valerie took it, but here are several facts that make a good case.
First, the server's book, which included her money, her checks, and her coupons, remained in the office the entire time she was digging through the dumpster. Valerie was the only person in the office.
Second, another server spotted a Jackson stuffed in between two envelopes. She said something to Valerie, who immediately responded, "It fell out of petty cash." Petty cash is kept in the safe, which is on the floor. The lockbox weighs fifty pounds. When the managers take it out of the safe, they just put it on the floor. I find it hard to believe that a twenty fell out of the lockbox, caught an updraft, floated around the office like a feather in the wind, and then slid between two envelopes.
-Valerie counts down my bar drawer. She says it is $20 short. I have to pay it or I get written up. I pay it. I hate getting disciplined for anything. I never got a detention all through school.
Looking at my sales vs. my total tips, I see that I averaged less than 15% for the first time in my serving career. I normally average over 20%. Hmm....
-Less than a week later, she tries the same trick with another bartender. This bartender fights back.
"I counted the drawer before I gave it to you. The money was there, Valerie! Where the hell is it now? You better it soon, and don't try to pull this shit on me again, you hear me?!!" Saucy little bartender, isn't she?
Miraculously, Valerie finds the missing money. Hmm...
Events like these have the staff on the edge of mutiny. People are constantly grumbling, and the staff is getting snippy. We're sick of being verbally and emotionally abused by Valerietnam.
We try to talk to the regional manager. Unfortunately, Valerie is his protege. He hired her as a pantry girl and then brought her up through the ranks, all the way to GM. In his eyes, she can do no wrong. No help is coming from that corner.
Eventually, one of the older bartenders decides to take action. She writes a letter to the corporate office.
Copies of this letter circulate among the staff. As the resident academic, I am one of the first to get a copy. Hiding it in my server book, I read it during a slow lunch shift. I'm pretending to be studying a description of the new chicken and pasta dish. Cloak and dagger all the way, baby.
The letter starts off, "I am a server, a bartender, a cook, a busboy..." and ends with, "It is my firm belief that Valerie's employment with your establishment should be terminated forthwith." In between lay a poorly-written mess of lofty ideals and baseless accusations. The bartender is very proud of her work. I don't have the heart to tell her that the corporate office is more likely to correct it in red ink and send it back rather than take action.
However, the bartender does have some solid evidence. There are photocopies of checks that Valerie adjusted after close. No check should ever be adjusted after The Restaurant's business hours.
The Administrative Assistant deals with all adjusted checks. Apparrently, she started making photocopies of these suspicious checks months ago.
This was Valerie's scam...
She waits until after close. She re-opens checks paid in cash. She comps all the food, pockets the cash, and thinks no one is the wiser. Nobody knows how long she's been doing this.
Just as I predicted, the letter doesn't get a response. In all honesty, I don't see how anyone at the corporate office could respond. The bartender didn't leave a return address or a name. They couldn't call us up and say, "Hello, I'd like to speak to a server, a bartender, a busboy..."
Luckily, I head back to school. I don't want to deal with the political b.s. and all the bitching that goes with it. It makes me cranky.
Every day while I'm away at school, I talk (long-distance) to my girlfriend, who works as a bartender at The Restaurant. Remember the bartender who wouldn't let Valerie scam her? That's my girl. She bitches constantly about Valerie and her surrounding managerial staff. I can tell she's miserable.
Finally, after talking to her until 3 a.m. on a Sunday, I decide to take action. I go on the company website, click on the "comments" link, and go to town. My email letter is short, pointed, and biting. I lay out all I know. The stealing, the attitude, the Regional Manager's lack of action, everything.
At the end, I don't leave my name. If this thing doesn't go well, I don't want to be singled out and screwed over. I leave my school phone number and an offer to talk anytime.
I finish up at 5 am and go to sleep. I drift off wondering if they'll even bother getting back to me, let alone take action...
Ring.... Ring...
What the hell?! I roll over and look at the clock. 8:15. What soulless bastard would call me at 8:15 on a Monday, especially since I don't have class until noon?
"Myelllo...?" I'm groggy as hell. I've only gotten three hours of sleep.
"Hi! My name is (Name Erased to Protect the Innocent), and I'm a Vice President at the corporate office. Are you the one who wrote that email comment this morning?" The voice is chipper. Way too damn chipper for a Monday morning. The man has a slight southern-sounding twang to his voice. Having lived in Texas, I know Southern...and this isn't a Southern accent. I'm guessing Indiana or Ohio farm boy.
"Yes, yes I am. Wow, that was fast!" Now I'm wide awake and excited as heck.
"Well, we've been looking at this situation for a while. We even got a letter a while back, but we couldn't really make heads or tails of it. That wasn't you, was it?"
"Nah, but I read it."
"OK, good. Hey, um, can I ask you... are you still employed with us?" He wants to know if I'm a bitter ex-server out to get the GM who screwed me. Fair enough.
"Yes I am. I'm at school, but I work during the summer and holidays."
"Well then, tell me everything you can about what's going on out there."
I talk to him for an hour. He never rushes me while I speak. He asks good follow-up questions. He even asks for my girlfriend's phone number so he could follow up with her.
His final remark is, "Thank you for your help. Rest assured, we'll take care of the situation." I will always hold respect for this gentleman. His word is as good as gold.
Later that afternoon, I get a call from my fired-up girlfriend. She's at work and she's practically screaming. They fired the regional manager that wouldn't listen to us about Valerie. She said two men in suits breezed through the doors, found the regional (who happened to be at our store at the time), sat him down, and then escorted him to the door.
The new regional manager came in one hour later. Apparrently, she blew in like a hurricane. She immediately sought out Valerie and reamed her over the state of the restaurant.
"Oh. Is she making you guys clean everything in sight?" Now I feel like an asshole.
"No! Not us... Valerie! She's down on her knees scrubbing the walls in the back. I don't know what you did, but it worked! Love you!" She gives a little squeel and hangs up.
I'm stunned. Great, they got rid of one of the problems (the regional was a prick), but what about Valerie? I mean, I'm all about having her wash some walls, but will she still be boss when I go back? Will she know that I caused her all this grief? Will she take it out on me?
to be continued...
This is a longer story, so I'm breaking it into two parts. The first will deal with the events leading up to Valerie's firing. The second will deal with the day prior to and the day of her termination.
-A Description of Valerie-
Look in past posts, including The Captain and Valerie, Ranch Dressing, and a Birthday.
-Valerie Gets Canned, Part I-
As you've seen in posts past, Valerie is a tough cookie. By "tough cookie", I really mean "a cold, selfish, unsympathetic, heartless, Napoleonic (Bonaparte, not Dynamite) little wench." The servers hate working with her. She cares little for anything but herself and her bottom line.
Here are some brief examples that reveal the true character of Valerie:
-A server home from school works a six-hour shift. She heads to the back, where she sits outside the office, separating her checks into cash, credit, and other (coupons, comps, etc.).
Tomorrow morning she leaves for Purdue to buy books. She has managed to scrape together $60 on a slow shift, just enough to afford her Econ book. She's hustled on her feet all day. I can tell she's dead tired. She goes into the office to check out with Valerie.
There's a problem. She can't find one of the $2 off coupons. Valerie can let this slide. She doesn't. The server slams her book down on the desk and storms out of the office, heading to the back door. Soon she is knee-deep in the dumpster, looking for the coupon. By some amazing stroke of luck, she finds the coupon. She returns to the office, stinky and bitter. It gets worse.
She counts down her money. She now only has $40. She has to borrow money to get her books.
I can't prove that Valerie took it, but here are several facts that make a good case.
First, the server's book, which included her money, her checks, and her coupons, remained in the office the entire time she was digging through the dumpster. Valerie was the only person in the office.
Second, another server spotted a Jackson stuffed in between two envelopes. She said something to Valerie, who immediately responded, "It fell out of petty cash." Petty cash is kept in the safe, which is on the floor. The lockbox weighs fifty pounds. When the managers take it out of the safe, they just put it on the floor. I find it hard to believe that a twenty fell out of the lockbox, caught an updraft, floated around the office like a feather in the wind, and then slid between two envelopes.
-Valerie counts down my bar drawer. She says it is $20 short. I have to pay it or I get written up. I pay it. I hate getting disciplined for anything. I never got a detention all through school.
Looking at my sales vs. my total tips, I see that I averaged less than 15% for the first time in my serving career. I normally average over 20%. Hmm....
-Less than a week later, she tries the same trick with another bartender. This bartender fights back.
"I counted the drawer before I gave it to you. The money was there, Valerie! Where the hell is it now? You better it soon, and don't try to pull this shit on me again, you hear me?!!" Saucy little bartender, isn't she?
Miraculously, Valerie finds the missing money. Hmm...
Events like these have the staff on the edge of mutiny. People are constantly grumbling, and the staff is getting snippy. We're sick of being verbally and emotionally abused by Valerietnam.
We try to talk to the regional manager. Unfortunately, Valerie is his protege. He hired her as a pantry girl and then brought her up through the ranks, all the way to GM. In his eyes, she can do no wrong. No help is coming from that corner.
Eventually, one of the older bartenders decides to take action. She writes a letter to the corporate office.
Copies of this letter circulate among the staff. As the resident academic, I am one of the first to get a copy. Hiding it in my server book, I read it during a slow lunch shift. I'm pretending to be studying a description of the new chicken and pasta dish. Cloak and dagger all the way, baby.
The letter starts off, "I am a server, a bartender, a cook, a busboy..." and ends with, "It is my firm belief that Valerie's employment with your establishment should be terminated forthwith." In between lay a poorly-written mess of lofty ideals and baseless accusations. The bartender is very proud of her work. I don't have the heart to tell her that the corporate office is more likely to correct it in red ink and send it back rather than take action.
However, the bartender does have some solid evidence. There are photocopies of checks that Valerie adjusted after close. No check should ever be adjusted after The Restaurant's business hours.
The Administrative Assistant deals with all adjusted checks. Apparrently, she started making photocopies of these suspicious checks months ago.
This was Valerie's scam...
She waits until after close. She re-opens checks paid in cash. She comps all the food, pockets the cash, and thinks no one is the wiser. Nobody knows how long she's been doing this.
Just as I predicted, the letter doesn't get a response. In all honesty, I don't see how anyone at the corporate office could respond. The bartender didn't leave a return address or a name. They couldn't call us up and say, "Hello, I'd like to speak to a server, a bartender, a busboy..."
Luckily, I head back to school. I don't want to deal with the political b.s. and all the bitching that goes with it. It makes me cranky.
Every day while I'm away at school, I talk (long-distance) to my girlfriend, who works as a bartender at The Restaurant. Remember the bartender who wouldn't let Valerie scam her? That's my girl. She bitches constantly about Valerie and her surrounding managerial staff. I can tell she's miserable.
Finally, after talking to her until 3 a.m. on a Sunday, I decide to take action. I go on the company website, click on the "comments" link, and go to town. My email letter is short, pointed, and biting. I lay out all I know. The stealing, the attitude, the Regional Manager's lack of action, everything.
At the end, I don't leave my name. If this thing doesn't go well, I don't want to be singled out and screwed over. I leave my school phone number and an offer to talk anytime.
I finish up at 5 am and go to sleep. I drift off wondering if they'll even bother getting back to me, let alone take action...
Ring.... Ring...
What the hell?! I roll over and look at the clock. 8:15. What soulless bastard would call me at 8:15 on a Monday, especially since I don't have class until noon?
"Myelllo...?" I'm groggy as hell. I've only gotten three hours of sleep.
"Hi! My name is (Name Erased to Protect the Innocent), and I'm a Vice President at the corporate office. Are you the one who wrote that email comment this morning?" The voice is chipper. Way too damn chipper for a Monday morning. The man has a slight southern-sounding twang to his voice. Having lived in Texas, I know Southern...and this isn't a Southern accent. I'm guessing Indiana or Ohio farm boy.
"Yes, yes I am. Wow, that was fast!" Now I'm wide awake and excited as heck.
"Well, we've been looking at this situation for a while. We even got a letter a while back, but we couldn't really make heads or tails of it. That wasn't you, was it?"
"Nah, but I read it."
"OK, good. Hey, um, can I ask you... are you still employed with us?" He wants to know if I'm a bitter ex-server out to get the GM who screwed me. Fair enough.
"Yes I am. I'm at school, but I work during the summer and holidays."
"Well then, tell me everything you can about what's going on out there."
I talk to him for an hour. He never rushes me while I speak. He asks good follow-up questions. He even asks for my girlfriend's phone number so he could follow up with her.
His final remark is, "Thank you for your help. Rest assured, we'll take care of the situation." I will always hold respect for this gentleman. His word is as good as gold.
Later that afternoon, I get a call from my fired-up girlfriend. She's at work and she's practically screaming. They fired the regional manager that wouldn't listen to us about Valerie. She said two men in suits breezed through the doors, found the regional (who happened to be at our store at the time), sat him down, and then escorted him to the door.
The new regional manager came in one hour later. Apparrently, she blew in like a hurricane. She immediately sought out Valerie and reamed her over the state of the restaurant.
"Oh. Is she making you guys clean everything in sight?" Now I feel like an asshole.
"No! Not us... Valerie! She's down on her knees scrubbing the walls in the back. I don't know what you did, but it worked! Love you!" She gives a little squeel and hangs up.
I'm stunned. Great, they got rid of one of the problems (the regional was a prick), but what about Valerie? I mean, I'm all about having her wash some walls, but will she still be boss when I go back? Will she know that I caused her all this grief? Will she take it out on me?
to be continued...
Sunday, July 10, 2005
Valerie's Food Cost
-Preface-
When running a corporate restaurant, there are only a few quantifiable ways to chart a GM's progress. You can check sales for any given month vs. the sales for the same month last year or the year before. You can check secret shopper scores. (I will describe, in detail, my loathing for shoppers in an upcoming post.) However, the main number that the corporate G-men watch are costs. Food costs and liquor costs, to be specific.
It's a bit complicated to explain, but measuring food or liquor cost involves checking the amount of product sold vs. the amount of product used. These are twisted around mathematically until you reach a number. This number is referred to as your "food cost". It's measured in percentage points. The way The Restaurant calculates food cost means that each point equates to about $500 of waste.
After inventory, you can check food cost for any number of items, from checking the entire restaurant's stock of food used in the last year down to the number of croutons used in the last week.
The corporate office sets goals for every store. If your store doesn't meet those goals, the RM will come down hard on the GM, who will come down hard on the servers. It must be our fault that food cost is so high...
-A Description of Valerie-
See Valerie, Ranch Dressing, and a Birthday
-Valerie's Food Cost-
It's a Saturday morning in the middle of winter. It's freezing outside. It's also snowing. I don't mind a little snow. However, after the first two or three snowfalls, I'm sick of the gray sludge that builds up on the side of the road. The grayness is depressing. I'm ready for summer.
Walking through the front doors, I see Valerie speaking to the servers during our shift meeting. She's wearing a beige peacoat over a gray sweatshirt. Classy. She's also incredibly animated. She keeps thrusting her arm towards the kitchen. For some reason, I think of the old black and white news reels of Hitler addressing Germany.
Shaking my head in an attempt to clear the image from my mind, I sit down in one of the bar booths next to Soldato. His eyes are closed. I prod him and ask what Valerie is yapping about.
He opens one eye. "Cheese," is his simple, hushed answer. I give him a strange look. He smiles and shrugs. His eye closes again. He doesn't even bother to listen to Valerie any more. She's still droning away.
"What the hell do you mean, cheese?" I'm talking out of the side of my mouth in a whisper. Not quietly enough, apparently.
"What you two talking about? I'm glad you decide to show up (I'm five minutes early, actually). Food cost is too high. You need to stop putting so much cheese on the salads. Food cost up 2 points." Valerie manages to be accusatory, demeaning, and stupid all in one breath.
I feel like I'm in 8th grade and I just got caught passing a "check yes or no if you like so-and-so" note. I'm too old for this crap. I'm hungover, the weather is crappy, and I'm in a foul mood. Plus, I don't see how we could have wasted $1,000 worth of cheese in one month by overportioning cheese on salads.
"Valerie, that's ridiculous! Do you know how much cheese we'd need to mound on every salad to screw up the cost so badly?"
I take pride in my work. Since I'm hungover, all mole hills quickly become mountains. Add these two factors together, and I'm steaming.
Valerie must sense my anger. She doesn't yell back at me, nor does she have me lashed for speaking out of turn or insubordination. Instead she answers calmly.
"If you add a little cheese onto each salad, it soon become a lot of cheese. Cheese expensive. Food cost up, Jon (our RM) pissed. Put only a little cheese on salad."
While I agree with this assessment, I still think it's impossible to increase food cost by two points for over portioning cheese. For some reason, I can't let this go. Fortunately, a customer walks in and the shift meeting has to break up.
Soon all the servers are flying around. Dishes are clattering, people are chatting, and The Restaurant is hopping.
I see Soldato coming out of the kitchen. He's got two salads. Each one has five pieces of shredded cheese. The correct portion is one ounce per salad. This is about 25 shreds of cheese. The way these salads were made, it looks as though we're trying to skimp.
"What the hell is that?" I ask Soldato.
"The, uh, Cheese Nazi back there thinks that this is how a salad should look." He holds the bowl up for my inspection. He continues on and places the bowls in front of the customers.
I head to the back. Sure enough, Valerie is watching over the expo line like a prison warden watching inmates on work detail.
"That too much! Take some off! Take off more! Good, now go!" I shake my head and start getting together my food.
Soldato walks back through the door. He's holding a salad.
"Valerie, my customer wants more cheese on his salad." He goes to grab the tongs. Valerie slaps his hand.
"They want more, they pay extra. Ring in 25 cents, open food." Leave it to Valerie. She doesn't care that the customers won't come back. She doesn't mind saving nickels to lose dollars.
The whole shift continues in this fashion. Valerie never leaves her post by the expo line. Finally, I get to cash out and go home for a break before I come back for my night shift.
A quick nap and a short car drive later and I'm back at the doors of The Restaurant. As I'm going in, I see Soldato at the entrance to the kitchen. His jaw is agape. I run up to see what's going on.
"Can you believe this shit?" Now Soldato is talking out of the side of his mouth.
"What is it?" I stop next to him. For the first time, I can see what he's looking at.
Valerie has her hands full with a package of tortillas, a one-pound box of ground beef, a gallon of sour cream, and a gallon of guacamole. She's wearing her coat, scarf, and gloves. She's leaving.
She walks by Soldato and me.
"Valerie, what's wrong with all that stuff?" She stops and looks at me. She has to crane her neck around the gallon jug of sour cream.
"Nothing. It's Taco Night." She turns and walks out the door. With about half a point of food cost in her arms.
I wonder if Taco Night is a weekly event?
When running a corporate restaurant, there are only a few quantifiable ways to chart a GM's progress. You can check sales for any given month vs. the sales for the same month last year or the year before. You can check secret shopper scores. (I will describe, in detail, my loathing for shoppers in an upcoming post.) However, the main number that the corporate G-men watch are costs. Food costs and liquor costs, to be specific.
It's a bit complicated to explain, but measuring food or liquor cost involves checking the amount of product sold vs. the amount of product used. These are twisted around mathematically until you reach a number. This number is referred to as your "food cost". It's measured in percentage points. The way The Restaurant calculates food cost means that each point equates to about $500 of waste.
After inventory, you can check food cost for any number of items, from checking the entire restaurant's stock of food used in the last year down to the number of croutons used in the last week.
The corporate office sets goals for every store. If your store doesn't meet those goals, the RM will come down hard on the GM, who will come down hard on the servers. It must be our fault that food cost is so high...
-A Description of Valerie-
See Valerie, Ranch Dressing, and a Birthday
-Valerie's Food Cost-
It's a Saturday morning in the middle of winter. It's freezing outside. It's also snowing. I don't mind a little snow. However, after the first two or three snowfalls, I'm sick of the gray sludge that builds up on the side of the road. The grayness is depressing. I'm ready for summer.
Walking through the front doors, I see Valerie speaking to the servers during our shift meeting. She's wearing a beige peacoat over a gray sweatshirt. Classy. She's also incredibly animated. She keeps thrusting her arm towards the kitchen. For some reason, I think of the old black and white news reels of Hitler addressing Germany.
Shaking my head in an attempt to clear the image from my mind, I sit down in one of the bar booths next to Soldato. His eyes are closed. I prod him and ask what Valerie is yapping about.
He opens one eye. "Cheese," is his simple, hushed answer. I give him a strange look. He smiles and shrugs. His eye closes again. He doesn't even bother to listen to Valerie any more. She's still droning away.
"What the hell do you mean, cheese?" I'm talking out of the side of my mouth in a whisper. Not quietly enough, apparently.
"What you two talking about? I'm glad you decide to show up (I'm five minutes early, actually). Food cost is too high. You need to stop putting so much cheese on the salads. Food cost up 2 points." Valerie manages to be accusatory, demeaning, and stupid all in one breath.
I feel like I'm in 8th grade and I just got caught passing a "check yes or no if you like so-and-so" note. I'm too old for this crap. I'm hungover, the weather is crappy, and I'm in a foul mood. Plus, I don't see how we could have wasted $1,000 worth of cheese in one month by overportioning cheese on salads.
"Valerie, that's ridiculous! Do you know how much cheese we'd need to mound on every salad to screw up the cost so badly?"
I take pride in my work. Since I'm hungover, all mole hills quickly become mountains. Add these two factors together, and I'm steaming.
Valerie must sense my anger. She doesn't yell back at me, nor does she have me lashed for speaking out of turn or insubordination. Instead she answers calmly.
"If you add a little cheese onto each salad, it soon become a lot of cheese. Cheese expensive. Food cost up, Jon (our RM) pissed. Put only a little cheese on salad."
While I agree with this assessment, I still think it's impossible to increase food cost by two points for over portioning cheese. For some reason, I can't let this go. Fortunately, a customer walks in and the shift meeting has to break up.
Soon all the servers are flying around. Dishes are clattering, people are chatting, and The Restaurant is hopping.
I see Soldato coming out of the kitchen. He's got two salads. Each one has five pieces of shredded cheese. The correct portion is one ounce per salad. This is about 25 shreds of cheese. The way these salads were made, it looks as though we're trying to skimp.
"What the hell is that?" I ask Soldato.
"The, uh, Cheese Nazi back there thinks that this is how a salad should look." He holds the bowl up for my inspection. He continues on and places the bowls in front of the customers.
I head to the back. Sure enough, Valerie is watching over the expo line like a prison warden watching inmates on work detail.
"That too much! Take some off! Take off more! Good, now go!" I shake my head and start getting together my food.
Soldato walks back through the door. He's holding a salad.
"Valerie, my customer wants more cheese on his salad." He goes to grab the tongs. Valerie slaps his hand.
"They want more, they pay extra. Ring in 25 cents, open food." Leave it to Valerie. She doesn't care that the customers won't come back. She doesn't mind saving nickels to lose dollars.
The whole shift continues in this fashion. Valerie never leaves her post by the expo line. Finally, I get to cash out and go home for a break before I come back for my night shift.
A quick nap and a short car drive later and I'm back at the doors of The Restaurant. As I'm going in, I see Soldato at the entrance to the kitchen. His jaw is agape. I run up to see what's going on.
"Can you believe this shit?" Now Soldato is talking out of the side of his mouth.
"What is it?" I stop next to him. For the first time, I can see what he's looking at.
Valerie has her hands full with a package of tortillas, a one-pound box of ground beef, a gallon of sour cream, and a gallon of guacamole. She's wearing her coat, scarf, and gloves. She's leaving.
She walks by Soldato and me.
"Valerie, what's wrong with all that stuff?" She stops and looks at me. She has to crane her neck around the gallon jug of sour cream.
"Nothing. It's Taco Night." She turns and walks out the door. With about half a point of food cost in her arms.
I wonder if Taco Night is a weekly event?
Friday, July 01, 2005
Soldato's Host Shift
-A Description of Soldato-
Soldato is in his early 30's. He stands about 5'7", weighs about 190 lbs. He has a small potbelly. He has short dark hair and a goatee. His voice is raspy and deep from smoking 2 packs of Reds a day.
In Italian, "soldato" means "soldier." In this case, Soldato's name has a double meaning:
-Soldato is an Italian-American from New York City. He harbors an intense interest in the Mob lifestyle. "Soldato" is the foot soldier/enforcer position in the Mob. I think he'd be honored to have this name.
-Soldato spent time in the Army during the first Gulf War, and he has the tattoos, scars, skin condition, and stories to prove it.
Soldato is loud, obnoxious, funny, and incredibly volatile. For some reason, my presence seems to calm him, so I rarely experience the volatile side. He is one of my good friends.
He has years of experience in restaurants. His father owned a restaurant in NYC, and he's been working in a restaurant for the past 20-odd years. He knows everything from fine-dining service to what size shrimp to order for a shrimp cocktail vs. a shrimp scampi. What he's doing in The Restaurant, I have no idea. But I'm glad he's here. He keeps us entertained.
-Soldato's Host Shift-
It's a Tuesday morning in the summer. It's a beautiful day outside. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and you can smell the fresh-cut grass. I know The Restaurant is going to be busy. I'm working a double, so I'll walk with a good chunk of change at the end of the day. Life is good.
I walk through the double doors and into a shit storm. Valerie is arguing with Soldato.
"Valerie, I don't want to host. I took a cab to work today, so I'm already in the hole for fifteen bucks. I need cash to get home."
"You get ride home with The Server." She noticed me walking in.
"Great, but what about tonight when I come back? Valerie, read my lips...I need cash!"
"You get cash on your shift tonight. I make sure pm manager give you good section."
"Valerie, no."
"You work host or you not work here anymore." Soldato is defeated and he knows it. It's easy to find another job waiting tables. But when cash is tight, switching restaurants can cripple you financially because of the time it takes to train. Servers need to be on the floor to make a living.
"Fine." Soldato is pissed. Valerie turns and marches towards the back. Soldato flips the bird to her departing back.
"Beautiful day, huh?" I love getting Soldato wound up. I expect him to go off on a rant. I want him to get it all out of his system before the customers arrive. Surprisingly, when he turns back to me, he's smiling.
"Stay close to the host stand. You don't wanna miss this."
Oh shit. There are millions of ways to mess with customers. I try to avoid all of them, unless the customer really deserves it. However, Soldato has no reservations about screwing with people, and he's not picky about which people he screws with.
A quick aside here: the host/ess is one of the most important spokes in the restaurant wheel. These people must be part metronome, psychic, and personality profiler. And they must maintain a cheery disposition the entire time.
Metronome- The host must seat tables at a steady rhythm. If they seat the restaurant to full capacity in too short a period of time, they are going to mess up the server's rhythm and the timing in the kitchen. If they do this early in the shift, the entire shift gets shot to hell. Instead of slow, continuous table turn-over, servers experience something more like a line-change in hockey. Full section, running around like madmen, towel off, start all over again.
Psychic- They must know when the server is ready to take another table. Servers move at different speeds. The ideal time to seat a new table lands in between dropping off drinks and taking the entree order. This is a small window of time, and only a skilled host/hostess can make this work.
Personality Profiler- The host must read the customers and place them with the correct server for their needs. If the customers seem to want to enjoy a slow lunch/dinner, then the host should seat them with a server who will best accomodate those needs. A slow, friendly, talkative server. If the people have twenty-five minutes to eat because they're catching a movie, then the host/ess should seat them with a fast server with a good knowledge of what items can be prepared quickly.
Many restaurant managers make the mistake of hiring young people that can't handle the stress of being a host. The consequences are often disastrous.
Back to Soldato.
The first table walks through the door. They're regulars. Here we go.
I feel like I'm watching a car wreck in slow motion. There is nothing I can do to stop what's going to happen, I'm horrified what the end result is going to be, yet I can't turn my eyes away.
Soldato is grinning like a fiend.
"Hi folks, welcome to The Restaurant. Three for lunch?" So far, so good. I relax a bit.
"Yes please! Outside, if there's any seating available." The Restaurant is empty. Customers are hilarious. Original too. We only hear this one fourteen times each week.
"Hahahahahahaha!" Soldato laughs for a good ten seconds, finishing with a coughing fit.
"Of course. Would you like to be on the patio or on the roof?" He says this completely deadpan. I have to stifle a laugh. Our roof is filled with heaters, air conditioners, and bird nests. No tables.
"Ummm... Uhhh..." the customers are confused. Then I see the light go on. "Oh, haha! Good one. Patio would be just fine." They are enjoying this. Good.
Soldato takes three menus. He walks the customers in a complete lap around all the tables in the restaurant before leading them outside. They laugh the entire time.
While he seats them outside, a solo diner comes in. I jump in and take him to one of the tables in the new server's section. I don't know her name. I do know that she won't last. She's been here two weeks, and she's struggling. I figure a one-person table is a good way to start her off.
As I'm heading back to the host stand, Soldato is heading towards me. He's still smiling like a lunatic. He's got three people with him. I hope he's not heading to New Server's section.
As he passes me, he winks. Oh no. He is heading to New Server's section. I turn around and watch.
He sets down one menu. One of the three peels off the group and sits down. What the hell?
There is an unwritten rule for seating customers. One table at a time. No exceptions. There is also an unwritten rule for seating servers. Don't overload a section. Some servers can handle getting double-sat (two tables at once), and a handful can even handle getting triple-sat. New Server is not one of these servers.
Soldato walks to the next table and sets down another menu. The second of the three sits. Finally, he drops off the third menu and the last remaining person sits down. All three are sitting in New Server's section. Shit. New Server has just been quadruple-sat.
I run to the back to tell her. She's just arrived, and is tying on her apron while examining her section on the floor chart.
"Hey Newbie! I'm so sorry. You just got quadruple sat."
She looks at me. "Shut up. You're joking, right?" She looks half-bemused, half-terrified.
"No joke. They're all one-tops, so try to treat them like one table. I'll talk to the host."
It looks as though New Server's brain is going to liquefy and ooze out of her ears. Not wanting to witness that, I hustle back towards the host stand. I arrive just as another table is walking in.
"Hello folks, welcome to The Restaurant. Two for lunch?" It's a 30-something woman in business attire and another woman that looks to be her mother. The business woman is talking on her cell phone.
"Yes, please. Something by a window?" The Mother is polite.
Soldato takes two menus and leads them to the waiting area. Plenty of windows there. Apparently Mother should have specified that she wanted a table by the window.
"Here you are, ma'am." Soldato sets down the two menus on the bench, right in between the gumball machine and the cigar store Indian. Mother and Daughter don't know how to react. I rush in to save the day.
"Right this way, folks." I swipe both menus off the bench. Shooting Soldato a menacing look, I lead the women to our best window table. They look confused and slightly put out.
"Please don't mind the host, folks," I say, setting down the menus. "The Restaurant is an equal-opportunity employer." I say the latter in a conspiratal tone. Their confusion is replaced by pity. They think Soldato is retarded. At this point, I agree. "Enjoy your lunch."
I return to the host stand.
"Dude, knock it off. I had to tell those people that you were retarded. You're actually acting like such an idiot that they believed me. Seriously, quit it!" I'm sort of pissed, but not really. I'm having a good time. Soldato just smiles and grabs menus for the next group of people walking in the door.
Thankfully, The Restaurant gets incredibly busy, and Soldato doesn't have time to mess with people. He's running around seating people like crazy. He actually does a really good job. The Restaurant is hopping, the servers are making bank, and New Server even manages to serve her quadruple-sat section without incident. The flow is perfect. Busy enough that nobody is bored, yet paced well so nobody gets in the weeds. Life is good.
I head back to the host stand to talk to Soldato about making first cuts. He's speaking to a young boy who looks to be about ten.
"Can you tell me where the bathroom is?" Honest question with a straightforward, easy answer. Unless Soldato is answering the question.
"Yes, sir. You just head right up that ladder there. The bathroom is up top."
Apparantly Soldato isn't done for the day yet. The ladder he is referring to is located near one of the side stations. It provides access to all the junk on the walls if it ever needs to be cleaned or replaced. No bathroom.
The kid walks up to the ladder. He looks back at Soldato, looks up the ladder, and then back at Soldato again. He looks skeptical. Soldato flicks his hand in a "go-on" gesture and nods. The kid puts a foot on the lowest rung.
I sprint over to the ladder.
"Actually, Buddy, that bathroom is out of service. You should try the one over there." I point him in the direction of the real bathroom. I look back at Soldato and mouth "Asshole!" He's laughing so hard, tears well up in his eyes.
Soon afterward, the rush dies down. Mother and Daughter have finished their meal and are on the way out the door. Mother pauses on her way out and looks back at Soldato, who is cleaning up the host stand. She turns back and walks towards him. Smelling trouble, I make my way up front. I listen while pretending to clean a booth. I'm ready to jump in at a moment's notice.
"Young man?" Mother is standing a comfortable distance from the host stand, so as not to alarm Soldato. He looks up.
She looks him right in the eye and says, as slowly, loudly, and clearly as possible, "YOU...ARE...DOING...A...GREAT...JOB!" She quickly turns and leaves. Soldato and I look at each other and break out laughing. It's moments like these that I cherish being a server.
Soldato was the BEST and WORST HOST EVER!
Soldato is in his early 30's. He stands about 5'7", weighs about 190 lbs. He has a small potbelly. He has short dark hair and a goatee. His voice is raspy and deep from smoking 2 packs of Reds a day.
In Italian, "soldato" means "soldier." In this case, Soldato's name has a double meaning:
-Soldato is an Italian-American from New York City. He harbors an intense interest in the Mob lifestyle. "Soldato" is the foot soldier/enforcer position in the Mob. I think he'd be honored to have this name.
-Soldato spent time in the Army during the first Gulf War, and he has the tattoos, scars, skin condition, and stories to prove it.
Soldato is loud, obnoxious, funny, and incredibly volatile. For some reason, my presence seems to calm him, so I rarely experience the volatile side. He is one of my good friends.
He has years of experience in restaurants. His father owned a restaurant in NYC, and he's been working in a restaurant for the past 20-odd years. He knows everything from fine-dining service to what size shrimp to order for a shrimp cocktail vs. a shrimp scampi. What he's doing in The Restaurant, I have no idea. But I'm glad he's here. He keeps us entertained.
-Soldato's Host Shift-
It's a Tuesday morning in the summer. It's a beautiful day outside. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and you can smell the fresh-cut grass. I know The Restaurant is going to be busy. I'm working a double, so I'll walk with a good chunk of change at the end of the day. Life is good.
I walk through the double doors and into a shit storm. Valerie is arguing with Soldato.
"Valerie, I don't want to host. I took a cab to work today, so I'm already in the hole for fifteen bucks. I need cash to get home."
"You get ride home with The Server." She noticed me walking in.
"Great, but what about tonight when I come back? Valerie, read my lips...I need cash!"
"You get cash on your shift tonight. I make sure pm manager give you good section."
"Valerie, no."
"You work host or you not work here anymore." Soldato is defeated and he knows it. It's easy to find another job waiting tables. But when cash is tight, switching restaurants can cripple you financially because of the time it takes to train. Servers need to be on the floor to make a living.
"Fine." Soldato is pissed. Valerie turns and marches towards the back. Soldato flips the bird to her departing back.
"Beautiful day, huh?" I love getting Soldato wound up. I expect him to go off on a rant. I want him to get it all out of his system before the customers arrive. Surprisingly, when he turns back to me, he's smiling.
"Stay close to the host stand. You don't wanna miss this."
Oh shit. There are millions of ways to mess with customers. I try to avoid all of them, unless the customer really deserves it. However, Soldato has no reservations about screwing with people, and he's not picky about which people he screws with.
A quick aside here: the host/ess is one of the most important spokes in the restaurant wheel. These people must be part metronome, psychic, and personality profiler. And they must maintain a cheery disposition the entire time.
Metronome- The host must seat tables at a steady rhythm. If they seat the restaurant to full capacity in too short a period of time, they are going to mess up the server's rhythm and the timing in the kitchen. If they do this early in the shift, the entire shift gets shot to hell. Instead of slow, continuous table turn-over, servers experience something more like a line-change in hockey. Full section, running around like madmen, towel off, start all over again.
Psychic- They must know when the server is ready to take another table. Servers move at different speeds. The ideal time to seat a new table lands in between dropping off drinks and taking the entree order. This is a small window of time, and only a skilled host/hostess can make this work.
Personality Profiler- The host must read the customers and place them with the correct server for their needs. If the customers seem to want to enjoy a slow lunch/dinner, then the host should seat them with a server who will best accomodate those needs. A slow, friendly, talkative server. If the people have twenty-five minutes to eat because they're catching a movie, then the host/ess should seat them with a fast server with a good knowledge of what items can be prepared quickly.
Many restaurant managers make the mistake of hiring young people that can't handle the stress of being a host. The consequences are often disastrous.
Back to Soldato.
The first table walks through the door. They're regulars. Here we go.
I feel like I'm watching a car wreck in slow motion. There is nothing I can do to stop what's going to happen, I'm horrified what the end result is going to be, yet I can't turn my eyes away.
Soldato is grinning like a fiend.
"Hi folks, welcome to The Restaurant. Three for lunch?" So far, so good. I relax a bit.
"Yes please! Outside, if there's any seating available." The Restaurant is empty. Customers are hilarious. Original too. We only hear this one fourteen times each week.
"Hahahahahahaha!" Soldato laughs for a good ten seconds, finishing with a coughing fit.
"Of course. Would you like to be on the patio or on the roof?" He says this completely deadpan. I have to stifle a laugh. Our roof is filled with heaters, air conditioners, and bird nests. No tables.
"Ummm... Uhhh..." the customers are confused. Then I see the light go on. "Oh, haha! Good one. Patio would be just fine." They are enjoying this. Good.
Soldato takes three menus. He walks the customers in a complete lap around all the tables in the restaurant before leading them outside. They laugh the entire time.
While he seats them outside, a solo diner comes in. I jump in and take him to one of the tables in the new server's section. I don't know her name. I do know that she won't last. She's been here two weeks, and she's struggling. I figure a one-person table is a good way to start her off.
As I'm heading back to the host stand, Soldato is heading towards me. He's still smiling like a lunatic. He's got three people with him. I hope he's not heading to New Server's section.
As he passes me, he winks. Oh no. He is heading to New Server's section. I turn around and watch.
He sets down one menu. One of the three peels off the group and sits down. What the hell?
There is an unwritten rule for seating customers. One table at a time. No exceptions. There is also an unwritten rule for seating servers. Don't overload a section. Some servers can handle getting double-sat (two tables at once), and a handful can even handle getting triple-sat. New Server is not one of these servers.
Soldato walks to the next table and sets down another menu. The second of the three sits. Finally, he drops off the third menu and the last remaining person sits down. All three are sitting in New Server's section. Shit. New Server has just been quadruple-sat.
I run to the back to tell her. She's just arrived, and is tying on her apron while examining her section on the floor chart.
"Hey Newbie! I'm so sorry. You just got quadruple sat."
She looks at me. "Shut up. You're joking, right?" She looks half-bemused, half-terrified.
"No joke. They're all one-tops, so try to treat them like one table. I'll talk to the host."
It looks as though New Server's brain is going to liquefy and ooze out of her ears. Not wanting to witness that, I hustle back towards the host stand. I arrive just as another table is walking in.
"Hello folks, welcome to The Restaurant. Two for lunch?" It's a 30-something woman in business attire and another woman that looks to be her mother. The business woman is talking on her cell phone.
"Yes, please. Something by a window?" The Mother is polite.
Soldato takes two menus and leads them to the waiting area. Plenty of windows there. Apparently Mother should have specified that she wanted a table by the window.
"Here you are, ma'am." Soldato sets down the two menus on the bench, right in between the gumball machine and the cigar store Indian. Mother and Daughter don't know how to react. I rush in to save the day.
"Right this way, folks." I swipe both menus off the bench. Shooting Soldato a menacing look, I lead the women to our best window table. They look confused and slightly put out.
"Please don't mind the host, folks," I say, setting down the menus. "The Restaurant is an equal-opportunity employer." I say the latter in a conspiratal tone. Their confusion is replaced by pity. They think Soldato is retarded. At this point, I agree. "Enjoy your lunch."
I return to the host stand.
"Dude, knock it off. I had to tell those people that you were retarded. You're actually acting like such an idiot that they believed me. Seriously, quit it!" I'm sort of pissed, but not really. I'm having a good time. Soldato just smiles and grabs menus for the next group of people walking in the door.
Thankfully, The Restaurant gets incredibly busy, and Soldato doesn't have time to mess with people. He's running around seating people like crazy. He actually does a really good job. The Restaurant is hopping, the servers are making bank, and New Server even manages to serve her quadruple-sat section without incident. The flow is perfect. Busy enough that nobody is bored, yet paced well so nobody gets in the weeds. Life is good.
I head back to the host stand to talk to Soldato about making first cuts. He's speaking to a young boy who looks to be about ten.
"Can you tell me where the bathroom is?" Honest question with a straightforward, easy answer. Unless Soldato is answering the question.
"Yes, sir. You just head right up that ladder there. The bathroom is up top."
Apparantly Soldato isn't done for the day yet. The ladder he is referring to is located near one of the side stations. It provides access to all the junk on the walls if it ever needs to be cleaned or replaced. No bathroom.
The kid walks up to the ladder. He looks back at Soldato, looks up the ladder, and then back at Soldato again. He looks skeptical. Soldato flicks his hand in a "go-on" gesture and nods. The kid puts a foot on the lowest rung.
I sprint over to the ladder.
"Actually, Buddy, that bathroom is out of service. You should try the one over there." I point him in the direction of the real bathroom. I look back at Soldato and mouth "Asshole!" He's laughing so hard, tears well up in his eyes.
Soon afterward, the rush dies down. Mother and Daughter have finished their meal and are on the way out the door. Mother pauses on her way out and looks back at Soldato, who is cleaning up the host stand. She turns back and walks towards him. Smelling trouble, I make my way up front. I listen while pretending to clean a booth. I'm ready to jump in at a moment's notice.
"Young man?" Mother is standing a comfortable distance from the host stand, so as not to alarm Soldato. He looks up.
She looks him right in the eye and says, as slowly, loudly, and clearly as possible, "YOU...ARE...DOING...A...GREAT...JOB!" She quickly turns and leaves. Soldato and I look at each other and break out laughing. It's moments like these that I cherish being a server.
Soldato was the BEST and WORST HOST EVER!
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Dr. Jekyll, Mr. Hyde, and a Classic Arcade Game
-Preface-
A bit of knowledge about a certain classic arcade game will make this story much funnier. This story takes place in The Bar.
-A Description of Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde-
Dr. Jekyll is in his early 20's. 23 to be exact (I carded him). He has reddish/blond hair, which is cut short. Almost a flattop. He is in great shape. He must work out regularly, because his arms lightly strain the seams of his long-sleeve dress shirt. Either that or he spent some time at Balco. He stands about 6' 1'' and he weighs about 210 lbs.
-Dr. Jekyll's Story-
It's a Wednesday night around 7:30, and The Bar is hopping. On this late fall weeknight, it's filled with yuppies.
Everywhere I look I see men with gelled hair wearing long-sleeved striped shirts open at the collar, a flash of gold chain visible around the neck. The sleeves are unbuttoned and rolled up twice. No more, no less. Fossil must have made a small mint selling watches to this crowd.
The women are wearing blond highlights and those goofy shawls that enjoyed a few months of popularity in late-2004, early 2005. Personally, I don't like the shawls. They leave too much to the imagination.
Three guys sit in my section near the entrance. One is younger, early 20's, with short reddish-blond hair. The other two are in their mid-30's. They both wear their hair slightly over the collar. All three are wearing name tags. "Hello, my name is..."
"What's going on, fellas?" I love the informality that The Bar takes on as afternoon turns into evening.
"Not too much. Just got out of a seminar at the hotel across the street. What do you have on tap?" One of the 30-somethings. He seems friendly. Good. I hate assholes.
"Sir, we have 34 beers on tap here. I could name them all, but it may be quicker if you just tell me what you'd like, and I'll let you know if we have it on draft. If we don't have it on draft, we'll definitely have it in a bottle. We carry over 400 different beers in a bottle." This is one of the main reasons our bar is jumping tonight. Yuppies love exotic beer.
"American Beer for the Masses Light?" Chimes in the 20-something. Cheap beer with very little taste. Still, it'll get you drunk. I deduce that the 20-something must still be in the past-fratboy stage.
"Of Course, Sir. And for you gentlemen?"
They order two of the higher-end, fuller flavored ales. Experienced drinkers, more interested in the flavor than the buzz.
"And would you like 16 or 23 oz. drafts?"
The 30-somethings order pints, while the 20-something opts for the 23 oz.
I ring in their orders, deliver their drinks, and offer menus. I depart to ring up another round for a neighboring table.
When I return with their drinks, I notice that the 20-something has downed his beer. Oh boy, here we go.
"Would you like another, sir?"
"Yes, please." Maybe he was just thirsty.
"And are you folks ready to order?"
I take down their orders. Three burgers with fries. I ring them in and bring 20 his second beer. He immediately downs half of it. The other two gentlemen don't seem too worried, so I don't say anything. I just don't want Dr. Jekyll turning into Mr. Hyde. I've seen it happen, and it's not pretty.
I make a point to tell the manager on duty, Janine, that I have a customer who is mainlining beer like a rock star on a bender.
At The Bar, management likes to make sure that nobody gets wasted. One trashed person can ruin the atmosphere in a hurry. Every time a customer has four drinks, we have to tell the manager. We write down what they've had over "x" amount of time, whether they've eaten, and what Level they're at. Here's a quick breakdown of the Levels.
Level 1: OK to be served more alcohol. Customer may become more talkative, and may have slightly slurred speech.
Level 2: Slurring becomes more pronounced. Customer may become overly loud. Motor skills may deteriorate slightly. If they are not driving, they may be served another drink. Manager must give the OK.
Level 3: Customer is a raving lunatic. The customer can barely walk. If they are still able to talk, it is usually non-sensicle babble at a decibel level slightly below that of a jet airplane warming up the afterburners. The customer will light the wrong end of a cigarette and smoke it anyways. These people need to be put into a cab and sent on their merry way before they vomit in the bathroom.
"Janine, I've got a guy who's downed two 23's in about 8 minutes. He's at 34. Can you keep an eye on him?"
Janine is cool, and she knows that I'm still relatively new. She'll keep me out of trouble. She's also got a bit of sass in her. She'll have no trouble booting this guy if he gets out of hand.
"No problem, dude. Go ahead and give him another one for now, but give him a glass of water too. Hopefully he'll get the hint." I order another beer for Dr. Jekyll. She's the boss.
The burgers come up a short time later. I bring them out. Sure enough, the beer's gone. The other two have finished their first 16 oz. beers. The kid is ready for his fourth 23 oz., which is like drinking 8 12 oz. bottles.
"Would you like another round, gentlemen?"
The two thirty-somethings nod, and Dr. Jekyll orders on as well. He seems completely normal. Kid must be able to hold his liquor.
I look over at Janine, who is hanging out at the door, near my table. She gives me a nod.
I bring the table their round.
They eat, and thankfully Dr. Jekyll nurses his beer throughout dinner.
I clear their plates. Dr. Jekyll has finished his fourth beer. I don't offer him another one. I'll let the boss make this call.
Janine sits down at the table. She's making small talk, but she's really looking to see if Dr. Jekyll is ok to have another beer. A few minutes later, she finds me in the kitchen.
"That guy's ok for another beer. I can't believe it, but he still seems sober."
"You sure?" I don't want to get fired. I like this place.
"Yeah, it's on me now. Don't worry, I got your back." Janine is an awesome manager, the type you work hard for out of respect.
I set down Dr. Jekyll's beer. He looks up at me. His eyes are glassy, unfocused. Uh-oh.
"Thanksth" This is the first time I've heard him slur. He doesn't touch his beer. He sits back in his chair, and his eyelids start to drop. One of the 30-somethings reaches over puts a hand on his shoulder.
"Hey buddy, you OK?"
No response. The guy gives Dr. Jekyll a little shake. Dr. Jekyll transforms into a crazy-eyed Mr. Hyde. He bolts upright in his chair. His fraternity training takes over. He grabs his beer, opens his mouth, and pours the entire thing down his throat. He slams the empty glass back down on the table.
In college, I would have been impressed at this performance. At work, I'm horrified.
Janine comes flying out of nowhere. She's witnessed the whole thing.
"You guys need to pay your bill and get your friend out of here." She's talking to the 30-somethings, but all eyes are on Mr. Hyde, who is now sitting with his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. He's looking at the floor and moaning softly.
The 30-somethings look at each other, shrug, and look back at Janine.
"This is so weird. We've known each other since we were kids (he motions to his 30-something friend). We just met this guy today at the seminar. He's from out of town, and he's staying at the hotel across the street." Unbelievable. Did the kid think he was cool, showing these guys (that he just met!) how he was a hard-core drunk?
"I don't care," Janine is pissed, "Get him across the street. If you can get rid of him, you can come back." Not a bad move.
The 30's get up and try to pick up Mr. Hyde. Mr. Hyde has other ideas. He stands up and makes a beeline for the bathroom. He's running into people, knocking over tables and chairs, and slamming into walls. It looks like an out of control car speeding down the highway, careening off the guard rails.
The 30's book after him. A couple minutes later, all three emerge. The 30's are on either side of Mr. Hyde. Mr. Hyde has an arm around each of the 30's, and it's obvious he's dead weight. His head lolls from side to side with each step.
"We had to hold him while he peed," explains the 30 on the left. Probably not what he thought he'd be doing when he woke up this morning, but hey, good times.
They make their way to the parking lot. Janine and I follow. She's making sure they get Mr. Hyde away from The Bar. I haven't been paid yet.
Suddenly, seeing the lights of his hotel, Mr. Hyde breaks for freedom. He shakes off the 30's and sprints through the parking lot. I try to catch up, the 30's hot on my heels, but he's got a big head start and he's moving!
In between our parking lot and the hotel is a busy road. It's a step below a highway, and the speed limit is 50 mph. People drive at 60. There's still a lot of traffic. Cars are flying by.
I figure Mr. Hyde will have to stop and I'll be able to take him down so he won't hurt himself. I'm wrong.
Mr. Hyde barrels into the intersection full-speed. A minivan brakes hard and swerves to avoid hitting him.
Mr. Hyde falls down. He gets back up and he's disoriented. He takes two wobbly steps back towards me. I'm frozen in horror.
He sees me and turns back towards the hotel. Cars are barreling past, horns-blaring. The way he's moving back and forth in the street... for some reason, all I can think of is playing Frogger in the arcade.
Mr. Hyde falls again. There is a large SUV heading straight for him. It brakes, but it's too late. Mr. Hyde is going to get squished like a bug.
Miraculously, Mr. Hyde regains his footing. He takes off at a dead sprint towards the hotel. He makes it across the street!
But for some reason, he doesn't see the large concrete sign bearing the name of the hotel. He plows into it, headfirst, and lies motionless on the sidewalk.
At the next available break in traffic, Janine, the 30's, and I run over to check on Mr. Hyde. He's out cold, and there's a large knot on his forehead. He's breathing heavily.
The 30's pick him up and carry him into the hotel. Janine and I return to the restaurant.
About an hour later, the 30's walk back in.
"How is he?" I have to know.
"He'll live." The 30's are pissed at being turned into babysitters. "We forgot to pay our bill."
"Understandable," I reply. Janine notices the 30's and walks over.
"You guys have had a long night. Can I buy you a drink?" Like I said, Janine is an awesome manager. The 30's gratefully accept. They pair their bill. They leave me $20 on a $60 tab.
I'm happy, they're happy, Janine is happy, and Mr. Hyde is alive. Plus we've all been privy to the BEST GAME OF FROGGER EVER!
A bit of knowledge about a certain classic arcade game will make this story much funnier. This story takes place in The Bar.
-A Description of Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde-
Dr. Jekyll is in his early 20's. 23 to be exact (I carded him). He has reddish/blond hair, which is cut short. Almost a flattop. He is in great shape. He must work out regularly, because his arms lightly strain the seams of his long-sleeve dress shirt. Either that or he spent some time at Balco. He stands about 6' 1'' and he weighs about 210 lbs.
-Dr. Jekyll's Story-
It's a Wednesday night around 7:30, and The Bar is hopping. On this late fall weeknight, it's filled with yuppies.
Everywhere I look I see men with gelled hair wearing long-sleeved striped shirts open at the collar, a flash of gold chain visible around the neck. The sleeves are unbuttoned and rolled up twice. No more, no less. Fossil must have made a small mint selling watches to this crowd.
The women are wearing blond highlights and those goofy shawls that enjoyed a few months of popularity in late-2004, early 2005. Personally, I don't like the shawls. They leave too much to the imagination.
Three guys sit in my section near the entrance. One is younger, early 20's, with short reddish-blond hair. The other two are in their mid-30's. They both wear their hair slightly over the collar. All three are wearing name tags. "Hello, my name is..."
"What's going on, fellas?" I love the informality that The Bar takes on as afternoon turns into evening.
"Not too much. Just got out of a seminar at the hotel across the street. What do you have on tap?" One of the 30-somethings. He seems friendly. Good. I hate assholes.
"Sir, we have 34 beers on tap here. I could name them all, but it may be quicker if you just tell me what you'd like, and I'll let you know if we have it on draft. If we don't have it on draft, we'll definitely have it in a bottle. We carry over 400 different beers in a bottle." This is one of the main reasons our bar is jumping tonight. Yuppies love exotic beer.
"American Beer for the Masses Light?" Chimes in the 20-something. Cheap beer with very little taste. Still, it'll get you drunk. I deduce that the 20-something must still be in the past-fratboy stage.
"Of Course, Sir. And for you gentlemen?"
They order two of the higher-end, fuller flavored ales. Experienced drinkers, more interested in the flavor than the buzz.
"And would you like 16 or 23 oz. drafts?"
The 30-somethings order pints, while the 20-something opts for the 23 oz.
I ring in their orders, deliver their drinks, and offer menus. I depart to ring up another round for a neighboring table.
When I return with their drinks, I notice that the 20-something has downed his beer. Oh boy, here we go.
"Would you like another, sir?"
"Yes, please." Maybe he was just thirsty.
"And are you folks ready to order?"
I take down their orders. Three burgers with fries. I ring them in and bring 20 his second beer. He immediately downs half of it. The other two gentlemen don't seem too worried, so I don't say anything. I just don't want Dr. Jekyll turning into Mr. Hyde. I've seen it happen, and it's not pretty.
I make a point to tell the manager on duty, Janine, that I have a customer who is mainlining beer like a rock star on a bender.
At The Bar, management likes to make sure that nobody gets wasted. One trashed person can ruin the atmosphere in a hurry. Every time a customer has four drinks, we have to tell the manager. We write down what they've had over "x" amount of time, whether they've eaten, and what Level they're at. Here's a quick breakdown of the Levels.
Level 1: OK to be served more alcohol. Customer may become more talkative, and may have slightly slurred speech.
Level 2: Slurring becomes more pronounced. Customer may become overly loud. Motor skills may deteriorate slightly. If they are not driving, they may be served another drink. Manager must give the OK.
Level 3: Customer is a raving lunatic. The customer can barely walk. If they are still able to talk, it is usually non-sensicle babble at a decibel level slightly below that of a jet airplane warming up the afterburners. The customer will light the wrong end of a cigarette and smoke it anyways. These people need to be put into a cab and sent on their merry way before they vomit in the bathroom.
"Janine, I've got a guy who's downed two 23's in about 8 minutes. He's at 34. Can you keep an eye on him?"
Janine is cool, and she knows that I'm still relatively new. She'll keep me out of trouble. She's also got a bit of sass in her. She'll have no trouble booting this guy if he gets out of hand.
"No problem, dude. Go ahead and give him another one for now, but give him a glass of water too. Hopefully he'll get the hint." I order another beer for Dr. Jekyll. She's the boss.
The burgers come up a short time later. I bring them out. Sure enough, the beer's gone. The other two have finished their first 16 oz. beers. The kid is ready for his fourth 23 oz., which is like drinking 8 12 oz. bottles.
"Would you like another round, gentlemen?"
The two thirty-somethings nod, and Dr. Jekyll orders on as well. He seems completely normal. Kid must be able to hold his liquor.
I look over at Janine, who is hanging out at the door, near my table. She gives me a nod.
I bring the table their round.
They eat, and thankfully Dr. Jekyll nurses his beer throughout dinner.
I clear their plates. Dr. Jekyll has finished his fourth beer. I don't offer him another one. I'll let the boss make this call.
Janine sits down at the table. She's making small talk, but she's really looking to see if Dr. Jekyll is ok to have another beer. A few minutes later, she finds me in the kitchen.
"That guy's ok for another beer. I can't believe it, but he still seems sober."
"You sure?" I don't want to get fired. I like this place.
"Yeah, it's on me now. Don't worry, I got your back." Janine is an awesome manager, the type you work hard for out of respect.
I set down Dr. Jekyll's beer. He looks up at me. His eyes are glassy, unfocused. Uh-oh.
"Thanksth" This is the first time I've heard him slur. He doesn't touch his beer. He sits back in his chair, and his eyelids start to drop. One of the 30-somethings reaches over puts a hand on his shoulder.
"Hey buddy, you OK?"
No response. The guy gives Dr. Jekyll a little shake. Dr. Jekyll transforms into a crazy-eyed Mr. Hyde. He bolts upright in his chair. His fraternity training takes over. He grabs his beer, opens his mouth, and pours the entire thing down his throat. He slams the empty glass back down on the table.
In college, I would have been impressed at this performance. At work, I'm horrified.
Janine comes flying out of nowhere. She's witnessed the whole thing.
"You guys need to pay your bill and get your friend out of here." She's talking to the 30-somethings, but all eyes are on Mr. Hyde, who is now sitting with his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. He's looking at the floor and moaning softly.
The 30-somethings look at each other, shrug, and look back at Janine.
"This is so weird. We've known each other since we were kids (he motions to his 30-something friend). We just met this guy today at the seminar. He's from out of town, and he's staying at the hotel across the street." Unbelievable. Did the kid think he was cool, showing these guys (that he just met!) how he was a hard-core drunk?
"I don't care," Janine is pissed, "Get him across the street. If you can get rid of him, you can come back." Not a bad move.
The 30's get up and try to pick up Mr. Hyde. Mr. Hyde has other ideas. He stands up and makes a beeline for the bathroom. He's running into people, knocking over tables and chairs, and slamming into walls. It looks like an out of control car speeding down the highway, careening off the guard rails.
The 30's book after him. A couple minutes later, all three emerge. The 30's are on either side of Mr. Hyde. Mr. Hyde has an arm around each of the 30's, and it's obvious he's dead weight. His head lolls from side to side with each step.
"We had to hold him while he peed," explains the 30 on the left. Probably not what he thought he'd be doing when he woke up this morning, but hey, good times.
They make their way to the parking lot. Janine and I follow. She's making sure they get Mr. Hyde away from The Bar. I haven't been paid yet.
Suddenly, seeing the lights of his hotel, Mr. Hyde breaks for freedom. He shakes off the 30's and sprints through the parking lot. I try to catch up, the 30's hot on my heels, but he's got a big head start and he's moving!
In between our parking lot and the hotel is a busy road. It's a step below a highway, and the speed limit is 50 mph. People drive at 60. There's still a lot of traffic. Cars are flying by.
I figure Mr. Hyde will have to stop and I'll be able to take him down so he won't hurt himself. I'm wrong.
Mr. Hyde barrels into the intersection full-speed. A minivan brakes hard and swerves to avoid hitting him.
Mr. Hyde falls down. He gets back up and he's disoriented. He takes two wobbly steps back towards me. I'm frozen in horror.
He sees me and turns back towards the hotel. Cars are barreling past, horns-blaring. The way he's moving back and forth in the street... for some reason, all I can think of is playing Frogger in the arcade.
Mr. Hyde falls again. There is a large SUV heading straight for him. It brakes, but it's too late. Mr. Hyde is going to get squished like a bug.
Miraculously, Mr. Hyde regains his footing. He takes off at a dead sprint towards the hotel. He makes it across the street!
But for some reason, he doesn't see the large concrete sign bearing the name of the hotel. He plows into it, headfirst, and lies motionless on the sidewalk.
At the next available break in traffic, Janine, the 30's, and I run over to check on Mr. Hyde. He's out cold, and there's a large knot on his forehead. He's breathing heavily.
The 30's pick him up and carry him into the hotel. Janine and I return to the restaurant.
About an hour later, the 30's walk back in.
"How is he?" I have to know.
"He'll live." The 30's are pissed at being turned into babysitters. "We forgot to pay our bill."
"Understandable," I reply. Janine notices the 30's and walks over.
"You guys have had a long night. Can I buy you a drink?" Like I said, Janine is an awesome manager. The 30's gratefully accept. They pair their bill. They leave me $20 on a $60 tab.
I'm happy, they're happy, Janine is happy, and Mr. Hyde is alive. Plus we've all been privy to the BEST GAME OF FROGGER EVER!
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