Hi All!
Welcome to Server Stories! For fun, I'm going to list my top five stories, in case you want to jump to The Good Stuff.
1) Soldato's Last Stand (click for a chuckle)
2) The Most Interesting Server Ever (read for all the feels)
3 & 4) Valerie gets Canned, Parts I (here) and II (over here)
5) Dr. Jekyll, Mr. Hyde, and a classic arcade game (read it!)
Take a read - would love some feedback!
Showing posts with label Waiter. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Waiter. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 14, 2018
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.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Soldato's Last Stand
-Preface I-
Please read about Soldato before you read this post.
There are times when you have to take a stand. The breaking point varies from person to person. Some folks fly off the handle if someone bumps into them on a busy street. Other folks refuse to react if they get slapped in the face.
Soldato is one of those with a nasty temper. He'll throw down without hesitation for little or no reason. However, to this day I still believe that he held on longer than most normal waiters could have... this story is about Soldato's last day at The Restaurant.
-Preface II-
Spring is turning into summer. It's warm outside, and we've opened the patio for The Restaurant.
In the midwest, we get excited for the summer. It means we can shed layer upon layer of clothing. It means we can get ready to leave the house in under ten minutes. And, most importantly, it means that we can once again see beautiful women prancing around in sundresses.
It's only been two months since Valerie was unceremoniously kicked to the curb, and already The Restaurant is beginning to turn around.
As servers, we notice the little things these new managers do differently. Encouragement and aknowledgement of effort are nice changes. Morale is higher than it has been in a long time.
The most refreshing change is that these new managers are less likely to give up a free meal to a scammer. Now don't get me wrong here. They will try to satisfy the customers if there is an issue. The difference is that they handle it fairly.
They won't throw freebies to people who don't deserve it. At the other end of the spectrum, they won't try to weasel out of a problem by offering the minimum solution. Valerie's solutions were akin to either applying a band-aid to a gaping head wound or fixing a crack in the sidewalk in front of a dilapitated shack. These new managers decide what's fairest to the customer, The Restaurant, and the server. They make a decision and then stand behind it.
The new management team has also made some great personnel moves. They canned The Deaf Server, the Hippie, and The Penguin. They brought in two intelligent, experienced servers, as well as one extremely eager newbie. They also dropped three quarters of the hostesses, and then hired a couple of cute high school honor students to pick up the slack. The IQ of the restaurant has tripled.
The only problem with the new staff is their availability. We're running short several servers each shift, and the new managers refuse to allow anyone more than the four tables allotted by Corporate. This is fine for people who can't handle a lot going on at once. But for people like Soldato, who's been in the business for 15 years, this makes for some boring shifts.
Despite this one setback, the Old Guard (The Woman, Soldato, Rena, and I) agree; this is the smoothest The Restaurant has run in a long time. We're making money, we're having fun during shifts, and we don't have to cow-tow to horrible customers.
-Soldato's Last Stand-
We're in the middle of a lunch rush. I have the patio and I'm running back and forth from the kitchen. I'm sweating likeFloyd Landis before a drug test. I look over at Soldato, lounging against the wall of the side station, checking out the soccer moms sipping Arnold Palmers at the table nearest the door. Even though I'm waiting on the soccer moms, I'm jealous.
Soldato has an easy four booth section. He can handle four booths in his sleep, so he has ample time to think about what he could be doing with four housewives in a minivan.
A quick glance at the host stand gives me pause. There is a wait. At lunch. Uh-oh. This is a big no-no in the restaurant business. For the most part, our lunch clientele is comprised of business folks hailing one of the numerous office parks surrounding The Restaurant. They want their food and service fast. It's hard enough to squeeze a casual dining lunch into a 45 minute lunch break. It becomes damn near impossible if you have to wait for ten minutes at the door.
One of the new hostesses is on, and she's not handling her first heavy rush well. She's looking around helplessly as people crowd the entryway. She looks like a baby calf separated from a herd of wildebeast, about to be mauled by a pack of ravenous lions. I have time to wonder, 'Is 'pack' the right word for a grouping of lions? I think it's actually supposed to be something else...'.
I snap back to reality when I see the hostess take a half-step back from her post. She's showing weakness, and the group of people storming the host stand smell blood. She needs help.
My hands are full, so I'm powerless. I look back at Soldato.
"Hey!" I hiss at him.
"What?!! I'm busy here!" He turns from the window to stare me down.
"Dude, go help her. She's gonna drown." I nod towards the hostess. Her mouth is now open and her eyes are wide as saucers as she looks over the chattering mob in front of her. They're inching forward, moving in for the kill.
"Ah hell." He loosens his collar and stalks towards the host stand.
"Give her some room people. She needs air. I said STAND BACK!!!" Soldato can be intimidating. Years of smoking Cowboy Killers has made Soldato's voice deep and raspy. He also talks with his hands. The louder he gets, the more grandiose his arm motions become. Right now he's yelling, and his arms are pinwheeling. I'm reminded of those little windvanes, the ones where the arms spin in high wind.
I love watching an angry little Italian screaming and waving his arms. But while I find it hilarious, some folks find it intimidating. He scares most of the people away from the hostess. They soon sit quietly in the waiting area, hands folded in their laps. The hostess looks up at him, the tears that were welling in her eyes now dive back from whence they came. My hero.
There is only one person still hovering. It is a man in his mid thirties. He's a squirrelly-looking fellow. Wire rim glasses, pleather jacket, mousy brown hair. Shorter than Soldato by about half a foot, he exudes Napolean Complex. He's with an older woman that I can only assume is his mother.
I can practically smell the Drakkar. I can almost hear what I assume to be a whiny, nasal voice. Figuring Soldato can handle a guy who looks like Paul's (from The Wonder Years) older brother, I put on my best fake smile and head out to refill the soccer moms' teas.
"Hello ladies, how is everything today?" I stretch my smile as wide as it'll go. The ladies smile back.
The waitresses get to flirt for big tips all the time. I relish the opportunity when I get a chance. Doesn't mean I'm good at it, but it's fun all the same.
When I turn around to head back inside, I hear them giggling behind me. My flirtation is paying off.... or I sat in something and they're laughing at me. Either way, they're happy. Happy people=bigger tips= a happier Server. Life is good.
Opening the door that leads back into The Restaurant, I am stunned to see Soldato still at the host stand. Paul's older brother (POB from now on) has more spunk than I though.
They're still arguing. Soldato is trying to keep his cool, but I can tell he's starting to break. His hands are clenched into fists underneath the host stand, and I can see his pulse pounding through a throbbing, angry-looking vein protruding from his neck.
The little hostess has backed completely into the wall, looking for all the world as if she wants to just melt into it. Not good.
Worse, the regional manager, Karl, has decided to make a lunch shift visit. Karl is a metrosexual. Not a single strand of his closely-cropped hair falls out of place, as usual. His $200 pastel shirt matches perfectly his tailored trousers. His shoes are polished to a high shine. His persona screams "Look at me! I'm important! I'm carrying a laptop in this ridiculous-looking bag slung over my shoulder! I am personally responsible for the well-being of every Restaurant in this state and a half of the neighboring state! Adore me, my children!" Comical really.
Unfortunately, Karl is just about the only person from the Corporate Office of The Restaurant that can fire you on the spot. Even our GM is supposed to consult someone before he can tell a server to hit the road. Karl can toss you on a whim. And if it makes him feel important enough, or look good enough, he'll do it without hesitation.
Karl immediately takes an interest in the scene unfolding in front of him.
POB is leaning into Soldato, his nose inches away from Soldato's chin.
"Why can't we sit down now? My mother is old, standing around like this is bad for her back. I demand that we be seated NOW!" Soldato is steaming. I can see he's itching to shut this guy up.
Soldato gathers himself, takes a deep breath, exhales. "Sir, like I already explained to you... We are on a wait. I know there are unoccupied tables throughout the restaurant, but we are are not allowed to wait on more than four tables at a time. Our corporate office believes that we can't provide the level of service necessary to make you dining experience..."
"Screw that and screw you! My mother needs to sit..." Spit is flying out of POB's mouth as he chirps a mile a minute. He's standing so close to Soldato that I'm sure he's feeling spittle spray his cheeks.
Karl decides to help.
"Hello sir, my name is Karl and I'm the regional manager at The Restaurant. I'm sure we can make an exception for your mother's case. I'll arrange to have a table opened up for you."
"Thank you." POB is gloating now, "I knew that there had to be someone here with more brains than this stupid wop."
Oh, hell. Why did he have to go and say that? And why did Karl have to let this jerk sit down? He just let POB cut in front of about 10 people. Worse, he made threw Soldato under the bus. To top it off, Karl made Soldato prep the table.
I hurry over to help. I want to keep Soldato from boiling over. I pretend to straighten the table cloth while Soldato lays out the silverware.
"Keep cool," I whisper, "This asshole would like nothing better than for you to take a swing at him. He looks like the type that would sue."
"I don't give a shit. What the hell is Karl thinking, cutting my balls off like that in front of that douchebag?"
I agree, but...
"Just hold it together, I'll find someone to handle this table."
"Fuck this bullshit, I'm tired of this. Karl can fry in Hades for all I care. Sanctimonious bastard." Quite a vocabulary for a "stupid wop".
Soldato heads back to the host stand, grabs two menus and motions to POB and his mom.
"Please follow me, sir." His voice is calm, but that vein is still pulsing in his neck. I'm scared the pressure is going to cause it to burst. I don't want to clean up that mess.
The other patrons glare at POB as he passes by.
POB follows Soldato to table, grinning the whole way. Once there, POB sits down. He doesn't bother to pull out a chair for his "poor mother."
"Now, sir, if there's anything else you need," Soldato says, "please let me know."
"Oh, I will. Sorry about that wop comment earlier, I was just worried about my Mom. You know how it is, right?"
"Of course I do! You and your mother, you have a wonderful lunch." He pats POB on the shoulder and turns to leave.
POB looks at his shoulder, then looks at Soldato's departing back. He pushes back from the table and jumps up, the nerdiest-looking jack-in-the-box I've ever seen.
"HEY! Don't touch me! He touched me! Did you see that? He put his hands on me!" People are staring, most in disgust and surprise.
Soldato turns. "Sir, I..."
"What seems to be the problem, here?" Karl is back. His timing is as impeccable as his hair.
"He put his hands on me. Is that how you run your restaurant? What is this? All I wanted to do is take my mother out for a decent lunch, and now..." POB is working up a lather. Some folks will do anything to get a free meal.
"Please calm down sir," Karl puffs out his chest. Big Man. "Soldato, apologize to this man."
I'm reminded of the scene in Fast Times at Ridgemont High where Judge Reihold gets fired.
Karl should know better. He's met Soldato before. I wonder if Soldato will kick 100% of his ass.
Soldato looks ready to take a swing. To my surprise, he stops and smiles.
"No, I don't believe I will. You know what?"
He turns to POB. "Go fuck yourself."
To the man's mother, "I can't believe that piece of shit came out of you."
To Karl, "I quit. You can go to hell."
He takes off his apron, pulls out the change, hands me his open checks and turns to go. He gets a small cheer from the neighboring tables.
I think he's heading for the door when he makes a sudden left turn and plops down at the bar.
"A little service here, sweetheart!" He pounds a fist on the bar and pulls a bowl of snack mix in front of him.
The Woman is bartending. "You know servers can't sit at the bar." She laughs at him. "What are you doing?"
"I'm not a server here anymore. Shot and a beer, please!" He takes off his Restaurant logo polo shirt. He's got a stained wifebeater tee underneath. He lights up a Red. Classic.
"Seriously? What happened? Did you quit or get fired?" Fired employees aren't welcome back.
The ones that quit however... that's another story. In another brilliant stroke intended to improve customer service, The Restaurant is not allowed to refuse service unless someone is being disruptive or is drunk. Soldato is neither... yet.
Soldato spends the rest of the afternoon drinking at the bar. Karl fumes, but there's nothing he can do, technically.
Once Karl leaves, the staff heads over one by one to get a recap of the events leading up to Soldato's Last Stand. Soldato is happy to provide the details. He embellishes the story each time, until eventually I was holding him back from taking on both Karl and the POB (and probably the mother too).
He drinks himself stupid until close. The new GM comps his bill. Like I said, these guys were good folks.
We head over to the neighborhood bar for a nightcap. It's the whole crew, set to send Soldato out in a blaze of glory. Or at least, shots of tequila.
As we walk into the bar, we all stop dead. POB is sitting at the bar, trying to talk to some trashy-looking, disease-ridden, middle-aged bar fly.
He's drinking something with cranberry juice in it.
"Hey asshole!" Soldato yells, "You're in my seat."
POB looks up, ready for a fight. "Oh yeah?"
"That the best you can come up with? Jesus, I'm piss drunk and I could come up with better than that while I kick your ass all over this place. Actually, that ain't a bad idea..." He makes a move towards POB.
POB throws his hands up to cover his face. He overbalances his bar stool, and it falls over. He stumbles briefly, regains his footing, and books out the back door. I've never seen him there since.
We all sit down. We laugh and drink until 4 am. They turn us loose into the night.
Luckily, there's a row of cabs sitting out front. Soldato hops into the first one in the line. "I'm outta here. You guys have a good one." He closes his eyes and is asleep almost immediately. I poke my head in the front and give the cabbie directions and a $20 for the 3 minute drive.
I hate to say it... but I'm proud of Soldato. He didn't even take a swing at the guy. I know it killed him inside... just a little bit, it did. But he kept his cool and stayed out of the pokie. POB definitely would have pressed charges.
I'm not worried about Soldato. With his experience, he'll have another serving job by the end of the week. I'm gonna miss him at The Restaurant though. We all will.
Please read about Soldato before you read this post.
There are times when you have to take a stand. The breaking point varies from person to person. Some folks fly off the handle if someone bumps into them on a busy street. Other folks refuse to react if they get slapped in the face.
Soldato is one of those with a nasty temper. He'll throw down without hesitation for little or no reason. However, to this day I still believe that he held on longer than most normal waiters could have... this story is about Soldato's last day at The Restaurant.
-Preface II-
Spring is turning into summer. It's warm outside, and we've opened the patio for The Restaurant.
In the midwest, we get excited for the summer. It means we can shed layer upon layer of clothing. It means we can get ready to leave the house in under ten minutes. And, most importantly, it means that we can once again see beautiful women prancing around in sundresses.
It's only been two months since Valerie was unceremoniously kicked to the curb, and already The Restaurant is beginning to turn around.
As servers, we notice the little things these new managers do differently. Encouragement and aknowledgement of effort are nice changes. Morale is higher than it has been in a long time.
The most refreshing change is that these new managers are less likely to give up a free meal to a scammer. Now don't get me wrong here. They will try to satisfy the customers if there is an issue. The difference is that they handle it fairly.
They won't throw freebies to people who don't deserve it. At the other end of the spectrum, they won't try to weasel out of a problem by offering the minimum solution. Valerie's solutions were akin to either applying a band-aid to a gaping head wound or fixing a crack in the sidewalk in front of a dilapitated shack. These new managers decide what's fairest to the customer, The Restaurant, and the server. They make a decision and then stand behind it.
The new management team has also made some great personnel moves. They canned The Deaf Server, the Hippie, and The Penguin. They brought in two intelligent, experienced servers, as well as one extremely eager newbie. They also dropped three quarters of the hostesses, and then hired a couple of cute high school honor students to pick up the slack. The IQ of the restaurant has tripled.
The only problem with the new staff is their availability. We're running short several servers each shift, and the new managers refuse to allow anyone more than the four tables allotted by Corporate. This is fine for people who can't handle a lot going on at once. But for people like Soldato, who's been in the business for 15 years, this makes for some boring shifts.
Despite this one setback, the Old Guard (The Woman, Soldato, Rena, and I) agree; this is the smoothest The Restaurant has run in a long time. We're making money, we're having fun during shifts, and we don't have to cow-tow to horrible customers.
-Soldato's Last Stand-
We're in the middle of a lunch rush. I have the patio and I'm running back and forth from the kitchen. I'm sweating likeFloyd Landis before a drug test. I look over at Soldato, lounging against the wall of the side station, checking out the soccer moms sipping Arnold Palmers at the table nearest the door. Even though I'm waiting on the soccer moms, I'm jealous.
Soldato has an easy four booth section. He can handle four booths in his sleep, so he has ample time to think about what he could be doing with four housewives in a minivan.
A quick glance at the host stand gives me pause. There is a wait. At lunch. Uh-oh. This is a big no-no in the restaurant business. For the most part, our lunch clientele is comprised of business folks hailing one of the numerous office parks surrounding The Restaurant. They want their food and service fast. It's hard enough to squeeze a casual dining lunch into a 45 minute lunch break. It becomes damn near impossible if you have to wait for ten minutes at the door.
One of the new hostesses is on, and she's not handling her first heavy rush well. She's looking around helplessly as people crowd the entryway. She looks like a baby calf separated from a herd of wildebeast, about to be mauled by a pack of ravenous lions. I have time to wonder, 'Is 'pack' the right word for a grouping of lions? I think it's actually supposed to be something else...'.
I snap back to reality when I see the hostess take a half-step back from her post. She's showing weakness, and the group of people storming the host stand smell blood. She needs help.
My hands are full, so I'm powerless. I look back at Soldato.
"Hey!" I hiss at him.
"What?!! I'm busy here!" He turns from the window to stare me down.
"Dude, go help her. She's gonna drown." I nod towards the hostess. Her mouth is now open and her eyes are wide as saucers as she looks over the chattering mob in front of her. They're inching forward, moving in for the kill.
"Ah hell." He loosens his collar and stalks towards the host stand.
"Give her some room people. She needs air. I said STAND BACK!!!" Soldato can be intimidating. Years of smoking Cowboy Killers has made Soldato's voice deep and raspy. He also talks with his hands. The louder he gets, the more grandiose his arm motions become. Right now he's yelling, and his arms are pinwheeling. I'm reminded of those little windvanes, the ones where the arms spin in high wind.
I love watching an angry little Italian screaming and waving his arms. But while I find it hilarious, some folks find it intimidating. He scares most of the people away from the hostess. They soon sit quietly in the waiting area, hands folded in their laps. The hostess looks up at him, the tears that were welling in her eyes now dive back from whence they came. My hero.
There is only one person still hovering. It is a man in his mid thirties. He's a squirrelly-looking fellow. Wire rim glasses, pleather jacket, mousy brown hair. Shorter than Soldato by about half a foot, he exudes Napolean Complex. He's with an older woman that I can only assume is his mother.
I can practically smell the Drakkar. I can almost hear what I assume to be a whiny, nasal voice. Figuring Soldato can handle a guy who looks like Paul's (from The Wonder Years) older brother, I put on my best fake smile and head out to refill the soccer moms' teas.
"Hello ladies, how is everything today?" I stretch my smile as wide as it'll go. The ladies smile back.
The waitresses get to flirt for big tips all the time. I relish the opportunity when I get a chance. Doesn't mean I'm good at it, but it's fun all the same.
When I turn around to head back inside, I hear them giggling behind me. My flirtation is paying off.... or I sat in something and they're laughing at me. Either way, they're happy. Happy people=bigger tips= a happier Server. Life is good.
Opening the door that leads back into The Restaurant, I am stunned to see Soldato still at the host stand. Paul's older brother (POB from now on) has more spunk than I though.
They're still arguing. Soldato is trying to keep his cool, but I can tell he's starting to break. His hands are clenched into fists underneath the host stand, and I can see his pulse pounding through a throbbing, angry-looking vein protruding from his neck.
The little hostess has backed completely into the wall, looking for all the world as if she wants to just melt into it. Not good.
Worse, the regional manager, Karl, has decided to make a lunch shift visit. Karl is a metrosexual. Not a single strand of his closely-cropped hair falls out of place, as usual. His $200 pastel shirt matches perfectly his tailored trousers. His shoes are polished to a high shine. His persona screams "Look at me! I'm important! I'm carrying a laptop in this ridiculous-looking bag slung over my shoulder! I am personally responsible for the well-being of every Restaurant in this state and a half of the neighboring state! Adore me, my children!" Comical really.
Unfortunately, Karl is just about the only person from the Corporate Office of The Restaurant that can fire you on the spot. Even our GM is supposed to consult someone before he can tell a server to hit the road. Karl can toss you on a whim. And if it makes him feel important enough, or look good enough, he'll do it without hesitation.
Karl immediately takes an interest in the scene unfolding in front of him.
POB is leaning into Soldato, his nose inches away from Soldato's chin.
"Why can't we sit down now? My mother is old, standing around like this is bad for her back. I demand that we be seated NOW!" Soldato is steaming. I can see he's itching to shut this guy up.
Soldato gathers himself, takes a deep breath, exhales. "Sir, like I already explained to you... We are on a wait. I know there are unoccupied tables throughout the restaurant, but we are are not allowed to wait on more than four tables at a time. Our corporate office believes that we can't provide the level of service necessary to make you dining experience..."
"Screw that and screw you! My mother needs to sit..." Spit is flying out of POB's mouth as he chirps a mile a minute. He's standing so close to Soldato that I'm sure he's feeling spittle spray his cheeks.
Karl decides to help.
"Hello sir, my name is Karl and I'm the regional manager at The Restaurant. I'm sure we can make an exception for your mother's case. I'll arrange to have a table opened up for you."
"Thank you." POB is gloating now, "I knew that there had to be someone here with more brains than this stupid wop."
Oh, hell. Why did he have to go and say that? And why did Karl have to let this jerk sit down? He just let POB cut in front of about 10 people. Worse, he made threw Soldato under the bus. To top it off, Karl made Soldato prep the table.
I hurry over to help. I want to keep Soldato from boiling over. I pretend to straighten the table cloth while Soldato lays out the silverware.
"Keep cool," I whisper, "This asshole would like nothing better than for you to take a swing at him. He looks like the type that would sue."
"I don't give a shit. What the hell is Karl thinking, cutting my balls off like that in front of that douchebag?"
I agree, but...
"Just hold it together, I'll find someone to handle this table."
"Fuck this bullshit, I'm tired of this. Karl can fry in Hades for all I care. Sanctimonious bastard." Quite a vocabulary for a "stupid wop".
Soldato heads back to the host stand, grabs two menus and motions to POB and his mom.
"Please follow me, sir." His voice is calm, but that vein is still pulsing in his neck. I'm scared the pressure is going to cause it to burst. I don't want to clean up that mess.
The other patrons glare at POB as he passes by.
POB follows Soldato to table, grinning the whole way. Once there, POB sits down. He doesn't bother to pull out a chair for his "poor mother."
"Now, sir, if there's anything else you need," Soldato says, "please let me know."
"Oh, I will. Sorry about that wop comment earlier, I was just worried about my Mom. You know how it is, right?"
"Of course I do! You and your mother, you have a wonderful lunch." He pats POB on the shoulder and turns to leave.
POB looks at his shoulder, then looks at Soldato's departing back. He pushes back from the table and jumps up, the nerdiest-looking jack-in-the-box I've ever seen.
"HEY! Don't touch me! He touched me! Did you see that? He put his hands on me!" People are staring, most in disgust and surprise.
Soldato turns. "Sir, I..."
"What seems to be the problem, here?" Karl is back. His timing is as impeccable as his hair.
"He put his hands on me. Is that how you run your restaurant? What is this? All I wanted to do is take my mother out for a decent lunch, and now..." POB is working up a lather. Some folks will do anything to get a free meal.
"Please calm down sir," Karl puffs out his chest. Big Man. "Soldato, apologize to this man."
I'm reminded of the scene in Fast Times at Ridgemont High where Judge Reihold gets fired.
Karl should know better. He's met Soldato before. I wonder if Soldato will kick 100% of his ass.
Soldato looks ready to take a swing. To my surprise, he stops and smiles.
"No, I don't believe I will. You know what?"
He turns to POB. "Go fuck yourself."
To the man's mother, "I can't believe that piece of shit came out of you."
To Karl, "I quit. You can go to hell."
He takes off his apron, pulls out the change, hands me his open checks and turns to go. He gets a small cheer from the neighboring tables.
I think he's heading for the door when he makes a sudden left turn and plops down at the bar.
"A little service here, sweetheart!" He pounds a fist on the bar and pulls a bowl of snack mix in front of him.
The Woman is bartending. "You know servers can't sit at the bar." She laughs at him. "What are you doing?"
"I'm not a server here anymore. Shot and a beer, please!" He takes off his Restaurant logo polo shirt. He's got a stained wifebeater tee underneath. He lights up a Red. Classic.
"Seriously? What happened? Did you quit or get fired?" Fired employees aren't welcome back.
The ones that quit however... that's another story. In another brilliant stroke intended to improve customer service, The Restaurant is not allowed to refuse service unless someone is being disruptive or is drunk. Soldato is neither... yet.
Soldato spends the rest of the afternoon drinking at the bar. Karl fumes, but there's nothing he can do, technically.
Once Karl leaves, the staff heads over one by one to get a recap of the events leading up to Soldato's Last Stand. Soldato is happy to provide the details. He embellishes the story each time, until eventually I was holding him back from taking on both Karl and the POB (and probably the mother too).
He drinks himself stupid until close. The new GM comps his bill. Like I said, these guys were good folks.
We head over to the neighborhood bar for a nightcap. It's the whole crew, set to send Soldato out in a blaze of glory. Or at least, shots of tequila.
As we walk into the bar, we all stop dead. POB is sitting at the bar, trying to talk to some trashy-looking, disease-ridden, middle-aged bar fly.
He's drinking something with cranberry juice in it.
"Hey asshole!" Soldato yells, "You're in my seat."
POB looks up, ready for a fight. "Oh yeah?"
"That the best you can come up with? Jesus, I'm piss drunk and I could come up with better than that while I kick your ass all over this place. Actually, that ain't a bad idea..." He makes a move towards POB.
POB throws his hands up to cover his face. He overbalances his bar stool, and it falls over. He stumbles briefly, regains his footing, and books out the back door. I've never seen him there since.
We all sit down. We laugh and drink until 4 am. They turn us loose into the night.
Luckily, there's a row of cabs sitting out front. Soldato hops into the first one in the line. "I'm outta here. You guys have a good one." He closes his eyes and is asleep almost immediately. I poke my head in the front and give the cabbie directions and a $20 for the 3 minute drive.
I hate to say it... but I'm proud of Soldato. He didn't even take a swing at the guy. I know it killed him inside... just a little bit, it did. But he kept his cool and stayed out of the pokie. POB definitely would have pressed charges.
I'm not worried about Soldato. With his experience, he'll have another serving job by the end of the week. I'm gonna miss him at The Restaurant though. We all will.
Monday, September 12, 2005
The Most Interesting Server Ever
-Preface-
This is one of the most difficult posts I've ever had to write. Enjoy.
-A Description of the Most Interesting Server Ever-
The Most Interesting Server Ever (I'll call him MASE, most amazing server ever, for short-besides, 'MASE' sounds much cooler than 'MISE') is 6'1'' and weighs about 200 lbs. He's all muscle. Not from lifting weights, but from dancing.
He's half-black, quarter white, and the rest is a mixed bag. He's bald by choice. He looks like Vin Diesel from such glorious box-office smashes XXX, The Chronicles of Riddick, and Pitch Black.
MASE is a homosexual, as are a large number of male servers, at least in The Restaurant. He's not effeminate. Many of the female customers drool over him. I've been asked many times, "Does that server have a girlfriend?" I've always answered with a truthful, "no." Keeps their dreams alive.
In my very first post, I noted that servers are some of the most colorful, interesting, and vibrant people. MASE is a prime example. He has lead one of the most amazing lives of anyone I've ever encountered. He did not always do things the good (or even legal) way, but he has no regrets. He shouldn't.
I'm writing his story knowing that it won't do him justice.
-The Most Interesting Server Ever-
I'm standing at the computer punching in a table's order. I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn to see MASE looking down at me.
"You went to Princeton, right?" he asks.
"Yep," I reply, waiting for what usually follow. It goes something like this...
'You must be really smart, huh?'
'Not really. I was a pretty good football player, so they let me in.' I always try to downplay my education when I'm serving. It makes everybody, myself included, feel more comfortable.
'Oh. Umm... if you're so smart, how come you rang in three burgers at table 111 when there are only two pepole?' Every time I do something dumb, I always catch more flack than your average Joe. It's the curse of going to an Ivy League school.
I'm standing there, wondering what I did, when MASE shocks me.
"That's cool. Did you ever make it up to New York?" Curveball. Most people don't know where Princeton is, let alone know that it's about an hour train ride from NYC.
I don't know anything about MASE. I haven't talked to him much because he is still relatively new. He's just passing the point where I feel like he'll make it at The Restaurant.
Most veteran servers will tell you that they don't talk to new people for at least a month. It's sort of like Vietnam. You don't want to be friends with someone knowing that they probably won't last. Once they reach that one month threshold, a bond begins to form. You've been 'in the shit' (The Waiter's words) together, and you know you can count on them.
I decide right then that MASE is going to make it as a server. It's a Saturday night, we're on a wait, and he is able to shoot the breeze with me while keeping up with his four table section.
"Yeah, I've been there a couple times. Breaks the monotony of campus life. Why do you ask?"
"I used to live there, back in the day. I had a lot of fun, but I'm glad to be out of there. Are you going out tonight?"
It's a ritual that the entire staff go out for a beer after a busy Saturday shift. It usually turns into a bitch session. Managers, customers, poor servers; all are fair game. I wouldn't miss it for the world.
"Yeah. You should definitely come. I'll even buy you a beer."
"I'll definitely come by, but I'll have to pass on the beer. I'm on the wagon. Been sober for five months." He smiles and walks back into the kitchen.
I'm intrigued. It seems like he doesn't want to talk about himself. Very few people dislike talking about themselves. I get the feeling that there is more to MASE than meets the eye.
Putting my questions on the back burner, I turn back to the computer. I finish typing in the order, grab the iced tea pitcher, and head back to battle.
***
We're at a neighboring restaurant. It's another "crap on the walls" casual place, but the bar is open later than ours. Even the closing bartenders at The Restaurant have time to come over for a couple beers.
We've pulled three tables together. It's a good turn out tonight. About 90% of the staff showed up. As usual, we're banging on Valerie and horrible customers. Everyone's laughing and having a great time.
MASE, true to his word, is sipping a Diet Cola, silently taking in the scene. I decide to break the ice.
"So how come you never come out with us?"
"Well, a couple reasons. I'm living with my aunt and her two kids. I have to babysit for them almost every day. Also, I can't drive. Speaking of which, can I get a ride home?"
No more shots for me. Oh well.
"Sure! How come you can't drive?" I'm expecting to hear the usual. DUI.
"I got deported from Canada for stealing a car," says MASE, chuckling. Wow. Wasn't ready for that.
"What? What the hell happened?" This is a story I have to hear. I notice that two of the waitresses are starting to steal glances towards us. I can tell they're eavesdropping.
"After NYC, I went up to Canada with some friends. We went on a two month long bender. Drugs, booze, you name it. One night, I decided to steal a car and go joyriding. The mounties didn't like that so much."
One of the waitresses that was listening in decided to pipe up.
"How did you steal the car?"
"With a scredriver. It was kind of funny. The cop that pulled me over turned on his loudspeaker and said, 'Throw the keys out the window and put your hands on the wheel!' I didn't have any keys. I was so freaked out and paranoid from the drugs that I thought he was going to shoot me if I didn't throw something out the window. So I grabbed the screwdriver and tossed it into the street. Looking back on it, I bet he was laughing his ass off when he came over and saw a phillips-head lying in the middle of the road."
Most of the table is riveted. We all want to hear more, so I decide to keep leading him on, seeing how much he'll tell us.
"What did they do with you? Throw you in the clink?"
"Yeah, for a couple days. I didn't have any ID, so they had to call my parents to come verify who I was. They came and picked me up. I ended up getting probation, since it was my first offense. My parents put me into rehab in Seattle."
So that's why he doesn't drink anymore. Seems like a good reason.
"Earlier you said you lived in New York. Were you serving there?"
"Yeah, at a gay restaurant. It was kind of like an Ed Debevic's, except everyone dressed in drag." Wait a minute...
"Oh, you're gay? I didn't know that."
"Yep. I made a hot drag queen too. You would have loved it." We all start cracking up.
"I was waiting tables and modeling too. Eventually, I was making enough modeling and... doing other things, and I was able to quit serving." He didn't want to talk about the 'other things', so I decided not to push him on that. However...
"What kind of modeling did you do? Anything we'd know?"
"Maybe. I was one of the original Calvin Klein models. I was on a couple billboards in NY, and I was in one of the commercials that was on MTV." Holy cow. This wasn't a small-time modeling gig. MASE was on the verge of the big time. Well, maybe not the BIG time, but he was closer than any of the other people sitting at that table.
"I was also in a couple of B-movies. Straight to video horror flicks. In both of them, I was one of the extras in dance clubs. For one of them, they made me wear this big Afro wig. I was so coked up at the time, I thought I was the king of the world. I kept tossing the wig. The director was getting pissed. They had to do like fifteen takes for a ten-second scene because I kept throwing my wig over the crowd." Enraptured, the entire staff is fixated on MASE.
"But the one you all would probably know is a music video shoot I did. Lenny Kravitz's 'Are you Gonna Go my Way?' " Excited murmers and agreements from the peanut gallery. "I was a dancer in that video. I have a copy, I'll bring it tomorrow."
I can tell the MASE is getting tired of the attention. I want to hear more, but I figure I'll have plenty of time. I switch the topic.
"So, are you a Nintendo guy or a Sega guy?" Almost immediately, the female servers lose interest. For some reason, only guys spent a large portion of their youth learning that you could get 99 lives in 'Contra' by pressing up down up down left right left right B A B A start on the title screen.
MASE and I talk about video games for the next couple hours. He tells me that he just bought an XBox, the brand new gaming system from Microsoft. Cost him $350. He loves it.
Soon, the house lights shine bright and it's time to go. MASE follows me out to the parking lot and hops in my car.
He lives really close by, and we're there in a matter of minutes. Pulling into the driveway, I see a young kid, about six, sitting on the stoop. When MASE gets out of the car, the kid runs right over to him. He looks like he's been crying.
"What's wrong buddy?"
"MASE, I'm so sorry. We were playing with the football in the house and I made a touchdown and spiked the ball. It hit your Xbox and broke it."
Quickly, the calculator in my brain goes to work. $350 for the Xbox. About $5 per table in tips. That comes to 70 tables of wasted work. I expect MASE to blow up. Instead....
"You know you're not supposed to play ball in the house. Mom told you that yesterday. I'm really disappointed in you. But you know what? I'm also really glad that you told me. You could have not said anything and blamed it on someone else, but you took responsibility. I'm really proud of you."
Wow. I'm impressed. The kid smiles through the tears. MASE picks him up and carries him back into the house, waving goodbye as he reaches the door.
Driving home, I reflect on what I've seen. MASE has lived a fast-paced life, but he's turned things around. He's grounded. Most parents I know wouldn't have handled the situation with the XBox that well.
Despite all I learned about MASE that night, I felt that I hadn't even scratched the surface yet. I was right.
*** (A few months later)
The company Christmas party. If you can call it that. We're celebrating Christmas in early February, apparently.
Valerie got a nice-sized check from the corporate office to spend on this party. Instead of going to a high-class bar or banquet hall, we end up ar a local dance club/bar. On Industry Night. No cover for servers. $1 appetizers and half-priced drinks as well. Way to stretch those dollars, Valerie.
Soldato, my girlfriend, and MASE are talking in a corner away from the dance floor.
"I betcha Valerie is pocketing the rest of that check," comments Soldato.
"You know it," I reply. "Oh well. At least we're drinking for cheap tonight." I take a gulp of my Captain and Coke. Mmmm... I love watered-down drinks.
MASE is dancing in place. I can tell that he can't wait to get on the floor. I nudge my girlfriend.
"Why don't you dance with him? I'm not nearly drunk enough yet, so you may as well get warmed up." She laughs and grabs MASE's hand, heading for the dance floor. MASE gives me a smile of thanks.
My girlfriend is a pretty good dancer. I can't keep up with her. Tonight, she can't keep up with MASE. He's a whirling dervish. Soon there is a crowd around him and my girlfriend. He's tossing her around like a rag doll, and she's having a great time. I've never seen anyone dance like MASE. It's ordered chaos keeping in time with the music.
After a while, the music changes. It's a slow Tina Turner song. MASE and my girlfriend head back up to our table.
"You're a pretty good dancer!" I say. My girlfriend is still trying to catch her breath. MASE is sweating, but he doesn't seem to be breathing hard.
"I like dancing. I love this song, but it's not good for anything except the middle-school slow dance." He puts his arms out straight, about waist-high, and pantomimes the akward step/turn of the pre-teen slow dance. We're all cracking up.
"So you like Tina Turner, huh?" I ask. Personally, I loved her in Beyond Thunderdome.
"Yeah. Did I tell you about the modeling benefit I did where I saw her live?" I haven't gotten many more stories since the first night we all went out. I'm dying for more.
"No. What was the benefit for?"
"It was an AIDs benefit. There was a modeling show, followed by her performance afterwards. I was in the modeling show. I was supposed to walk once, but I was all coked up... again. I walked twice. The second time I went down, I saw Billy Zane sitting at one of the tables up front. There was a seat open right next to him, so I thought I'd go sit down. After I got backstage, I booked. I was wearing a five thousand dollar Armani tux. I went over and introduced myself to Billy Zane. We started talking and he let me sit down. I guess one of his group didn't show. He orders a couple bottles of Dom for the table. Pretty soon, the lights go down and Tina Turner starts the show. The coke is starting to wear off, so I finally realize what's going on. I'm sitting next to a Hollywood actor, drinking Dom Perignon, wearing a five thousand dollar tux, and watching Tina Turner perform less than ten feet from where I'm sitting." He shakes his head. "That was probably the best night of my life."
"Holy shit," says Soldato.
"Wow. Did you get to meet Tina Turner?"
"No. I met a bunch of musicians while I was in NY though."
"Really? How?"
MASE looks around and then motions us to go over to a corner with him. He speaks in a low tone, so he isn't overheard.
"I used to be an errand boy at one of the concert venues. If a band wanted drugs, booze, whatever, I was the one they called to go get it. It was good money, and I got to meet a lot of cool people." He shrugs.
"I don't want too many people to know about that."
"Fair enough," I say. "Who all did you meet?"
"Lots of people," he said. "I saw Eddie Vedder (lead singer of Pearl Jam) so drunk that he was eating Play-do out of the can. That was funny. I also got to be really good friends with Michael Stipe (lead singer of R.E.M.). He still sends me and my aunt a Christmas card every year."
Just then, Valerie comes up to announce that it's time to give out awards. We amble back to the table to watch as she gives out cheap plastic "awards" in categories such as "best Front of the House employee", "Best Cook", "Best Smile", and "Best Ass." Good times.
*** (A few months later)
I walk into The Restaurant for a lunch shift. MASE is at the bar, staring at the TV. They've just caught the sniper in Maryland. MASE is starting to tear up.
"What's wrong? Did you know one of the people who got shot?" I ask.
"No. I knew the sniper. The kid." He's really upset.
"How did you know him?"
"Remember that rehab clinic I went to in Seattle? He was in there with me. He was such a good kid. This is fucked up. I can't believe it."
Neither can I. Forrest Gump has nothing on MASE.
*** (A few months later)
MASE has been crabby for a while now. He's showing up to shifts late. He's lost weight. I have a feeling something's wrong.
It's a Saturday night. MASE is at the computer, typing in an order. I'm reminded of the first time we talked. I tap him on the shoulder.
"Hey, you OK?" I ask. He turns around. His eyes are bloodshot and he's sweating.
"Fine." He's short with me.
"Are you sure?" I hate to pry, but I want to help if I can.
"I'm OK. Really." He turns back to the computer. I walk away.
After the shift, we head out for drinks. I order a tall Bass.
"I'll have a double Johnny Red on the Rocks and a tall Black & Tan," says MASE. Whoa. What the hell is going on? MASE doesn't drink.
"MASE, what's going on? You never drink."
"Well, some stuff has changed." He drains the scotch in one gulp and then downs half his beer. I've never been scared watching someone drink, not even in college. MASE is scaring me.
He drinks hard the whole night. I drive him home. I watch him stumble up to the door. He unlocks it and almost falls inside. He isn't the same person who, less than a year ago, carried his aunt's son in after performing some of the best parenting I've ever seen.
I drive home with a heavy heart.
*** (A few months later)
MASE is dying. He has AIDs. He's not HIV positive. He has full-blown AIDs. He hasn't worked in a month. He's in the hospital.
We called his aunt to see if there was anything we could do. The entire staff is upset. MASE is one of the nicest people and hardest workers around.
His aunt tells us that he's in the hospital. He doesn't want visitors. He's nearing the end, and he doesn't want anone to see him in his condition. She thanks us for our concern.
One of the servers gets a card. We all sign it. I can't put into words what I'm feeling. How do you tell someone, "I hear you're dying. I just want you to know that I'm thinking about you"? What consolation will that bring?
I am waiting on a table during a weekday lunch. Two 30-something ladies. Well-dressed, but not in business attire. They're enjoying hubby's money while he's slaving away. One of them grabs my arm.
"I need more ice." She turns back to her conversation.
At first I'm mad as hell. Who the hell are you to order me around? I'm a person too. I'm probably better-educated, smarter, and a lot harder-working.
Then I realize that I'm upset about MASE. I come to a realization. Nobody that MASE waited on knew who he really was. They saw him, as many customers do, as a dog. Fetch me more ice. Fetch my food. They had no idea of what he'd seen or what he'd done.
Turning that around, I realize that I don't know who these two ladies are. I don't know what they've gone through, what they've done in life. Who am I to make judgements about them, based on a half-hour spent waiting on them?
This was the last, and probably best, thing I learned from MASE. You never know who you're dealing with until you talk to them.
I got the lady more ice and set it down with a smile.
"There you are ma'am."
"Thank you! I must tell you that it's so nice to be able to have an afternoon away from the kids. You've been wonderful."
***
I realize now that MASE must have found out he was sick right before that last conversation I had with him at the bar. He spent his last couple months at the restaurant deteriorating before my eyes.
Aside from the drinking, MASE made some other lifestyle changes. I could tell he was using drugs again. He also told me that he was frequenting places downtown that offered a place for guilt-free one-night stands. He was spending less and less time at his aunt's house and more time partying all night in Chicago.
He lived his last couple months hard. He wanted to go out with a bang.
Honestly, I don't know if I can blame him. If someone put a time limit on my life, how would I react? I don't think I'd want to go quietly.
Wherever you are now, MASE, please know that you touched my life, as well as many others. There are people who loved you and who cared about you during your short time on this planet. In fact, we still do.
This is one of the most difficult posts I've ever had to write. Enjoy.
-A Description of the Most Interesting Server Ever-
The Most Interesting Server Ever (I'll call him MASE, most amazing server ever, for short-besides, 'MASE' sounds much cooler than 'MISE') is 6'1'' and weighs about 200 lbs. He's all muscle. Not from lifting weights, but from dancing.
He's half-black, quarter white, and the rest is a mixed bag. He's bald by choice. He looks like Vin Diesel from such glorious box-office smashes XXX, The Chronicles of Riddick, and Pitch Black.
MASE is a homosexual, as are a large number of male servers, at least in The Restaurant. He's not effeminate. Many of the female customers drool over him. I've been asked many times, "Does that server have a girlfriend?" I've always answered with a truthful, "no." Keeps their dreams alive.
In my very first post, I noted that servers are some of the most colorful, interesting, and vibrant people. MASE is a prime example. He has lead one of the most amazing lives of anyone I've ever encountered. He did not always do things the good (or even legal) way, but he has no regrets. He shouldn't.
I'm writing his story knowing that it won't do him justice.
-The Most Interesting Server Ever-
I'm standing at the computer punching in a table's order. I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn to see MASE looking down at me.
"You went to Princeton, right?" he asks.
"Yep," I reply, waiting for what usually follow. It goes something like this...
'You must be really smart, huh?'
'Not really. I was a pretty good football player, so they let me in.' I always try to downplay my education when I'm serving. It makes everybody, myself included, feel more comfortable.
'Oh. Umm... if you're so smart, how come you rang in three burgers at table 111 when there are only two pepole?' Every time I do something dumb, I always catch more flack than your average Joe. It's the curse of going to an Ivy League school.
I'm standing there, wondering what I did, when MASE shocks me.
"That's cool. Did you ever make it up to New York?" Curveball. Most people don't know where Princeton is, let alone know that it's about an hour train ride from NYC.
I don't know anything about MASE. I haven't talked to him much because he is still relatively new. He's just passing the point where I feel like he'll make it at The Restaurant.
Most veteran servers will tell you that they don't talk to new people for at least a month. It's sort of like Vietnam. You don't want to be friends with someone knowing that they probably won't last. Once they reach that one month threshold, a bond begins to form. You've been 'in the shit' (The Waiter's words) together, and you know you can count on them.
I decide right then that MASE is going to make it as a server. It's a Saturday night, we're on a wait, and he is able to shoot the breeze with me while keeping up with his four table section.
"Yeah, I've been there a couple times. Breaks the monotony of campus life. Why do you ask?"
"I used to live there, back in the day. I had a lot of fun, but I'm glad to be out of there. Are you going out tonight?"
It's a ritual that the entire staff go out for a beer after a busy Saturday shift. It usually turns into a bitch session. Managers, customers, poor servers; all are fair game. I wouldn't miss it for the world.
"Yeah. You should definitely come. I'll even buy you a beer."
"I'll definitely come by, but I'll have to pass on the beer. I'm on the wagon. Been sober for five months." He smiles and walks back into the kitchen.
I'm intrigued. It seems like he doesn't want to talk about himself. Very few people dislike talking about themselves. I get the feeling that there is more to MASE than meets the eye.
Putting my questions on the back burner, I turn back to the computer. I finish typing in the order, grab the iced tea pitcher, and head back to battle.
***
We're at a neighboring restaurant. It's another "crap on the walls" casual place, but the bar is open later than ours. Even the closing bartenders at The Restaurant have time to come over for a couple beers.
We've pulled three tables together. It's a good turn out tonight. About 90% of the staff showed up. As usual, we're banging on Valerie and horrible customers. Everyone's laughing and having a great time.
MASE, true to his word, is sipping a Diet Cola, silently taking in the scene. I decide to break the ice.
"So how come you never come out with us?"
"Well, a couple reasons. I'm living with my aunt and her two kids. I have to babysit for them almost every day. Also, I can't drive. Speaking of which, can I get a ride home?"
No more shots for me. Oh well.
"Sure! How come you can't drive?" I'm expecting to hear the usual. DUI.
"I got deported from Canada for stealing a car," says MASE, chuckling. Wow. Wasn't ready for that.
"What? What the hell happened?" This is a story I have to hear. I notice that two of the waitresses are starting to steal glances towards us. I can tell they're eavesdropping.
"After NYC, I went up to Canada with some friends. We went on a two month long bender. Drugs, booze, you name it. One night, I decided to steal a car and go joyriding. The mounties didn't like that so much."
One of the waitresses that was listening in decided to pipe up.
"How did you steal the car?"
"With a scredriver. It was kind of funny. The cop that pulled me over turned on his loudspeaker and said, 'Throw the keys out the window and put your hands on the wheel!' I didn't have any keys. I was so freaked out and paranoid from the drugs that I thought he was going to shoot me if I didn't throw something out the window. So I grabbed the screwdriver and tossed it into the street. Looking back on it, I bet he was laughing his ass off when he came over and saw a phillips-head lying in the middle of the road."
Most of the table is riveted. We all want to hear more, so I decide to keep leading him on, seeing how much he'll tell us.
"What did they do with you? Throw you in the clink?"
"Yeah, for a couple days. I didn't have any ID, so they had to call my parents to come verify who I was. They came and picked me up. I ended up getting probation, since it was my first offense. My parents put me into rehab in Seattle."
So that's why he doesn't drink anymore. Seems like a good reason.
"Earlier you said you lived in New York. Were you serving there?"
"Yeah, at a gay restaurant. It was kind of like an Ed Debevic's, except everyone dressed in drag." Wait a minute...
"Oh, you're gay? I didn't know that."
"Yep. I made a hot drag queen too. You would have loved it." We all start cracking up.
"I was waiting tables and modeling too. Eventually, I was making enough modeling and... doing other things, and I was able to quit serving." He didn't want to talk about the 'other things', so I decided not to push him on that. However...
"What kind of modeling did you do? Anything we'd know?"
"Maybe. I was one of the original Calvin Klein models. I was on a couple billboards in NY, and I was in one of the commercials that was on MTV." Holy cow. This wasn't a small-time modeling gig. MASE was on the verge of the big time. Well, maybe not the BIG time, but he was closer than any of the other people sitting at that table.
"I was also in a couple of B-movies. Straight to video horror flicks. In both of them, I was one of the extras in dance clubs. For one of them, they made me wear this big Afro wig. I was so coked up at the time, I thought I was the king of the world. I kept tossing the wig. The director was getting pissed. They had to do like fifteen takes for a ten-second scene because I kept throwing my wig over the crowd." Enraptured, the entire staff is fixated on MASE.
"But the one you all would probably know is a music video shoot I did. Lenny Kravitz's 'Are you Gonna Go my Way?' " Excited murmers and agreements from the peanut gallery. "I was a dancer in that video. I have a copy, I'll bring it tomorrow."
I can tell the MASE is getting tired of the attention. I want to hear more, but I figure I'll have plenty of time. I switch the topic.
"So, are you a Nintendo guy or a Sega guy?" Almost immediately, the female servers lose interest. For some reason, only guys spent a large portion of their youth learning that you could get 99 lives in 'Contra' by pressing up down up down left right left right B A B A start on the title screen.
MASE and I talk about video games for the next couple hours. He tells me that he just bought an XBox, the brand new gaming system from Microsoft. Cost him $350. He loves it.
Soon, the house lights shine bright and it's time to go. MASE follows me out to the parking lot and hops in my car.
He lives really close by, and we're there in a matter of minutes. Pulling into the driveway, I see a young kid, about six, sitting on the stoop. When MASE gets out of the car, the kid runs right over to him. He looks like he's been crying.
"What's wrong buddy?"
"MASE, I'm so sorry. We were playing with the football in the house and I made a touchdown and spiked the ball. It hit your Xbox and broke it."
Quickly, the calculator in my brain goes to work. $350 for the Xbox. About $5 per table in tips. That comes to 70 tables of wasted work. I expect MASE to blow up. Instead....
"You know you're not supposed to play ball in the house. Mom told you that yesterday. I'm really disappointed in you. But you know what? I'm also really glad that you told me. You could have not said anything and blamed it on someone else, but you took responsibility. I'm really proud of you."
Wow. I'm impressed. The kid smiles through the tears. MASE picks him up and carries him back into the house, waving goodbye as he reaches the door.
Driving home, I reflect on what I've seen. MASE has lived a fast-paced life, but he's turned things around. He's grounded. Most parents I know wouldn't have handled the situation with the XBox that well.
Despite all I learned about MASE that night, I felt that I hadn't even scratched the surface yet. I was right.
*** (A few months later)
The company Christmas party. If you can call it that. We're celebrating Christmas in early February, apparently.
Valerie got a nice-sized check from the corporate office to spend on this party. Instead of going to a high-class bar or banquet hall, we end up ar a local dance club/bar. On Industry Night. No cover for servers. $1 appetizers and half-priced drinks as well. Way to stretch those dollars, Valerie.
Soldato, my girlfriend, and MASE are talking in a corner away from the dance floor.
"I betcha Valerie is pocketing the rest of that check," comments Soldato.
"You know it," I reply. "Oh well. At least we're drinking for cheap tonight." I take a gulp of my Captain and Coke. Mmmm... I love watered-down drinks.
MASE is dancing in place. I can tell that he can't wait to get on the floor. I nudge my girlfriend.
"Why don't you dance with him? I'm not nearly drunk enough yet, so you may as well get warmed up." She laughs and grabs MASE's hand, heading for the dance floor. MASE gives me a smile of thanks.
My girlfriend is a pretty good dancer. I can't keep up with her. Tonight, she can't keep up with MASE. He's a whirling dervish. Soon there is a crowd around him and my girlfriend. He's tossing her around like a rag doll, and she's having a great time. I've never seen anyone dance like MASE. It's ordered chaos keeping in time with the music.
After a while, the music changes. It's a slow Tina Turner song. MASE and my girlfriend head back up to our table.
"You're a pretty good dancer!" I say. My girlfriend is still trying to catch her breath. MASE is sweating, but he doesn't seem to be breathing hard.
"I like dancing. I love this song, but it's not good for anything except the middle-school slow dance." He puts his arms out straight, about waist-high, and pantomimes the akward step/turn of the pre-teen slow dance. We're all cracking up.
"So you like Tina Turner, huh?" I ask. Personally, I loved her in Beyond Thunderdome.
"Yeah. Did I tell you about the modeling benefit I did where I saw her live?" I haven't gotten many more stories since the first night we all went out. I'm dying for more.
"No. What was the benefit for?"
"It was an AIDs benefit. There was a modeling show, followed by her performance afterwards. I was in the modeling show. I was supposed to walk once, but I was all coked up... again. I walked twice. The second time I went down, I saw Billy Zane sitting at one of the tables up front. There was a seat open right next to him, so I thought I'd go sit down. After I got backstage, I booked. I was wearing a five thousand dollar Armani tux. I went over and introduced myself to Billy Zane. We started talking and he let me sit down. I guess one of his group didn't show. He orders a couple bottles of Dom for the table. Pretty soon, the lights go down and Tina Turner starts the show. The coke is starting to wear off, so I finally realize what's going on. I'm sitting next to a Hollywood actor, drinking Dom Perignon, wearing a five thousand dollar tux, and watching Tina Turner perform less than ten feet from where I'm sitting." He shakes his head. "That was probably the best night of my life."
"Holy shit," says Soldato.
"Wow. Did you get to meet Tina Turner?"
"No. I met a bunch of musicians while I was in NY though."
"Really? How?"
MASE looks around and then motions us to go over to a corner with him. He speaks in a low tone, so he isn't overheard.
"I used to be an errand boy at one of the concert venues. If a band wanted drugs, booze, whatever, I was the one they called to go get it. It was good money, and I got to meet a lot of cool people." He shrugs.
"I don't want too many people to know about that."
"Fair enough," I say. "Who all did you meet?"
"Lots of people," he said. "I saw Eddie Vedder (lead singer of Pearl Jam) so drunk that he was eating Play-do out of the can. That was funny. I also got to be really good friends with Michael Stipe (lead singer of R.E.M.). He still sends me and my aunt a Christmas card every year."
Just then, Valerie comes up to announce that it's time to give out awards. We amble back to the table to watch as she gives out cheap plastic "awards" in categories such as "best Front of the House employee", "Best Cook", "Best Smile", and "Best Ass." Good times.
*** (A few months later)
I walk into The Restaurant for a lunch shift. MASE is at the bar, staring at the TV. They've just caught the sniper in Maryland. MASE is starting to tear up.
"What's wrong? Did you know one of the people who got shot?" I ask.
"No. I knew the sniper. The kid." He's really upset.
"How did you know him?"
"Remember that rehab clinic I went to in Seattle? He was in there with me. He was such a good kid. This is fucked up. I can't believe it."
Neither can I. Forrest Gump has nothing on MASE.
*** (A few months later)
MASE has been crabby for a while now. He's showing up to shifts late. He's lost weight. I have a feeling something's wrong.
It's a Saturday night. MASE is at the computer, typing in an order. I'm reminded of the first time we talked. I tap him on the shoulder.
"Hey, you OK?" I ask. He turns around. His eyes are bloodshot and he's sweating.
"Fine." He's short with me.
"Are you sure?" I hate to pry, but I want to help if I can.
"I'm OK. Really." He turns back to the computer. I walk away.
After the shift, we head out for drinks. I order a tall Bass.
"I'll have a double Johnny Red on the Rocks and a tall Black & Tan," says MASE. Whoa. What the hell is going on? MASE doesn't drink.
"MASE, what's going on? You never drink."
"Well, some stuff has changed." He drains the scotch in one gulp and then downs half his beer. I've never been scared watching someone drink, not even in college. MASE is scaring me.
He drinks hard the whole night. I drive him home. I watch him stumble up to the door. He unlocks it and almost falls inside. He isn't the same person who, less than a year ago, carried his aunt's son in after performing some of the best parenting I've ever seen.
I drive home with a heavy heart.
*** (A few months later)
MASE is dying. He has AIDs. He's not HIV positive. He has full-blown AIDs. He hasn't worked in a month. He's in the hospital.
We called his aunt to see if there was anything we could do. The entire staff is upset. MASE is one of the nicest people and hardest workers around.
His aunt tells us that he's in the hospital. He doesn't want visitors. He's nearing the end, and he doesn't want anone to see him in his condition. She thanks us for our concern.
One of the servers gets a card. We all sign it. I can't put into words what I'm feeling. How do you tell someone, "I hear you're dying. I just want you to know that I'm thinking about you"? What consolation will that bring?
I am waiting on a table during a weekday lunch. Two 30-something ladies. Well-dressed, but not in business attire. They're enjoying hubby's money while he's slaving away. One of them grabs my arm.
"I need more ice." She turns back to her conversation.
At first I'm mad as hell. Who the hell are you to order me around? I'm a person too. I'm probably better-educated, smarter, and a lot harder-working.
Then I realize that I'm upset about MASE. I come to a realization. Nobody that MASE waited on knew who he really was. They saw him, as many customers do, as a dog. Fetch me more ice. Fetch my food. They had no idea of what he'd seen or what he'd done.
Turning that around, I realize that I don't know who these two ladies are. I don't know what they've gone through, what they've done in life. Who am I to make judgements about them, based on a half-hour spent waiting on them?
This was the last, and probably best, thing I learned from MASE. You never know who you're dealing with until you talk to them.
I got the lady more ice and set it down with a smile.
"There you are ma'am."
"Thank you! I must tell you that it's so nice to be able to have an afternoon away from the kids. You've been wonderful."
***
I realize now that MASE must have found out he was sick right before that last conversation I had with him at the bar. He spent his last couple months at the restaurant deteriorating before my eyes.
Aside from the drinking, MASE made some other lifestyle changes. I could tell he was using drugs again. He also told me that he was frequenting places downtown that offered a place for guilt-free one-night stands. He was spending less and less time at his aunt's house and more time partying all night in Chicago.
He lived his last couple months hard. He wanted to go out with a bang.
Honestly, I don't know if I can blame him. If someone put a time limit on my life, how would I react? I don't think I'd want to go quietly.
Wherever you are now, MASE, please know that you touched my life, as well as many others. There are people who loved you and who cared about you during your short time on this planet. In fact, we still do.
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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