I am debating which story to write next. Here are some upcoming titles...
-Valerie Gets Canned
-The Penguin Slips (new server character, involves The Actor)
-Soldato's Last Stand
-The Server Plays Boss
-The Repo Men
I'm taking votes... feel free to chime in and let me know if you have a preference. I'll start writing on Monday evening, and hopefully I'll be done by Tuesday.
Oh, and if you have been waiting patiently for the newest story, scroll down a bit.
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Hash Brownies on a Sunday
-Preface-
A lot of servers abuse a substance or two. I'd estimate that 80% smoke., 99% drink heavily, and 60% smoke pot. This story involves the (ab)use of marijuana. In this case, the servers eat a "bud brownie". For more information, go here.
-A Description of The Animated Server and The Hippie-
The Animated Server is in her mid-20's. She stands around 5'5'' and is a bit overweight. She has dirty blonde hair that hangs 3/4 of the way down her back. The Animated Server tends to get flustered easily. It's hilarious to behold. Her voice gets loud, and she flails her arms, which can be dangerous in the close quarters of the kitchen.
The Hippie is in her early 20's. She is about 5'4" and incredibly skinny. Recovering-anorexic skinny, in fact. She has long, super-straight brown hair that falls past her ass. She also has big blue eyes that take in the wonders of the world with a dazed expression. I call her The Hippie for two reasons. One, she gives off a faint odor of pachouli. Two, she appears to suffer permanently from the effects of marijuana. Case in point... a table visiting from Scotland ordered 10 of our desserts to go. Unfortunately, we did not have enough cheesecake to sell to them. We were debating how to best handle the situation when The Hippie chimes in, "Just tell them 'G'day mate!'" in her sing-song voice. She was dead serious.
-Hash Brownies on a Sunday-
It's the calm before the storm on a Sunday night. Sunday nights are hit or miss at The Restaurant.
Servers either come prepared for a busy night or mope in expecting to walk through a ghost town. In either case, the results are entertaining.
On a slow night, the servers who came prepared need to find outlets for their pent up energy. Practical jokes abound.
On a busy night, the servers who came in expecting little business fall behind and rarely catch up. This is always fun to watch.
I should mention that we have a magician on retainer for Sunday nights. He comes in from 6-8. Lately, during that time period, The Restaurant has been filled with children. The magician does card tricks, makes balloon animals, and has a short stand-up routine that he repeats at least 20 times every week. Makes for a festive atmosphere.
I'm standing at the bar talking to the magician while he eats his salmon. He's one of the first people I've met that's following this new diet that allows you to eat anything you want, as long as it isn't bread or pasta. Sounds hokey to me, but he swears by it.
Engrossed in a conversation about "carbs" and calories, I almost didn't notice The Animated Server and The Hippie. They are huddled in a corner of the waiting area, whispering excitedly in hushed tones. My curiosity piqued, I decide to investigate.
"What's up, ladies?" I plunk down beside The Animated Server.
She looks around furtively. "Can you keep a secret?"
Probably not but, "Sure. What's going on?"
"The Hippie made a bunch of hash brownies. We just ate one each." She giggles like a schoolgirl.
"You did what?!! What if we get busy?" I know some servers, including The Hippie, can work high as a kite. I also know that marijuana that has been baked is more potent than marijuana that is smoked. (I did a 30-page research paper on marijuana my junior year of college. Seriously. It took me two months. Bane of my existence.)
"Relax, man. I work like this all the time. It's not even going to be busy tonight." The Hippie looks around, bored, as she licks her fingers. Now I know they're screwed.
I'm not overly superstitious, but when it comes to The Restaurant, I've come to realize that there is one absolute. If someone says it's going to be busy, it's slow. If someone says it's going to be slow, it's a mad house.
No sooner have those words left her mouth when a party of 10 walks in the door. Here we go...
Half an hour later I'm struggling to stay out of the weeds. The 10-top is demanding, and there are four "chuggers" at the table. I'm sweating bullets.
Flying into the sidestation to refill another pitcher of iced tea, I see The Animated server staring at the computer. She's idly tapping her pen on top of the monitor. Her eyes are getting red, and she seems to be looking through the computer. Oh shit.
"Hey! You OK?" She jumps a little.
"Yeah. Brownie is kicking in. I'll be fine." She turns back to the screen, types in her order, and disappears around the corner. I follow her out, dodging children running amok in the aisles.
I refill the 10-top's drinks and head back to the sidestation to catch my breath. I peak around the corner to check on The Animated Server. She's taking an entree order from a duece sitting in a booth less than ten feet from my vantage point. I want to hear how well she's holding it together.
"What can I get for you folks tonight?" The woman on the left orders a grilled chicken sandwich. She turns to the man on the right. So far, so good.
"And for you, sir?" He orders a burger. Rare. Brave man. Uh oh... why is she turning back to the woman?
"And for you ma'am?" The woman looks confused for a moment.
"You, uh, already took my order?" It sounds like a question. Another time, this would be comical. But there's an hour wait at the door and all the servers are hustling. I know we'll be in it deep if a server wigs out.
Now it's The Animated Server's turn to look confused. She looks at the woman for a moment, then looks down at her pad.
"Oh, of course. I... meant to ask if fries were ok?" Not a bad recovery. The woman seems satisfied. The Animated Server walks back to the sidestation.
"Are you going to make it?" I will kill her if she says 'no'.
"I'll be fine. Just don't talk to me!" She's sweating and her eyes are completely bloodshot.
"You sure as hell don't look fine! No bullshit. Can you make it?" I have to know if I need to be ready to take over her section.
"YES! Now go away, you're bothering me." That's good enough for me.
I relax a bit. If The Animated Server is ok, then The Hippie (who works high 'all the time') must be ok, right?
I head to a new table in my section. I fly through my spiel, take down their drink order, and head to the nearest computer. On my way there, one of The Hippie's customers grabs me.
"Excuse me, could I please have another lemonade?" He's friendly, so I don't shoot him a nasty look for tugging on my sleeve.
"Of course, sir. I'll be right back with that."
I scan the restaurant, looking for The Hippie. She's MIA. The other tables in her section are beginning to look around. They are mildly curious as to the whereabouts of their server. They aren't pissed... yet.
I can tell she's been gone for about ten minutes. Drinks need to be refilled, plates need to be cleared. It's not a serious situation, but it will be if I don't find her soon. I have to find her, now.
I run into Rena. She's on her way out of the kitchen, arms loaded with steaming dishes.
"Have you seen The Hippie?"
She turns her head and answers without slowing. "Not for a while."
Oh boy. I make a quick round, asking everyone if they've seen The Hippie. No one has seen her for at least fifteen minutes. I search high and low to no avail. Time for a decision.
Should I find a manager? If I do, will The Hippie get canned? Yes, and yes....
Can I take The Hippie's Section by myself? Heck no...
I know The Hippie struggles to make rent every month. I also know that my tip percentage has been declining steadily since I began my search. I don't want to get her in trouble, yet I'm pissed. Why does this kind of stuff always happen to me?
Luckily, Rena provides a solution.
"Did you find The Hippie? If you see her, tell her I printed a check for 121." She turns to go.
"Wait! You know her number?" All servers are assigned a number. This number allows us to clock in, open checks, close checks, run credit cards, etc. If we have her number, we can finish off her tables...
"Yeah... it's Four Twenty." Rena giggles at this. Apparently in the pot culture, 4:20 has some sort of significance. How fitting.
"Great. She's gone. Can't find her anywhere. We have to take her section. You take 121 and 122. I'll take 131 and 132. Finish these tables with her number, then everything from then on is yours. Cool?" Rena agrees and we're off to the races.
An hour and a half later, the rush eases. The servers are seated at a table in the back, rolling silverware.
The Animated Server made it through the shift, performing like a champ. She is now enjoying her buzz, laughing easily while stacking neatly rolled spheres of knives, forks, and napkins in a growing mountain on the table.
The group is in good spirits. We faced a minor crisis, but with a little hard work and teamwork, we came out ahead.
We don't know where The Hippie is, but she better show up soon. She has to cash out.
Up until now, the manager on duty hasn't noticed her dissappearance. This won't last forever. (This may seem odd to anyone who hasn't worked in the industry, so I'll explain. Some managers in chain restaurants are the type of people who have difficulty finding clothes that match. This particular manager has difficulty tying his shoes. I'm guessing that he probably employs the "bunny ears" method. In other words, the man isn't too bright. The idea that someone has enough confidence in this person to let them run an entire restaurant is, at best, laughable.)
For the second time, lady luck swoops in to save the day. A customer approaches our group.
"Excuse me? My mother needs to use the handicapped stall in the ladies room, but it's been occupied for quite some time... could one of you check and see if everything is OK?"
All of the female servers book to the bathroom, startling a nearby table. Thirty seconds later, they are pulling a scared-looking Hippie out of the restroom.
"What they hell happened?" Everyone wants to know.
The Hippie looks around. "I tweaked out, man. I locked myself in. I couldn't handle it anymore."
She looks at me. "They told me you helped. Thank you."
Not wanting to lecture her, I respond, "No problem. You OK?"
"Yeah, but I'm gonna need to smoke a fatty to calm down after this." She shakes her head slowly before taking her book and her closed checks to the back to cash out.
If any of you readers ever wonder, "What happened to my server? I haven't seen him/her in like fifteen minutes!" Well... now you know.
A lot of servers abuse a substance or two. I'd estimate that 80% smoke., 99% drink heavily, and 60% smoke pot. This story involves the (ab)use of marijuana. In this case, the servers eat a "bud brownie". For more information, go here.
-A Description of The Animated Server and The Hippie-
The Animated Server is in her mid-20's. She stands around 5'5'' and is a bit overweight. She has dirty blonde hair that hangs 3/4 of the way down her back. The Animated Server tends to get flustered easily. It's hilarious to behold. Her voice gets loud, and she flails her arms, which can be dangerous in the close quarters of the kitchen.
The Hippie is in her early 20's. She is about 5'4" and incredibly skinny. Recovering-anorexic skinny, in fact. She has long, super-straight brown hair that falls past her ass. She also has big blue eyes that take in the wonders of the world with a dazed expression. I call her The Hippie for two reasons. One, she gives off a faint odor of pachouli. Two, she appears to suffer permanently from the effects of marijuana. Case in point... a table visiting from Scotland ordered 10 of our desserts to go. Unfortunately, we did not have enough cheesecake to sell to them. We were debating how to best handle the situation when The Hippie chimes in, "Just tell them 'G'day mate!'" in her sing-song voice. She was dead serious.
-Hash Brownies on a Sunday-
It's the calm before the storm on a Sunday night. Sunday nights are hit or miss at The Restaurant.
Servers either come prepared for a busy night or mope in expecting to walk through a ghost town. In either case, the results are entertaining.
On a slow night, the servers who came prepared need to find outlets for their pent up energy. Practical jokes abound.
On a busy night, the servers who came in expecting little business fall behind and rarely catch up. This is always fun to watch.
I should mention that we have a magician on retainer for Sunday nights. He comes in from 6-8. Lately, during that time period, The Restaurant has been filled with children. The magician does card tricks, makes balloon animals, and has a short stand-up routine that he repeats at least 20 times every week. Makes for a festive atmosphere.
I'm standing at the bar talking to the magician while he eats his salmon. He's one of the first people I've met that's following this new diet that allows you to eat anything you want, as long as it isn't bread or pasta. Sounds hokey to me, but he swears by it.
Engrossed in a conversation about "carbs" and calories, I almost didn't notice The Animated Server and The Hippie. They are huddled in a corner of the waiting area, whispering excitedly in hushed tones. My curiosity piqued, I decide to investigate.
"What's up, ladies?" I plunk down beside The Animated Server.
She looks around furtively. "Can you keep a secret?"
Probably not but, "Sure. What's going on?"
"The Hippie made a bunch of hash brownies. We just ate one each." She giggles like a schoolgirl.
"You did what?!! What if we get busy?" I know some servers, including The Hippie, can work high as a kite. I also know that marijuana that has been baked is more potent than marijuana that is smoked. (I did a 30-page research paper on marijuana my junior year of college. Seriously. It took me two months. Bane of my existence.)
"Relax, man. I work like this all the time. It's not even going to be busy tonight." The Hippie looks around, bored, as she licks her fingers. Now I know they're screwed.
I'm not overly superstitious, but when it comes to The Restaurant, I've come to realize that there is one absolute. If someone says it's going to be busy, it's slow. If someone says it's going to be slow, it's a mad house.
No sooner have those words left her mouth when a party of 10 walks in the door. Here we go...
Half an hour later I'm struggling to stay out of the weeds. The 10-top is demanding, and there are four "chuggers" at the table. I'm sweating bullets.
Flying into the sidestation to refill another pitcher of iced tea, I see The Animated server staring at the computer. She's idly tapping her pen on top of the monitor. Her eyes are getting red, and she seems to be looking through the computer. Oh shit.
"Hey! You OK?" She jumps a little.
"Yeah. Brownie is kicking in. I'll be fine." She turns back to the screen, types in her order, and disappears around the corner. I follow her out, dodging children running amok in the aisles.
I refill the 10-top's drinks and head back to the sidestation to catch my breath. I peak around the corner to check on The Animated Server. She's taking an entree order from a duece sitting in a booth less than ten feet from my vantage point. I want to hear how well she's holding it together.
"What can I get for you folks tonight?" The woman on the left orders a grilled chicken sandwich. She turns to the man on the right. So far, so good.
"And for you, sir?" He orders a burger. Rare. Brave man. Uh oh... why is she turning back to the woman?
"And for you ma'am?" The woman looks confused for a moment.
"You, uh, already took my order?" It sounds like a question. Another time, this would be comical. But there's an hour wait at the door and all the servers are hustling. I know we'll be in it deep if a server wigs out.
Now it's The Animated Server's turn to look confused. She looks at the woman for a moment, then looks down at her pad.
"Oh, of course. I... meant to ask if fries were ok?" Not a bad recovery. The woman seems satisfied. The Animated Server walks back to the sidestation.
"Are you going to make it?" I will kill her if she says 'no'.
"I'll be fine. Just don't talk to me!" She's sweating and her eyes are completely bloodshot.
"You sure as hell don't look fine! No bullshit. Can you make it?" I have to know if I need to be ready to take over her section.
"YES! Now go away, you're bothering me." That's good enough for me.
I relax a bit. If The Animated Server is ok, then The Hippie (who works high 'all the time') must be ok, right?
I head to a new table in my section. I fly through my spiel, take down their drink order, and head to the nearest computer. On my way there, one of The Hippie's customers grabs me.
"Excuse me, could I please have another lemonade?" He's friendly, so I don't shoot him a nasty look for tugging on my sleeve.
"Of course, sir. I'll be right back with that."
I scan the restaurant, looking for The Hippie. She's MIA. The other tables in her section are beginning to look around. They are mildly curious as to the whereabouts of their server. They aren't pissed... yet.
I can tell she's been gone for about ten minutes. Drinks need to be refilled, plates need to be cleared. It's not a serious situation, but it will be if I don't find her soon. I have to find her, now.
I run into Rena. She's on her way out of the kitchen, arms loaded with steaming dishes.
"Have you seen The Hippie?"
She turns her head and answers without slowing. "Not for a while."
Oh boy. I make a quick round, asking everyone if they've seen The Hippie. No one has seen her for at least fifteen minutes. I search high and low to no avail. Time for a decision.
Should I find a manager? If I do, will The Hippie get canned? Yes, and yes....
Can I take The Hippie's Section by myself? Heck no...
I know The Hippie struggles to make rent every month. I also know that my tip percentage has been declining steadily since I began my search. I don't want to get her in trouble, yet I'm pissed. Why does this kind of stuff always happen to me?
Luckily, Rena provides a solution.
"Did you find The Hippie? If you see her, tell her I printed a check for 121." She turns to go.
"Wait! You know her number?" All servers are assigned a number. This number allows us to clock in, open checks, close checks, run credit cards, etc. If we have her number, we can finish off her tables...
"Yeah... it's Four Twenty." Rena giggles at this. Apparently in the pot culture, 4:20 has some sort of significance. How fitting.
"Great. She's gone. Can't find her anywhere. We have to take her section. You take 121 and 122. I'll take 131 and 132. Finish these tables with her number, then everything from then on is yours. Cool?" Rena agrees and we're off to the races.
An hour and a half later, the rush eases. The servers are seated at a table in the back, rolling silverware.
The Animated Server made it through the shift, performing like a champ. She is now enjoying her buzz, laughing easily while stacking neatly rolled spheres of knives, forks, and napkins in a growing mountain on the table.
The group is in good spirits. We faced a minor crisis, but with a little hard work and teamwork, we came out ahead.
We don't know where The Hippie is, but she better show up soon. She has to cash out.
Up until now, the manager on duty hasn't noticed her dissappearance. This won't last forever. (This may seem odd to anyone who hasn't worked in the industry, so I'll explain. Some managers in chain restaurants are the type of people who have difficulty finding clothes that match. This particular manager has difficulty tying his shoes. I'm guessing that he probably employs the "bunny ears" method. In other words, the man isn't too bright. The idea that someone has enough confidence in this person to let them run an entire restaurant is, at best, laughable.)
For the second time, lady luck swoops in to save the day. A customer approaches our group.
"Excuse me? My mother needs to use the handicapped stall in the ladies room, but it's been occupied for quite some time... could one of you check and see if everything is OK?"
All of the female servers book to the bathroom, startling a nearby table. Thirty seconds later, they are pulling a scared-looking Hippie out of the restroom.
"What they hell happened?" Everyone wants to know.
The Hippie looks around. "I tweaked out, man. I locked myself in. I couldn't handle it anymore."
She looks at me. "They told me you helped. Thank you."
Not wanting to lecture her, I respond, "No problem. You OK?"
"Yeah, but I'm gonna need to smoke a fatty to calm down after this." She shakes her head slowly before taking her book and her closed checks to the back to cash out.
If any of you readers ever wonder, "What happened to my server? I haven't seen him/her in like fifteen minutes!" Well... now you know.
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Scammer Series #2
-Preface-
For some reason, this Scammer made me feel sick to my stomach.
-The Lowest Scammer-
I'm bored. It's 12:30 on a weekday in September, our slowest month, and I have three tables. Mama said there'd be days like this.
I'm looking for a crossword puzzle in the paper when a mother and her daughter walk through the door. The mother is in her late 30's and the daughter looks to be about 9 or 10. They're both wearing shirts with a large cat face spread across the front. Animal shirts are usually a sure sign of a poor tipper. But since I'm desperate for cash, I decide I may as well take another table.
"Hi folks! How are you doing today?" I place bev naps on the table and plow through my spiel. It's automatic. I wonder if I could serve while sleepwalking?
"We'll each have water with lemon. Oh, and it's her birthday!" I briefly entertain the thought of trying to push a milk shake on them. I change my mind. The girl is a bit hefty, and she's going to be heading to junior high soon. Middle school kids are brutal.
"Of course, ma'am. I'll bring out a complimentary sundae at the end of your meal. Would you like us to sing for you?" I hate singing. I sound like a combination of Biz Markie and a bassett hound. Maybe today I'll get lucky.... Nope. The chubby little girl is nodding and smiling. Bummer.
I go to the back to punch in their order. I start rounding up servers and letting them know that I have a birthday and we'll need to sing. I get the usual responses.
"Damnit!"
"I'm too busy!"
"I don't sing."
"Fuck you!" (This from Soldato and Amy in tandem)
Oh well. I know when it's crunch time, they'll be there. For the next twenty minutes, I go about my merry little way. It's so slow, I have to force myself to stay away from tables. I have a tendency to check back way too often when it's a dead shift.
Finally, it's time to sing.
I must reiterate how much I hate singing. It embarrasses the birthday boy/girl, it embarrasses the servers, and it annoys the other customers in the restaurant. In fact, the only people that seem to enjoy the singing are the other people at the table.
Also, our restaurant doesn't have a fast, snappy version of "Happy Birthday to You!" Couple this with the fact that most servers hate to sing, and you've got a Happy Birthday song that sounds like a funeral dirge.
The servers gather in the back. We start clapping. I light a candle and stuff it in the ice cream. We march out to the table.
We sing. It's horrible, as usual. The customer seems to love it. Yay!
I bring them their check. Total bill: $13.95. Their tip: $1.50. I love animal shirts...
(Fast Forward to two weeks later)
It's still September, and it's still slow. I have one table. I'm doing the crossword puzzle in the back. A three-letter word for sheep. Hmm... ram or ewe, ram or ewe...
Rena bounces into the kitchen.
"Birthday, everyone!" She's way to cheery.
We all gather, clap, and head to the table.
I'm stunned. Sitting there, clapping and happy as can be, is the same little chubby girl, wearing the same shirt with the cat's face. We finish singing and go about our business.
I pull Soldato aside.
"That girl we just sang to... she was here last week! We sang for her then, too!"
"You're kidding me." Soldato shakes his head. "People never cease to amaze me."
He walks away.
I'm disgusted. What is this mother teaching her child? Instead of her birthday being a special day, it is best used to exploit restaurants for free desserts? That her birthday is trivial compared to saving 99 cents?!
I've seen this cat face shirt-clad duo several times since. They've gotten a free sundae each time. I've never said anything to anyone (except Soldato). I don't know why.
Scammers are low people, but some are just sick.
For some reason, this Scammer made me feel sick to my stomach.
-The Lowest Scammer-
I'm bored. It's 12:30 on a weekday in September, our slowest month, and I have three tables. Mama said there'd be days like this.
I'm looking for a crossword puzzle in the paper when a mother and her daughter walk through the door. The mother is in her late 30's and the daughter looks to be about 9 or 10. They're both wearing shirts with a large cat face spread across the front. Animal shirts are usually a sure sign of a poor tipper. But since I'm desperate for cash, I decide I may as well take another table.
"Hi folks! How are you doing today?" I place bev naps on the table and plow through my spiel. It's automatic. I wonder if I could serve while sleepwalking?
"We'll each have water with lemon. Oh, and it's her birthday!" I briefly entertain the thought of trying to push a milk shake on them. I change my mind. The girl is a bit hefty, and she's going to be heading to junior high soon. Middle school kids are brutal.
"Of course, ma'am. I'll bring out a complimentary sundae at the end of your meal. Would you like us to sing for you?" I hate singing. I sound like a combination of Biz Markie and a bassett hound. Maybe today I'll get lucky.... Nope. The chubby little girl is nodding and smiling. Bummer.
I go to the back to punch in their order. I start rounding up servers and letting them know that I have a birthday and we'll need to sing. I get the usual responses.
"Damnit!"
"I'm too busy!"
"I don't sing."
"Fuck you!" (This from Soldato and Amy in tandem)
Oh well. I know when it's crunch time, they'll be there. For the next twenty minutes, I go about my merry little way. It's so slow, I have to force myself to stay away from tables. I have a tendency to check back way too often when it's a dead shift.
Finally, it's time to sing.
I must reiterate how much I hate singing. It embarrasses the birthday boy/girl, it embarrasses the servers, and it annoys the other customers in the restaurant. In fact, the only people that seem to enjoy the singing are the other people at the table.
Also, our restaurant doesn't have a fast, snappy version of "Happy Birthday to You!" Couple this with the fact that most servers hate to sing, and you've got a Happy Birthday song that sounds like a funeral dirge.
The servers gather in the back. We start clapping. I light a candle and stuff it in the ice cream. We march out to the table.
We sing. It's horrible, as usual. The customer seems to love it. Yay!
I bring them their check. Total bill: $13.95. Their tip: $1.50. I love animal shirts...
(Fast Forward to two weeks later)
It's still September, and it's still slow. I have one table. I'm doing the crossword puzzle in the back. A three-letter word for sheep. Hmm... ram or ewe, ram or ewe...
Rena bounces into the kitchen.
"Birthday, everyone!" She's way to cheery.
We all gather, clap, and head to the table.
I'm stunned. Sitting there, clapping and happy as can be, is the same little chubby girl, wearing the same shirt with the cat's face. We finish singing and go about our business.
I pull Soldato aside.
"That girl we just sang to... she was here last week! We sang for her then, too!"
"You're kidding me." Soldato shakes his head. "People never cease to amaze me."
He walks away.
I'm disgusted. What is this mother teaching her child? Instead of her birthday being a special day, it is best used to exploit restaurants for free desserts? That her birthday is trivial compared to saving 99 cents?!
I've seen this cat face shirt-clad duo several times since. They've gotten a free sundae each time. I've never said anything to anyone (except Soldato). I don't know why.
Scammers are low people, but some are just sick.
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?
Saturday, July 09, 2005
New Post Coming Tomorrow
Hi All-
Sorry it's been so long since I've posted. I've had to pick up some extra shifts at The Bar, so I've been too busy to write. I have a good post coming tomorrow, so stay tuned!
Sorry it's been so long since I've posted. I've had to pick up some extra shifts at The Bar, so I've been too busy to write. I have a good post coming tomorrow, so stay tuned!
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Scammers
-Preface-
This story is a little different. Scammers are a big issue at The Restaurant. The Restaurant must adhere to strict corporate guidelines when dealing with complaints.
Basically, once a customer complains, they are going to receive something for free. This is a good strategy in most cases. Bend over backwards for them and customers will come back and give your restaurant another chance.
However, when you have folks that are less-than-completely-honest, this strategy will backfire. They will take advantage of you. Instead of bending over backwards for the customer, you are bending over and taking it from the customer.
This post is going to be the first in a small collection of short stories about some of the Scammers that have come into The Restaurant. Don't worry if Scammers don't interest you. There will be other stories in between the Scammer Series.
-A Description of Scammers-
There is no clear-cut description of a Scammer. They come in all shapes, sizes, colors, ages, financial backgrounds, etc.
-The 75% Scammer-
(I have waited on the 75% Scammer twice. She has come into The Restaurant quite a few times since.)
It is the middle of the lunch rush. The hostess seats me with a two-top. A well-dressed couple in their early-to-mid 40's, dressed stylishly. I move in quickly. Rich folks are demanding, but they also have a lot of money. I just want a small piece.
"Hi folks, welcome to The Restaurant. I will be your server today. May I start you off with something to drink?"
The woman answers, yet she doesn't look at me. I don't like her already. At least have the courtesy to make eye contact when someone talks to you. Didn't her mother teach her that?
"I'll have an iced tea, and he'll have a Diet Cola. Make sure it's diet." She speaks in a clipped tone with a staccato rhythm.
Now I like her even less. First, I don't like the way she's treated me. I know the difference between regular and diet cola. I can read. I have dissected Chaucer, Dickens, Shakespeare, and Homer. Noticing whether there is a "diet" on the nameplate of the soda fountain is not an issue.
Second, I don't like the way she treats her spouse. Her husband is sitting motionless, trying to hide behind his menu. She obviously wears the pants in the relationship. I don't like it when anyone "wears the pants." My firm belief is that all relationships should be an equal partnership that involves give and take from both parties. I hate it when one partner rules the other.
"Right away ma'am." I hustle away and grab their drinks. I give brief thought to bringing them a hot tea and a club soda, but think better of it. I'm busy, and I don't have time to deal with a customer complaint.
Returning with their drinks, I take their order. Again, she speaks for her man. I briefly entertain the thought that he is mute. However, when he hands back the menu, he says, "Thank you." Looking in his eyes, I see a defeated man, beaten down by years spent with this horrible woman. I am sympathetic.
I punch in their order and go about my business. Ten minutes later, their food is ready. I bring their dishes and they dig in. Two minutes later, I check to see that all is well..
"How is everything, folks?"
They both nod. Sweet.
About twenty minutes later, I go back to clear their plates.
"How was everything, folks?" This is an automatic question. Usually, it's met with either silence, nods, "fine", or "excellent". I am not prepared for this response.
"You know, I didn't really like it." The woman looks at me for the first time. I look at her plate. She has eaten 75% of a rather large dish. Not wanting to pull a Judge Reinhold in Fast Times at Ridgemont High (100% guaranteed breakfast), I grab Valerie.
Cheap as Valerie is, she's powerless when a customer complains. She visits the table before telling me to comp the bill.
"The entire bill?!" I am incredulous. The woman eats almost all of her meal, the husband ate all of his meal, and they aren't going to have to pay a single cent.
"Yes. She say the food awful and you not check on them." Valerie is pissed.
"Valerie, how long have I worked here? Do you really think I didn't do a check back?" I'm even more pissed.
"I know. I think she full of shit." Valerie adjusts the check.
I return to the table to let them know that their bill is taken care of. The woman smiles.
"Harold, take our coats. We're leaving." She throws him her full-length leather coat. They leave the restaurant, the man trailing behind the woman like a lost puppy. No tip.
Less than a week later, I have the same couple again. To my utter surprise, she orders the exact same dish. Half an hour later, I find myself in the same predicament. She has eaten 75% of her dish, and yet now she says it's awful. I'm wondering... if the food was so bad last time, why would you come back? Further, why would you come back and order the exact same dish?
I know these people are Scammers. Valerie knows these people are Scammers. Hell, I bet these people even know that they are Scammers.
But they still pay nothing for their meal.
---
-Epilogue-
Last week, I ran into one of the servers from the Restaurant. I asked about the 75% Scammers. They still come into The Restaurant about once every two weeks. They have yet to pay for a meal. The woman still orders the same dish.
This story is a little different. Scammers are a big issue at The Restaurant. The Restaurant must adhere to strict corporate guidelines when dealing with complaints.
Basically, once a customer complains, they are going to receive something for free. This is a good strategy in most cases. Bend over backwards for them and customers will come back and give your restaurant another chance.
However, when you have folks that are less-than-completely-honest, this strategy will backfire. They will take advantage of you. Instead of bending over backwards for the customer, you are bending over and taking it from the customer.
This post is going to be the first in a small collection of short stories about some of the Scammers that have come into The Restaurant. Don't worry if Scammers don't interest you. There will be other stories in between the Scammer Series.
-A Description of Scammers-
There is no clear-cut description of a Scammer. They come in all shapes, sizes, colors, ages, financial backgrounds, etc.
-The 75% Scammer-
(I have waited on the 75% Scammer twice. She has come into The Restaurant quite a few times since.)
It is the middle of the lunch rush. The hostess seats me with a two-top. A well-dressed couple in their early-to-mid 40's, dressed stylishly. I move in quickly. Rich folks are demanding, but they also have a lot of money. I just want a small piece.
"Hi folks, welcome to The Restaurant. I will be your server today. May I start you off with something to drink?"
The woman answers, yet she doesn't look at me. I don't like her already. At least have the courtesy to make eye contact when someone talks to you. Didn't her mother teach her that?
"I'll have an iced tea, and he'll have a Diet Cola. Make sure it's diet." She speaks in a clipped tone with a staccato rhythm.
Now I like her even less. First, I don't like the way she's treated me. I know the difference between regular and diet cola. I can read. I have dissected Chaucer, Dickens, Shakespeare, and Homer. Noticing whether there is a "diet" on the nameplate of the soda fountain is not an issue.
Second, I don't like the way she treats her spouse. Her husband is sitting motionless, trying to hide behind his menu. She obviously wears the pants in the relationship. I don't like it when anyone "wears the pants." My firm belief is that all relationships should be an equal partnership that involves give and take from both parties. I hate it when one partner rules the other.
"Right away ma'am." I hustle away and grab their drinks. I give brief thought to bringing them a hot tea and a club soda, but think better of it. I'm busy, and I don't have time to deal with a customer complaint.
Returning with their drinks, I take their order. Again, she speaks for her man. I briefly entertain the thought that he is mute. However, when he hands back the menu, he says, "Thank you." Looking in his eyes, I see a defeated man, beaten down by years spent with this horrible woman. I am sympathetic.
I punch in their order and go about my business. Ten minutes later, their food is ready. I bring their dishes and they dig in. Two minutes later, I check to see that all is well..
"How is everything, folks?"
They both nod. Sweet.
About twenty minutes later, I go back to clear their plates.
"How was everything, folks?" This is an automatic question. Usually, it's met with either silence, nods, "fine", or "excellent". I am not prepared for this response.
"You know, I didn't really like it." The woman looks at me for the first time. I look at her plate. She has eaten 75% of a rather large dish. Not wanting to pull a Judge Reinhold in Fast Times at Ridgemont High (100% guaranteed breakfast), I grab Valerie.
Cheap as Valerie is, she's powerless when a customer complains. She visits the table before telling me to comp the bill.
"The entire bill?!" I am incredulous. The woman eats almost all of her meal, the husband ate all of his meal, and they aren't going to have to pay a single cent.
"Yes. She say the food awful and you not check on them." Valerie is pissed.
"Valerie, how long have I worked here? Do you really think I didn't do a check back?" I'm even more pissed.
"I know. I think she full of shit." Valerie adjusts the check.
I return to the table to let them know that their bill is taken care of. The woman smiles.
"Harold, take our coats. We're leaving." She throws him her full-length leather coat. They leave the restaurant, the man trailing behind the woman like a lost puppy. No tip.
Less than a week later, I have the same couple again. To my utter surprise, she orders the exact same dish. Half an hour later, I find myself in the same predicament. She has eaten 75% of her dish, and yet now she says it's awful. I'm wondering... if the food was so bad last time, why would you come back? Further, why would you come back and order the exact same dish?
I know these people are Scammers. Valerie knows these people are Scammers. Hell, I bet these people even know that they are Scammers.
But they still pay nothing for their meal.
---
-Epilogue-
Last week, I ran into one of the servers from the Restaurant. I asked about the 75% Scammers. They still come into The Restaurant about once every two weeks. They have yet to pay for a meal. The woman still orders the same dish.
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!
Monday, June 27, 2005
The Miss Illinois Pageant Contestants
-Preface-
This story took place about a week ago. I am working at The Bar now. The Bar is trendy, upscale, and well-kept. There are three rooms. The Main Room is long and symmetrical, with five booths framing about 50 tables. The bar is located in this room. The other two rooms are filled with tournament-size pool tables, plush leather couches, and at least 10 big-screen TV's each. The two side rooms are called the Maroon and Blue Rooms because those are the colors they are painted.
-The Miss Illinois Pageant Contestants' Story-
I pull into the bar at 11 am on Saturday. I'm tired and hot. It's 95 degrees outside, and our uniforms are all black. I also have a touch of a hangover, which doesn't improve my disposition.
I'm looking forward to a relaxing day of work. Saturday mornings are rarely busy, which means the servers have time to talk, hang out, and eat.
As I pull into a parking space, I notice three younger girls heading into the restaurant. This in itself is not odd, as there is a clothing store next door and their patrons often come into our place to use the restrooms. What I do find odd is that they are dressed like slobs in ratty t-shirts and shorts, yet their hair is done up, and someone painstakingly applied their makeup. Weird.
I walk through the doors and come face to face with Jackie, our Event Coordinator. Jackie has a great job. She gets commission off of every pre-scheduled party that comes into the restaurant. She uses the servers to set things up, take care of the partiers, and then tear the decorations down. Servers covet these parties because we get an automatic gratuity. The work is brutal, but it's worth it in the end. The final bill often tops $1,000.
Jackie is flipping out.
"I need you now."
"Jackie, I'm flattered, but you know I have a woman." Hungover and saucy. Good combo.
"Shut it. The Miss Illinois Pageant girls are here in the Maroon Room, and I need you to take them. They have food coming out in fifteen minutes. You need to get their drinks." Big smile from me. Life doesn't get much better than this.
"Oh, and the entire party is comped."
SHIT! This means that I get no automatic gratuity.
"Hey, do they know they're supposed to tip me?" I ask as Jackie turns to leave.
"I hope so. We'll see." I am happy she's so concerned about my welfare.
I clock in and head to the back. I fill a pint glass a coffee. I drop some ice in and chug it down. I'm going to need all the energy I can muster for this one.
Walking into the Maroon Room, I take in the scene in front of me. There are about twenty five girls scattered throughout the room in groups of four and five. They are all dressed like the three I saw walking into The Bar earlier. There are two chaperones sitting at a table towards the back. They look haggard. I decide to start with them.
"Hello! My name is The Server, and I'll be taking care of you and the ladies this morning. Your food will be ready in about fifteen minutes, so can I start you off with something to drink?"
"Coffee. Black." The first chaperone doesn't look at me.
"Hello young man! I'd love some iced tea with sweetener." She looks around before beckoning me closer. "You know, one of these girls' life is going to change tonight." She's dead serious.
Great. I've got one chaperone who believes I am to be seen and not heard and another who is trying out the pageant catch phrase on me.
I speak with the chaperone briefly before moving on and taking drink orders from each of the contestants. It's the same each time I go to a new group. If the first person to order looks me in the eye and is friendly, the rest of the girls follow suit. If the person ignores me while giving me the order, the rest of the girls refuse to look at me.
Some of the snippets of conversation I hear...
"My Dad is a really important man. We have apartments all over the world, but we sub-lease them to make more money."
"Can we get drink drinks? I love drinking."
"My favorite part of this whole thing is meeting all of you. You're all so special!"
"This competition isn't just about how you look in a bikini. You have to have a personality too!"
Gag me. Out of the 25, 2 seem like real people. The rest seem as fake as Britney's cleavage.
I get their drinks and bring out their food.
They each eat half a plate of food. No more, no less. Only two of the girls head to the bathroom immediately after they eat.
Everytime I bring them a refill, they act like I've saved their puppy.
"Thank you so much!"
Every now and then, a couple of our Saturday regulars wonder into the room. Some are looking to score, others to see what this whole thing is all about. All are quickly turned away by the chaperones.
"Move along here. These girls need their rest. Shoo!" They actually say "shoo."
I refill endless iced teas, waters, and Diet Colas. Finally, they are ready to head back to the hotel to get ready for the pageant that evening.
The chaperones approach me. Here it is, the moment of truth. Will I get a tip, or have I wasted 4 hours of my life?
"You've been so wonderful! You should come see these girls tonight. We're at the local high school. Aren't they all so amazing?"
"Absolutely amazing ma'am. Unfortunately, I am saving for a house, and I don't know if I can afford tickets." Trying to work in the fact that I need money.
"Oh, don't worry about that! The tickets are free! Have a great afternnon, and try to come tonight!" She turns around, and walks out the door. The girls follow, single file, like goslings following momma goose to the lake. The other chaperone follows behind them, ready to ward off any would-be attackers from the rear.
No tip. I don't know whether I should curse the chaperones, Jackie, the contestants, or whoever told this group that we would comp them. I settle for cursing all of them, just to make sure.
I go to the back to relax for a bit, and my mind wonders...
The contestants are all in their bathing suits. The panel of judges is asking them questions. Every answer is the same down the line.
"World Peace!"
"World Peace!"
"World Peace!"
The lone gentleman judge stands up. It's me. I'm wearing a tux. It's shiny blue, with ruffles and huge lapels.
"How much would you tip a waiter?" They can't see me because the spotlights are shining in their eyes.
"Well, it would depend, but I never leave less than 15%."
"Why, 20% of course. My dad is a very important person."
"20%. Especially if the drinks are strong."
"I would tip him World Peace!"
They continue in this manner down the line. They are all pleased with the answers they have given. Until the spotlight moves away from them and focuses on me.
I rip off the tux like a basketball player tearing off his warm-ups. Underneath I'm wearing my server uniform, apron and all.
I sprint to the stage and scream at each of the shocked contestants in turn.
"Liar! Cheapskate! Phony!"
"As the head judge of this pageant, I declare all of you ineligable hypocrites. Maybe you should have tipped your server! Better luck next year!"
It would have been the BEST REVENGE EVER!
This story took place about a week ago. I am working at The Bar now. The Bar is trendy, upscale, and well-kept. There are three rooms. The Main Room is long and symmetrical, with five booths framing about 50 tables. The bar is located in this room. The other two rooms are filled with tournament-size pool tables, plush leather couches, and at least 10 big-screen TV's each. The two side rooms are called the Maroon and Blue Rooms because those are the colors they are painted.
-The Miss Illinois Pageant Contestants' Story-
I pull into the bar at 11 am on Saturday. I'm tired and hot. It's 95 degrees outside, and our uniforms are all black. I also have a touch of a hangover, which doesn't improve my disposition.
I'm looking forward to a relaxing day of work. Saturday mornings are rarely busy, which means the servers have time to talk, hang out, and eat.
As I pull into a parking space, I notice three younger girls heading into the restaurant. This in itself is not odd, as there is a clothing store next door and their patrons often come into our place to use the restrooms. What I do find odd is that they are dressed like slobs in ratty t-shirts and shorts, yet their hair is done up, and someone painstakingly applied their makeup. Weird.
I walk through the doors and come face to face with Jackie, our Event Coordinator. Jackie has a great job. She gets commission off of every pre-scheduled party that comes into the restaurant. She uses the servers to set things up, take care of the partiers, and then tear the decorations down. Servers covet these parties because we get an automatic gratuity. The work is brutal, but it's worth it in the end. The final bill often tops $1,000.
Jackie is flipping out.
"I need you now."
"Jackie, I'm flattered, but you know I have a woman." Hungover and saucy. Good combo.
"Shut it. The Miss Illinois Pageant girls are here in the Maroon Room, and I need you to take them. They have food coming out in fifteen minutes. You need to get their drinks." Big smile from me. Life doesn't get much better than this.
"Oh, and the entire party is comped."
SHIT! This means that I get no automatic gratuity.
"Hey, do they know they're supposed to tip me?" I ask as Jackie turns to leave.
"I hope so. We'll see." I am happy she's so concerned about my welfare.
I clock in and head to the back. I fill a pint glass a coffee. I drop some ice in and chug it down. I'm going to need all the energy I can muster for this one.
Walking into the Maroon Room, I take in the scene in front of me. There are about twenty five girls scattered throughout the room in groups of four and five. They are all dressed like the three I saw walking into The Bar earlier. There are two chaperones sitting at a table towards the back. They look haggard. I decide to start with them.
"Hello! My name is The Server, and I'll be taking care of you and the ladies this morning. Your food will be ready in about fifteen minutes, so can I start you off with something to drink?"
"Coffee. Black." The first chaperone doesn't look at me.
"Hello young man! I'd love some iced tea with sweetener." She looks around before beckoning me closer. "You know, one of these girls' life is going to change tonight." She's dead serious.
Great. I've got one chaperone who believes I am to be seen and not heard and another who is trying out the pageant catch phrase on me.
I speak with the chaperone briefly before moving on and taking drink orders from each of the contestants. It's the same each time I go to a new group. If the first person to order looks me in the eye and is friendly, the rest of the girls follow suit. If the person ignores me while giving me the order, the rest of the girls refuse to look at me.
Some of the snippets of conversation I hear...
"My Dad is a really important man. We have apartments all over the world, but we sub-lease them to make more money."
"Can we get drink drinks? I love drinking."
"My favorite part of this whole thing is meeting all of you. You're all so special!"
"This competition isn't just about how you look in a bikini. You have to have a personality too!"
Gag me. Out of the 25, 2 seem like real people. The rest seem as fake as Britney's cleavage.
I get their drinks and bring out their food.
They each eat half a plate of food. No more, no less. Only two of the girls head to the bathroom immediately after they eat.
Everytime I bring them a refill, they act like I've saved their puppy.
"Thank you so much!"
Every now and then, a couple of our Saturday regulars wonder into the room. Some are looking to score, others to see what this whole thing is all about. All are quickly turned away by the chaperones.
"Move along here. These girls need their rest. Shoo!" They actually say "shoo."
I refill endless iced teas, waters, and Diet Colas. Finally, they are ready to head back to the hotel to get ready for the pageant that evening.
The chaperones approach me. Here it is, the moment of truth. Will I get a tip, or have I wasted 4 hours of my life?
"You've been so wonderful! You should come see these girls tonight. We're at the local high school. Aren't they all so amazing?"
"Absolutely amazing ma'am. Unfortunately, I am saving for a house, and I don't know if I can afford tickets." Trying to work in the fact that I need money.
"Oh, don't worry about that! The tickets are free! Have a great afternnon, and try to come tonight!" She turns around, and walks out the door. The girls follow, single file, like goslings following momma goose to the lake. The other chaperone follows behind them, ready to ward off any would-be attackers from the rear.
No tip. I don't know whether I should curse the chaperones, Jackie, the contestants, or whoever told this group that we would comp them. I settle for cursing all of them, just to make sure.
I go to the back to relax for a bit, and my mind wonders...
The contestants are all in their bathing suits. The panel of judges is asking them questions. Every answer is the same down the line.
"World Peace!"
"World Peace!"
"World Peace!"
The lone gentleman judge stands up. It's me. I'm wearing a tux. It's shiny blue, with ruffles and huge lapels.
"How much would you tip a waiter?" They can't see me because the spotlights are shining in their eyes.
"Well, it would depend, but I never leave less than 15%."
"Why, 20% of course. My dad is a very important person."
"20%. Especially if the drinks are strong."
"I would tip him World Peace!"
They continue in this manner down the line. They are all pleased with the answers they have given. Until the spotlight moves away from them and focuses on me.
I rip off the tux like a basketball player tearing off his warm-ups. Underneath I'm wearing my server uniform, apron and all.
I sprint to the stage and scream at each of the shocked contestants in turn.
"Liar! Cheapskate! Phony!"
"As the head judge of this pageant, I declare all of you ineligable hypocrites. Maybe you should have tipped your server! Better luck next year!"
It would have been the BEST REVENGE EVER!
Sunday, June 26, 2005
Unwanted links in stories
Hi all-
For some reason, random links keep popping up in the stories. I am unable to delete them. These may be a computer virus of some sort, so I don't recommend clicking on them. The only links that I intentionally placed in this blog are Waiter Rant (on the top right of the screen) and any links that refer back to another story. New Story coming tomorrow!!!
For some reason, random links keep popping up in the stories. I am unable to delete them. These may be a computer virus of some sort, so I don't recommend clicking on them. The only links that I intentionally placed in this blog are Waiter Rant (on the top right of the screen) and any links that refer back to another story. New Story coming tomorrow!!!
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
The Actor and my First Shift
-A Description of The Actor-
The Actor is in his late 30's/early 40's. He stands 6'3'', and weighs about 240 lbs. He has short, well-kept dark hair that he keeps in place with large amounts of hair product.
The Actor is gay, but he is not flamboyant. He is effeminate when he speaks naturally, but at his tables, he affects a masculine, macho persona. He says he does it to keep him and the table comfortable. Apparently, there are still some folks who get nervous around homosexuals. Maybe they're afraid they'll "catch gay" if he handles their food too long.
The Actor is dirty. Not Pig Pen from Peanuts dirty. Porn star dirty.
The Actor is an incredible thespian. He can sing, he can dance, and he can act. Working shifts with The Actor is always entertaining. Once he comes into a side station, he breaks into one of his characters. It's a sight that must be seen to be believed. Two of his more colorful characters were:
The Mildly Retarded Boy- think "Warren" from There's Something about Mary. But instead of "Have you seen my baseball?" he goes around asking "Can I touch your boob?" and lamenting, "I left my helmet on the bus."
Vlad the Eastern European Immigrant- He actually played this character onstage, and then brought it into the restaurant one night. He waited all of his tables as Vlad, and he got loads of comment cards saying how wonderful his English is and how wonderfully amazing he was as a server.
There are tons of stories involving The Actor. I will start with the first.
-The Actor and my First Shift-
I walk in the door for my first training shift at the restaurant. I am incredibly shy at this point in my life. That's part of the reason I want to wait tables. I want to reinvent myself as a socially comfortably person.
Thankfully, I won't have to deal directly with customers today. I am training on the expo line. I have to learn the plate presentations and the proper garnishes for our dishes.
It's Saturday night at 5 o'clock, and it's already busy. I make my way to the back. Valerie is doing paperwork.
"You learning expo tonight. You know Spanish?"
"Poquito." Never mind that I failed Spanish in school. I know enough to get by.
"Good, you working with Paco and Paco. Same name, different guys. Oh, and watch out for The Actor."
I walk back to the expo line. I introduce myself to Paco and Paco. Both are Mexican. On wears a backwards hat and a shit-eating grin. The other wears sports goggles and a house arrest ankle collar. They are both friendly.
I mull over why Valerie would warn me about The Actor. I ask Paco.
"Oh, he pinche Maricon, wey. He like you culo." Great. He's gay, and he'll like my ass. I'm glad I wore my tight jeans.
All thoughts of The Actor are quickly pushed to the back of my mind as the dinner rush begins.
Backwards Hat Paco moves with lightning-quick precision. He explains what he's doing as he preps plate after plate after plate. I'm trying to keep up while absorbing as much information as possible. I quickly fall behind, and I struggle to catch up.
After a few hours, the rush lightens. For the first time since I met Paco, I am able to leave the expo line for a drink. I have cotton mouth.
I turn around to head towards the main sidestation, located between the dining room and the kitchen. Standing in the sidestation are two attractive waitresses and The Actor. The Actor is holding both his hands waist-high, palms up, and he's pantomiming a squeeze. Both the waitresses are laughing.
When he sees me looking, The Actor slowly lowers his hands and smiles at me. He picks up a cup of coffee and sips on it, his eyes never leaving mine. I realize that he and the two waitresses have been checking out my ass.
After years of football training, including thousands of squats and power cleans, my ass is tighter than a drum, and I'm proud of it. I decide to test my new "socially comfortable" persona on The Actor.
"What? You want me to bend over the expo line?" I ask, thinking he'll be shocked that I'm so dirty. I was wrong.
The Actor takes another sip of his coffee, and calmly remarks,
"Sweetie, we don't have enough lube in this place for that, and I really hate making little boys cry."
The two waitresses are rolling, and I feel my face turn beat red. I force myself to smile. I know when I've met someone with superior verbal bantering skills. I've yet to meet anyone with a wit as sharp as The Actor's. Trying to think up a comeback would be pointless.
Instead, I introduce myself, and The Actor and I make small talk for a few minutes. He's a good guy, and soon we're laughing and talking like old friends. Unfortunately, I have to excuse myself to return to the expo line. He heads back to his tables.
Less than five minutes later, I hear a woman's scream from the sidestation. Thinking that she's either fallen or cut herself, I run around the corner to see if I can help.
The Actor has one of the waitresses pinned up against the wall, legs spread. She's screaming and laughing while he mock thrusts into her. He's shouting, "Take it, you dirty little whore!"
I'm speechless. I'm wondering how The Actor is going to avoid a sexual harrassment lawsuit. Then I look around. All the other servers have gathered to stare at the spectacle. Most are laughing. Some are even cheering The Actor on. The waitress is laughing so hard she has tears in her eyes. I didn't know it then, but in this restaurant, sexual harrasment is practically part of the job description. Weird.
"Ahem."
A customer is standing at the doorway of the sidestation, holding a tab book and a fistful of cash. His expression is that of a man who wants to be anywhere but where he currently is. The servers scatter like cockroaches in a NYC apartment when someone turns on the lights.
The Actor continues to pound away. He glances over at the customer and lifts his hand in greeting.
"Hi! Do you need some change?" The Actor doesn't even slow his pace.
"Uh... take it!" The customer stuffs the money into the book and exits as quickly as possible.
The Actor releases the waitress. All the scattered servers regroup. They're all laughing.
"How much did he leave you?" one asks.
The Actor checks the book. "About fifteen dollars."
"How much was the check?"
"About 25 dollars." The Actor is smug, and he returns to his coffee.
"Geez, the guy has that image burned into his retinas, and you get 40%"
"That's what he gets for coming in the back."
I return to the expo line and think about what I've just seen. I wonder if the customer will ever be able to eat out again. The thought of what goes on in the back rooms of restaurants will always hover at the back of his mind.
The Actor got the BEST TIP FOR SEXUAL HARRASSMENT EVER.
The Actor is in his late 30's/early 40's. He stands 6'3'', and weighs about 240 lbs. He has short, well-kept dark hair that he keeps in place with large amounts of hair product.
The Actor is gay, but he is not flamboyant. He is effeminate when he speaks naturally, but at his tables, he affects a masculine, macho persona. He says he does it to keep him and the table comfortable. Apparently, there are still some folks who get nervous around homosexuals. Maybe they're afraid they'll "catch gay" if he handles their food too long.
The Actor is dirty. Not Pig Pen from Peanuts dirty. Porn star dirty.
The Actor is an incredible thespian. He can sing, he can dance, and he can act. Working shifts with The Actor is always entertaining. Once he comes into a side station, he breaks into one of his characters. It's a sight that must be seen to be believed. Two of his more colorful characters were:
The Mildly Retarded Boy- think "Warren" from There's Something about Mary. But instead of "Have you seen my baseball?" he goes around asking "Can I touch your boob?" and lamenting, "I left my helmet on the bus."
Vlad the Eastern European Immigrant- He actually played this character onstage, and then brought it into the restaurant one night. He waited all of his tables as Vlad, and he got loads of comment cards saying how wonderful his English is and how wonderfully amazing he was as a server.
There are tons of stories involving The Actor. I will start with the first.
-The Actor and my First Shift-
I walk in the door for my first training shift at the restaurant. I am incredibly shy at this point in my life. That's part of the reason I want to wait tables. I want to reinvent myself as a socially comfortably person.
Thankfully, I won't have to deal directly with customers today. I am training on the expo line. I have to learn the plate presentations and the proper garnishes for our dishes.
It's Saturday night at 5 o'clock, and it's already busy. I make my way to the back. Valerie is doing paperwork.
"You learning expo tonight. You know Spanish?"
"Poquito." Never mind that I failed Spanish in school. I know enough to get by.
"Good, you working with Paco and Paco. Same name, different guys. Oh, and watch out for The Actor."
I walk back to the expo line. I introduce myself to Paco and Paco. Both are Mexican. On wears a backwards hat and a shit-eating grin. The other wears sports goggles and a house arrest ankle collar. They are both friendly.
I mull over why Valerie would warn me about The Actor. I ask Paco.
"Oh, he pinche Maricon, wey. He like you culo." Great. He's gay, and he'll like my ass. I'm glad I wore my tight jeans.
All thoughts of The Actor are quickly pushed to the back of my mind as the dinner rush begins.
Backwards Hat Paco moves with lightning-quick precision. He explains what he's doing as he preps plate after plate after plate. I'm trying to keep up while absorbing as much information as possible. I quickly fall behind, and I struggle to catch up.
After a few hours, the rush lightens. For the first time since I met Paco, I am able to leave the expo line for a drink. I have cotton mouth.
I turn around to head towards the main sidestation, located between the dining room and the kitchen. Standing in the sidestation are two attractive waitresses and The Actor. The Actor is holding both his hands waist-high, palms up, and he's pantomiming a squeeze. Both the waitresses are laughing.
When he sees me looking, The Actor slowly lowers his hands and smiles at me. He picks up a cup of coffee and sips on it, his eyes never leaving mine. I realize that he and the two waitresses have been checking out my ass.
After years of football training, including thousands of squats and power cleans, my ass is tighter than a drum, and I'm proud of it. I decide to test my new "socially comfortable" persona on The Actor.
"What? You want me to bend over the expo line?" I ask, thinking he'll be shocked that I'm so dirty. I was wrong.
The Actor takes another sip of his coffee, and calmly remarks,
"Sweetie, we don't have enough lube in this place for that, and I really hate making little boys cry."
The two waitresses are rolling, and I feel my face turn beat red. I force myself to smile. I know when I've met someone with superior verbal bantering skills. I've yet to meet anyone with a wit as sharp as The Actor's. Trying to think up a comeback would be pointless.
Instead, I introduce myself, and The Actor and I make small talk for a few minutes. He's a good guy, and soon we're laughing and talking like old friends. Unfortunately, I have to excuse myself to return to the expo line. He heads back to his tables.
Less than five minutes later, I hear a woman's scream from the sidestation. Thinking that she's either fallen or cut herself, I run around the corner to see if I can help.
The Actor has one of the waitresses pinned up against the wall, legs spread. She's screaming and laughing while he mock thrusts into her. He's shouting, "Take it, you dirty little whore!"
I'm speechless. I'm wondering how The Actor is going to avoid a sexual harrassment lawsuit. Then I look around. All the other servers have gathered to stare at the spectacle. Most are laughing. Some are even cheering The Actor on. The waitress is laughing so hard she has tears in her eyes. I didn't know it then, but in this restaurant, sexual harrasment is practically part of the job description. Weird.
"Ahem."
A customer is standing at the doorway of the sidestation, holding a tab book and a fistful of cash. His expression is that of a man who wants to be anywhere but where he currently is. The servers scatter like cockroaches in a NYC apartment when someone turns on the lights.
The Actor continues to pound away. He glances over at the customer and lifts his hand in greeting.
"Hi! Do you need some change?" The Actor doesn't even slow his pace.
"Uh... take it!" The customer stuffs the money into the book and exits as quickly as possible.
The Actor releases the waitress. All the scattered servers regroup. They're all laughing.
"How much did he leave you?" one asks.
The Actor checks the book. "About fifteen dollars."
"How much was the check?"
"About 25 dollars." The Actor is smug, and he returns to his coffee.
"Geez, the guy has that image burned into his retinas, and you get 40%"
"That's what he gets for coming in the back."
I return to the expo line and think about what I've just seen. I wonder if the customer will ever be able to eat out again. The thought of what goes on in the back rooms of restaurants will always hover at the back of his mind.
The Actor got the BEST TIP FOR SEXUAL HARRASSMENT EVER.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
The Deaf Guy
-Preface-
This story deals with a customer that has a disability. Servers are trained to deal with and be sensitive to whatever special needs a customer with a disability may have. I am no exception. I have read the menu, word for word, to a blind customer. I have provided pen and paper to help deaf customers order. My overall attitude is to make the customer feel as comfortable as possible.
This story is about a customer, his actions, and a tip. I will probably delete any posts that focus on the issue of disability. Disabilities are a side issue in this case.
-A Description of The Deaf Guy-
The Deaf Guy is in his mid-to-late 60's. He towers over most at 6'5''. I'd guess his weight at about 315. He has a substantial potbelly, and must sit at a table because he can't fit into a booth.
He wears jean shorts and solid-colored, loose-fitting T-shirts. He always wears the same faded blue/orange hat. His hair is gray, greasy and stringy. It hangs about an inch over his collar. He has a thick Santa-Claus length beard.
The Deaf Guy always walks to the restaurant. He must live close by, because he is never winded or sweaty when he arrives, even on scorching hot days. He usually comes in after the lunch rush, which is a good thing, as you'll see.
He always seems impatient and he loves to run servers, like playing with puppets on strings. I hate being a marrionette.
-The Deaf Guy's Story-
It's 3:00 on a Wednesday. I'm late-checking with Amy. Amy, odd as it may seem, is a mostly deaf server. She's a damn good one too. She lost her hearing gradually, so she was able to learn to read lips. She wears a surgically implanted hearing aid, which allows her to hear people in close proximity. Amy also harbors more neuroses and psychoses than a psych ward during a full moon. I could fill an entire other blog with stories about her, but a one word description will suffice for this story- BITCHY.
The Deaf Guy is walking through the parking lot. Amy and I are chatting at the host stand. I'm treading lightly on eggshells throughout our conversation. I don't want to do anything to make her snap, especially when we have another two hours before the PM servers relieve us.
Amy sees The Deaf Guy coming.
"Damnit! You take this guy."
"Amy, it's your turn." We've been rotating tables all afternoon.
"I don't care. I refuse to wait on him."
She hightails it to the kitchen, leaving me alone to face whatever horrors may be coming my way.
He walks through the double doors in front and fixes his steely gaze on me.
"Good afternoon, sir. Table for one?" I try to be cheery.
The Deaf Guy holds up one finger and proclaims, "Uuungghhhh!!" The grunt lasts for a full five seconds.
I'm taken aback, but I recover quickly. I grab a menu and lead him to the nearest table. As I'm setting down the menu, he taps me on the shoulder and points to a seat by the window.
"Uuungghhh!" Creepy, but OK. Who doesn't like a nice window seat? The windows overlook a large pond. Not a bad view, actually.
I nod and lead him towards the windows.
"Please sir, sit wherever you'd like," I say, sweeping my arm in the general direction of our window seating.
He pulls out a chair and folds himself into his seat. I hand him a menu, which he opens. He grabs my arm, as if I'm going to run away before he can order. I don't like being touched.
The Deaf Guy points to "Iced Tea" with his free hand.
"Uuunghhh" he says, running his finger repeatedly under his selection. He lets go of my arm. I can't be sure, but it feels like he gave me a gentle push towards the kitchen.
"Yes, sir, I'll be right back with that for you." I walk to the back rubbing my sore arm. The Deaf Guy has quite a grip.
Amy is cutting lemons for the night shift.
"What's wrong with that guy? Is he mentally retarded?"
"No, he's deaf."
I find it logical that a deaf server and a deaf patron would be a good match.
"Why didn't you take him? I don't know sign language or anything, but you do. You could do a better job than I could with him!"
"That asshole doesn't know sign language. He can't read lips. He gives deaf people a bad name!" Amy storms off in a huff.
I didn't know that someone could give an entire disability group a bad name, but I wasn't going to chase Any down for clarification.
As I fill The Deaf Guy's iced tea, I think about what Amy said. Amy worked hard to learn sign language and lip reading. She should be proud of her achievements. But does that give her the right to bang on someone who wouldn't or couldn't do the same things? I didn't think so.
Maybe Amy had treated him poorly the last time he dined with us. I made up my mind that The Deaf Guy was going to receive stellar service this time.
I return with his iced tea. He grabs it out of my hand and drains it. We've got a Chugger!
He pushes the glass back into my hand and takes hold of my arm once again. He uses his free hand to order his meal, pointing to his selections, running his finger under each item.
He orders an entree, a salad, and three extra sides. Each time, he punctuates his order with another "Uuuunghhhh."
When he lets me go, I definitely feel the push towards the kitchen. OK, I'm starting to dislike The Deaf Guy. But I've made a promise to myself. He's going to get great service no matter what.
I refill his iced tea three more times before I can get his salad out. He finishes his salad without incident. I refill his iced tea twice more before his lunch is ready.
I bring his sandwich and ask if there is anything else I can get for him. He dismisses me with a wave, and digs in to his meal. I don't like being dismissed. I'm disliking The Deaf Guy more and more as time passes.
I go to the back and eat my lunch. Two breadsticks and a souffle cup of ranch dressing. Yum.
I wipe my mouth with a napkin, wash my hands, and walk back to the dining room, another iced tea in hand.
The Deaf Guy is fast asleep.
He's sitting upright in his chair, his head leaning back. He didn't just doze off. He's in a deep slumber, and he's sawing logs.
What the hell?!
I clap a couple times, trying to wake him up. Then I realize that clapping is pointless. He's deaf.
I think for a minute, and I remember an elementary school lesson about Helen Keller. I stomp twice on the floor. Hard.
This does the trick. The Deaf Guy awakes with a snort, and resumes eating as though nothing has happened. Odd.
I drop off his ninth or tenth iced tea (I've lost count). Going to the back, I wonder how a person could fall asleep after drinking so much caffeinated iced tea.
I walk back out into the dining room. The Deaf Guy is asleep again. Head back, mouth open, snoring at full volume.
I realize that The Deaf Guy is a narcoleptic. He was probably drinking those iced teas so he could stay awake through his meal.
It takes The Deaf Guy nearly an hour to get through his meal. He falls asleep twice more, and each time, I stomp on the floor to wake him. My foot begins to hurt.
He drinks another six or seven iced teas. Probably stockpiling caffeine for the walk home.
Finally, The Deaf Guy is ready for his check. He mulls it over, nods, and pulls out a wad of bills. He counts very carefully, recounts, places the bills in the book, and hands the book to me. He nods and, for the first time since he walked in, he smiles. He points to the book and makes a cutting motion with his hand. No change.
"Thank you sir, you have a great afternoon!"
The Deaf Guy walks out into the afternoon sun.
I look at the bill. $18.27. I count the money. $19.00. He's left me 73 cents as a tip.
I refilled his iced tea damn near twenty times. I woke him up so he wouldn't fall face-first into his plate. I was friendly, courteous, and I didn't get huffy when he grabbed my arm. For this, I get 4%.
Amy was right. That guy is an asshole.
WORST TIP FROM A DEAF GUY EVER!
This story deals with a customer that has a disability. Servers are trained to deal with and be sensitive to whatever special needs a customer with a disability may have. I am no exception. I have read the menu, word for word, to a blind customer. I have provided pen and paper to help deaf customers order. My overall attitude is to make the customer feel as comfortable as possible.
This story is about a customer, his actions, and a tip. I will probably delete any posts that focus on the issue of disability. Disabilities are a side issue in this case.
-A Description of The Deaf Guy-
The Deaf Guy is in his mid-to-late 60's. He towers over most at 6'5''. I'd guess his weight at about 315. He has a substantial potbelly, and must sit at a table because he can't fit into a booth.
He wears jean shorts and solid-colored, loose-fitting T-shirts. He always wears the same faded blue/orange hat. His hair is gray, greasy and stringy. It hangs about an inch over his collar. He has a thick Santa-Claus length beard.
The Deaf Guy always walks to the restaurant. He must live close by, because he is never winded or sweaty when he arrives, even on scorching hot days. He usually comes in after the lunch rush, which is a good thing, as you'll see.
He always seems impatient and he loves to run servers, like playing with puppets on strings. I hate being a marrionette.
-The Deaf Guy's Story-
It's 3:00 on a Wednesday. I'm late-checking with Amy. Amy, odd as it may seem, is a mostly deaf server. She's a damn good one too. She lost her hearing gradually, so she was able to learn to read lips. She wears a surgically implanted hearing aid, which allows her to hear people in close proximity. Amy also harbors more neuroses and psychoses than a psych ward during a full moon. I could fill an entire other blog with stories about her, but a one word description will suffice for this story- BITCHY.
The Deaf Guy is walking through the parking lot. Amy and I are chatting at the host stand. I'm treading lightly on eggshells throughout our conversation. I don't want to do anything to make her snap, especially when we have another two hours before the PM servers relieve us.
Amy sees The Deaf Guy coming.
"Damnit! You take this guy."
"Amy, it's your turn." We've been rotating tables all afternoon.
"I don't care. I refuse to wait on him."
She hightails it to the kitchen, leaving me alone to face whatever horrors may be coming my way.
He walks through the double doors in front and fixes his steely gaze on me.
"Good afternoon, sir. Table for one?" I try to be cheery.
The Deaf Guy holds up one finger and proclaims, "Uuungghhhh!!" The grunt lasts for a full five seconds.
I'm taken aback, but I recover quickly. I grab a menu and lead him to the nearest table. As I'm setting down the menu, he taps me on the shoulder and points to a seat by the window.
"Uuungghhh!" Creepy, but OK. Who doesn't like a nice window seat? The windows overlook a large pond. Not a bad view, actually.
I nod and lead him towards the windows.
"Please sir, sit wherever you'd like," I say, sweeping my arm in the general direction of our window seating.
He pulls out a chair and folds himself into his seat. I hand him a menu, which he opens. He grabs my arm, as if I'm going to run away before he can order. I don't like being touched.
The Deaf Guy points to "Iced Tea" with his free hand.
"Uuunghhh" he says, running his finger repeatedly under his selection. He lets go of my arm. I can't be sure, but it feels like he gave me a gentle push towards the kitchen.
"Yes, sir, I'll be right back with that for you." I walk to the back rubbing my sore arm. The Deaf Guy has quite a grip.
Amy is cutting lemons for the night shift.
"What's wrong with that guy? Is he mentally retarded?"
"No, he's deaf."
I find it logical that a deaf server and a deaf patron would be a good match.
"Why didn't you take him? I don't know sign language or anything, but you do. You could do a better job than I could with him!"
"That asshole doesn't know sign language. He can't read lips. He gives deaf people a bad name!" Amy storms off in a huff.
I didn't know that someone could give an entire disability group a bad name, but I wasn't going to chase Any down for clarification.
As I fill The Deaf Guy's iced tea, I think about what Amy said. Amy worked hard to learn sign language and lip reading. She should be proud of her achievements. But does that give her the right to bang on someone who wouldn't or couldn't do the same things? I didn't think so.
Maybe Amy had treated him poorly the last time he dined with us. I made up my mind that The Deaf Guy was going to receive stellar service this time.
I return with his iced tea. He grabs it out of my hand and drains it. We've got a Chugger!
He pushes the glass back into my hand and takes hold of my arm once again. He uses his free hand to order his meal, pointing to his selections, running his finger under each item.
He orders an entree, a salad, and three extra sides. Each time, he punctuates his order with another "Uuuunghhhh."
When he lets me go, I definitely feel the push towards the kitchen. OK, I'm starting to dislike The Deaf Guy. But I've made a promise to myself. He's going to get great service no matter what.
I refill his iced tea three more times before I can get his salad out. He finishes his salad without incident. I refill his iced tea twice more before his lunch is ready.
I bring his sandwich and ask if there is anything else I can get for him. He dismisses me with a wave, and digs in to his meal. I don't like being dismissed. I'm disliking The Deaf Guy more and more as time passes.
I go to the back and eat my lunch. Two breadsticks and a souffle cup of ranch dressing. Yum.
I wipe my mouth with a napkin, wash my hands, and walk back to the dining room, another iced tea in hand.
The Deaf Guy is fast asleep.
He's sitting upright in his chair, his head leaning back. He didn't just doze off. He's in a deep slumber, and he's sawing logs.
What the hell?!
I clap a couple times, trying to wake him up. Then I realize that clapping is pointless. He's deaf.
I think for a minute, and I remember an elementary school lesson about Helen Keller. I stomp twice on the floor. Hard.
This does the trick. The Deaf Guy awakes with a snort, and resumes eating as though nothing has happened. Odd.
I drop off his ninth or tenth iced tea (I've lost count). Going to the back, I wonder how a person could fall asleep after drinking so much caffeinated iced tea.
I walk back out into the dining room. The Deaf Guy is asleep again. Head back, mouth open, snoring at full volume.
I realize that The Deaf Guy is a narcoleptic. He was probably drinking those iced teas so he could stay awake through his meal.
It takes The Deaf Guy nearly an hour to get through his meal. He falls asleep twice more, and each time, I stomp on the floor to wake him. My foot begins to hurt.
He drinks another six or seven iced teas. Probably stockpiling caffeine for the walk home.
Finally, The Deaf Guy is ready for his check. He mulls it over, nods, and pulls out a wad of bills. He counts very carefully, recounts, places the bills in the book, and hands the book to me. He nods and, for the first time since he walked in, he smiles. He points to the book and makes a cutting motion with his hand. No change.
"Thank you sir, you have a great afternoon!"
The Deaf Guy walks out into the afternoon sun.
I look at the bill. $18.27. I count the money. $19.00. He's left me 73 cents as a tip.
I refilled his iced tea damn near twenty times. I woke him up so he wouldn't fall face-first into his plate. I was friendly, courteous, and I didn't get huffy when he grabbed my arm. For this, I get 4%.
Amy was right. That guy is an asshole.
WORST TIP FROM A DEAF GUY EVER!
The Teacher and her Baby
-A Description of The Teacher-
The Teacher is in her early 30's. Medium height, medium-to-slender build. She has short dirty blonde hair and pale skin that turns red when she drinks. She always wears solid colored sleaveless shirts, white tennis shorts and strappy leather sandals. She is rather non-descript, and would blend in with most crowds.
I have only seen her at the restaurant during the summer, when our patio section (outside aka "dining al fresco") is open. She has a baby who is about 16 months old at the time of this story. The Teacher and her Baby are regulars that usually come in for lunch. She's very friendly, she tips well, and her Baby is well-behaved. Great customer, except that she drinks despite the fact that she's alone with her Baby.
I've seen her with her husband once, so I know he exists.
I know she is a teacher at a local high school because she taught one of our waitresses.
-The Teacher's Story-
I've just returned from school and I'm beginning my second summer at the restaurant. It is late May, and the weather thus far has been awful. Today, however, dawns sunny and warm.
I arrive at 10:30 and help set up the restaurant. At the shift meeting, Valerie informs me that I'll be taking the patio section. It's the first day the weather has cooperated, and I have a premonition that it will be busy.
I hate it when I'm right. The patio fills quickly, and I'm stuck running eight tables. For those of you not in the industry, a normal server station is limited to three to five tables.
Eight is borderline ridiculous, especially when we have to expo our tables' food, run our tables' food and get our tables' refills.
Eight on the patio is insane. The patio is the farthest section from the kitchen and the drink stations. Every time someone wants an extra side of dressing or mayo, I have to sprint through the entire restaurant to get to the kitchen. I'm good, but I doubt there are many servers who are good enough to handle this.
I spend the entire shift "in the weeds." It's 90 degrees outside and I'm sweating bullets. I can feel my boxers sticking to the inside of my thighs, and I know when I go home I'll need to shower twice to feel right again.
Three solid hours of this and the lunch crowd begins to thin. I am about to be cut and I can't wait to head home for those showers and a nap before I return to complete my double shift. Then The Teacher saunters in.
I know I'll have to take her. The late checks (two servers who take over the restaurant when the rush is over) still have full sections, and no one else is volunteering to stay.
I've had The Teacher once before, last summer. She tipped me well, so I remember her.
During her last visit, The Teacher drank several beers, even though she is solely responsible for transporting and caring for her Baby. She got a little tipsy, but she drank a couple glasses of water and sat for a while after her meal, letting the effects of the alcohol subside.
(Quick side note- It is illegal for us to refuse alcohol to anyone of sound mind who is of legal drinking age. If a pregnant lady walks in the door and orders three fingers of scotch, the bartender has to pour away. Otherwise, the pregnant lady can sue us for discrimination. I love this litigious society in which we live.)
The Teacher is seated, and the baby is resting comfortably in a car seat/carrier combo.
"Hello, Ma'am. May I start you off your usual draft?"
"Yes, but could I have the larger glass? I'm really thirsty." She wants 20 oz. rather than 12. Not an unusual request. But the Baby...
"Of course. Would you like your usual salad?"
"Yes, I can't believe you remembered! I haven't been here in months!"
I wink. "We'll ma'am, I'm good at what I do, and customers are important to us. Your food should be ready in ten to fifteen minutes, and I'll have your drink to you in a jiffy." I'm such a kiss-ass.
I ring in her order, walk to the bar to retrieve her beer, and walk out the door, squinting to block out the blazing sun. I deliver her beer and begin my side work.
As I'm rolling silverware, my Server Sense goes off. It's been less than five minutes since I dropped off her drink, her food won't be ready for at least another five, but something seems amiss. I peak outside and see that she has pounded her beer like a fratboy on a bender. The foam is still clinging to the side of the glass.
"May I get you another?" Geez, it's hot out here.
"Please. I was really thirsty." She's sheepish, almost embarassed.
No worries. Two beers isn't that much. But the Baby...
I bring her another beer and go to check on her salad. The chicken is cooked, the salad is prepped. I add a breadstick and a dressing and her food is ready.
I bring it out to her and notice that her beer is only a quarter full.
"So hot today. May I have another?"
I'm starting to look for clues as to her state of drunkeness. She seems fine, no slurred words, glassy eyes, or loud voice. But I know from experience that on a hot day, those first couple drinks may go down easy but the alcohol will eventually hit you like a ton of bricks.
The Teacher seems OK. I'll bring her another beer, but I'll watch her closely. But the Baby...
She's gently rocking the Baby in its carrier as I return. I set the beer down and inquire about her food, which she's plowed into, full-steam.
She pauses, fork halfway to her mouth.
"Waiter, the sthallad is deliciousth!"
Awww SHIT! She's hammered. And I just placed a full beer in front of her. Time for damage control.
I immediately fill up her water glass and bring her another breadstick. I run to the back in search of a manager. Valerie is cashing out the other servers in the office.
"Valerie, there's a lady on the patio. She's getting pretty buzzed and she has a baby with her. She was fine and then all of a sudden WHAM!"
Valerie may be heartless when it comes to the well-being of most customers, but as a single mom, she has highly-honed maternal instincts.
"Cut her off. No more."
"Will do. I'll try to slow things down so she has time to sober up."
"Go." Such a great conversationalist, our Valerie.
I grab the water pitcher and start back towards the patio to refill The Teacher's glass. The scene unfolding in front of me stops me dead in my tracks. "Deer in headlights" doesn't do justice.
The Teacher has finished her salad and pushed it to the side. In its place, the Baby squirms in The Teacher's arms. The Teacher is changing the baby's diaper on the table. Where people eat. In the same spot where she was eating moments before.
Frozen in horror in the middle of the dining room, I've attracted the attention of the late checks, Deedee and Rena. They join me and we all stare out the window.
Deedee, our resident middle-aged alcoholic waitress, is the first to speak. "What the hell is she doing?" she asks calmly in her trailer park drawl.
"Changing her kid. Thank God this place is empty." Rena is half-laughing, half-gagging at the spectacle unfolding.
"I know there's a changing station in the men's room. Isn't there one in the women's?" I have to ask to make sure.
"Sure is. Must be an issue of convenience." Deedee shrugs and heads to the back. I turn to look at her go and I notice her swaying slightly. She's been hitting the flask that she keeps hidden in the bowels of her apron. Whatever gets you through the day.
I turn back, ready to tell The Teacher that she has to move to the changing station. She's already finished, and -uh oh- she's opening the door that leads inside of the restaurant, carrying the bundled diaper. She walks directly up to me and thrusts the diaper in my hands.
I'm too shocked to move. I can only stare dumbly at the disposable diaper in my hand as the smell of baby shit permeates the air, assaulting my olfactory sense.
"Take care of thisth for me pleezzzth." She turns around and walks back outside. My mind shuts off. I vaguely comprehend that I'm standing in the dining room at work, sweating like a pig and holding a diaper. For some reason, the fact that the diaper is warm piercess the haze. It's my only lucid thought.
I hear howling laughter. Rena and Deedee are holding onto the sides of the kitchen door to keep from falling on the floor. Rena is wiping tears out of her eyes.
I break out of my trance and find the nearest trash can. I dump the diaper and fight down the urge to vomit.
I find the nearest sink and scrub my hands like an obsessive-compulsive sanitation freak. They are pink, raw, and nearly bleeding when I feel clean again. I dry off with a paper towel and head back to battle.
WHAT THE HELL?!!!
The Teacher has another full beer in front of her!
"Deedee! Did you give that lady another beer?"
"Not me, man."
"Rena?"
"Don't look at me."
That left the bartender, Darren.
"Darren, did you give that lady another beer?"
"Yeah. Where were you? She said she couldn't find you, so she came to me. Tipped me five bones too. Snooze you lose."
"Darren, Valerie cut her off! She can barely stand, and you gave her another beer!" I'm pissed.
"Hey, man, I didn't know. Sorry." Darren smokes enough pot to keep a small Central American drug cartel financially stable. He's pretty much unflappable, and very little concerns him. He shrugs and walks away.
I don't blame Darren. He had no way of knowing. Except that The Teacher could barely stand on her own. Asshole.
In life, as in serving, you have to clean up your own messes. Resigned to my fate, I walk back outside. I spend the next three hours sitting down and talking with The Teacher as she slowly sobers up. I make sure The Teacher always has a full glass of water, the baby is comfortable, and that all future diaper changes occur in the changing station in the women's room. I even help The Teacher open a jar of baby food. Can't tell which smelled worse, the diaper or the pureed carrots, peas, and peaches. Pretty much the same, I guess.
I'm sweating the whole time I'm out there. My shirt is completely pitted out and my boxers cling to me like a heavy, stinky, wet second skin.
Eventually, The Teacher is sober enough to drive. She pays her bill, tipping me handsomely.
She's embarassed, but I smooth things over. I apologize profusely for overserving her. I let her know that it was my fault, and that we want her to come back soon. She'll be back often, but she'll never repeat today's performance.
Finally, her SUV pulls out of the parking lot and I have time to take stock of the situation.
I hate that I'm leaving as the PM servers are coming in.
I hate that I smell like an old shoe.
I really hate the fact that I have to be back in an hour to complete my double shift.
Worst of all, I hate the fact that it's my own fault that I'm in this condition.
However, this shift's experience was the BEST BIRTH CONTROL EVER. If I never touch another dirty diaper again, that'd be just peachy with me.
The Teacher is in her early 30's. Medium height, medium-to-slender build. She has short dirty blonde hair and pale skin that turns red when she drinks. She always wears solid colored sleaveless shirts, white tennis shorts and strappy leather sandals. She is rather non-descript, and would blend in with most crowds.
I have only seen her at the restaurant during the summer, when our patio section (outside aka "dining al fresco") is open. She has a baby who is about 16 months old at the time of this story. The Teacher and her Baby are regulars that usually come in for lunch. She's very friendly, she tips well, and her Baby is well-behaved. Great customer, except that she drinks despite the fact that she's alone with her Baby.
I've seen her with her husband once, so I know he exists.
I know she is a teacher at a local high school because she taught one of our waitresses.
-The Teacher's Story-
I've just returned from school and I'm beginning my second summer at the restaurant. It is late May, and the weather thus far has been awful. Today, however, dawns sunny and warm.
I arrive at 10:30 and help set up the restaurant. At the shift meeting, Valerie informs me that I'll be taking the patio section. It's the first day the weather has cooperated, and I have a premonition that it will be busy.
I hate it when I'm right. The patio fills quickly, and I'm stuck running eight tables. For those of you not in the industry, a normal server station is limited to three to five tables.
Eight is borderline ridiculous, especially when we have to expo our tables' food, run our tables' food and get our tables' refills.
Eight on the patio is insane. The patio is the farthest section from the kitchen and the drink stations. Every time someone wants an extra side of dressing or mayo, I have to sprint through the entire restaurant to get to the kitchen. I'm good, but I doubt there are many servers who are good enough to handle this.
I spend the entire shift "in the weeds." It's 90 degrees outside and I'm sweating bullets. I can feel my boxers sticking to the inside of my thighs, and I know when I go home I'll need to shower twice to feel right again.
Three solid hours of this and the lunch crowd begins to thin. I am about to be cut and I can't wait to head home for those showers and a nap before I return to complete my double shift. Then The Teacher saunters in.
I know I'll have to take her. The late checks (two servers who take over the restaurant when the rush is over) still have full sections, and no one else is volunteering to stay.
I've had The Teacher once before, last summer. She tipped me well, so I remember her.
During her last visit, The Teacher drank several beers, even though she is solely responsible for transporting and caring for her Baby. She got a little tipsy, but she drank a couple glasses of water and sat for a while after her meal, letting the effects of the alcohol subside.
(Quick side note- It is illegal for us to refuse alcohol to anyone of sound mind who is of legal drinking age. If a pregnant lady walks in the door and orders three fingers of scotch, the bartender has to pour away. Otherwise, the pregnant lady can sue us for discrimination. I love this litigious society in which we live.)
The Teacher is seated, and the baby is resting comfortably in a car seat/carrier combo.
"Hello, Ma'am. May I start you off your usual draft?"
"Yes, but could I have the larger glass? I'm really thirsty." She wants 20 oz. rather than 12. Not an unusual request. But the Baby...
"Of course. Would you like your usual salad?"
"Yes, I can't believe you remembered! I haven't been here in months!"
I wink. "We'll ma'am, I'm good at what I do, and customers are important to us. Your food should be ready in ten to fifteen minutes, and I'll have your drink to you in a jiffy." I'm such a kiss-ass.
I ring in her order, walk to the bar to retrieve her beer, and walk out the door, squinting to block out the blazing sun. I deliver her beer and begin my side work.
As I'm rolling silverware, my Server Sense goes off. It's been less than five minutes since I dropped off her drink, her food won't be ready for at least another five, but something seems amiss. I peak outside and see that she has pounded her beer like a fratboy on a bender. The foam is still clinging to the side of the glass.
"May I get you another?" Geez, it's hot out here.
"Please. I was really thirsty." She's sheepish, almost embarassed.
No worries. Two beers isn't that much. But the Baby...
I bring her another beer and go to check on her salad. The chicken is cooked, the salad is prepped. I add a breadstick and a dressing and her food is ready.
I bring it out to her and notice that her beer is only a quarter full.
"So hot today. May I have another?"
I'm starting to look for clues as to her state of drunkeness. She seems fine, no slurred words, glassy eyes, or loud voice. But I know from experience that on a hot day, those first couple drinks may go down easy but the alcohol will eventually hit you like a ton of bricks.
The Teacher seems OK. I'll bring her another beer, but I'll watch her closely. But the Baby...
She's gently rocking the Baby in its carrier as I return. I set the beer down and inquire about her food, which she's plowed into, full-steam.
She pauses, fork halfway to her mouth.
"Waiter, the sthallad is deliciousth!"
Awww SHIT! She's hammered. And I just placed a full beer in front of her. Time for damage control.
I immediately fill up her water glass and bring her another breadstick. I run to the back in search of a manager. Valerie is cashing out the other servers in the office.
"Valerie, there's a lady on the patio. She's getting pretty buzzed and she has a baby with her. She was fine and then all of a sudden WHAM!"
Valerie may be heartless when it comes to the well-being of most customers, but as a single mom, she has highly-honed maternal instincts.
"Cut her off. No more."
"Will do. I'll try to slow things down so she has time to sober up."
"Go." Such a great conversationalist, our Valerie.
I grab the water pitcher and start back towards the patio to refill The Teacher's glass. The scene unfolding in front of me stops me dead in my tracks. "Deer in headlights" doesn't do justice.
The Teacher has finished her salad and pushed it to the side. In its place, the Baby squirms in The Teacher's arms. The Teacher is changing the baby's diaper on the table. Where people eat. In the same spot where she was eating moments before.
Frozen in horror in the middle of the dining room, I've attracted the attention of the late checks, Deedee and Rena. They join me and we all stare out the window.
Deedee, our resident middle-aged alcoholic waitress, is the first to speak. "What the hell is she doing?" she asks calmly in her trailer park drawl.
"Changing her kid. Thank God this place is empty." Rena is half-laughing, half-gagging at the spectacle unfolding.
"I know there's a changing station in the men's room. Isn't there one in the women's?" I have to ask to make sure.
"Sure is. Must be an issue of convenience." Deedee shrugs and heads to the back. I turn to look at her go and I notice her swaying slightly. She's been hitting the flask that she keeps hidden in the bowels of her apron. Whatever gets you through the day.
I turn back, ready to tell The Teacher that she has to move to the changing station. She's already finished, and -uh oh- she's opening the door that leads inside of the restaurant, carrying the bundled diaper. She walks directly up to me and thrusts the diaper in my hands.
I'm too shocked to move. I can only stare dumbly at the disposable diaper in my hand as the smell of baby shit permeates the air, assaulting my olfactory sense.
"Take care of thisth for me pleezzzth." She turns around and walks back outside. My mind shuts off. I vaguely comprehend that I'm standing in the dining room at work, sweating like a pig and holding a diaper. For some reason, the fact that the diaper is warm piercess the haze. It's my only lucid thought.
I hear howling laughter. Rena and Deedee are holding onto the sides of the kitchen door to keep from falling on the floor. Rena is wiping tears out of her eyes.
I break out of my trance and find the nearest trash can. I dump the diaper and fight down the urge to vomit.
I find the nearest sink and scrub my hands like an obsessive-compulsive sanitation freak. They are pink, raw, and nearly bleeding when I feel clean again. I dry off with a paper towel and head back to battle.
WHAT THE HELL?!!!
The Teacher has another full beer in front of her!
"Deedee! Did you give that lady another beer?"
"Not me, man."
"Rena?"
"Don't look at me."
That left the bartender, Darren.
"Darren, did you give that lady another beer?"
"Yeah. Where were you? She said she couldn't find you, so she came to me. Tipped me five bones too. Snooze you lose."
"Darren, Valerie cut her off! She can barely stand, and you gave her another beer!" I'm pissed.
"Hey, man, I didn't know. Sorry." Darren smokes enough pot to keep a small Central American drug cartel financially stable. He's pretty much unflappable, and very little concerns him. He shrugs and walks away.
I don't blame Darren. He had no way of knowing. Except that The Teacher could barely stand on her own. Asshole.
In life, as in serving, you have to clean up your own messes. Resigned to my fate, I walk back outside. I spend the next three hours sitting down and talking with The Teacher as she slowly sobers up. I make sure The Teacher always has a full glass of water, the baby is comfortable, and that all future diaper changes occur in the changing station in the women's room. I even help The Teacher open a jar of baby food. Can't tell which smelled worse, the diaper or the pureed carrots, peas, and peaches. Pretty much the same, I guess.
I'm sweating the whole time I'm out there. My shirt is completely pitted out and my boxers cling to me like a heavy, stinky, wet second skin.
Eventually, The Teacher is sober enough to drive. She pays her bill, tipping me handsomely.
She's embarassed, but I smooth things over. I apologize profusely for overserving her. I let her know that it was my fault, and that we want her to come back soon. She'll be back often, but she'll never repeat today's performance.
Finally, her SUV pulls out of the parking lot and I have time to take stock of the situation.
I hate that I'm leaving as the PM servers are coming in.
I hate that I smell like an old shoe.
I really hate the fact that I have to be back in an hour to complete my double shift.
Worst of all, I hate the fact that it's my own fault that I'm in this condition.
However, this shift's experience was the BEST BIRTH CONTROL EVER. If I never touch another dirty diaper again, that'd be just peachy with me.
Sunday, June 19, 2005
God doesn't pay my rent
-Preface-
This story involves religion. If anyone posts a comment to this story regarding the religion aspect, I will probably delete it. This is a story about a customer and a tip. In this case, religion is a side issue.
-A Description of The Church-
There is a non-denominational church in a bordering suburb. The Church is huge. It has televised sermons, cushioned stadium seating, and TV monitors situated in the back of the auditorium. Makes it easier for the late arrivals to take in the pastor in all his glory. The pastor drives a Jaguar, his son a BMW. They live in a $2 million home on 3 acres of land in one of those fenced-in, rent-a-cop guarded neighborhoods.
Every year, The Church hosts several conferences for people from all over the U.S. Once a year, there is a world-wide conference.
The congregation is cheap. There are no exceptions to my knowledge. Perhaps they are taught to never tip a larger percentage than they tithe. I don't know and don't care. If the pastor can afford a multi-million dollar home and several expensive cars, then the congregation has enough to tip 15%. Here is the worst of The Church stories.
-The Church Story-
The world-wide conference is in full swing, and our servers are jazzed. We're all making money thanks to the sheer volume of customers. It helps that one of the neighboring casual restaurants has asked The Church to send its parishioners elsewhere. No joke. Their servers bitched and threatened to strike if their management didn't take action. After this night, I won't blame them.
I have already put away $80 and there is still an hour wait at the door. The hostess seats me with a party of 12, taking up three of my four tables. Cha-Ching!
The party is friendly enough. No drinkers at the table, so the per-customer check average is low for the table. No biggie. Twelve burgers and twelve soft drinks brings the bill to about $130. Not bad.
The kitchen is rocking and the food is out fast. The table bows their heads for grace, then picks up their forks. Everyone is happily digging in. I check back to make sure everyone is happy.
"How is everything, folks?"
Nods and smiles all around, except for one gentleman who looks up at me with a serious expression.
"Waiter, have you accepted Jesus Christ as your personal savior?"
Now, my parents instilled great morals, but I rarely went to church. I'm a non-practicing Christian. The way I figure it, treat others as you would have them treat you. Simple, effective.
I tell The Inquisitor as much, but in much nicer and lighter terms. Big Mistake.
"Oh, waiter," he begins, shaking his head, his half-eaten burger forgotten on his plate, "you don't want to go to Hell do you?"
"No, sir. I figure if I live my life as a good person, then I've added something to the world."
I hate philosophizing with customers. I make an exception in this case because these folks seem nice. And their bill was huge by this restaurant's standards.
"Son (I hate it when anyone other than my parents calls me that), you should come to our retreat next month. Here's a flier and a pamphlet." Now the table is all smiles, looking up at me expectantly.
I accept the documents with a smile to avoid further confrontation. I beat a hasty retreat. I toss them into one of the side stations and busy myself with side work.
When I return to present the check, The Inquisitor persists, "Young man (another moniker I hate), you think about what I said. We hope to see you next month."
"I'll think about it sir. You folks enjoy the rest of your conference, and have a wonderful evening!"
The Church crowd sits for a few more minutes, finishing the remains of their soft drinks, talking and laughing. They're probably really excited about the prospect of herding another sheep into their flock. They pass around the bill, put on their jackets, and leave.
I pick up the check book as the bus boy sweeps the empty glasses into the bus tub and readies the table for the next group of church-goers.
I count the money. It appears they've left me a 10 and 7 20's. $20 on 130. Not great, but better than I expect.
Upon closer inspection, one of the 20's isn't a 20. It's the same size and color as a piece of U.S. currency. They've stuffed it in between the other 6 20's so it's easy to miss at first glance.
It's another pamphlet. It reads: God will Provide. On the back, it reads: This card to be presented in tandem with a tip.
Bastards. God does not pay my rent; tips do. The already minimal chance of my looking into that retreat vanishes.
The thing that pisses me off most is that apparently these people didn't bother to read their own card.
My only hope rests with the thought that many years from now...
The Inquisitor is waiting at the Pearly Gates with his bags packed. He's ready to enter the great Castle in the Sky, and he's wondering what's taking so long. Finally he comes to the front of the line, ready to tell St. Peter that he's accepted Jesus as his personal savior.
Instead, St. Peter asks, "Inquisitor, why did you stiff that waiter? You've given a sect of our religion a bad name?"
The Inquisitor fumbles for an answer, and can only manage, "I gave him a pamphlet!"
"A pamphlet? Right..." St. Peter's hand moves to the lever beside him. He pulls, and a trapdoor opens beneath The Inquisitor.
As he drops out of sight, all can hear his fading cry, "But, the paaaamphleeeetttttt..."
This story involves religion. If anyone posts a comment to this story regarding the religion aspect, I will probably delete it. This is a story about a customer and a tip. In this case, religion is a side issue.
-A Description of The Church-
There is a non-denominational church in a bordering suburb. The Church is huge. It has televised sermons, cushioned stadium seating, and TV monitors situated in the back of the auditorium. Makes it easier for the late arrivals to take in the pastor in all his glory. The pastor drives a Jaguar, his son a BMW. They live in a $2 million home on 3 acres of land in one of those fenced-in, rent-a-cop guarded neighborhoods.
Every year, The Church hosts several conferences for people from all over the U.S. Once a year, there is a world-wide conference.
The congregation is cheap. There are no exceptions to my knowledge. Perhaps they are taught to never tip a larger percentage than they tithe. I don't know and don't care. If the pastor can afford a multi-million dollar home and several expensive cars, then the congregation has enough to tip 15%. Here is the worst of The Church stories.
-The Church Story-
The world-wide conference is in full swing, and our servers are jazzed. We're all making money thanks to the sheer volume of customers. It helps that one of the neighboring casual restaurants has asked The Church to send its parishioners elsewhere. No joke. Their servers bitched and threatened to strike if their management didn't take action. After this night, I won't blame them.
I have already put away $80 and there is still an hour wait at the door. The hostess seats me with a party of 12, taking up three of my four tables. Cha-Ching!
The party is friendly enough. No drinkers at the table, so the per-customer check average is low for the table. No biggie. Twelve burgers and twelve soft drinks brings the bill to about $130. Not bad.
The kitchen is rocking and the food is out fast. The table bows their heads for grace, then picks up their forks. Everyone is happily digging in. I check back to make sure everyone is happy.
"How is everything, folks?"
Nods and smiles all around, except for one gentleman who looks up at me with a serious expression.
"Waiter, have you accepted Jesus Christ as your personal savior?"
Now, my parents instilled great morals, but I rarely went to church. I'm a non-practicing Christian. The way I figure it, treat others as you would have them treat you. Simple, effective.
I tell The Inquisitor as much, but in much nicer and lighter terms. Big Mistake.
"Oh, waiter," he begins, shaking his head, his half-eaten burger forgotten on his plate, "you don't want to go to Hell do you?"
"No, sir. I figure if I live my life as a good person, then I've added something to the world."
I hate philosophizing with customers. I make an exception in this case because these folks seem nice. And their bill was huge by this restaurant's standards.
"Son (I hate it when anyone other than my parents calls me that), you should come to our retreat next month. Here's a flier and a pamphlet." Now the table is all smiles, looking up at me expectantly.
I accept the documents with a smile to avoid further confrontation. I beat a hasty retreat. I toss them into one of the side stations and busy myself with side work.
When I return to present the check, The Inquisitor persists, "Young man (another moniker I hate), you think about what I said. We hope to see you next month."
"I'll think about it sir. You folks enjoy the rest of your conference, and have a wonderful evening!"
The Church crowd sits for a few more minutes, finishing the remains of their soft drinks, talking and laughing. They're probably really excited about the prospect of herding another sheep into their flock. They pass around the bill, put on their jackets, and leave.
I pick up the check book as the bus boy sweeps the empty glasses into the bus tub and readies the table for the next group of church-goers.
I count the money. It appears they've left me a 10 and 7 20's. $20 on 130. Not great, but better than I expect.
Upon closer inspection, one of the 20's isn't a 20. It's the same size and color as a piece of U.S. currency. They've stuffed it in between the other 6 20's so it's easy to miss at first glance.
It's another pamphlet. It reads: God will Provide. On the back, it reads: This card to be presented in tandem with a tip.
Bastards. God does not pay my rent; tips do. The already minimal chance of my looking into that retreat vanishes.
The thing that pisses me off most is that apparently these people didn't bother to read their own card.
My only hope rests with the thought that many years from now...
The Inquisitor is waiting at the Pearly Gates with his bags packed. He's ready to enter the great Castle in the Sky, and he's wondering what's taking so long. Finally he comes to the front of the line, ready to tell St. Peter that he's accepted Jesus as his personal savior.
Instead, St. Peter asks, "Inquisitor, why did you stiff that waiter? You've given a sect of our religion a bad name?"
The Inquisitor fumbles for an answer, and can only manage, "I gave him a pamphlet!"
"A pamphlet? Right..." St. Peter's hand moves to the lever beside him. He pulls, and a trapdoor opens beneath The Inquisitor.
As he drops out of sight, all can hear his fading cry, "But, the paaaamphleeeetttttt..."
Valerie, Ranch Dressing, and a Birthday
-Description of Valerie-
I introduced our GM Valerie in The Captain post. Here are some more details about Valerie.
Valerie was born in the Phillipines and is now in her late-20's. She is about 5'4'' and weighs about 165 lbs. She has short (chin-length), straight, thick dark hair, and she occasionally smokes UltraLite cigarettes (without inhaling). To best sum up her appearance, think of a Phillipina version of Monica Lewinsky.
In her youth, she was part of the upper echelon of Phillipino society. Growing up, she had servants dressing her and catering to her every need. In her late teens, Valerie got pregnant. According to her, it was her first time, and it was in a bathroom stall. Classy. She moved to America soon after she got pregnant. I don't know if she left in shame, if her parents kicked her out, or if she preferred Chicago's snowy, windy, cold-as-hell winters. In any case, Valerie was ready to take America by storm.
She landed a job as a pantry girl in the restaurant. She quickly became one of the GM's pet projects. She rocketed up the ladder, first moving horizontally from pantry girl to line cook to server, then moving vertically to Shift Supervisor, Assistant Manager, and then General Manager.
During her meteoric rise to the top, she developed a reputation as a hard-ass. She was given the nickname "Valerietnam" by one of our more clever, geographically-challenged servers.
Valerie is stingy, cheap, frugal, whatever you'd like to call it. She will do whatever it takes to make or save money, customer or associate be damned. This story is the best example of Valerie's thrifty ways.
-Valerie's Story-
Rewind to my second shift on the floor. I'm just out of training, and I'm allowed to take three tables at a time. It's a lunch shift, and our place is hopping. Our restuarant is located in an area with a lot of businesses and many of them spend their lunch hour at our establishment. Most don't tip incredibly well, but the volume and time constraint allows the servers to turn tables quickly.
As a new server, I have yet to find my rythym. I'm still making mistakes, and I'm hustling to try to keep up.
I get seated with a four-top. All women wearing trendy business casual, except for one who has donned a spiffy new blazer-skirt ensemble. I'll call her "Dressy."
I go through my spiel. They all order the same salad and waters with lemon. Dressy orders an extra rameken of ranch dressing.
I return to the computer and punch in their orders. I resume flying around, refilling drinks, clearing plates, running food, etc. The four-top's food comes up, and I deliver it with a smile. I have yet to make a mistake this shift, and life is good.
The women chow down. They only have a short amount of time to eat, so manners and etiquette take a back seat to ravenous hunger. I have to take a step back so I don't get hit with the lettuce shavings that fly out of the sides of their mouths. Seriously.
I am finally caught up with my tables, so I go in back to try to get to know the other servers better. They pretty much ignore me because I'm the new guy. They don't know if I'm going to make it yet, so they don't bother learning anything but my name. Hell, at this point I don't know if I'm going to make it yet, so I can't blame them.
I return to the floor and see that the women have polished off their salads. Another table's drinks are getting low, so I have to clear the women's plates quickly in order to get refills on time.
I notice that Dressy didn't touch her extra rameken of ranch. It's still sitting on the edge of her plate in the same spot. Oh well.
I stack up the three biz casual plates on my left arm and am going for Dressy's with my right. I feel the plates in my arm shift. Instinctively, I glance back to my left and pull my right hand over to help.
Unfortunately, I have Dressy's plate in my right hand. Fortunately, I miss her head by less that a milimeter. Unfortunately, the rameken of ranch flies off the plate.
Time slows to a crawl. Everything moves in slow-motion, and someone hit the mute button. I hear nothing, and everything in my field of vision blurs except the rameken. My entire being is focused on that extra dressing.
I see the rameken spinning end-over-end. The dressing is flying out in a widening spiral, splattering Dressy's blazer's back with line after line of creamy, oily dressing. Finally, the rameken hits the floor and bounces. It's still spinning, but nothing is coming out now. It's like someone is holding down the trigger of a machine gun when the clip empties. The chamber is still whirring and clicking, but nothing comes out.
Slowly the rameken spins to a stop, upright and empty. All three biz casual women look at Dressy in horror, mouths agape.
Life returns to regular speed and someone turns on the sound again. My first impulse is to run and hide. I regain my composure.
"Oh my goodness. Ma'am, I'm so sorry. I'm going to go grab something to clean you up, and I'll see if I can find my manager as well so we can take care of you."
As I turn to go, I hear one of the women comment, "Well, Happy Birthday, huh Mary? Ha ha!"
This stops me dead in my tracks. My mind does a quick situation recap. I've just spilled copious amounts of ranch dressing all over a lady's new business suit on her birthday. SHIT!
I book to the back.
"Valerie, you have to come out here quick!"
"What wrong?" She's testing the temperature of the soup kettle during the busiest part of the lunch rush.
When it's slow, she's preparing for Armegeddon. When it's busy, she performs tasks that have no bearing on the outcome of a shift. Outstanding.
"Ijustspilledranchalloverthisladyonherbirthday" The words spew out of my mouth.
This is the first (but not the last) time I've spilled on a customer. I don't know the exact procedure, but I'm sure it involves a manager visit to the table, endless apologies, ass-kissing, paying a cleaning bill, comping the food bill, and/or buying a new suit. Five years later, I know this is what should happen. However, Valerie has a different plan.
"Oh. Buy them a sundae" She turns back to her thermometer. The sundae bar is a unique feature in our restaurant. It costs $2 for a kid, $4 for an adult. You get a free one on your birthday, regardless of whether the server spills ranch dressing on you.
"Valerie, I can't go back out there and tell her that. I feel awful, I've ruined her suit. We need to pay her cleaning bill, not buy dessert for the table."
"Not for the table. For her. I busy."
"Valerie..."
"Go!"
Great. I go back to the table alone, armed with wet wipes and a plan. I'm not about to tell them that Dressy only gets a free dessert (one she's entitled to anyways) in exchange for my ruining her birthday.
"Ladies, your lunch is on us" I turn to Dressy, "Here is my manager's business card. Please send the cleaning bill to her. Again, I am so sorry about this."
The ladies nod, and then boogie as quickly as possible. They even leave me a $5 pity tip, which, to this day, I feel that I don't deserve.
I go to the back to tell Valerie what I've done.
"You stupid. I take employee discount off of their bill (50%), but if I get cleaning bill, you pay."
I am too emotionally drained to argue. After paying for half their bill, I end up walking out the door five dollars on the positive side.
I never got a cleaning bill, so either Valerie had a change of heart (doubtful) or Dressy wanted nothing more to do with our restaurant (likely). I never saw her or her friends again.
Today, I was the WORST SERVER EVER.
I introduced our GM Valerie in The Captain post. Here are some more details about Valerie.
Valerie was born in the Phillipines and is now in her late-20's. She is about 5'4'' and weighs about 165 lbs. She has short (chin-length), straight, thick dark hair, and she occasionally smokes UltraLite cigarettes (without inhaling). To best sum up her appearance, think of a Phillipina version of Monica Lewinsky.
In her youth, she was part of the upper echelon of Phillipino society. Growing up, she had servants dressing her and catering to her every need. In her late teens, Valerie got pregnant. According to her, it was her first time, and it was in a bathroom stall. Classy. She moved to America soon after she got pregnant. I don't know if she left in shame, if her parents kicked her out, or if she preferred Chicago's snowy, windy, cold-as-hell winters. In any case, Valerie was ready to take America by storm.
She landed a job as a pantry girl in the restaurant. She quickly became one of the GM's pet projects. She rocketed up the ladder, first moving horizontally from pantry girl to line cook to server, then moving vertically to Shift Supervisor, Assistant Manager, and then General Manager.
During her meteoric rise to the top, she developed a reputation as a hard-ass. She was given the nickname "Valerietnam" by one of our more clever, geographically-challenged servers.
Valerie is stingy, cheap, frugal, whatever you'd like to call it. She will do whatever it takes to make or save money, customer or associate be damned. This story is the best example of Valerie's thrifty ways.
-Valerie's Story-
Rewind to my second shift on the floor. I'm just out of training, and I'm allowed to take three tables at a time. It's a lunch shift, and our place is hopping. Our restuarant is located in an area with a lot of businesses and many of them spend their lunch hour at our establishment. Most don't tip incredibly well, but the volume and time constraint allows the servers to turn tables quickly.
As a new server, I have yet to find my rythym. I'm still making mistakes, and I'm hustling to try to keep up.
I get seated with a four-top. All women wearing trendy business casual, except for one who has donned a spiffy new blazer-skirt ensemble. I'll call her "Dressy."
I go through my spiel. They all order the same salad and waters with lemon. Dressy orders an extra rameken of ranch dressing.
I return to the computer and punch in their orders. I resume flying around, refilling drinks, clearing plates, running food, etc. The four-top's food comes up, and I deliver it with a smile. I have yet to make a mistake this shift, and life is good.
The women chow down. They only have a short amount of time to eat, so manners and etiquette take a back seat to ravenous hunger. I have to take a step back so I don't get hit with the lettuce shavings that fly out of the sides of their mouths. Seriously.
I am finally caught up with my tables, so I go in back to try to get to know the other servers better. They pretty much ignore me because I'm the new guy. They don't know if I'm going to make it yet, so they don't bother learning anything but my name. Hell, at this point I don't know if I'm going to make it yet, so I can't blame them.
I return to the floor and see that the women have polished off their salads. Another table's drinks are getting low, so I have to clear the women's plates quickly in order to get refills on time.
I notice that Dressy didn't touch her extra rameken of ranch. It's still sitting on the edge of her plate in the same spot. Oh well.
I stack up the three biz casual plates on my left arm and am going for Dressy's with my right. I feel the plates in my arm shift. Instinctively, I glance back to my left and pull my right hand over to help.
Unfortunately, I have Dressy's plate in my right hand. Fortunately, I miss her head by less that a milimeter. Unfortunately, the rameken of ranch flies off the plate.
Time slows to a crawl. Everything moves in slow-motion, and someone hit the mute button. I hear nothing, and everything in my field of vision blurs except the rameken. My entire being is focused on that extra dressing.
I see the rameken spinning end-over-end. The dressing is flying out in a widening spiral, splattering Dressy's blazer's back with line after line of creamy, oily dressing. Finally, the rameken hits the floor and bounces. It's still spinning, but nothing is coming out now. It's like someone is holding down the trigger of a machine gun when the clip empties. The chamber is still whirring and clicking, but nothing comes out.
Slowly the rameken spins to a stop, upright and empty. All three biz casual women look at Dressy in horror, mouths agape.
Life returns to regular speed and someone turns on the sound again. My first impulse is to run and hide. I regain my composure.
"Oh my goodness. Ma'am, I'm so sorry. I'm going to go grab something to clean you up, and I'll see if I can find my manager as well so we can take care of you."
As I turn to go, I hear one of the women comment, "Well, Happy Birthday, huh Mary? Ha ha!"
This stops me dead in my tracks. My mind does a quick situation recap. I've just spilled copious amounts of ranch dressing all over a lady's new business suit on her birthday. SHIT!
I book to the back.
"Valerie, you have to come out here quick!"
"What wrong?" She's testing the temperature of the soup kettle during the busiest part of the lunch rush.
When it's slow, she's preparing for Armegeddon. When it's busy, she performs tasks that have no bearing on the outcome of a shift. Outstanding.
"Ijustspilledranchalloverthisladyonherbirthday" The words spew out of my mouth.
This is the first (but not the last) time I've spilled on a customer. I don't know the exact procedure, but I'm sure it involves a manager visit to the table, endless apologies, ass-kissing, paying a cleaning bill, comping the food bill, and/or buying a new suit. Five years later, I know this is what should happen. However, Valerie has a different plan.
"Oh. Buy them a sundae" She turns back to her thermometer. The sundae bar is a unique feature in our restaurant. It costs $2 for a kid, $4 for an adult. You get a free one on your birthday, regardless of whether the server spills ranch dressing on you.
"Valerie, I can't go back out there and tell her that. I feel awful, I've ruined her suit. We need to pay her cleaning bill, not buy dessert for the table."
"Not for the table. For her. I busy."
"Valerie..."
"Go!"
Great. I go back to the table alone, armed with wet wipes and a plan. I'm not about to tell them that Dressy only gets a free dessert (one she's entitled to anyways) in exchange for my ruining her birthday.
"Ladies, your lunch is on us" I turn to Dressy, "Here is my manager's business card. Please send the cleaning bill to her. Again, I am so sorry about this."
The ladies nod, and then boogie as quickly as possible. They even leave me a $5 pity tip, which, to this day, I feel that I don't deserve.
I go to the back to tell Valerie what I've done.
"You stupid. I take employee discount off of their bill (50%), but if I get cleaning bill, you pay."
I am too emotionally drained to argue. After paying for half their bill, I end up walking out the door five dollars on the positive side.
I never got a cleaning bill, so either Valerie had a change of heart (doubtful) or Dressy wanted nothing more to do with our restaurant (likely). I never saw her or her friends again.
Today, I was the WORST SERVER EVER.
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