-Epilogue-
This story takes place in The Bar. It happened less than a month ago.
Recently, two managers left The Bar. One got canned for nailing a server after close, while the other moved to a location nearer his home. To pick up the slack, the GM asked my to run some "key shifts" until the new managers arrive. Basically, this means that my responsibility will be to take care of the servers, the customers, and the appearance of the front of the house. No biggie.
-A Description of Zo-
Zo is somewhere between 27 and 35. He is short (about 5'4''), and only slightly overweight. His hair is short and curly. It also seems as though his face is too small for his head. In several years, when osteoporosis sets in, he'll look like the guy on the Keystone light commercials. Bitter-Beer Face.
Zo is a low talker. For those of you who don't watch Seinfeld, a low talker is one who speaks so softly that it is difficult to understand what they are saying. He mumbles. Worse, he talks really fast.
Zo is one of the new managers. He's had the roughest start I've ever seen at The Bar. All the servers hate him, but with good reason- he treats them like crap. Case in point: We're doing a new promotion for our wings. Zo stopped one of our veteran servers to ask where her Wing Pin was attached to her uniform. The server had a tray full of drinks at the time. She almost dropped them while pointing out that the Wing Pin was indeed attached to her apron. Zo's remark as she's walking away, "Good, cause else you'd be in trouble!" In a place where it is difficult enough for servers to show up to work, he decided to pick on one of his best veterans for a pin. Picking battles is not Zo's strong suit.
-The Server Plays Manager-
I hop out of my Jeep dressed in manager garb. In other circles, this is referred to as 'business casual.' I'm excited for the upcoming day. While I'm an outstanding server, I feel that managing people is my best attribute.
It's 11 am, and we've just opened for business. The Bar does a decent lunch business. Nothing like The Restaurant, but decent nonetheless.
I walk into the back to talk to the GM. He's going through his paperwork.
"What's up GM?"
"Hey, Server, you ready for this?" He puts his paperwork to the side and pulls out a manager card. The manager card is the key to the city. I can adjust checks, comp food, 86 items, the works. Only problem is, I have no idea how it works.
"Can you show me how to wield this thing?" Normally, I don't use words like "wield" in everyday conversation. Somehow, it feels right today.
"Sure thing." He hops out of his chair and leads me to a computer screen.
He swipes the card and gives me a two minute crash course. When he's finished, I'm still completely unsure as to what I'm doing.
"Got it?" He's ready to go back to the books.
"Got it." I'll figure it out as I go.
The lunch rush goes off without a hitch. No customer complaints. The only issue I have is the staff's teamwork, which is non-existant. Oh well. Can't fix it today. One thing at a time.
The servers cash out. They all leave except for the late check. She handles the entire bar until the 4 o'clock servers arrive in a few hours.
I use the time to eat, make up the night floor chart, and clean up the place. So far so good.
The first problem arises at 4:05. One of the PM cooks hasn't showed.
Cooks are the backbone for the restaurant. Without a solid kitchen, any restaurant will fall apart in a hurry. This is a problem that needs to be fixed in a hurry.
"GM, one of the cooks didn't show." The GM is packing his briefcase. He's been here since 5 am doing inventory. He's ready to go home.
"Let Zo take care of it." He snaps his briefcase shut and walks out the door. Way to take care of business. I guess the buck doesn't stop here.
Zo walks up. It's his first shift. He's nervous and taking it out on the servers.
"Where's your Wing Pin?" he yells as each server walks in for their shift. I'm already sick of that question. Obviously they are too. One of the servers pulls me aside.
"Dude, I can't take that guy any more. He's such an asshole. I'm going to quit." I agree completely, but since I'm wearing manager garb and I have The Card...
"He's new. It's going to take him a while to get used to things. You know how new managers are. They want to change the world on their first shift. It'll be OK." I can see that she's still pissed. I also know that she's well-liked in the restaurant. If she walks out, I get the distinct feeling that others will be right behind.
"Well, just don't walk out. I'll see if I can't talk to GM and get things squared away."
This seems to placate the server. Whew. Bomb diffused. I've seen a mass staff walkout before. It ain't pretty. That's not how I want my first shift to run.
Six o'clock rolls around. For some reason, we're busy as hell. We're staffed for a Monday night. The place is filling up like a Friday night. SHIT.
I head back to the kitchen. All hell breaks loose.
The ticket machine that prints each server's order is spitting out chits like a Gatlin gun. There is a pile an inch thick behind the printer. The cooks already have a full kitchen. There is no place on the grill for more burgers, no free basket in the fryer. The cooks are staring at the machine, mouths agape.
I spring into action. I track down Zo, who's chasing servers around with the Wing Card, which is supposed to go hand-in-hand with the Wing Pin. For every order of 10 Wings, a customer gets a Wing Punch on their Wing Card, which could earn them a trip anywhere in the continental U.S. Wing-derful.
"Zo, the kitchen is in bad shape. Can you help them out?" We need a kitchen manager directing traffic. Since no one can understand what Zo is saying, I figure it's best if I stay up front and deal with the customers.
"Make sure they're doing their Wing Punches!" He ambles, hobbit-like, back towards the kitchen. I watch him go, shaking my head.
No time to dwell on that now. Servers are lining up with myriad problems.
"Can you take off this guy's steak? It was cooked too well-done."
"Can you check and see if the guys at table 110 are ok for another round?"
"Can you buy this drink for my friend?"
"Can you put this tab onto this one? I messed up and..."
Time flies by. Not cause I'm having fun, but because the place is busy as hell. People are standing in the aisles because there is no place to sit.
Soon I'm sick of my own name. Each time I hear it, there is five minutes of computer work ahead of me. I soon realize that I should have spent more time learning how to use The Card. Oh well.
Finally, I get some time away from the computer. I use it to mark down the 4-drink calls. Servers write down a description of the customer, what they've had to drink, and how they're acting. This prevents us from paying a huge lawsuit if some drunken yuppie has a few too many and wraps his Beamer around a telephone pole.
As I'm filling out the chart, I look up. Bedlam. It's a rowdy crowd. Guests are standing on chairs, shouting to each other across the bar. I see two college-age guys having a chugging contest with $6/pint beer. Then my eyes settle on a middle-aged couple eating dinner. My heart goes out to them. Here they are, trying to enjoy a decent meal and a nice glass of wine while all around them, hell is breaking loose.
I turn to the host.
"Turn down the music." He looks at me like I'm nuts. But he's a friend of mine. He does what I tell him.
I walk across the floor, pulling guests down from chairs as I go. I finally reach the older couple.
"Hi folks, how is everything tonight?"
They look up at me. "It's a little wild in here for us."
"Yes, things are a little crazy tonight. I promise that it's not normally like this. Tell you what... I've got some coupons here for a free meal. I'd love it if you would come back and visit us again on a night when things are a bit less... hectic." They smile and thank me.
Feeling pleased with myself, I am walking back to my 4-drink sheet when a server stops me.
"Hey, there's blood in one of the stalls in the men's bathroom." She's gone almost as quick as she came.
This is just what I need. I grab the spray bottle of bleach and some paper towels. Hopefully this will be quick.
I open the door to the men's room. Immediately, I realize that this is going to require a bit more effort than I originally thought. The sharp, coppery smell of blood assaults my olfactory sense. I can't see it yet, but I sure can smell it.
I open the first stall door. Clean. Same with the second. That leaves the handicapped stall. Opening the door, I choke back the bile that rises in my throat.
It looks like someone had a knife fight in the stall. Blood is everywhere. The toilet seat, the floor, the walls are all covered in quickly drying blood.
Closing off the restroom, I am grabbing cleaning supplies when Zo comes up to me.
"mumble...mumble...Wing Punches?"
"What? No, I haven't done any Wing Punches. " I can't believe he's asking me about this shit now. The servers are running around like chickens with their heads cut off, and I'm about to clean up a bio hazard. Wing Punches are the last thing on my mind.
"Well, you should be doing those. Hey, we're almost out of napkins. I know you were supposed to be off an hour ago, but could you run to the other location and grab a pack for us?" I looked at my watch. 11:00. I was scheduled to get off at 10. Oh well.
"I'd be happy to," I say, grabbing my keys. "Oh, by the way, there's some blood in the bathroom. Would you mind taking care of that while I'm gone?"
As I'm heading down the highway toward the nearest sister Bar, I reflect on the night. I remained calm, made at least one customer feel special, kept a server from quitting, and saddled a bastard manager with a horrible job. All in all, not a bad first shift. I wonder how many Wing Punches Zo has done....
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
The Least Popular Server
-Prologue-
It's not fair to call her the Least Popular Server (LPS from now on). The managers loved her. I don't know why. She was an awful person.
-A Description of the LPS-
The LPS stands 5'5'' and weighs nearly 300 lbs.
She always wears shorts to work, yet somehow her legs stubbornly remain pasty white. She also wears knee braces on both knees. The cloth kind. They're sweat-stained and smelly. Kind of a mixture of B.O. and week-old Chinese food.
She has long red hair. It's unruly and always tied back in a ponytail.
Her voice is raspy and whiny. She is both bossy and abrupt when she speaks. This is not a good combo. Hearing her speak? Nails across a chalkboard.
-The Least Popular Server-
It's Tuesday night in September, our slow month. The Restaurant is slow, yet steady. The atmosphere is subdued.
I hate working nights like this. You have to scramble to make money. Getting sat a party is the only way to cover your gas money.
The only redeeming factor about this shift is that I'm working with my girlfriend. (We've only just started dating. Everything is still new, exciting, and mysterious.) She's trying to make the best of the shift. She tied a balloon to my apron as I was walking to my first table. I took their burger order with a helium-inflated balloon hovering about a foot behind my head.
The LPS is standing against the wall. I walk by, two thoughts flashing through my mind. Is she trying to hold the wall up? Followed by, Shouldn't she be doing something?
Reading my mind, she says, "I have no tables. This place sucks." She walks away. I don't know where she's going, and I don't care. I just hope she stays there for a while. Honestly, if you don't like your job, find work elsewhere! Serving jobs are a dime a dozen. It's not rocket science, and almost any restaurant will take on a new server if they have any experience.
My girlfriend walks over.
"Hey, you got sat. Go make some money so you can take me someplace nice." I look up in alarm. I'm not worried that I'm going to be late. I'm worried that I'm dating a gold digger. I see her face break into a huge smile and I realize that she's yanking my chain. Whew.
I walk to my table. Friendly folks. As I head back to the side station, I notice a two-top sitting in the LPS's section. Normally, I'd search high and low for a server to let them know they have a customer. With her, I don't really care. Hopefully they'll complain, get their meal comped, and the LPS will be sacked.
By the time I reach the soda fountain, I realize that I'm being a Bad Server. I turn around, about to search for the LPS. The girlfriend is trying to tie a helium-filled balloon to the back of my apron. Busted.
"Oh, hi," she gives me a big smile. She lowers the balloon.
"Hey, can you let the LPS know that she's been sat?"
"I'll look for her." She marches off, head on a swivel.
I deliver the drinks to my table and take their order. Lots of modifications. Oh well. I have plenty of time.
After taking their order, I notice the couple is still sitting, unattended. It's way past the shopper-acceptable 2-minute greet time. They're looking around, slightly miffed.
I spot my girlfriend. She's walking a lot faster than she was before. give her an inquisitive look. She shrugs. I nod at the table. She nods at me. I love server sign language.
As I disappear behind the side station wall, I hear my girlfriend greet the table.
"Hi folks. I'm so sorry that it took so long to greet you. This isn't the way things work here at The Restaurant. If it'd be alright, I'd love to buy you folks an appetizer." Damn, she's good.
I enter the food order for my lone table and look around. The LPS is nowhere to be found. Oh well. You snooze, you lose.
My girlfriend comes back into the side station.
"How are they?" I ask.
"Fine. I smoothed things over. If I do a good job, I may pull a sympathy tip, but I'm not betting on it. She jumps on the computer and enters their appetizer. She heads off towards the kitchen.
I start rearranging the cabinets, trying to keep busy.
"What are you doing?! They're mine!" Fingers on a chalkboard, yech!
I peek around the corner. It's worse than I thought. My girl looks as though she's in the middle of taking the couple's order. The LPS is standing uncomfortably close to her, looking murderous.
"I'm sorry. I couldn't find you, and these nice folks had been waiting a while. Would you like to take them?" All this in front of customers. Great.
"No! I don't want them. I'll just take your next table." She stomps away, feet thundering like an elephant. I'm reminded of a 2-year old throwing a fit.
I see my girlfriend trying to smooth things over with the customers. Actually, the LPS's outburst probably helped her tip percentage. At least they know that it wasn't her fault they were greeted late.
I follow my girl as she heads to the back. Even from behind, I can see the tension and anger consume her. She's practically shaking as she starts pounding away at the touch-screen computer.
"That effing bitch! I save her ass and she acts like this?!" She hisses.
I know better than to get in between to angry women. I'll let them work it out. I peek around the corner.
"You're getting sat with a party! Go make some money." This puts a smile on her face. She grabs a stack of bev naps and heads out the door.
She stops in the doorway. The bev naps fall to the floor. I run behind to see what's wrong, although I have a pretty good idea already.
Sure enough, the LPS is setting down bev naps as the party is sitting down.
Now, I'm going to break aside here for a moment to explain an Unwritten Rule of Serving.
If a server takes a table in another server's section (usually because the server is running late and The Restaurant is getting busy or the hostess mistakenly seats someone in a non-present server's section), it is common courtesy to allow them to have a table in your section.
However, this rule does not apply when a server takes a table in another's section in an attempt to do what's right by the customer. Also, this table swap does not include party tables. Taking another server's party table is like kicking them in the groin, opening their wallet, and stealing a wad of cash while they lie writhing on the floor. Not cool.
Back to the story...
My girlfriend is seething. The LPS looks directly at my girlfriend as she begins her spiel.
"Hi folks, my name is _______, and I'll be your server tonight." She's smiling evilly.
My girlfriend walks to the back. She's upset.
"I can't believe this. That was my only chance to make money!" She puts her head in her hands and sighs. Time for damage control.
"Hey, don't let her get you down. If she sees you like this, she'll know she got to you. Pick your head up," and win one for the Gipper! I should have been a motivational speaker.
"You're right." She shakes her head. Suddenly, her face transforms. The forlon look is gone, replaced by a combination of anger and mischief. Uh oh. I think I just tossed gasoline on smoldering ashes. Woops.
She runs to the back. A few minutes later, the manager on duty comes strolling up, stopping in front of the computer.
"What kind do you want?"
"Just chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry. I know the oreo shakes hurt your food cost." My girlfriend's voice is sugary. Too sugary. Toothache sugary.
The manager types in an order. I look over his shoulder. Ten shakes; vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry. Enough for the whole staff, including the cooks. Nice guy. Milkshakes are like crack for our servers. A free milkshake is the server's version of a bonus. It's too bad we can't have the oreo shakes. They're the consesus staff favorite.
I pull my girlfriend aside. "What are you up to?"
"You'll see. If something happens to her, it will be her own fault." I'm scared of my girlfriend right now.
She walks up to the bar and grabs the shakes. Instead of heading to the side station, she heads back to the expo line. I have to get back to my table, so I can't follow her.
When I get back, my girlfriend is back up at the bar. I'm confused, but I'll wait and see how it all pans out.
When she comes back, she has a tray full of milkshakes. I notice there is an extra shake. An Oreo! The bartender must have accidentally made an extra one!
The servers are swarming like a pack of starving wolves. I'm wondering how we're going to decide who gets it when the LPS waddles around the corner, stinking like old Mongolian beef.
"Milkshakes! Are these for us? I get the Oreo!" She snatches it from the tray with her sausage-like fingers. She licks some of the whipped cream off the top. "Haha! Mine!" She turns up her nose and walks away.
The other servers watch her leave. They're pissed. My girlfriend is laughing.
Everyone turns to look at her. What was so funny? She tries to compose herself to explain. She's still trying to catch her breath as she starts talking.
"Little (gasp) known fact. (gasp) Parmesan Peppercorn salad dressing (gasp) looks just like an oreo milkshake." The servers are all smiling. They all scatter, taking up strategic positions so they can watch the LPS, unnoticed, when she gets back.
So that's what she was doing! She got the shakes, went to the back and filled one with dressing, then went back to the bar and topped it with the whipped cream! Counting on the LPS's greed and selfishness was a brilliant stroke of poetic justice.
I'm waiting, pretending to refill the pickles on the expo line, when my girlfriend runs around the corner. She's smiling so big, I think her head's going to break open like that flip-top head in the Reach Toothbrush commercial.
"Did I miss it?" I thought I kept the 'shake' in view the entire time.
"No! Look!" She thrusts a credit card slip at me. It's the couple that she picked up from the LPS. Their bill was $20 after the comp. In the TIP line is written $50. At the bottom, written on the credit card slip, thanks for the great service. We're sorry that the other server stole your table. Hope this helps.
Just then, the LPS storms around the corner. She looks pissed. She looks at my girlfriend.
"Your stupid party only left me $20. On a $200 bill! Oh well, it's more than you'll make tonight." She reaches up and plucks her 'shake' from the shelf.
She licks her lips hungrily, and slowly wraps them around the straw....
It's not fair to call her the Least Popular Server (LPS from now on). The managers loved her. I don't know why. She was an awful person.
-A Description of the LPS-
The LPS stands 5'5'' and weighs nearly 300 lbs.
She always wears shorts to work, yet somehow her legs stubbornly remain pasty white. She also wears knee braces on both knees. The cloth kind. They're sweat-stained and smelly. Kind of a mixture of B.O. and week-old Chinese food.
She has long red hair. It's unruly and always tied back in a ponytail.
Her voice is raspy and whiny. She is both bossy and abrupt when she speaks. This is not a good combo. Hearing her speak? Nails across a chalkboard.
-The Least Popular Server-
It's Tuesday night in September, our slow month. The Restaurant is slow, yet steady. The atmosphere is subdued.
I hate working nights like this. You have to scramble to make money. Getting sat a party is the only way to cover your gas money.
The only redeeming factor about this shift is that I'm working with my girlfriend. (We've only just started dating. Everything is still new, exciting, and mysterious.) She's trying to make the best of the shift. She tied a balloon to my apron as I was walking to my first table. I took their burger order with a helium-inflated balloon hovering about a foot behind my head.
The LPS is standing against the wall. I walk by, two thoughts flashing through my mind. Is she trying to hold the wall up? Followed by, Shouldn't she be doing something?
Reading my mind, she says, "I have no tables. This place sucks." She walks away. I don't know where she's going, and I don't care. I just hope she stays there for a while. Honestly, if you don't like your job, find work elsewhere! Serving jobs are a dime a dozen. It's not rocket science, and almost any restaurant will take on a new server if they have any experience.
My girlfriend walks over.
"Hey, you got sat. Go make some money so you can take me someplace nice." I look up in alarm. I'm not worried that I'm going to be late. I'm worried that I'm dating a gold digger. I see her face break into a huge smile and I realize that she's yanking my chain. Whew.
I walk to my table. Friendly folks. As I head back to the side station, I notice a two-top sitting in the LPS's section. Normally, I'd search high and low for a server to let them know they have a customer. With her, I don't really care. Hopefully they'll complain, get their meal comped, and the LPS will be sacked.
By the time I reach the soda fountain, I realize that I'm being a Bad Server. I turn around, about to search for the LPS. The girlfriend is trying to tie a helium-filled balloon to the back of my apron. Busted.
"Oh, hi," she gives me a big smile. She lowers the balloon.
"Hey, can you let the LPS know that she's been sat?"
"I'll look for her." She marches off, head on a swivel.
I deliver the drinks to my table and take their order. Lots of modifications. Oh well. I have plenty of time.
After taking their order, I notice the couple is still sitting, unattended. It's way past the shopper-acceptable 2-minute greet time. They're looking around, slightly miffed.
I spot my girlfriend. She's walking a lot faster than she was before. give her an inquisitive look. She shrugs. I nod at the table. She nods at me. I love server sign language.
As I disappear behind the side station wall, I hear my girlfriend greet the table.
"Hi folks. I'm so sorry that it took so long to greet you. This isn't the way things work here at The Restaurant. If it'd be alright, I'd love to buy you folks an appetizer." Damn, she's good.
I enter the food order for my lone table and look around. The LPS is nowhere to be found. Oh well. You snooze, you lose.
My girlfriend comes back into the side station.
"How are they?" I ask.
"Fine. I smoothed things over. If I do a good job, I may pull a sympathy tip, but I'm not betting on it. She jumps on the computer and enters their appetizer. She heads off towards the kitchen.
I start rearranging the cabinets, trying to keep busy.
"What are you doing?! They're mine!" Fingers on a chalkboard, yech!
I peek around the corner. It's worse than I thought. My girl looks as though she's in the middle of taking the couple's order. The LPS is standing uncomfortably close to her, looking murderous.
"I'm sorry. I couldn't find you, and these nice folks had been waiting a while. Would you like to take them?" All this in front of customers. Great.
"No! I don't want them. I'll just take your next table." She stomps away, feet thundering like an elephant. I'm reminded of a 2-year old throwing a fit.
I see my girlfriend trying to smooth things over with the customers. Actually, the LPS's outburst probably helped her tip percentage. At least they know that it wasn't her fault they were greeted late.
I follow my girl as she heads to the back. Even from behind, I can see the tension and anger consume her. She's practically shaking as she starts pounding away at the touch-screen computer.
"That effing bitch! I save her ass and she acts like this?!" She hisses.
I know better than to get in between to angry women. I'll let them work it out. I peek around the corner.
"You're getting sat with a party! Go make some money." This puts a smile on her face. She grabs a stack of bev naps and heads out the door.
She stops in the doorway. The bev naps fall to the floor. I run behind to see what's wrong, although I have a pretty good idea already.
Sure enough, the LPS is setting down bev naps as the party is sitting down.
Now, I'm going to break aside here for a moment to explain an Unwritten Rule of Serving.
If a server takes a table in another server's section (usually because the server is running late and The Restaurant is getting busy or the hostess mistakenly seats someone in a non-present server's section), it is common courtesy to allow them to have a table in your section.
However, this rule does not apply when a server takes a table in another's section in an attempt to do what's right by the customer. Also, this table swap does not include party tables. Taking another server's party table is like kicking them in the groin, opening their wallet, and stealing a wad of cash while they lie writhing on the floor. Not cool.
Back to the story...
My girlfriend is seething. The LPS looks directly at my girlfriend as she begins her spiel.
"Hi folks, my name is _______, and I'll be your server tonight." She's smiling evilly.
My girlfriend walks to the back. She's upset.
"I can't believe this. That was my only chance to make money!" She puts her head in her hands and sighs. Time for damage control.
"Hey, don't let her get you down. If she sees you like this, she'll know she got to you. Pick your head up," and win one for the Gipper! I should have been a motivational speaker.
"You're right." She shakes her head. Suddenly, her face transforms. The forlon look is gone, replaced by a combination of anger and mischief. Uh oh. I think I just tossed gasoline on smoldering ashes. Woops.
She runs to the back. A few minutes later, the manager on duty comes strolling up, stopping in front of the computer.
"What kind do you want?"
"Just chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry. I know the oreo shakes hurt your food cost." My girlfriend's voice is sugary. Too sugary. Toothache sugary.
The manager types in an order. I look over his shoulder. Ten shakes; vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry. Enough for the whole staff, including the cooks. Nice guy. Milkshakes are like crack for our servers. A free milkshake is the server's version of a bonus. It's too bad we can't have the oreo shakes. They're the consesus staff favorite.
I pull my girlfriend aside. "What are you up to?"
"You'll see. If something happens to her, it will be her own fault." I'm scared of my girlfriend right now.
She walks up to the bar and grabs the shakes. Instead of heading to the side station, she heads back to the expo line. I have to get back to my table, so I can't follow her.
When I get back, my girlfriend is back up at the bar. I'm confused, but I'll wait and see how it all pans out.
When she comes back, she has a tray full of milkshakes. I notice there is an extra shake. An Oreo! The bartender must have accidentally made an extra one!
The servers are swarming like a pack of starving wolves. I'm wondering how we're going to decide who gets it when the LPS waddles around the corner, stinking like old Mongolian beef.
"Milkshakes! Are these for us? I get the Oreo!" She snatches it from the tray with her sausage-like fingers. She licks some of the whipped cream off the top. "Haha! Mine!" She turns up her nose and walks away.
The other servers watch her leave. They're pissed. My girlfriend is laughing.
Everyone turns to look at her. What was so funny? She tries to compose herself to explain. She's still trying to catch her breath as she starts talking.
"Little (gasp) known fact. (gasp) Parmesan Peppercorn salad dressing (gasp) looks just like an oreo milkshake." The servers are all smiling. They all scatter, taking up strategic positions so they can watch the LPS, unnoticed, when she gets back.
So that's what she was doing! She got the shakes, went to the back and filled one with dressing, then went back to the bar and topped it with the whipped cream! Counting on the LPS's greed and selfishness was a brilliant stroke of poetic justice.
I'm waiting, pretending to refill the pickles on the expo line, when my girlfriend runs around the corner. She's smiling so big, I think her head's going to break open like that flip-top head in the Reach Toothbrush commercial.
"Did I miss it?" I thought I kept the 'shake' in view the entire time.
"No! Look!" She thrusts a credit card slip at me. It's the couple that she picked up from the LPS. Their bill was $20 after the comp. In the TIP line is written $50. At the bottom, written on the credit card slip, thanks for the great service. We're sorry that the other server stole your table. Hope this helps.
Just then, the LPS storms around the corner. She looks pissed. She looks at my girlfriend.
"Your stupid party only left me $20. On a $200 bill! Oh well, it's more than you'll make tonight." She reaches up and plucks her 'shake' from the shelf.
She licks her lips hungrily, and slowly wraps them around the straw....
Sunday, August 21, 2005
Hi all. Just a quick note to let everyone know that you can email me now. My address is server_stories@yahoo.com. I am going to be spending some time housesitting for my parents while they are out of town. This translates as... I'll have plenty of free time to write some posts! Look forward to a busy week on the blog.
The Server
The Server
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
The Server Goes to the Loony Bin
-Preface-
Sorry it's been so long, everyone. I hope this makes up for the time lapse. This story has its funny moments, but its tone is more somber and serious than the usual posts.
I am giving you all a glimpse into my personal life on this one. There are a couple of things you should know before we get started...
1) I suffer from depression. I take meds, but every now and again I need to get the prescription adjusted. Keeps me level.
2) While I was at school, I used to date a Canadian. I don't talk to her any more. You'll soon see why.
3) My family is really close. I'm serious. We're like the Cleavers and the Cosbys.
-The Server Goes to the Loony Bin-
It's a beautiful day at The Restaurant. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and the waitresses are wearing short shorts. I'm walking in, swinging my apron around like a kid going around-the-world with a yo-yo. Life is good.
The only thing weighing heavy on my mind is a conversation I had the night before with The Canadian. It didn't go well. In fact, it ended with me yelling, "You make me want to shoot myself!" before hanging up. Mature, I know. But I'm young and emotional, which isn't a good combo.
As soon as I walk in, Valerie calls me into the office.
"Call your Dad. You no work today. I get your shift covered." I blink and rub my eyes. Valerie is going to give me a day off? Something must be really wrong.
My mind whirs. Is my Dad hurt? My Mom? My little Sister? What the hell is going on?
I grab the office phone and dial my house. My Dad picks up on the first ring.
"Dad, what's going on? Is everyone ok?" I brace myself, preparing for the worst.
"Everyone's fine, buddy. Can you meet me at the gym?" This is weird... my Dad doesn't take days off, and all of a sudden he feels like he needs to miss work and start working out?
"That's fine. Can you tell me what's going on?"
"I'd rather talk over a game of HORSE, ok?" We used to do this when I was little. Everytime there was big news, we'd talk about it over a game of HORSE. This must be important...
This day just went from beautiful, to odd, to ominous.
I drive over to the gym and start warming up. A short while later, my Dad shows up.
We go at it for two games. He doesn't take it easy on me any more. We split the games. I kill him with trick shots and threes from the corner. He makes me look silly with his left-handed reverse layups and free throws. Funny how old-school fundamentals and new-school flash even out.
My curiosity grows throughout our games. The old man hasn't said a word, and he seems to be in good spirits. Normally, I can get a pretty good read on people. In this case, even though it's my father, I'm clueless. Finally, he's ready to talk.
"Hey, buddy, got a call from The Canadian this morning. She's a bit worried about you."
What?! This whole thing is about a stupid fight I had with the Canadian? And what the hell is she doing calling my parents? I feel like I'm in a fifth grade feud... 'I'm telling on you!'
"OK...." I can't think of anything else to say.
"I think it's time we go back to the doc to adjust your meds." Ah, I see. No big deal. It's probably time for an adjustment. A quick visit to the doc and I'll be good to go.
"What time is the appointment?"
"Well, we should just make it if we leave now."
"Alright, let's go."
We hop into his car and head off towards the doctors office. I didn't sleep well after the fight with The Canadian. I'm tired. Watching the trees shoot by the car, I start to nod off.
When I come to, we've stopped. There's just one problem. We're at the hospital, not the doctor's office.
"Dad, what's going on?"
"I got a reference for a new doctor. He works here. The family doc says he's like a chemist with anti-deppressants." Sounds good to me.
We walk in past the front desk. We amble through the corridors until we reach a set of double doors. A placard reading "Mental Health Ward" hangs over them. Whoever did the sign has a macabre sense of humor. The words have been scrawled in an olde English script, conjuring images of the old asylums where the inmates were tortured. If they weren't insane when they arrived, undoubtably they were batty when they left.
After passing through these doors, my Dad turns to me.
"Son, I've already talked to your doctor. He thinks you should stay here overnight, just to clear your mind." Ah Ha! So this is why he was acting so oddly.
"Why? I don't feel that bad." I don't mind changing my meds, but this place is kind of creepy. Buncha folks walking around in paper pajamas, looking really unhappy.
"Well, the Canadian told your mom and I that you were thinking about suicide. That makes us kind of nervous."
"Whoa... hold on there. That was taken completely out of context! I'm fine, really!" I carry on like this for about half an hour. I can see the steely resolve in my father's eyes. I'm staying here whether I like it or not. Shit. This puts a damper on my afternoon plans.
"Fine. What do I have to do?" I turn to the orderly. He makes me fill out a form. He takes my belt (in case I try to hang myself), my shoelaces (in case I try to use them to saw my wrists), and my dignity. Even though I'm 90% clothed, I feel as naked as I've ever felt.
My Dad hugs me before he leaves. For the only time in my life that I can remember, I don't hug him back. I'm pissed.
I sit on a bench for a while, watching the other "guests" in the ward. There is a woman in her mid-30's. She's got a visitor, but she isn't talking to him. She's completely listless, holding her head in her hands.
Another woman, in her early-80's, is walking towards the orderly stand, across the hall from where I'm sitting.
"Where is my red pill?" Her voice reminds me of sandpaper scraping across gravel.
"Delores, you don't get a red pill tonight." The orderly is friendly.
"I need my red pill, you bastard." Delores is getting angry.
"Now Delores, don't be like that. The doc says you don't get one tonight." He remains calm and friendly.
"Give me my red pill you stupid motherfucker." I'm trying not to laugh. This shit is better than TV.
"Delores, if you don't calm down, we're going to have to put you in the restraints."
"Fuck you!" Delores turns to go, then stops. She turns back to the orderly, murder in her eyes. I outweigh Delores by about 90 lbs., but that look makes me uncomfortable.
I'm looking for something blunt and heavy when I hear something that sounds like a shotgun.
I dive behind the bench.
Now the orderly is cracking up. I sneak a look.
Delores has just shit herself. There's a brown stain on her otherwise pearly-white night gown. Oh... my... God.... No way I just saw that!
The orderly takes Delores to the bathroom to clean up. While he's gone, I notice a phone on his desk. I know he'll be busy with her for a while, so I decide to take advantage.
I use a calling card to call the Canadian.
"What the hell were you thinking?" Beats 'hello' anyday.
"What do you mean? Calling your parents?"
"Yes, calling my parents. Do you know where I am? I'm in the fucking loony bin!"
"I didn't mean for that to happen!" She sounds sorry, but sorry doesn't get me out of the loony bin, does it?
"I can't believe this... I don't know if I can forgive you for this one. I better go, the orderly is done cleaning up the old lady that shit herself." I hang up and let her stew on that one.
Over the next couple hours, I'm privy to some of the everyday occurrences of the mental health ward. A fight nearly breaks out when someone switches the channel from PAX to Lifetime. One older gentleman mutters to himself in the corner. I'm introduced to my roommate, who has two fresh bandages on his wrist from his most recent suicide attempt.
I'm going through this whole thing in a haze, alternately cursing my parents and the Canadian. Ultimately, I realize that I'm more pissed at the Canadian. My parents were just looking out for their son. She was looking to hurt me after our fight.
That evening, everyone is told to retire to their rooms. It's 8:00. The orderly gives me a pill to help me sleep.
"Doctor's orders," he says with a wink. He's a good guy. I take the pill and slip into the void of sleep.
***
"GET THE FUCK OFF ME YOU STUPID MOTHER FUCKERS!!!! I'LL KILL YOU!! GET OFF ME!!!"
I shoot out of bed, disoriented. Where the hell am I? Oh yeah, the booby hatch.
Two orderlies are dragging my roommate out of his bed. He's screaming bloody murder.
A third man stands in the corner. He's tapping his clipboard with a pen. He looks bored.
"What are they doing to him?"
"He has ECT this morning." For those of you not in the know, ECT stands for "electro-convulsive therapy", the newer, happier-sounding name of electric shock therapy. The same electric shock therapy that we all remember from "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest." Good times.
I get to call my parents. They tell me that the doctor is supposed to meet with me by 10, so I should be out by noon. Thank God.
The morning passes uneventfully. The only event of interest is "exercise hour". This is actually a half hour in which the "guests" are allowed to walk around a small courtyard.
There is a ping pong table. I ask one of the guests to play with me. It's the same lady that had a guest the day before. I was looking forward to a nice, quiet game.
Turns out the lady is bipolar. Last night, she was down. Today, she's manic. She's talking a mile a minute. I know her life's story by the end of the game.
The doctor doesn't show up until 6 pm that evening. My parents are here. They're ticked. They wanted me to be able to relax for an evening. Instead, they worry that I've been traumatized. Can't say that I blame them. Honestly, had Delores not started the events on such and uplifting note, I would have been miserable.
The doctor prescribes me some new meds. Sweet.
I get my shoelaces and belt back, and we're on our way.
In the car ride home, I reflect back on my stay at the loony bin. I'm not mad at my parents for putting me there. They always want what's best for me. However, I feel bad for those who make a permanent home there. That's no way to live.
As for the Canadian... I haven't forgiven her. Honestly, I don't even know how she feels about it. I haven't spoken to her since. I don't know if I'm being shallow about this whole thing. I mean, after all... I did get a great story out of the ordeal.
Sorry it's been so long, everyone. I hope this makes up for the time lapse. This story has its funny moments, but its tone is more somber and serious than the usual posts.
I am giving you all a glimpse into my personal life on this one. There are a couple of things you should know before we get started...
1) I suffer from depression. I take meds, but every now and again I need to get the prescription adjusted. Keeps me level.
2) While I was at school, I used to date a Canadian. I don't talk to her any more. You'll soon see why.
3) My family is really close. I'm serious. We're like the Cleavers and the Cosbys.
-The Server Goes to the Loony Bin-
It's a beautiful day at The Restaurant. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and the waitresses are wearing short shorts. I'm walking in, swinging my apron around like a kid going around-the-world with a yo-yo. Life is good.
The only thing weighing heavy on my mind is a conversation I had the night before with The Canadian. It didn't go well. In fact, it ended with me yelling, "You make me want to shoot myself!" before hanging up. Mature, I know. But I'm young and emotional, which isn't a good combo.
As soon as I walk in, Valerie calls me into the office.
"Call your Dad. You no work today. I get your shift covered." I blink and rub my eyes. Valerie is going to give me a day off? Something must be really wrong.
My mind whirs. Is my Dad hurt? My Mom? My little Sister? What the hell is going on?
I grab the office phone and dial my house. My Dad picks up on the first ring.
"Dad, what's going on? Is everyone ok?" I brace myself, preparing for the worst.
"Everyone's fine, buddy. Can you meet me at the gym?" This is weird... my Dad doesn't take days off, and all of a sudden he feels like he needs to miss work and start working out?
"That's fine. Can you tell me what's going on?"
"I'd rather talk over a game of HORSE, ok?" We used to do this when I was little. Everytime there was big news, we'd talk about it over a game of HORSE. This must be important...
This day just went from beautiful, to odd, to ominous.
I drive over to the gym and start warming up. A short while later, my Dad shows up.
We go at it for two games. He doesn't take it easy on me any more. We split the games. I kill him with trick shots and threes from the corner. He makes me look silly with his left-handed reverse layups and free throws. Funny how old-school fundamentals and new-school flash even out.
My curiosity grows throughout our games. The old man hasn't said a word, and he seems to be in good spirits. Normally, I can get a pretty good read on people. In this case, even though it's my father, I'm clueless. Finally, he's ready to talk.
"Hey, buddy, got a call from The Canadian this morning. She's a bit worried about you."
What?! This whole thing is about a stupid fight I had with the Canadian? And what the hell is she doing calling my parents? I feel like I'm in a fifth grade feud... 'I'm telling on you!'
"OK...." I can't think of anything else to say.
"I think it's time we go back to the doc to adjust your meds." Ah, I see. No big deal. It's probably time for an adjustment. A quick visit to the doc and I'll be good to go.
"What time is the appointment?"
"Well, we should just make it if we leave now."
"Alright, let's go."
We hop into his car and head off towards the doctors office. I didn't sleep well after the fight with The Canadian. I'm tired. Watching the trees shoot by the car, I start to nod off.
When I come to, we've stopped. There's just one problem. We're at the hospital, not the doctor's office.
"Dad, what's going on?"
"I got a reference for a new doctor. He works here. The family doc says he's like a chemist with anti-deppressants." Sounds good to me.
We walk in past the front desk. We amble through the corridors until we reach a set of double doors. A placard reading "Mental Health Ward" hangs over them. Whoever did the sign has a macabre sense of humor. The words have been scrawled in an olde English script, conjuring images of the old asylums where the inmates were tortured. If they weren't insane when they arrived, undoubtably they were batty when they left.
After passing through these doors, my Dad turns to me.
"Son, I've already talked to your doctor. He thinks you should stay here overnight, just to clear your mind." Ah Ha! So this is why he was acting so oddly.
"Why? I don't feel that bad." I don't mind changing my meds, but this place is kind of creepy. Buncha folks walking around in paper pajamas, looking really unhappy.
"Well, the Canadian told your mom and I that you were thinking about suicide. That makes us kind of nervous."
"Whoa... hold on there. That was taken completely out of context! I'm fine, really!" I carry on like this for about half an hour. I can see the steely resolve in my father's eyes. I'm staying here whether I like it or not. Shit. This puts a damper on my afternoon plans.
"Fine. What do I have to do?" I turn to the orderly. He makes me fill out a form. He takes my belt (in case I try to hang myself), my shoelaces (in case I try to use them to saw my wrists), and my dignity. Even though I'm 90% clothed, I feel as naked as I've ever felt.
My Dad hugs me before he leaves. For the only time in my life that I can remember, I don't hug him back. I'm pissed.
I sit on a bench for a while, watching the other "guests" in the ward. There is a woman in her mid-30's. She's got a visitor, but she isn't talking to him. She's completely listless, holding her head in her hands.
Another woman, in her early-80's, is walking towards the orderly stand, across the hall from where I'm sitting.
"Where is my red pill?" Her voice reminds me of sandpaper scraping across gravel.
"Delores, you don't get a red pill tonight." The orderly is friendly.
"I need my red pill, you bastard." Delores is getting angry.
"Now Delores, don't be like that. The doc says you don't get one tonight." He remains calm and friendly.
"Give me my red pill you stupid motherfucker." I'm trying not to laugh. This shit is better than TV.
"Delores, if you don't calm down, we're going to have to put you in the restraints."
"Fuck you!" Delores turns to go, then stops. She turns back to the orderly, murder in her eyes. I outweigh Delores by about 90 lbs., but that look makes me uncomfortable.
I'm looking for something blunt and heavy when I hear something that sounds like a shotgun.
I dive behind the bench.
Now the orderly is cracking up. I sneak a look.
Delores has just shit herself. There's a brown stain on her otherwise pearly-white night gown. Oh... my... God.... No way I just saw that!
The orderly takes Delores to the bathroom to clean up. While he's gone, I notice a phone on his desk. I know he'll be busy with her for a while, so I decide to take advantage.
I use a calling card to call the Canadian.
"What the hell were you thinking?" Beats 'hello' anyday.
"What do you mean? Calling your parents?"
"Yes, calling my parents. Do you know where I am? I'm in the fucking loony bin!"
"I didn't mean for that to happen!" She sounds sorry, but sorry doesn't get me out of the loony bin, does it?
"I can't believe this... I don't know if I can forgive you for this one. I better go, the orderly is done cleaning up the old lady that shit herself." I hang up and let her stew on that one.
Over the next couple hours, I'm privy to some of the everyday occurrences of the mental health ward. A fight nearly breaks out when someone switches the channel from PAX to Lifetime. One older gentleman mutters to himself in the corner. I'm introduced to my roommate, who has two fresh bandages on his wrist from his most recent suicide attempt.
I'm going through this whole thing in a haze, alternately cursing my parents and the Canadian. Ultimately, I realize that I'm more pissed at the Canadian. My parents were just looking out for their son. She was looking to hurt me after our fight.
That evening, everyone is told to retire to their rooms. It's 8:00. The orderly gives me a pill to help me sleep.
"Doctor's orders," he says with a wink. He's a good guy. I take the pill and slip into the void of sleep.
***
"GET THE FUCK OFF ME YOU STUPID MOTHER FUCKERS!!!! I'LL KILL YOU!! GET OFF ME!!!"
I shoot out of bed, disoriented. Where the hell am I? Oh yeah, the booby hatch.
Two orderlies are dragging my roommate out of his bed. He's screaming bloody murder.
A third man stands in the corner. He's tapping his clipboard with a pen. He looks bored.
"What are they doing to him?"
"He has ECT this morning." For those of you not in the know, ECT stands for "electro-convulsive therapy", the newer, happier-sounding name of electric shock therapy. The same electric shock therapy that we all remember from "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest." Good times.
I get to call my parents. They tell me that the doctor is supposed to meet with me by 10, so I should be out by noon. Thank God.
The morning passes uneventfully. The only event of interest is "exercise hour". This is actually a half hour in which the "guests" are allowed to walk around a small courtyard.
There is a ping pong table. I ask one of the guests to play with me. It's the same lady that had a guest the day before. I was looking forward to a nice, quiet game.
Turns out the lady is bipolar. Last night, she was down. Today, she's manic. She's talking a mile a minute. I know her life's story by the end of the game.
The doctor doesn't show up until 6 pm that evening. My parents are here. They're ticked. They wanted me to be able to relax for an evening. Instead, they worry that I've been traumatized. Can't say that I blame them. Honestly, had Delores not started the events on such and uplifting note, I would have been miserable.
The doctor prescribes me some new meds. Sweet.
I get my shoelaces and belt back, and we're on our way.
In the car ride home, I reflect back on my stay at the loony bin. I'm not mad at my parents for putting me there. They always want what's best for me. However, I feel bad for those who make a permanent home there. That's no way to live.
As for the Canadian... I haven't forgiven her. Honestly, I don't even know how she feels about it. I haven't spoken to her since. I don't know if I'm being shallow about this whole thing. I mean, after all... I did get a great story out of the ordeal.
Sunday, July 31, 2005
Valerie Gets Canned- Part II
-Preface-
When we left off, Valerie was scrubbing floors. The corporate office sacked the regional manager. I am at school in Jersey while my girlfriend is working at The Restaurant. She calls me with regular updates. I'm nervous, as I wrote an email that laid out all the problems that Valerie is causing. She hasn't been fired, and I'm wondering if I've been laid out to dry.
-Valerie Gets Canned, Part II-
I'm in my dorm writing a paper for one of my Anthropology classes. It's a five-pager. In high school, a five-page paper is intimidating. Now it's a breeze. I've been writing for an hour and I already have seven pages. I just have to pare down the flowery language and I'm good to go. There's a party tonight that I don't want to miss.
The phone rings. It's my girl. She's calling from The Restaurant.
"She's still here." She's whispering. She must be on her cell phone in the back.
"Is she still washing the walls?" I love the mental picture of Valerie on her knees with a bucket of soap and a sponge, Cinderella-style.
"No... the new regional made her clean out the entire dry storage. She's still in there. This place reeks like bleach!"
"How's the new regional treating everyone?"
"She's strict, but she loves me... I think she might be a lesbo. She made me unbutton a few buttons on my shirt. My boobs are almost hanging out." I like this new regional manager already.
"Oh, yeah? How are the tips today?"
"Actually, really good." No surprise there. How you look can effect your tip, regardless of your skills as a server. (More on this in another post)
"Nice. People are pigs. Hey, I have to finish this paper, then I'm going to go out. Ice block party tonight. You working tomorrow?"
"Yeah."
"OK. Can you call me if anything else happens?"
"Sure... by the way, what's an ice block party?"
"We got a 300 lb. block of ice. We set it up on a stand and use an iron to melt grooves in it. Whoever wants a shot stands at the bottom with their mouth on the end of the groove. We pour in the booze from the top, and by the time it gets to the bottom, it's ice cold."
"Sounds like fun! Wish I could be there..." I can hear her pouting. Truth of the matter is, I wish she could be here too. When you're at school, you forget what it feels like to get a hug from a loved one.
"I know, baby. I wish you could be here, too. Give me a call tomorrow, ok?"
"Will do. I better get back..." Click.
OK, back to the paper. I hate Foucalt....
---
The phone is ringing. So is my head. Jaeger is the devil, especially when it's being poured down an icy chute. I grope for the phone in the dark.
"Hello?" My eyes are still closed. A little monkey is playing conga drums in my skull. Every time I move, he playes louder. I try to stay still.
"You sound like shit." Is that a hint of glee I hear?
"Thanks. What time is it?"
"Eleven your time." I've been asleep for five hours. Super.
"What's going on?"
"I just got here. She's still here, but now they have her cleaning the ceiling tiles. The reason I called is that there are two people from corporate here." Forgetting my headache, I shoot out of bed onto my feet.
"You think they're going to fire her today?" I pace nervously while my mind races. Is this it? Will they finally get rid of her? Who will the be the new GM? Man, my hardwood floor sure is dirty. Where are my shower slippers? Shit, she's talking again.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"I said 'I don't think so.' They wouldn't make her keep cleaning if they were going to fire her, right?"
"Honestly, I don't know. I'm going to be in my room all day. Call me if something changes."
I hang up the phone. I wonder out of my bedroom into the common room. The light streaming through our lone window hurts my eyes.
My roommate is gently shooing out some girl he picked up last night. She leaves reluctantly. Time for her to embark on the Walk of Shame.
He looks like hell. I figure I probably look just as bad. We look at each other. Without saying a word, we turn and head back to our beds.
---
I'm finally able to get out of bed around 2. My roommate and I head out for lunch at Hoagie Haven, home of the greatest cheese steaks on Earth. We need grease if we're going to rebound for another party tonight. I love college.
When we get back about an hour later, the red light on the phone is blinking. There is a message. My roommate checks first.
"Must be you. My voicemail is empty." He tosses me the handset, plops on the couch, and flicks on the TV. He finds an NCAA basketball game and zones in.
I check my voicemail. Four messages. The first is from my parents. Just checking in. The next three are from my girlfriend.
"Call me back!"
"Where are you? You better not be sleeping! Call me back!"
"I can't believe I can't get a hold of you! You said you'd be in your room all day. Call me back!"
Weird. She's not the type to call and leave a bunch of messages. Hmmm... I pick up the handset and call The Restaurant.
"Thank you for calling The Restaurant, this is Rena speaking, how can I help you?"
"Rena, it's me. Is the woman around?"
"I was wondering when you were going to call. You ain't gonna believe this shit! Here she is."
"Hello? They did it! They canned her ass! HA!" She's screaming into the receiver. My mind goes numb. I recover quickly and start dancing a little jig, laughing hysterically. My roommate watches me with mild interest.
"Tell me everything!"
She launches into the story.
Valerie has been cleaning the place from bottom to top. She was washing the ceiling tiles, but when she got to the final tile, the corporate G-Men stopped her. They lead her over to one of the tables. Nobody can hear anything until Valerie stands up and starts screaming, "This bullshit! You can't fire me! I managing partner!"
Valerie invested some money into the franchise a while back. She gets a percentage of the store's profits.
Apparently, The G-Men anticipated this. They open a briefcase, write her a check, hand it to her, and point her towards the door. She's screaming as she's leaving.
"You can't do this! This bullshit! I sue your asses!"
As she's leaving, still raving, a man walks in. He's about 6'4'', and he looks a bit nervous. The G-Men speak to him for a moment. They then ask the staff to gather in the back.
Once everyone is there, the G-men introduce the tall man as the new general manager, Randy. Then one of the G-men explained what happened.
"The corporate office felt it may be time for a change for this store. When we arrived a few days ago, we realized that The Restaurant was in a lot worse of shape than we anticipated. In fact, it was rotten to the core. We made Valerie clean up her own mess, as you may have noticed. However, we left one ceiling tile untouched." He points to the uncleaned ceiling tile. It's yellow, on the verge of brown. The contrast with the gleaming white ceiling tiles is astonishing. "Every time you look at that tile, I want you all to think about what each of you can do to prevent the same sort of thing from happening."
The G-men pack up their stuff an leave.
In the coming weeks, Valerie's absence was easily noticable. From the associates (servers, bartenders, cooks, busboys, hosts) a mild euphoria permeated The Restaurant. From the managers, astonishment and disgust. Valerie had been doctoring her cost numbers for months. Food cost jumped four points, beverage cost jumped 2. For those of you counting at home, that adds up to about $4,500 in missing food and liquor.
And from me? Well, I'm just amazed at the power of one well-written email.
When we left off, Valerie was scrubbing floors. The corporate office sacked the regional manager. I am at school in Jersey while my girlfriend is working at The Restaurant. She calls me with regular updates. I'm nervous, as I wrote an email that laid out all the problems that Valerie is causing. She hasn't been fired, and I'm wondering if I've been laid out to dry.
-Valerie Gets Canned, Part II-
I'm in my dorm writing a paper for one of my Anthropology classes. It's a five-pager. In high school, a five-page paper is intimidating. Now it's a breeze. I've been writing for an hour and I already have seven pages. I just have to pare down the flowery language and I'm good to go. There's a party tonight that I don't want to miss.
The phone rings. It's my girl. She's calling from The Restaurant.
"She's still here." She's whispering. She must be on her cell phone in the back.
"Is she still washing the walls?" I love the mental picture of Valerie on her knees with a bucket of soap and a sponge, Cinderella-style.
"No... the new regional made her clean out the entire dry storage. She's still in there. This place reeks like bleach!"
"How's the new regional treating everyone?"
"She's strict, but she loves me... I think she might be a lesbo. She made me unbutton a few buttons on my shirt. My boobs are almost hanging out." I like this new regional manager already.
"Oh, yeah? How are the tips today?"
"Actually, really good." No surprise there. How you look can effect your tip, regardless of your skills as a server. (More on this in another post)
"Nice. People are pigs. Hey, I have to finish this paper, then I'm going to go out. Ice block party tonight. You working tomorrow?"
"Yeah."
"OK. Can you call me if anything else happens?"
"Sure... by the way, what's an ice block party?"
"We got a 300 lb. block of ice. We set it up on a stand and use an iron to melt grooves in it. Whoever wants a shot stands at the bottom with their mouth on the end of the groove. We pour in the booze from the top, and by the time it gets to the bottom, it's ice cold."
"Sounds like fun! Wish I could be there..." I can hear her pouting. Truth of the matter is, I wish she could be here too. When you're at school, you forget what it feels like to get a hug from a loved one.
"I know, baby. I wish you could be here, too. Give me a call tomorrow, ok?"
"Will do. I better get back..." Click.
OK, back to the paper. I hate Foucalt....
---
The phone is ringing. So is my head. Jaeger is the devil, especially when it's being poured down an icy chute. I grope for the phone in the dark.
"Hello?" My eyes are still closed. A little monkey is playing conga drums in my skull. Every time I move, he playes louder. I try to stay still.
"You sound like shit." Is that a hint of glee I hear?
"Thanks. What time is it?"
"Eleven your time." I've been asleep for five hours. Super.
"What's going on?"
"I just got here. She's still here, but now they have her cleaning the ceiling tiles. The reason I called is that there are two people from corporate here." Forgetting my headache, I shoot out of bed onto my feet.
"You think they're going to fire her today?" I pace nervously while my mind races. Is this it? Will they finally get rid of her? Who will the be the new GM? Man, my hardwood floor sure is dirty. Where are my shower slippers? Shit, she's talking again.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"I said 'I don't think so.' They wouldn't make her keep cleaning if they were going to fire her, right?"
"Honestly, I don't know. I'm going to be in my room all day. Call me if something changes."
I hang up the phone. I wonder out of my bedroom into the common room. The light streaming through our lone window hurts my eyes.
My roommate is gently shooing out some girl he picked up last night. She leaves reluctantly. Time for her to embark on the Walk of Shame.
He looks like hell. I figure I probably look just as bad. We look at each other. Without saying a word, we turn and head back to our beds.
---
I'm finally able to get out of bed around 2. My roommate and I head out for lunch at Hoagie Haven, home of the greatest cheese steaks on Earth. We need grease if we're going to rebound for another party tonight. I love college.
When we get back about an hour later, the red light on the phone is blinking. There is a message. My roommate checks first.
"Must be you. My voicemail is empty." He tosses me the handset, plops on the couch, and flicks on the TV. He finds an NCAA basketball game and zones in.
I check my voicemail. Four messages. The first is from my parents. Just checking in. The next three are from my girlfriend.
"Call me back!"
"Where are you? You better not be sleeping! Call me back!"
"I can't believe I can't get a hold of you! You said you'd be in your room all day. Call me back!"
Weird. She's not the type to call and leave a bunch of messages. Hmmm... I pick up the handset and call The Restaurant.
"Thank you for calling The Restaurant, this is Rena speaking, how can I help you?"
"Rena, it's me. Is the woman around?"
"I was wondering when you were going to call. You ain't gonna believe this shit! Here she is."
"Hello? They did it! They canned her ass! HA!" She's screaming into the receiver. My mind goes numb. I recover quickly and start dancing a little jig, laughing hysterically. My roommate watches me with mild interest.
"Tell me everything!"
She launches into the story.
Valerie has been cleaning the place from bottom to top. She was washing the ceiling tiles, but when she got to the final tile, the corporate G-Men stopped her. They lead her over to one of the tables. Nobody can hear anything until Valerie stands up and starts screaming, "This bullshit! You can't fire me! I managing partner!"
Valerie invested some money into the franchise a while back. She gets a percentage of the store's profits.
Apparently, The G-Men anticipated this. They open a briefcase, write her a check, hand it to her, and point her towards the door. She's screaming as she's leaving.
"You can't do this! This bullshit! I sue your asses!"
As she's leaving, still raving, a man walks in. He's about 6'4'', and he looks a bit nervous. The G-Men speak to him for a moment. They then ask the staff to gather in the back.
Once everyone is there, the G-men introduce the tall man as the new general manager, Randy. Then one of the G-men explained what happened.
"The corporate office felt it may be time for a change for this store. When we arrived a few days ago, we realized that The Restaurant was in a lot worse of shape than we anticipated. In fact, it was rotten to the core. We made Valerie clean up her own mess, as you may have noticed. However, we left one ceiling tile untouched." He points to the uncleaned ceiling tile. It's yellow, on the verge of brown. The contrast with the gleaming white ceiling tiles is astonishing. "Every time you look at that tile, I want you all to think about what each of you can do to prevent the same sort of thing from happening."
The G-men pack up their stuff an leave.
In the coming weeks, Valerie's absence was easily noticable. From the associates (servers, bartenders, cooks, busboys, hosts) a mild euphoria permeated The Restaurant. From the managers, astonishment and disgust. Valerie had been doctoring her cost numbers for months. Food cost jumped four points, beverage cost jumped 2. For those of you counting at home, that adds up to about $4,500 in missing food and liquor.
And from me? Well, I'm just amazed at the power of one well-written email.
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Valerie Gets Canned- Part I
-Preface-
This is a longer story, so I'm breaking it into two parts. The first will deal with the events leading up to Valerie's firing. The second will deal with the day prior to and the day of her termination.
-A Description of Valerie-
Look in past posts, including The Captain and Valerie, Ranch Dressing, and a Birthday.
-Valerie Gets Canned, Part I-
As you've seen in posts past, Valerie is a tough cookie. By "tough cookie", I really mean "a cold, selfish, unsympathetic, heartless, Napoleonic (Bonaparte, not Dynamite) little wench." The servers hate working with her. She cares little for anything but herself and her bottom line.
Here are some brief examples that reveal the true character of Valerie:
-A server home from school works a six-hour shift. She heads to the back, where she sits outside the office, separating her checks into cash, credit, and other (coupons, comps, etc.).
Tomorrow morning she leaves for Purdue to buy books. She has managed to scrape together $60 on a slow shift, just enough to afford her Econ book. She's hustled on her feet all day. I can tell she's dead tired. She goes into the office to check out with Valerie.
There's a problem. She can't find one of the $2 off coupons. Valerie can let this slide. She doesn't. The server slams her book down on the desk and storms out of the office, heading to the back door. Soon she is knee-deep in the dumpster, looking for the coupon. By some amazing stroke of luck, she finds the coupon. She returns to the office, stinky and bitter. It gets worse.
She counts down her money. She now only has $40. She has to borrow money to get her books.
I can't prove that Valerie took it, but here are several facts that make a good case.
First, the server's book, which included her money, her checks, and her coupons, remained in the office the entire time she was digging through the dumpster. Valerie was the only person in the office.
Second, another server spotted a Jackson stuffed in between two envelopes. She said something to Valerie, who immediately responded, "It fell out of petty cash." Petty cash is kept in the safe, which is on the floor. The lockbox weighs fifty pounds. When the managers take it out of the safe, they just put it on the floor. I find it hard to believe that a twenty fell out of the lockbox, caught an updraft, floated around the office like a feather in the wind, and then slid between two envelopes.
-Valerie counts down my bar drawer. She says it is $20 short. I have to pay it or I get written up. I pay it. I hate getting disciplined for anything. I never got a detention all through school.
Looking at my sales vs. my total tips, I see that I averaged less than 15% for the first time in my serving career. I normally average over 20%. Hmm....
-Less than a week later, she tries the same trick with another bartender. This bartender fights back.
"I counted the drawer before I gave it to you. The money was there, Valerie! Where the hell is it now? You better it soon, and don't try to pull this shit on me again, you hear me?!!" Saucy little bartender, isn't she?
Miraculously, Valerie finds the missing money. Hmm...
Events like these have the staff on the edge of mutiny. People are constantly grumbling, and the staff is getting snippy. We're sick of being verbally and emotionally abused by Valerietnam.
We try to talk to the regional manager. Unfortunately, Valerie is his protege. He hired her as a pantry girl and then brought her up through the ranks, all the way to GM. In his eyes, she can do no wrong. No help is coming from that corner.
Eventually, one of the older bartenders decides to take action. She writes a letter to the corporate office.
Copies of this letter circulate among the staff. As the resident academic, I am one of the first to get a copy. Hiding it in my server book, I read it during a slow lunch shift. I'm pretending to be studying a description of the new chicken and pasta dish. Cloak and dagger all the way, baby.
The letter starts off, "I am a server, a bartender, a cook, a busboy..." and ends with, "It is my firm belief that Valerie's employment with your establishment should be terminated forthwith." In between lay a poorly-written mess of lofty ideals and baseless accusations. The bartender is very proud of her work. I don't have the heart to tell her that the corporate office is more likely to correct it in red ink and send it back rather than take action.
However, the bartender does have some solid evidence. There are photocopies of checks that Valerie adjusted after close. No check should ever be adjusted after The Restaurant's business hours.
The Administrative Assistant deals with all adjusted checks. Apparrently, she started making photocopies of these suspicious checks months ago.
This was Valerie's scam...
She waits until after close. She re-opens checks paid in cash. She comps all the food, pockets the cash, and thinks no one is the wiser. Nobody knows how long she's been doing this.
Just as I predicted, the letter doesn't get a response. In all honesty, I don't see how anyone at the corporate office could respond. The bartender didn't leave a return address or a name. They couldn't call us up and say, "Hello, I'd like to speak to a server, a bartender, a busboy..."
Luckily, I head back to school. I don't want to deal with the political b.s. and all the bitching that goes with it. It makes me cranky.
Every day while I'm away at school, I talk (long-distance) to my girlfriend, who works as a bartender at The Restaurant. Remember the bartender who wouldn't let Valerie scam her? That's my girl. She bitches constantly about Valerie and her surrounding managerial staff. I can tell she's miserable.
Finally, after talking to her until 3 a.m. on a Sunday, I decide to take action. I go on the company website, click on the "comments" link, and go to town. My email letter is short, pointed, and biting. I lay out all I know. The stealing, the attitude, the Regional Manager's lack of action, everything.
At the end, I don't leave my name. If this thing doesn't go well, I don't want to be singled out and screwed over. I leave my school phone number and an offer to talk anytime.
I finish up at 5 am and go to sleep. I drift off wondering if they'll even bother getting back to me, let alone take action...
Ring.... Ring...
What the hell?! I roll over and look at the clock. 8:15. What soulless bastard would call me at 8:15 on a Monday, especially since I don't have class until noon?
"Myelllo...?" I'm groggy as hell. I've only gotten three hours of sleep.
"Hi! My name is (Name Erased to Protect the Innocent), and I'm a Vice President at the corporate office. Are you the one who wrote that email comment this morning?" The voice is chipper. Way too damn chipper for a Monday morning. The man has a slight southern-sounding twang to his voice. Having lived in Texas, I know Southern...and this isn't a Southern accent. I'm guessing Indiana or Ohio farm boy.
"Yes, yes I am. Wow, that was fast!" Now I'm wide awake and excited as heck.
"Well, we've been looking at this situation for a while. We even got a letter a while back, but we couldn't really make heads or tails of it. That wasn't you, was it?"
"Nah, but I read it."
"OK, good. Hey, um, can I ask you... are you still employed with us?" He wants to know if I'm a bitter ex-server out to get the GM who screwed me. Fair enough.
"Yes I am. I'm at school, but I work during the summer and holidays."
"Well then, tell me everything you can about what's going on out there."
I talk to him for an hour. He never rushes me while I speak. He asks good follow-up questions. He even asks for my girlfriend's phone number so he could follow up with her.
His final remark is, "Thank you for your help. Rest assured, we'll take care of the situation." I will always hold respect for this gentleman. His word is as good as gold.
Later that afternoon, I get a call from my fired-up girlfriend. She's at work and she's practically screaming. They fired the regional manager that wouldn't listen to us about Valerie. She said two men in suits breezed through the doors, found the regional (who happened to be at our store at the time), sat him down, and then escorted him to the door.
The new regional manager came in one hour later. Apparrently, she blew in like a hurricane. She immediately sought out Valerie and reamed her over the state of the restaurant.
"Oh. Is she making you guys clean everything in sight?" Now I feel like an asshole.
"No! Not us... Valerie! She's down on her knees scrubbing the walls in the back. I don't know what you did, but it worked! Love you!" She gives a little squeel and hangs up.
I'm stunned. Great, they got rid of one of the problems (the regional was a prick), but what about Valerie? I mean, I'm all about having her wash some walls, but will she still be boss when I go back? Will she know that I caused her all this grief? Will she take it out on me?
to be continued...
This is a longer story, so I'm breaking it into two parts. The first will deal with the events leading up to Valerie's firing. The second will deal with the day prior to and the day of her termination.
-A Description of Valerie-
Look in past posts, including The Captain and Valerie, Ranch Dressing, and a Birthday.
-Valerie Gets Canned, Part I-
As you've seen in posts past, Valerie is a tough cookie. By "tough cookie", I really mean "a cold, selfish, unsympathetic, heartless, Napoleonic (Bonaparte, not Dynamite) little wench." The servers hate working with her. She cares little for anything but herself and her bottom line.
Here are some brief examples that reveal the true character of Valerie:
-A server home from school works a six-hour shift. She heads to the back, where she sits outside the office, separating her checks into cash, credit, and other (coupons, comps, etc.).
Tomorrow morning she leaves for Purdue to buy books. She has managed to scrape together $60 on a slow shift, just enough to afford her Econ book. She's hustled on her feet all day. I can tell she's dead tired. She goes into the office to check out with Valerie.
There's a problem. She can't find one of the $2 off coupons. Valerie can let this slide. She doesn't. The server slams her book down on the desk and storms out of the office, heading to the back door. Soon she is knee-deep in the dumpster, looking for the coupon. By some amazing stroke of luck, she finds the coupon. She returns to the office, stinky and bitter. It gets worse.
She counts down her money. She now only has $40. She has to borrow money to get her books.
I can't prove that Valerie took it, but here are several facts that make a good case.
First, the server's book, which included her money, her checks, and her coupons, remained in the office the entire time she was digging through the dumpster. Valerie was the only person in the office.
Second, another server spotted a Jackson stuffed in between two envelopes. She said something to Valerie, who immediately responded, "It fell out of petty cash." Petty cash is kept in the safe, which is on the floor. The lockbox weighs fifty pounds. When the managers take it out of the safe, they just put it on the floor. I find it hard to believe that a twenty fell out of the lockbox, caught an updraft, floated around the office like a feather in the wind, and then slid between two envelopes.
-Valerie counts down my bar drawer. She says it is $20 short. I have to pay it or I get written up. I pay it. I hate getting disciplined for anything. I never got a detention all through school.
Looking at my sales vs. my total tips, I see that I averaged less than 15% for the first time in my serving career. I normally average over 20%. Hmm....
-Less than a week later, she tries the same trick with another bartender. This bartender fights back.
"I counted the drawer before I gave it to you. The money was there, Valerie! Where the hell is it now? You better it soon, and don't try to pull this shit on me again, you hear me?!!" Saucy little bartender, isn't she?
Miraculously, Valerie finds the missing money. Hmm...
Events like these have the staff on the edge of mutiny. People are constantly grumbling, and the staff is getting snippy. We're sick of being verbally and emotionally abused by Valerietnam.
We try to talk to the regional manager. Unfortunately, Valerie is his protege. He hired her as a pantry girl and then brought her up through the ranks, all the way to GM. In his eyes, she can do no wrong. No help is coming from that corner.
Eventually, one of the older bartenders decides to take action. She writes a letter to the corporate office.
Copies of this letter circulate among the staff. As the resident academic, I am one of the first to get a copy. Hiding it in my server book, I read it during a slow lunch shift. I'm pretending to be studying a description of the new chicken and pasta dish. Cloak and dagger all the way, baby.
The letter starts off, "I am a server, a bartender, a cook, a busboy..." and ends with, "It is my firm belief that Valerie's employment with your establishment should be terminated forthwith." In between lay a poorly-written mess of lofty ideals and baseless accusations. The bartender is very proud of her work. I don't have the heart to tell her that the corporate office is more likely to correct it in red ink and send it back rather than take action.
However, the bartender does have some solid evidence. There are photocopies of checks that Valerie adjusted after close. No check should ever be adjusted after The Restaurant's business hours.
The Administrative Assistant deals with all adjusted checks. Apparrently, she started making photocopies of these suspicious checks months ago.
This was Valerie's scam...
She waits until after close. She re-opens checks paid in cash. She comps all the food, pockets the cash, and thinks no one is the wiser. Nobody knows how long she's been doing this.
Just as I predicted, the letter doesn't get a response. In all honesty, I don't see how anyone at the corporate office could respond. The bartender didn't leave a return address or a name. They couldn't call us up and say, "Hello, I'd like to speak to a server, a bartender, a busboy..."
Luckily, I head back to school. I don't want to deal with the political b.s. and all the bitching that goes with it. It makes me cranky.
Every day while I'm away at school, I talk (long-distance) to my girlfriend, who works as a bartender at The Restaurant. Remember the bartender who wouldn't let Valerie scam her? That's my girl. She bitches constantly about Valerie and her surrounding managerial staff. I can tell she's miserable.
Finally, after talking to her until 3 a.m. on a Sunday, I decide to take action. I go on the company website, click on the "comments" link, and go to town. My email letter is short, pointed, and biting. I lay out all I know. The stealing, the attitude, the Regional Manager's lack of action, everything.
At the end, I don't leave my name. If this thing doesn't go well, I don't want to be singled out and screwed over. I leave my school phone number and an offer to talk anytime.
I finish up at 5 am and go to sleep. I drift off wondering if they'll even bother getting back to me, let alone take action...
Ring.... Ring...
What the hell?! I roll over and look at the clock. 8:15. What soulless bastard would call me at 8:15 on a Monday, especially since I don't have class until noon?
"Myelllo...?" I'm groggy as hell. I've only gotten three hours of sleep.
"Hi! My name is (Name Erased to Protect the Innocent), and I'm a Vice President at the corporate office. Are you the one who wrote that email comment this morning?" The voice is chipper. Way too damn chipper for a Monday morning. The man has a slight southern-sounding twang to his voice. Having lived in Texas, I know Southern...and this isn't a Southern accent. I'm guessing Indiana or Ohio farm boy.
"Yes, yes I am. Wow, that was fast!" Now I'm wide awake and excited as heck.
"Well, we've been looking at this situation for a while. We even got a letter a while back, but we couldn't really make heads or tails of it. That wasn't you, was it?"
"Nah, but I read it."
"OK, good. Hey, um, can I ask you... are you still employed with us?" He wants to know if I'm a bitter ex-server out to get the GM who screwed me. Fair enough.
"Yes I am. I'm at school, but I work during the summer and holidays."
"Well then, tell me everything you can about what's going on out there."
I talk to him for an hour. He never rushes me while I speak. He asks good follow-up questions. He even asks for my girlfriend's phone number so he could follow up with her.
His final remark is, "Thank you for your help. Rest assured, we'll take care of the situation." I will always hold respect for this gentleman. His word is as good as gold.
Later that afternoon, I get a call from my fired-up girlfriend. She's at work and she's practically screaming. They fired the regional manager that wouldn't listen to us about Valerie. She said two men in suits breezed through the doors, found the regional (who happened to be at our store at the time), sat him down, and then escorted him to the door.
The new regional manager came in one hour later. Apparrently, she blew in like a hurricane. She immediately sought out Valerie and reamed her over the state of the restaurant.
"Oh. Is she making you guys clean everything in sight?" Now I feel like an asshole.
"No! Not us... Valerie! She's down on her knees scrubbing the walls in the back. I don't know what you did, but it worked! Love you!" She gives a little squeel and hangs up.
I'm stunned. Great, they got rid of one of the problems (the regional was a prick), but what about Valerie? I mean, I'm all about having her wash some walls, but will she still be boss when I go back? Will she know that I caused her all this grief? Will she take it out on me?
to be continued...
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Taking requests...
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.
-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.
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!
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