I think that every server, in their head, does the countdown for the worst time of the year - the all-you-can-eat promotion. It's definatly the opposite of a countdown for a birthday or holiday, unless you are Scrooge, or turning 40. The endless promotions are truly server hell. Its like having that bad server dream where you are the only one on the floor, its all uphill, and the orders keep coming, except at the end of this one you don't wake up in a cold sweat, you just get another 10% tip and move on trying to avoid hurling a salad bowl against the wall, so you can see something else shatter besides your soul.
Its not even that its endless, that in its self isn't the problem; its the pure gluttony and greed that occur because its endless, and the fact that 99.9% of the population have absolutely no self control. Just seeing the word endless makes their face light up, like it is a birthday or a holiday, when in fact it is just another artery-clogging, face-stuffing, food fest. Its dangerous, its unhealthy, but dammit, its American!
"Hope you got your running shoes on today, cuz you're gonna be earning this tip!" droans the trailer trash that slithered out from in front of their NASCAR and Budweiser, made their wives clip the $4.00 coupon from the newspaper, and come in for water with lemon, and LOTS of boxes. Of course, Sir, I'd love to bring you that 16th refill of pasta, and NO, I do not see your wife shoveling it into her dollar-store tupperware container. Wait, you say you fasted for 28 minutes today? And you stopped at McDonalds on the way here!
"We'll all just have a water, We're not hungry." Of course you're not, but your husband is, and he is planning on ordering round after round, and sliding it to you on the down and down. But, don't you worry, I wore my running shoes today for the previous table, and I'm keeping an eagle eye on you. If anyone's finger so much as touches, and I mean TOUCHES, any of that food, I'm charging you all!!! Ah, come on, don't hate the player, hate the game!!
"You know, that all-you-can-eat really isn't up to par, I want it taken off the bill." Sir, did we mention it was all you can eat, and you just inhaled enough to feed a small army? There is no way in hell that you will ever get that comped. Oh wait, here comes my spineless manager, of course you'll get it for free, just say there was a hair. Wouldn't want you calling corporate would we?
"Can I subsitute this item for a regular menu item." Mam, read the menu, its all you can eat, don't you think that the company has picked the cheapest, easiest to be reproduced in a mass quantity, and most filling items and put it on the all you can eat? Of coures they have, and unless you plan on leaving your first-born as a tip, there's no way I am pulling any sort of string for you...you ordered all you can eat, thats when my good service stopped.
This goes on, for weeks and weeks, that seem like eternity, like you've reached the gates of hell, walked in on accident, and can't find your way out. You start the countdown to it ending, but it never goes by quick enough, and towards the end, its all you can do to drag yourself to work and face another endless night. Especially, a busy endless night, when the wait keeps getting longer and longer because the tables keep ordering more and more refills.
But, there is that day, when it ends. And you get to smile when a table askes, "where's that all you can eat at! Its the only reason I came in!"
I'm sorry Sir, that ended YESTERDAY!!! It's so unfortunate that you weren't able to join us!
Monday, November 10, 2008
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Regulars..More Like Regular-Pains-In-The-Ass!
There are two types of regulars, the ones that we enjoy and look forward to serving them, and the ones that we groan and pray that they aren't sat in our section. The latter deserve their own story, they are just as bad as some of the other stories you have read! While we applaud them and thank them for their continued patronage, we also wonder...how does it feel to have a meticulously set, detailed, methodical, monotonous schedule of when and where you will enter a local establishment and eat the same thing you have since it opened.
Exhibit A: Saturday and possibly Sunday mornings (depending on their mood), a couple comes out to eat...or drink, since in all honesty they consume more fluid than a camel that missed the last oasis in the Sahara desert. Saddlebags for bladders, they will consume two + pitchers of liquid without ever having walked into the restroom..how? I mean, seriously, my pea-sized bladder requires me to go at least once every two hours under normal conditions, even with a super big gulp for a bladder you still gotta go sometime. On top of that, I could understand the lack of release if they got in and got out, but thats not the case. They sit in the same booth everytime, switching sections of the worldest longest newspaper and reading every minute article - even those ones disguised as articles that are really ads for prescription drugs. It's almost as if they sit down in their regular booth, skewed with their ass prints, and are unable to mvoe until they hit an ungodly word count attainable to normal humans only by reading the dictionary front-to-back twice over.
How is it that you life can be so mundane and predictible that your idea of a good time is going out on a weekend afternoon and tourturing your server with your regular set up: drinks, ice, extra ice, a bowl of lemons (maybe two), a pitcher of liquid, sugar, extra sugars...and thats just for your drinks.
The managers may know you by name, and greet you with a smile, but us servers see you - grab a tray - and begin your set-up. Groaning as everyone walks up to us, announcing your very special nickname, and letting us know you have entered the building. Salud!
Exhibit B: While entirely unpredictable as to when they will come in, waiting on them is always a treat. Enter an older couple, the man looks like a modern-day version of Ichibod Crane and his wife, a human version of a bug. She follows him, exactly two steps behind him to wherever they may be sat. If you are lucky enough to get him on a good day, he may not be clenching a fork in his fist and threateningly pointing it at his already gunshy wife. Their order is always the same - since they have eaten there so much - he even knows the items not on the menu, and only found on the internal computer system.
Without missing a beat, he'll look you in the eyes with his squinty daggers and tell you, "I'll have the steak that is NOT on your menu, but is in your computer system, cooked medium with mashed potatoes and a salad." Of course, being a chivalrous gentlemen, he always orders first. Oh, and generally if he is eating, there has recently been a coupon drop, which miraculously coincides with the full moon.
On one particular evening, I had the pleasure of his company. Upon taking the salads to the table, he began to complain, not about the food, or the service, but about the background music, which had on a Jackson 5 song. Setting down the salad, Ichibod verbally acosted me. "Tell your manager to turn this shit down, I am highly offended by Motown music, I can't enjoy my dinner with this shit plaing, its too loud!"
Of course, many things are racing through my head, such as, "Sir, I'm not sure if you're aware of it, but the Civil Rights Movement passed in 1964, and its 2008, why don't you just stand up, put on your white cloak, and show me your swastika tattoo." But, since the customer is always right, and I need this job to pay my bills, I keep my mouth shut, inform mangement, who turns it down. At this point in the meal, I am avoiding his table at all costs, nevertheless, his food comes up and I am forced to walk it. Approaching the table, he lashes out again, like a rattlesnake coming out of the bushes. "You turned the music up, I know you did! It's louder than it was, I want this shit turned down so I can enjoy my meal, otherwise I am calling your corporate office". Looking around, I realize, the dinner rush is over, the restaurant is empty, and sure the music seems louder. I say nothing, simply turn and walk away, thinking to myself, please Sir, put down the steak knife and back away from the plate! No one wants to die tonight!
Exhibit C: It's a busy Friday night, we are on a wait out-the-door. A gumpy, googly-eyed, portly man enters. Going to the hostess, he requests a booth that seats four, in a non-smoking section, but facing the TV's in the bar so he can watch the game while he eats. He is eventually seated, and the server sees him and almost loses it, like I said, its a busy Friday night and this douchebag is sitting in a four-person booth by himself!
Knowing that he is a regular, the server already has a pitcher of soda for him (yes for some reason pain-in-the-ass regulars consume inordinate amounts of beverages) and goes to take his order. Not that its a big surprise, he orders the same thing every time, but just for formalities sake, they check.
Ringing in his food as early as possible, he eats his salad and gets his entree, eating painstakingly slow (another reoccuring theme) on a busy Friday night, stopping to say hi to every female server that walks by, using his lazy eye as an excuses to oogle their chest while he masticates - 40 times each bite - until the server is ready to pull out their hair or even pay him to leave! Thank you Sir, your $3.00 tip is greatly appreciated, by the way, who won the game?
Exhibit D: Its a normal Saturday lunch around 2PM, when an uptight, pompous know-it-all strolls in the door, newspaper clutched under his arm. He is led to a booth and seated. The server approaches and the man has not even cracked the menu, but has the sports page open to check the over/under on the bets he placed. Without blinking an eye, he recites his spiel.
"I need a diet coke - bring me a pitcher (told you!) , it will save me the hassle of asking you for refills. I want a lunch order of pasta, a side salad with no cucumbers, onions, tomatoes, crutons, or cheese (wouldn't it have just been easier to say JUST LETTUCE, Sir?) and two large sides of ranch". He immediatly clams up, and no eye contact has been made.
Returning with a pitcher, lettuce in a salad bowl, and enough ranch dressing to make lettuce soup, the server sets it down. Still no eye contact is made, he is waist deep in the sports section. Minutes later, the lettuce soup has been pushed over to the edge of the booth, as close to, without going over the ege (similar to winning prizes on the Price is Right). Peering over the tip-top of his newspaper with a glare as the server teeters by, balancing 4 plates, 6 glasses, 3 bowns, countless silverware and napkins, glaring harder as they walk by without grabbing his salad bowl, which apparently is hot lava, nuclear waste, or has possibly come in contact with the ebola virus and must be disposed of at once, utterly disgusted if you are unable to grab it while balancing the leaning tower of plateware.
By now, his food is up and is walked to him. Once again, he doesn't speak as the server sets the plate down and grabs the ebola virus bowl. The only words spoken are his spiel, and check please.
The spectacularness of this regular guest is two-fold; first, his uncanning ability to eat while not once taking his eye off the newspaper. This is a rarity, in fact, I would even go as far to venture that if he were to go on "America's Got Talent" he may actually be crowned the most talented American. Secondly, his tipping, you're thinking, oh he tips well, on the contrary. He may tip 15%, but no matter what his change is that he gets back off of the $20 bill he hands you, which is generally a $5, some $1's, a quarter, and a nickel, you're not getting it back! This man must sit at home - when the sports page runs out - and feed coins into his automatic coin sorter, a money miser so to speak. The only time he takes out coins is when he goes out to eat. Its never the quarters of the dimes, generally its an assload of nickles and pennies, equalling the appropriate 15% amount, shoved in the check minder, just waiting for the unsuspecting server to grab and shove it in their apron on their mad dash from one table to the next. Of course, the coins scatter all over the floor and the defeated server looks down at the carpet, patterned wtih nickles and pennies, their knees and back just won't let them bend over to pick it up. Silently, they curse at the sports-page-reading-money-miser and signal for the busboy, bribing him with the nickles and pennies all over the floor. Go to Coinstar Sir, a verbal tip would have been better!!
Exhibit A: Saturday and possibly Sunday mornings (depending on their mood), a couple comes out to eat...or drink, since in all honesty they consume more fluid than a camel that missed the last oasis in the Sahara desert. Saddlebags for bladders, they will consume two + pitchers of liquid without ever having walked into the restroom..how? I mean, seriously, my pea-sized bladder requires me to go at least once every two hours under normal conditions, even with a super big gulp for a bladder you still gotta go sometime. On top of that, I could understand the lack of release if they got in and got out, but thats not the case. They sit in the same booth everytime, switching sections of the worldest longest newspaper and reading every minute article - even those ones disguised as articles that are really ads for prescription drugs. It's almost as if they sit down in their regular booth, skewed with their ass prints, and are unable to mvoe until they hit an ungodly word count attainable to normal humans only by reading the dictionary front-to-back twice over.
How is it that you life can be so mundane and predictible that your idea of a good time is going out on a weekend afternoon and tourturing your server with your regular set up: drinks, ice, extra ice, a bowl of lemons (maybe two), a pitcher of liquid, sugar, extra sugars...and thats just for your drinks.
The managers may know you by name, and greet you with a smile, but us servers see you - grab a tray - and begin your set-up. Groaning as everyone walks up to us, announcing your very special nickname, and letting us know you have entered the building. Salud!
Exhibit B: While entirely unpredictable as to when they will come in, waiting on them is always a treat. Enter an older couple, the man looks like a modern-day version of Ichibod Crane and his wife, a human version of a bug. She follows him, exactly two steps behind him to wherever they may be sat. If you are lucky enough to get him on a good day, he may not be clenching a fork in his fist and threateningly pointing it at his already gunshy wife. Their order is always the same - since they have eaten there so much - he even knows the items not on the menu, and only found on the internal computer system.
Without missing a beat, he'll look you in the eyes with his squinty daggers and tell you, "I'll have the steak that is NOT on your menu, but is in your computer system, cooked medium with mashed potatoes and a salad." Of course, being a chivalrous gentlemen, he always orders first. Oh, and generally if he is eating, there has recently been a coupon drop, which miraculously coincides with the full moon.
On one particular evening, I had the pleasure of his company. Upon taking the salads to the table, he began to complain, not about the food, or the service, but about the background music, which had on a Jackson 5 song. Setting down the salad, Ichibod verbally acosted me. "Tell your manager to turn this shit down, I am highly offended by Motown music, I can't enjoy my dinner with this shit plaing, its too loud!"
Of course, many things are racing through my head, such as, "Sir, I'm not sure if you're aware of it, but the Civil Rights Movement passed in 1964, and its 2008, why don't you just stand up, put on your white cloak, and show me your swastika tattoo." But, since the customer is always right, and I need this job to pay my bills, I keep my mouth shut, inform mangement, who turns it down. At this point in the meal, I am avoiding his table at all costs, nevertheless, his food comes up and I am forced to walk it. Approaching the table, he lashes out again, like a rattlesnake coming out of the bushes. "You turned the music up, I know you did! It's louder than it was, I want this shit turned down so I can enjoy my meal, otherwise I am calling your corporate office". Looking around, I realize, the dinner rush is over, the restaurant is empty, and sure the music seems louder. I say nothing, simply turn and walk away, thinking to myself, please Sir, put down the steak knife and back away from the plate! No one wants to die tonight!
Exhibit C: It's a busy Friday night, we are on a wait out-the-door. A gumpy, googly-eyed, portly man enters. Going to the hostess, he requests a booth that seats four, in a non-smoking section, but facing the TV's in the bar so he can watch the game while he eats. He is eventually seated, and the server sees him and almost loses it, like I said, its a busy Friday night and this douchebag is sitting in a four-person booth by himself!
Knowing that he is a regular, the server already has a pitcher of soda for him (yes for some reason pain-in-the-ass regulars consume inordinate amounts of beverages) and goes to take his order. Not that its a big surprise, he orders the same thing every time, but just for formalities sake, they check.
Ringing in his food as early as possible, he eats his salad and gets his entree, eating painstakingly slow (another reoccuring theme) on a busy Friday night, stopping to say hi to every female server that walks by, using his lazy eye as an excuses to oogle their chest while he masticates - 40 times each bite - until the server is ready to pull out their hair or even pay him to leave! Thank you Sir, your $3.00 tip is greatly appreciated, by the way, who won the game?
Exhibit D: Its a normal Saturday lunch around 2PM, when an uptight, pompous know-it-all strolls in the door, newspaper clutched under his arm. He is led to a booth and seated. The server approaches and the man has not even cracked the menu, but has the sports page open to check the over/under on the bets he placed. Without blinking an eye, he recites his spiel.
"I need a diet coke - bring me a pitcher (told you!) , it will save me the hassle of asking you for refills. I want a lunch order of pasta, a side salad with no cucumbers, onions, tomatoes, crutons, or cheese (wouldn't it have just been easier to say JUST LETTUCE, Sir?) and two large sides of ranch". He immediatly clams up, and no eye contact has been made.
Returning with a pitcher, lettuce in a salad bowl, and enough ranch dressing to make lettuce soup, the server sets it down. Still no eye contact is made, he is waist deep in the sports section. Minutes later, the lettuce soup has been pushed over to the edge of the booth, as close to, without going over the ege (similar to winning prizes on the Price is Right). Peering over the tip-top of his newspaper with a glare as the server teeters by, balancing 4 plates, 6 glasses, 3 bowns, countless silverware and napkins, glaring harder as they walk by without grabbing his salad bowl, which apparently is hot lava, nuclear waste, or has possibly come in contact with the ebola virus and must be disposed of at once, utterly disgusted if you are unable to grab it while balancing the leaning tower of plateware.
By now, his food is up and is walked to him. Once again, he doesn't speak as the server sets the plate down and grabs the ebola virus bowl. The only words spoken are his spiel, and check please.
The spectacularness of this regular guest is two-fold; first, his uncanning ability to eat while not once taking his eye off the newspaper. This is a rarity, in fact, I would even go as far to venture that if he were to go on "America's Got Talent" he may actually be crowned the most talented American. Secondly, his tipping, you're thinking, oh he tips well, on the contrary. He may tip 15%, but no matter what his change is that he gets back off of the $20 bill he hands you, which is generally a $5, some $1's, a quarter, and a nickel, you're not getting it back! This man must sit at home - when the sports page runs out - and feed coins into his automatic coin sorter, a money miser so to speak. The only time he takes out coins is when he goes out to eat. Its never the quarters of the dimes, generally its an assload of nickles and pennies, equalling the appropriate 15% amount, shoved in the check minder, just waiting for the unsuspecting server to grab and shove it in their apron on their mad dash from one table to the next. Of course, the coins scatter all over the floor and the defeated server looks down at the carpet, patterned wtih nickles and pennies, their knees and back just won't let them bend over to pick it up. Silently, they curse at the sports-page-reading-money-miser and signal for the busboy, bribing him with the nickles and pennies all over the floor. Go to Coinstar Sir, a verbal tip would have been better!!
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Fact or Fiction?!?!
There just should have been a sign that said "Bitchy Management Parking Only" but there wasn't. The tell-tale car meant that she was there. Her heart dropped as she pulled into her parking spot, slammed her car in park, grabbed her purse, slammed the door for good measure and rushed in the door to ensure she wasn't late. There she was, standing at the podium, a human form of Satan; walking in the doors was like walking through the gates of Hell, and she braced herself for the worst - her mood was set for the evening. Greeting you with that corporate fake smile, calling you sweetie, asking how your day was, it would do a 360 in about T-10 seconds.
A measley five minutes had passed, and already it had began, she wasn't even on the clock yet "eating up the labor" but she was feeling the wrath. Walking past, she lashed out, "that shirt you are wearing is a little wrinkly, your name tag is half an inch too low, your apron is crooked, your table needs another refill" (as you have it trayed up and in your hand). Its incessant, and it wasn't stopping.
Finally, the last straw: as she approached a table, they are waiting on two more. She offered drinks and goes to grab them, on the way back, she hears, "I need to see you in the office NOW."
Snapping as she motions to the office door like she was her pet dog. Shrugging to her co-worker, she passes the tray with drinks on it to him and strolls in, completely unsure of what she did wrong.
"The specials, you have to tell your tables about the specials. You know I can fire you for this! We have standards here and you know it, what are you thinking!"
Getting ready to interject, she opens her mouth and is immediately cut off as she continues to spew.
"Seriously, what are you thinking, you know I am taking you off the floor for the night. This is your first and ONLY warning."
Giving her a chance to speak, the server contemplates to herself, does she tell her the obvious fact that she was waiting on two more to tell them all about the specials. However, at this point, she is so frustrated, so beaten down, so irritated, that she snaps. Steam is pouring from her ears like an angry bull in a cartoon, and she explodes, spilling everything on her mind.
"This place is absolute bullshit. No one can do anything right. Walking in this door is a nightmare, a fucking nightmare. I actually tear up if I see your car in the parking lot. I understand that this isn't your dream job, but do you have to take it out on all of us, we are human beings, not robots. AND, for your information, my table was waiting on joiners, I was going to give them the specials when they were all at the table instead of repeating it twice. Maybe you could have listened to everything before you jumped to the WRONG conclusion. Oh, and I don't even have availibility today, so we shouldn't even be having this discussion."
Just then, you sit straight up, gasping for breath, coated in a sheen of sweat. You look around and realize you are in your own bed. You shudder, shaking off the horror that you have just experienced...shuddering, you flip the TV over the Food Network, and pray for Barefoot Contessa to lull you back to sleep and away from the server nightmares.
A measley five minutes had passed, and already it had began, she wasn't even on the clock yet "eating up the labor" but she was feeling the wrath. Walking past, she lashed out, "that shirt you are wearing is a little wrinkly, your name tag is half an inch too low, your apron is crooked, your table needs another refill" (as you have it trayed up and in your hand). Its incessant, and it wasn't stopping.
Finally, the last straw: as she approached a table, they are waiting on two more. She offered drinks and goes to grab them, on the way back, she hears, "I need to see you in the office NOW."
Snapping as she motions to the office door like she was her pet dog. Shrugging to her co-worker, she passes the tray with drinks on it to him and strolls in, completely unsure of what she did wrong.
"The specials, you have to tell your tables about the specials. You know I can fire you for this! We have standards here and you know it, what are you thinking!"
Getting ready to interject, she opens her mouth and is immediately cut off as she continues to spew.
"Seriously, what are you thinking, you know I am taking you off the floor for the night. This is your first and ONLY warning."
Giving her a chance to speak, the server contemplates to herself, does she tell her the obvious fact that she was waiting on two more to tell them all about the specials. However, at this point, she is so frustrated, so beaten down, so irritated, that she snaps. Steam is pouring from her ears like an angry bull in a cartoon, and she explodes, spilling everything on her mind.
"This place is absolute bullshit. No one can do anything right. Walking in this door is a nightmare, a fucking nightmare. I actually tear up if I see your car in the parking lot. I understand that this isn't your dream job, but do you have to take it out on all of us, we are human beings, not robots. AND, for your information, my table was waiting on joiners, I was going to give them the specials when they were all at the table instead of repeating it twice. Maybe you could have listened to everything before you jumped to the WRONG conclusion. Oh, and I don't even have availibility today, so we shouldn't even be having this discussion."
Just then, you sit straight up, gasping for breath, coated in a sheen of sweat. You look around and realize you are in your own bed. You shudder, shaking off the horror that you have just experienced...shuddering, you flip the TV over the Food Network, and pray for Barefoot Contessa to lull you back to sleep and away from the server nightmares.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Waiting...its all about Waiting
Waiting, its all about waiting. Pulling into the parking lot, waiting til the last possible minute you can climb out of your car, and still make it in the door without being late. Knowing, that it takes exactly 16.8 seconds to walk, at a brisk pace, from your favorite parking spot to the door. Waiting for the stench of alcohol to clear from your breath as you walk back in between shifts after a much needed lunch break. Walking, in the door, being polite and waiting for the 95 year old geratric to cane her way thru the door, knocking you in the shins as she does. Waiting for the 16 year old, boy-obsessed, one-track minded hostess to stop flirting with her boyfriend of the week and hand you a check-in card. Waiting for management to stop eating their third manager meal of the day, groaning as they are forced to remove their hand from their fork and check you in. You waiting, praying they can't detect the hint of booze on your shirt from the little bit that dribbled.
Waiting for your first table to be sat, as you realize you are desperately overstaffed and are working at the pace of one table an hour. Waiting for your table to walk their way to their booth, remove their hat, scarf, coat, gloves, shoes, ect...and take their seat. Walking up to the table only to watch one get up and head for the bathroom; waiting for them to return. Walking toward the table, yet another one gets up and walks to the bathroom; waiting for them to return. Walking up to the table, trying to take their drink order, but one of them is on their cell phone. Waiting patiently for them to wrap up their meaningless, stupid, and unintelligent conversation, only to page thru the drink menu, waiting for them to order lemon water.
Waiting for the bartender to make your one alcoholic drink, waving, jumping, screaming, and throwing a temper tantrum as they stare at the TV, watching the forecast on the Weather Channel for the umpteenth time. Waiting as they have to remake your drink because they made it with vodka, and not tequila. Waiting, counting to 10, as it is all you can do not to leap over that bar back and strangle their ditzy, hourly ass. Waiting as you hand out the drinks and take their order. Waiting as they order the meal and stare at the menu trying to decide their side. Waiting for the akward silence to subside as the next person stumbles through their order, the sides, and make you repeat every salad dressing; waiting for them to go with the customary, ever-so-popular ranch. Going in the back, waiting to wade through the sea of servers on your way to the salad bar.
Going back to the table, waiting after setting everything down to see if they need anything else, only to be answered with blank, gumpy stares. Ringing in their food, waiting as they need refills, refills, extra salad dressing, napkins, refills, and refills (all in a different trip for each person). Waiting as their plates come up in the window and sit, waiting because the most expensive meal was forgotten by the cooks. Finally, getting the food, putting down the food, warning them that the plates are red hot, and waiting for them to find out for themselves, only to exclaim, "wow, those really are hot".
Waiting to snicker to yourself in glory until you can make it back to the kitchen. Sitting back, waiting, feeling your buzz wear off and your nicotine fix disappear. Waiting, as they order dessert, take their time, and chit chat like long-lost friends. Waiting, as you find out in all actuality, they are next door neighbors and life-long friends. Setting down the bill, waiting for the moment of truth. Waiting for the tip (or lack of) - will it be 5%, 10%, 15%, or god forbid 20%.
Waiting as the night dies down but the entire staff is still on the floor. Waiting, ripping out your hair in frustration. Waiting to cash out, go across the street, get drunk, and do it all over again.
Waiting for your first table to be sat, as you realize you are desperately overstaffed and are working at the pace of one table an hour. Waiting for your table to walk their way to their booth, remove their hat, scarf, coat, gloves, shoes, ect...and take their seat. Walking up to the table only to watch one get up and head for the bathroom; waiting for them to return. Walking toward the table, yet another one gets up and walks to the bathroom; waiting for them to return. Walking up to the table, trying to take their drink order, but one of them is on their cell phone. Waiting patiently for them to wrap up their meaningless, stupid, and unintelligent conversation, only to page thru the drink menu, waiting for them to order lemon water.
Waiting for the bartender to make your one alcoholic drink, waving, jumping, screaming, and throwing a temper tantrum as they stare at the TV, watching the forecast on the Weather Channel for the umpteenth time. Waiting as they have to remake your drink because they made it with vodka, and not tequila. Waiting, counting to 10, as it is all you can do not to leap over that bar back and strangle their ditzy, hourly ass. Waiting as you hand out the drinks and take their order. Waiting as they order the meal and stare at the menu trying to decide their side. Waiting for the akward silence to subside as the next person stumbles through their order, the sides, and make you repeat every salad dressing; waiting for them to go with the customary, ever-so-popular ranch. Going in the back, waiting to wade through the sea of servers on your way to the salad bar.
Going back to the table, waiting after setting everything down to see if they need anything else, only to be answered with blank, gumpy stares. Ringing in their food, waiting as they need refills, refills, extra salad dressing, napkins, refills, and refills (all in a different trip for each person). Waiting as their plates come up in the window and sit, waiting because the most expensive meal was forgotten by the cooks. Finally, getting the food, putting down the food, warning them that the plates are red hot, and waiting for them to find out for themselves, only to exclaim, "wow, those really are hot".
Waiting to snicker to yourself in glory until you can make it back to the kitchen. Sitting back, waiting, feeling your buzz wear off and your nicotine fix disappear. Waiting, as they order dessert, take their time, and chit chat like long-lost friends. Waiting, as you find out in all actuality, they are next door neighbors and life-long friends. Setting down the bill, waiting for the moment of truth. Waiting for the tip (or lack of) - will it be 5%, 10%, 15%, or god forbid 20%.
Waiting as the night dies down but the entire staff is still on the floor. Waiting, ripping out your hair in frustration. Waiting to cash out, go across the street, get drunk, and do it all over again.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Are We Really Wastes of Space?
It was 2:30PM on a Thursday afternoon, the restaurant was dead...so dead that when you walked in the front door, you could hear a pin drop. Those that did walk in the door could hardly do so under their own power, they were what remained of the lunch crowd, but in all actuality, they were the earliest of the dinner crowd. It was like the early bird breakfast special at your local diner, and the bills totalled to about the same amount. The servers remaining on the floor would have to dig the change out of their check minders to receive their tips; maybe if they were lucky they would get a shiny golden dollar or a two dollar bill from the 1920's.
Those of us lucky enough - or unlucky enough to escape the early bird's dinner and spend their pitiful, meager $15 pre-tax earnings at lunch wallowed in their misery, hoping to scrape together enough to tip those who waited on them.
Sitting there, thumbing through their books, praying that they may have ditched a five or a ten and there was a chance they weren't as broke as the minute they walked in the door. Drinking their water - wishing it was alcohol, eating lunch, and dreading walking back into work for the second half of a shift that would prove to be just as bad. Lamenting over work, their personal lives, relationships, bills, the lack of money - it seemed it couldn't get much worse. They were intelligent people, some college grads, others working on it, others used it as a second job. They worked for idiots that used improper grammer, were unaware of current events, and couldn't function out of their closed-minded corporate box.
Scanning the bar top, they were given a glimpse of hope. The man at the other end of the bar, who they had been ignorning at all costs, made them feel good. He was beyond a loser; gumpy, missing teeth, wearing day after day a white shirt, jean jacket, cowboy boots and a perfectly accessorized white-trash gold-chain. He sucked down Budweiser like it was water, he talked loudly and ignorantly. Sitting next to him was his female counterpart; a wine-o that was willing to pay $6.00 a glass for a drugstore wine that was $6.00 a bottle. Bitching ignorantly about where they lived, their lack of employment (obvious because they were out drinking at 3PM on a weekday), and the weather. They were in their own little world. Even the bartenders tried to ignore them - their tips would be worthless, granted they didn't ask to borrow a $20 or pretend they left their money in the car and ran out.
He was worse than her, bar-hopping to get free drinks with a promise to pay you back, hitting on unsuspecting young girls, and driving the managment absolutely nuts, although they were always nice and pretended to give a shit.
Living his life in a fantasy world, he had quit his most recent job and had been gainfully unemployed for three days, which he bragged about. Today, his funds were dwindling low, so low that he had actually applied at the place he sat drinking, and was angry that they still hadn't called him back. Unbeknowst that one, drinking heavily at a place of potential employment, two looking and acting like a complete tool, and three hardly tipping or not paying your bill at all had probably gotten his application ripped up, burned, and the ashes thrown into the wind, so that there was no trace he ever applied.
Yes, looking at him, they realized....it could be much much worse!
Those of us lucky enough - or unlucky enough to escape the early bird's dinner and spend their pitiful, meager $15 pre-tax earnings at lunch wallowed in their misery, hoping to scrape together enough to tip those who waited on them.
Sitting there, thumbing through their books, praying that they may have ditched a five or a ten and there was a chance they weren't as broke as the minute they walked in the door. Drinking their water - wishing it was alcohol, eating lunch, and dreading walking back into work for the second half of a shift that would prove to be just as bad. Lamenting over work, their personal lives, relationships, bills, the lack of money - it seemed it couldn't get much worse. They were intelligent people, some college grads, others working on it, others used it as a second job. They worked for idiots that used improper grammer, were unaware of current events, and couldn't function out of their closed-minded corporate box.
Scanning the bar top, they were given a glimpse of hope. The man at the other end of the bar, who they had been ignorning at all costs, made them feel good. He was beyond a loser; gumpy, missing teeth, wearing day after day a white shirt, jean jacket, cowboy boots and a perfectly accessorized white-trash gold-chain. He sucked down Budweiser like it was water, he talked loudly and ignorantly. Sitting next to him was his female counterpart; a wine-o that was willing to pay $6.00 a glass for a drugstore wine that was $6.00 a bottle. Bitching ignorantly about where they lived, their lack of employment (obvious because they were out drinking at 3PM on a weekday), and the weather. They were in their own little world. Even the bartenders tried to ignore them - their tips would be worthless, granted they didn't ask to borrow a $20 or pretend they left their money in the car and ran out.
He was worse than her, bar-hopping to get free drinks with a promise to pay you back, hitting on unsuspecting young girls, and driving the managment absolutely nuts, although they were always nice and pretended to give a shit.
Living his life in a fantasy world, he had quit his most recent job and had been gainfully unemployed for three days, which he bragged about. Today, his funds were dwindling low, so low that he had actually applied at the place he sat drinking, and was angry that they still hadn't called him back. Unbeknowst that one, drinking heavily at a place of potential employment, two looking and acting like a complete tool, and three hardly tipping or not paying your bill at all had probably gotten his application ripped up, burned, and the ashes thrown into the wind, so that there was no trace he ever applied.
Yes, looking at him, they realized....it could be much much worse!
Saturday, December 8, 2007
Its All a Bunch of Baloney!!!
It'd only been two hours since he'd walked in the door, but already he was in the Manager's office consuming what could only be a small morsel of the mear 10,000 calories he required each day to function. His shapely body looked like humpty-dumpty: large and pear-shaped teetering on size 6 men's shoes. But, have no fear, his overwhelmingly, grotesque body was covered with an ever-so-neat, perfectly pressed shirt with creases in all the right places.
We'd like to think that the fine egyptian cotton in a soothing pale blue took away from his soaring blood pressure, noticiable with his crimson red face, but it didn't. In fact, it didn't cover the giant growth that peaked over his curled, snide lip, or the massive neck rolls that cascaded over his too-tight collar.
He scanned the dining room with a condescending frown; lower-level management hungrily looked up at him like a flock of baby birds waiting for him to spat up regurgitation into their already corporate, robotic minds.
Bonuses, promotions, bonuses, promotions, and bonuses; and he held the power within. He was not the smartest man, oh so far from it, but his by-the-book wisdom was all he needed to enjoy the 150K salary with promotional incentives. To the rest, they could have his power if they followed in his pitiful yet powerful footsteps.
There was a reason for each new rule added, the corporate manual was ridiculously similar to Hammurabi's Code. Rulebreaking or bending would cost you, it was white and black here, there was no grey. Punishment could vary, you may lose an arm, a finger, maybe a leg. Actually, you lost your soul, but there wasn't much left since it had been sold when you took the job. The rest was just another bygone. Each rule took away just a little more dignity from the servers, caused a little more frustration, and left the bulge in their back pocket a little thinner.
As a server walked past him, with the most minuet detail missed, he would lash out; a curled-up, venemous cobra hiding around the corner, waiting to snap and destroy the small, fragile thread of their self-worth and respect that remained.
Servers hid around corners, in the smallest nooks, awaiting the moment when the man with dollar signs for pupils would pack up his state-of-the-art laptop, bark one last remaining order (just to show everyone that he was still in charge) and exit the building. Leaving behind, strewn across the alley, the shattered dignity of the servers.
We'd like to think that the fine egyptian cotton in a soothing pale blue took away from his soaring blood pressure, noticiable with his crimson red face, but it didn't. In fact, it didn't cover the giant growth that peaked over his curled, snide lip, or the massive neck rolls that cascaded over his too-tight collar.
He scanned the dining room with a condescending frown; lower-level management hungrily looked up at him like a flock of baby birds waiting for him to spat up regurgitation into their already corporate, robotic minds.
Bonuses, promotions, bonuses, promotions, and bonuses; and he held the power within. He was not the smartest man, oh so far from it, but his by-the-book wisdom was all he needed to enjoy the 150K salary with promotional incentives. To the rest, they could have his power if they followed in his pitiful yet powerful footsteps.
There was a reason for each new rule added, the corporate manual was ridiculously similar to Hammurabi's Code. Rulebreaking or bending would cost you, it was white and black here, there was no grey. Punishment could vary, you may lose an arm, a finger, maybe a leg. Actually, you lost your soul, but there wasn't much left since it had been sold when you took the job. The rest was just another bygone. Each rule took away just a little more dignity from the servers, caused a little more frustration, and left the bulge in their back pocket a little thinner.
As a server walked past him, with the most minuet detail missed, he would lash out; a curled-up, venemous cobra hiding around the corner, waiting to snap and destroy the small, fragile thread of their self-worth and respect that remained.
Servers hid around corners, in the smallest nooks, awaiting the moment when the man with dollar signs for pupils would pack up his state-of-the-art laptop, bark one last remaining order (just to show everyone that he was still in charge) and exit the building. Leaving behind, strewn across the alley, the shattered dignity of the servers.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
That Really Tugs My Tassle
"Hi, how's everyone doing tonig...."
"Diet Coke"
(My brain screams inside)
Well Sir, I didn't know diet coke was a feeling! Diet Coke...light and refreshing...you must be having a bubbly day Sir.
Oh, on the contrary; you're really an uppity, pretentious bastard. But, thats ok, we'll push through that and try to have a pleasurable dining experience.
(Back to Reality)
Diet coke...I'll grab that for you Sir in just a moment. But first, I need to take a second and tell you about the specials we have today and point out a few things on the menu.
"Diet Coke"
(My brain screams inside)
Well Sir, I didn't know diet coke was a feeling! Diet Coke...light and refreshing...you must be having a bubbly day Sir.
Oh, on the contrary; you're really an uppity, pretentious bastard. But, thats ok, we'll push through that and try to have a pleasurable dining experience.
(Back to Reality)
Diet coke...I'll grab that for you Sir in just a moment. But first, I need to take a second and tell you about the specials we have today and point out a few things on the menu.
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