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.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
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.
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