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I did not work
Christmas Eve last year, so I had no idea of what to expect from the
night...
Would it be busy
with large parties? Would it be busy
early on, before people went out for their real plans? Would it be completely dead the entire night
because, well, it's a holiday, and people are at home spending quality time
with their loved ones and some home-cooked treasures like they should be?
(Hint: it's never
that one.)
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I entered the
restaurant and stopped at the host stand to discover my fate for the
evening: Stuck in Dining Room, in the
Shift Lead section. Stuck with merely three tables. Stuck closing the
place down, literally--on top of taking all of the last tables of the night,
the Shift Lead is tasked with pretty much a solid hour of extra cleaning in the
process of closing down the kitchen.
Stuck with the anticipation of a normal Monday night Shift Lead
fare--maybe a good 60 buckaroos. Meh. Not amused.
After over thirty
minutes of waiting for a party to arrive in my section, Table 24 is finally
sat. One lady, waiting for her
sister. Who takes twenty minutes to
arrive. More standing around and
waiting. Oddly enough, as they walked to
the table, Lady #1 asked the hostess if anyone had some lotion. Luckily for her, I happen to be known for my
lotion...
Apparently, washing
your hands too frequently (i.e. by being in the food service industry and
maintaining a safe level of cleanliness) can dry out your hands so badly that
your skin becomes rough enough to catch on every fabric; your fingertips crack
and split open into huge gashes; red, itchy, splotchy bumps form all across
your knuckles, and your hands overall become a constant source of pain through
all of your waking moments to the point that you cannot bear the thought of
taking a shower without gloves on (tightly rubber-banded at the wrists, of
course, so no water gets in there whatsoever), and you'd rather wipe that ranch
that just spilled onto your finger off onto your apron than venture over to
that torture chamber they call a sink, and God forbid someone want a lemon in
her tea because those stupid lemon tongs are always
missing and you just have to reach in there gingerly to pick up a lemon but no
matter how hard you try, the lemon juice always
gets all over your fingers--always--and
you simply want to buckle over and cry, but you don't, because you're at work
and you don't want to look stupid crying into this tray of teas, so you reach
into the pocket of your server apron and you pull out your tube of lotion. Cue the heavenly chorus, because this lotion
is your godsend. This lotion that was
prescribed to you from a dermatologist because none of the over-the-counter
creams and treatments were working, and neither were the ones from your regular
doctor, so you had to go see a specialist for your hands. And so you relish that moment of respite as
you rub a generous portion of that magical potion into all the crevices of your
phalanges. You exhale a euphoric sigh and look down at your relieved appendages when your brain reengages with its self-loathing:
"Look at these hands. They're
a mess. A wretched, painful mess. This is ridiculous. I am actually going to a dermatologist for prescribed treatments for my hands? Seriously?
This is what I'm doing with my life?
Ridiculous. This restaurant isn't
even worth the pain. And it's not just
the hands. My back is out of alignment
from carrying all these trays. My legs
are exhausted, and all I want to do is sit.
And stretch. Why the hell am I
still a waitress? Why the hell am I in
this hellhole of an establishment, and on Christmas Eve of all
nights?..."
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Er, sorry, point
is, I've got some really good lotion.
I give the lady at
24 a good squirt of the stuff, and she instantly remarked on how great it felt
(that's what she said). Turns out she's
got "contact dermatitis" like I do, except her skin is far more sensitive
in that she gets allergic reactions to most lotions. But she didn't with my lotion! Score!
We've bonded. We have a great
dining experience, and as I return her credit card, I'm crossing fingers for a
20% tip. These ladies become campers,
the restaurant finally gets a pop, and my other tables fill up with guests to
occupy me. After about an hour, I check
on them and see if they're still okay. I
guess this prompts them to move along, because they start to head out and hand
me the credit card receipt: a $22 tip on a $38 check. I was stunned and grateful, so I repeated a
sincere "thank you" after I looked at it. I mean, our restaurant almost exclusively
attracts cheapskates, ghetto picky "I need, I need, I need" ladies, all their broke friends, and the
entire family who raised them with no manners.
20% tips are the opposite of how all these people like their
steaks--RARE--let alone a 57% tip!
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And thus began a most fantastic night! I'm my normal peppy self, and I'm on my A-game. My guests are nice, AND are nice tippers: I receive lots of 20%(+), tips including a few more $20 tips; in fact, I think only one table tipped under 20%.
I was keenly aware,
though, of how bad things were going for Ethan, my section buddy. It seems as if all the tables who intended to
tip their server or simply treat their server well walked right past his tables
and sat down next to them in my section.
It hurt to hear that, after a night full of table troubles, a strong
server left with only $48, when I had fantastic experiences with each guest and
made nearly triple that.
My last table of the
evening was a family of 6, with kids ranging 5 to 15. This family was easily the most entertaining
family I have ever served--from the overly talkative youngest daughter with no
filter, to the easily amused oldest daughter who appeared delightfully enrapt
in laughter with every joke I made, to the goofball parents who patiently
smiled as their little ones excitedly showed me the phone app that follows
Santa around the globe. The 5-year-old shared with me that she has been
undergoing treatments. She didn't share
what kind of treatments, or what they are for, though she later expressed that
the inside of her elbow hurt, rolling up her sleeve to reveal a Band-Aid as if
she'd had blood taken or an IV placed.
My heart ached for this little girl and her family. Throughout their meal, I bore witness to a
fantastic example of love; it is rare to encounter such a strongly bonded
family, and it was quite the touching experience for me. Heck, it's rare to encounter a family with
well-mannered, polite, respectful children.
This family truly brightened my Christmas Eve. They were so much fun that I almost didn't
care how much money they left me. At the
close, the dad addressed me quietly and sincerely, saying, "You were
fantastic. Thank you." And he handed me a 20% tip.
Nights like this one
rekindle my passion for serving others.
It's not just about the tips for me; it's about ensuring that my
customers are truly my guests, that I can enrich their dining experience to the
best of my ability. I have facilitated
birthday celebrations and wedding receptions; hurried lunch breaks and lengthy
business lunches; the reunion of estranged best friends twenty years overdue,
and the showering of a man's love and appreciation for his wife on Mother's
Day. Waiting tables can be a marvelously
beautiful experience from time to time, and that experience can numb the pain
in your hands, your lower back, your calves, and make it all worthwhile.
Sure, I didn't get
out of there for another two hours after close, but I was certainly
satisfied--and pleasantly surprised--with my evening. A very merry Christmas Eve, indeed!
[ degreed waitress ]
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