To-Go Tips Galore! -- Tip #1

As I have recently stated, the vast majority of my job as a bartender is, in fact, handling all to-go orders instead of handling bar drinks.

Through these interactions, it has come to my attention that very few people know how to navigate the to-go food waters smoothly, which has inspired me to compile an ever-growing list of suggestions for anyone who engages in to-go food transactions.

Most people who read these might actually glean something worthwhile from this series.

The rest of you, however, can celebrate that your common sense and basic intelligence sets you apart from the hordes of idiots I have to deal with each day. Therefore, y'all can read these posts for the sadly humorous interactions with some of those not-as-intellectually-blessed.

Regardless of where you fit into all this, my To-Go Tips Galore! shall be broken into multiple posts so as to save your lovely eyes from exhaustion. And so we begin!

To-Go Tips Galore! Tip #1: Know what restaurant you're calling.

Ordering the Crispy Chicken Crispers is a fantastic idea! ...that is, if you're calling Chili's. I do not (have never, nor will ever) work at Chili's. Do not use Chili's terminology when you're placing an order with me, an employee of the restaurant that is not only around the corner from Chili's, but also is it's direct competitor.

[ photo credit ]

And when I clarify with you, "Oh, you mean the Chicken Tender Platter? The Crispers are at Chili's." please do NOT disregard my statement and just continue, "Yeah, well, I want the Crispy Chicken Crispers." If you are in a Chili's mindset when you come into my restaurant, then nothing we serve you will be what you expected, and you are less likely to be pleased. And theoretically we aim to please.

Furthermore, if the restaurant you are calling is part of a chain, please make sure that the branch you call and the branch you show up to are the same one. I don't want your five boxes of unclaimed food cluttering up my counter for three hours before we have to throw it away and thus severely damage our food costs any more than you want to show up and discover that your food is, in fact, not ready so you have to sit there waiting for it to be made and thus eliminating the advantage of calling ahead. In short, don't waste everyone else's time and money just because you're too stupid to do a simple Google search.


[ degreed waitress ]

"Sometimes, on Sunday mornings...

...I listen to gangster rap before work just so that I can be prepared for the customers we're gonna have."

-- "Eloise"

That is some sage advice, my friend.


[ degreed waitress ]

All tied up again

The uniform for servers at my restaurant makes us look just like Olive Garden servers. Except they roll their sleeves up stylishly. And we're not allowed to do that. And we have an extra level of exasperation on our faces because the average price of our entrees is probably half that of Olive Garden's, so we get all the "real OGs" who can't afford OG.

In case you're unfamiliar, it's this entrancing ensemble:


[ photo credit ]

Black non-slip shoes.
Black socks.
Black slacks.
Black belt.
Black apron, purchased through the managers.
White, long-sleeved, button-down Oxford shirt with buttoned collar.
Light colored undershirt if you wear one.
Pens, a server book, and your own personal bank.
Tie.

The tie has to be solid in color, and it can be any color. 

Except black... 

[ ...and no, I have never heard an explanation for that. ]

When I first started, I bought five ties of varying colors to spice up the uniform a teensy bit. Essentially, I was the matching girl. I matched my tie to anything I could..

...my earrings [ as long as they're studs, not dangles, says the GM *pout face* ]...

...my nail color [ yes, I know I'm not allowed to have nail polish on, and no, I don't care ]...

...my undershirt [ if these cheap shirts are practically see-though, my guests might as well see a fun color instead of my boring white bra, right? Right... ]... 

...my eye makeup [ green's my favorite, matches my eyes ]...

...my hair bow/ribbon/tieback/whatever [ there have been an embarrassingly high number of instances in which I've had to look in the mirror and remind myself "You're a [slightly] mature 23-year-old college graduate, not some ditzy high school cheerleader bimbo, so take that ginormous bow out of your hair!" ].... 

Yeah, I was that girl. Hell, anything to feel one notch more feminine in my uniform than these guys...
 


[ photo credit ]

Turn those Bibles into Guest Checks and I've got twinsies!! So hot, right?

[ photo credit ]

NOT.

 

Anywho, I've been working far more bartending shifts than serving shifts lately. In fact, Monday lunch was my first serving shift in over a month. After several minutes of searching for a clean[ish] one, I proceeded to affix my brightly colored choking device tie around my neck, thus leading me to reflect on an important observation:

A server's tie is a disgusting thing.

No, seriously. It is vile.



With every shift, a server gets covered in ranch, ketchup, steak sauce, beer....or, God forbid, Grenadine. Keeping those Walmart-men's-section, so-high-quality-it-comes-in-a-package, itchier-than-chicken-pox shirts looking so fresh and so clean, clean has me going through stain remover sprays, laundry booster powders, and bleach products so quickly that I alone kept Mr. Clean himself employed all year.

You're welcome.

[ photo credit ]




The pants and aprons get cleaned, too....don't get me wrong. But they're black, and thus way easier to maintain. Most servers only have like one or two aprons, so at the start of a shift, you'll occasionally see someone wet a washcloth, paper towel, whatever and just wipe off any stains from last night's shift. Sanitary? Definitely not. But it least it will look good enough to hold over till its proper cleaning...whenever our next day off is.

It's the tie that is repulsive, though. A tie gets just as dirty as [ if not more than ] the other pieces of clothing, but never gets as clean. In fact, for most servers, the wet washcloth is the extent of the cleaning. A few are more dedicated, though, and will spray some stain remover on first before they wipe it "clean."  

Back when I first started, I took all five of my ties to the dry cleaners, and it cost me $10 to clean them. I never went back. Ten bucks a week to clean ties? That is not the kind of regular expense I feel like adding to my ever-growing list of bills. Not with these tips. So now I wash and dry them at home with the rest of my uniform, though in a laundry bag. I seem to be the only one that sends my ties through that kind of ordeal. I just can't stand the dirtiness.... after about three or four wears, that is....  But, "Dry clean only," they said. "The washer and dryer will ruin your ties," they said.

Well, guess what.

They were right. My ties--all of them--were ruined within a year. Fuzzy, stained, and so not classy. But did I care? No. Hardly a single ghetto drama queen guest who walked through our doors made me feel she deserved a classy looking tie. 

My GM was constantly nagging me about it though, "Princess, you need to get a new tie. That looks disgusting." But getting new ties takes time, effort, and money--none of which I felt like sparing.

"This restaurant isn't worth it," was my silent excuse. I kept telling myself, "I'll be quitting soon. There's no point investing more into this job now." [ Here I am over a year later, I just bought my third pair of shoes, pair of slacks, and bartending shirt.  And I am still telling myself that I'll be quitting soon. Right. ]

For months, I would try to avoid the instances of my GM actually seeing my tie... standing behind another server when she faced me... crossing my arms while holding my server book between my arms and my chest [ thus the tie hides behind the server book ]... Eventually I got too lazy to even try to hide the tie anymore, and my GM started switching her tone. The light and silly vocalization of "Princess, you need to get a new tie" had evolved into the stern, you-know-better-than-this tone of "Seriously, you need to get a new tie," followed up with the guilt trip, "If I'm going to have you training the new hires, I need you to set a good example."

Dang. She got me there.

So I went out and got a whole new set. And then, I made a fantastic investment....

I bought a tie clip.

The tie clip brought about a bit of a moral dilemma though.... Where do I put it?

According to GQ, I should follow these guidelines:

But I very quickly realized that the bulk of the tie was allowed to flop around loosely as I lean over tables to give and receive plates. That's no bueno. So, to GQ this server says...

Thus in keeping my tie actually attached to my body and not to your mashed potatoes, I end up looking like this unfortunate fellow:

Now I'm in heaven! I mean, THANK GOD for tie clips. Right?! With a tie clip, my tie gets in the way of a person's food or drink only a few times a day instead of all the time.  

With a tie clip, my tie looks fresher, crisper, colorfullier, and great!

With a tie clip, my tie stays cleaner!

With a tie clip, I don't have to wash my tie as often!  Yay!

[ p.s. I found this interesting tidbit on MSN today: check it out! ]



[ degreed waitress ]

Not even those napkins are gonna clean up this mess

Saturday night, bartending, I got into it with a guest over napkins. Yeah. Napkins.

Here's how the interactions should have gone down if the guest in question wasn't a rude, entitled meaniehead:

Me -- Hi, what can I get for you?
Guest -- I'd like a mango margarita, please.
Me -- Sure! Would you like any salt or sugar on the rim?
Guest -- Salt, please.
Me -- Alright, will do! *makes and serves the margarita*
Guest [ two minutes later ] -- Could I get some napkins please? Some of the margarita overflowed, and it's made a bit of a mess.
Me -- *hands her three Bevnaps* Here ya go.
Guest -- Thank you.
Me -- My pleasure.
Guest [ two minutes later ] -- I don't really like this. Could I get a different drink please?
Me -- Sure, what can I get for you instead?
Guest -- A strawberry margarita, please?

...blah blah blah, et cetera, et cetera...

Yeah, none of that "please" and "thank you" stuff actually happened. I'm sure common courtesy and manners would be far too much to ask of this woman.



[ photo credit ]

Instead, here's how it actually went down:

Well, just kidding. First let me offer a little background to help set the scene. The majority of my work as a bartender isn't actually tending bar; it's handling to-go orders. Also, our bartenders have adopted the habit of opening each box in front of the guest, showing them the food to ensure the order's accuracy, and then running back to the kitchen for the 3 ranches, 1 gravy, and 2 honey mustards that the guest KNEW they'd need but didn't have the decency to request over the phone so that they'd be with the order in the first place and not waste any more of anyone's time. This makes the to-go operation much lengthier, but it is worthwhile, as our kitchen often leaves off side salads, dessert accoutrements, etc.

And now, the story:

The guest sat down by herself on the side of the bar where we handle our to-go orders. Sybil, one of my fellow bartenders, greeted the lady, "Hi, what can I do for you?" Her response? Nothing. She was so zoned out, she didn't even look up or realize she had been addressed. In such a case as this (or when a guest is on the phone), we just wait a few minutes and try then. So five minutes later, Sybil asks me to greet her. "She completely ignored me when I tried. Maybe she'll pay attention now."

Given her proximity to the to-go area, and the fact that the five people near her were all waiting to pick up their to-go orders, and the fact that a large tray with about three orders had just arrived at my counter, I assumed she might be waiting on a to-go order.

Me -- Hi, are you waiting on to-go order?
Guest -- I'm waiting, but I haven't placed an order.
Me -- Okay, so you still need to place your to-go order? Do you need a menu?
Guest -- I'm not doing a to-go order [ I can practically hear her eyes rolling ]. I'm waiting on a table, and I want a drink.
Me -- Okay, do you need a drink menu?
Guest -- No. I know what I want. I want a mango margarita.

Fast forward to the delivery of her margarita. I immediately proceed to do a show-and-tell of the to-go order for the guest seated directly next to her. In between box one and box two, she interrupts me: "Excuse me, I need some napkins." Annoyed at the interruption for something so minor, I walk over to my cart o' supplies, get three Bevnaps, and hand them to her. A minute later, I'm almost done with showing his order, when she interrupts me again: "I need more napkins." "Okay! One moment." At this point I have my hands full of boxes to take back to kitchen to get the missing salad and bread. I am not about to reward her with immediate napkins again for after interrupting me again. So instead I go get the missing items and am back within a minute, picking up more napkins on the way. Once his order is done, though, more attitude sets in.

Guest -- I don't really like this drink.
Me -- Okay, what can I get for you instead?
Guest -- It's just nasty. The flavor just isn't right. *she goes on and on*
Me [ patience waning ] -- Okay, what can I get for you instead?
Guest -- Strawberry margarita.

I silently make and deliver the new margarita, and proceed to help other to-go guests. Not five minutes later, this second margarita is "nasty" too.

Guest -- I don't like it. The flavor is nasty. It tastes just like the first one.
Me -- Ah, well, we actually use the same margarita mix for all of our frozen margaritas. I just added the strawberry flavor to the glass this time instead of adding the mango flavor like last time.
Guest -- Oh, so all you do is just put some flavor in the glass?

Plus, does she honestly expect that a restaurant as cheap as ours,
with a house margarita for THREE DOLLARS AND FIFTY CENTS
is seriously going to have premade flavored margaritas?
That is just terrible business sense.
Or maybe I'm the only one with a BBA around here?

Me [ what I was thinking ] -- Isn't that what I just said?
Me [ what I actually said ] -- Yes ma'am. [ Mind you, being seated at the bar, she had full visibility of the process of pumping syrup into a schooner and then filling it with frozen margarita. Both times. But once again, attentiveness apparently just is not her strong suit. ]
Guest -- It just tastes sour. It is not sweet at all. It's just alcohol and sour-tasting.
Me [ what I was thinking ] -- Yeah, it should. Because those are the exact ingredients: alcohol and sour mix.
Me [ what I actually said ] -- Yeah, there's a lot of alcohol in there. And the lime flavor of our Sweet and Sour mix will give it that slightly sour taste--
Guest [ interrupting, as usual, but this time with an increased level of attitude ] -- I know what's in a margarita. I drink margaritas all the time. This is just nasty. It is not sweet at all. I don't taste the flavor AT ALL.
Me -- Would you like some extra strawberry syrup? That should sweeten it up more for you.
Guest -- Yeah. *rolls eyes*

I bring her a lowball glass filled with double the amount of syrup that's already in her margarita and set it down next to her drink. My to-go phone is ringing, so I turn around to answer it. My back is towards my guests, but as I am now facing a wall full of mirrors, I see the lady stir the syrup into the margarita. The genius had only taken a few drinks beforehand, so now she's overflowing the margarita onto the bar, making an even bigger mess than she'd made with the mango one.

What I saw next was the final straw for my patience with this lady. I saw her get up, walk ten feet over towards my cart o' supplies, REACH OVER MY BAR, pick up my basket of napkins, take the napkins out of the basket [ thus HANDLING ALL OF THEM ], and take an inch-and-a-half stack for herself before putting the napkins back where they belonged.

Oh hell no.

Luckily, the to-go phone order was short, because I hung up, whipped around before she had made it back to her seat, and snapped at her:

Me -- Excuse me? You could have asked.
Guest -- Well, I needed more napkins.
Me -- You could have asked.
Guest -- Well, you didn't bring me the napkins I needed.
Me -- I'm sorry you already used up all the ones I already brought you, but you could have asked for more. We keep our supplies behind the bar for a reason -- we have to maintain the cleanliness of our supplies. We can't have guests just touching everything, okay? Don't. touch. our. stuff.

I felt the finality of my words emanating from my backbone, a body part I did not seem to possess before I started bartending. I felt my stomach knotting up in the effort to restrain my voice from yelling at her, although my voice was definitely raised. I felt my face flushing redder than my hair, realizing that every single guest at the bar top, in the to-go area, and at the tall tables nearest our bar was turning ever so attentively back and forth between the two of us like it was the Wimbledon finals. I felt comforted, though, that none of those onlookers seemed remotely offended by my actions. It seemed that I would escape this situation without further incident.

I walked off, taking a deep breath to calm myself, and proceeded to get back to my job. She nursed that margarita for the next hour before laying out her money; all the while, I was my normal cheerful, peppy self as I handled the to-go orders right next to her. I consciously overdid my friendliness as if it were a lethal weapon -- See? Everyone else is a decent human being, and I love to serve them. You, lady, are just a rude, entitled meaniehead, so you don't get any good service from now on.

Guess what? She didn't tip. But I didn't need to tell you that for you to know she wouldn't tip. But whatever, I didn't care. She didn't say another word to anyone, even in the payment process. I cheerfully handed her change with a "Here ya go!" and watched it all go into her purse, of course.

This whole interaction really irked me though. I dwelled on it for the rest of the weekend, actually. I kinda wish she had escalated it so I could just throw it back in her face. Put her in her place. All that jazz. Next time, though, I'll be ready...

Me [ in the hypothetical future repeat of this situation ] -- Ma'am, as a bartender and food server, I am legally bound to protect the health and safety of the guests in this restaurant by ensuring that all supplies are kept clean. That means that no guests are allowed to touch what is in the kitchen or behind the bar, because, quite frankly, ma'am, I don't know when you last washed your hands or if you've recently been exposed to some illness or disease. So here you go. *hand her the entire stack of napkins* These are yours now. You've touched them, so now I can't serve them to anyone else.

BAM!

A little over the top? Definitely.
Effective in curtailing an unsafe behavior? Probably.
Gonna get me fired? Maybe.

Hah. Until then, [ degreed waitress ] shall continue protecting her napkins :)


[ degreed waitress ]

You know it's going to be a long shift when....

...the first guy at your first table of the day sends back his food the moment arrives at the table because it has an ingredient that he doesn't like and "didn't know" was included, despite the fact that it is clearly listed in the entree's description on the menu, in the line literally right below the title he was so easily able to read.

*smh* I hate people sometimes.


[ degreed waitress ]

Superstar McAwesomeville



[ photo credit ]

Two months ago, we got a new server. He looks just like Peter from Family Guy. So I'm gonna call him Peter.

Peter is hefty. Like, take the "real" Peter from Family Guy...and then add fifty, maybe a hundred pounds. All in the stomach, just hanging over his belt. Point is, somewhere between Fluffy and Damn! I don't think that he realizes just how large around he is, because he's always moving into the smallest of spaces as if he were fit enough to fit. It's difficult enough to navigate a kitchen overcrowded with normal size people as it is. Or maybe that's just his tactic, forcing his way through the kitchen and the side stand so that other people will just get out of his way, lest be smooshed into the nearest wall. Whatever.

Peter is not a good-lookin' guy. Despite what I may have already led you to believe, I'm not saying this because of his weight. I mean, there's tons of cute chubby guys out there -- just look at most of my exes! [ P.S. writing this, I found this tumblr... I don't know how to react... ] No, I'm talking about his face. But I already told you why I named him "Peter," so there's really no need for me to tell you he's unattractive. What really irks me, though, is that the unattractiveness is not just skin deep.

Peter is abrasive and rude. A brief example. Our servers will do pretty much anything to get a laugh and make the shift more fun. Most common is singing along with the music being played in the restaurant. Just jammin' along to a little diddy... No biggie, right? Dalton and I have a lot of fun this way, and he has a fantastic voice. Dalton trained Peter on his first day, and at one point in the day, Dalton started singing along to whatever song was playing as they walked into the kitchen. Peter's response? He interrupts Dalton with a "Yeah, we've had enough of that." Snark snark snark. Okay, so that's not really a big deal in the grand scheme of things, but it's still unnecessarily hostile for a guy on his first day at a new job to curtail a bit of innocent fun. What a Debbie Downer. Listening to Dalton sing always puts me in a better mood. In fact, some of my favorite moments at this hellhole restaurant are of the entire serving staff dramatically singing along to some awesome tunage. Dalton is one of the nicest people you could ever meet, and he always seeks out something good in every person. Honestly, the only times I can recall that he's ever spoken ill of another person, he still tried to sugarcoat and soften the blow with phrases like, "I know she means well...," or -- as a Texan, this is naturally my favorite --  "Bless his heart...". But after one shift training Peter, Dalton simply said, "That guy is an a**hole." And I believe him.

Peter is annoying. There's always that one awkward guy at work, or yoga, or AA, or wherever, who consistently initiates pointless conversations but doesn't have the foggiest idea that you don't have time for the conversation, you don't have an interest in the conversation topic, and above all, you don't have even the slightest desire to have any conversation with him whatsoever, and worst of all, he just. won't. leave.

PETER IS THAT GUY. And it does get worse. How, you ask?

Peter pokes. He pokes when he's bored. He pokes when he wants to be funny. He pokes to get attention. He pokes when he is just simply walking by. He pokes only girls. He pokes hoping that you're ticklish. He pokes expecting a reaction. He pokes dozens of times a shift. He pokes when you don't even realize he's there. He pokes, and he pokes, and he -- AAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!! He pokes 'til I want to grab that freakin' hand and take him down!

Peter is a total bully. At least, that's what I'm telling myself lately. Supposedly, if you ignore a bully, they'll stop bullying right? I dunno, it's been a while since I was in elementary school, and I sure as hell haven't gotten knocked up and popped out a kid lately, so perhaps I'm a little out-of-date on this whole bullying issue. Point is, the last shift I worked with him, he poked me yet again -- always on my side at the base of my ribcage -- and what did I do? I ignored him. I kept walking. I didn't look at him, didn't react to him, didn't appear to have noticed that I had just been touched at all. And guess what? That was the only time I got poked that day! It was glorious. Only one poke!

Peter is a creepy beyond that, too. He'll walk up to the bar while I'm alone making drinks and demand, "Smile!" Usually I just glare and give a half-assed sarcastic smile and continue ignoring him as he continues, "C'mon. That wasn't a real smile. I want to see you smile. Give me a nice one. C'mon, smile for me!" But one night as he was leaving, I accidentally smiled at him as I said good night (What can I say? I was glad he was leaving!), and he immediately stops, exclaiming, "There's a smile! That one was mine, right? That smile was just for me! That was my smile!" *shudder* Unfortunately, Peter acts this way towards several other female servers as well, Eloise and Hermione included. Bless their little hearts.

Peter introduced himself to me as Roberto Estevez. Which is not his name. I mean, the guy looks completely white. So between that fact and the facetious tone in his voice, I knew he was kidding. He didn't ever tell me his actual name. So I just continued to call him Roberto Estevez. I kinda liked that name. It was fun. On the flip side, he didn't remember my name either at first. There is another female bartender at my restaurant whose name begins with the same letter as mine and people often address me by her name accidentally, so honestly, at this point I respond to her name just as readily as to my own. So Rodrigo Peter called me by her name a couple times, and occasionally I made the effort to correct him politely. By the time he finished training, he had begun to call me by her name purposefully. This conversation ensued:

"You know that's not my name."

"Well you don't know my name, do you?" Snarky. Always snarky.

But matter-of-factly, I stated, "Actually yes I do. It's [ Peter ]."

"No, it's not! My name is James!"

"No, it's not. Your name is [ Peter ]. Every time you ring in a drink for me to make, your name prints on the bottom of the ticket. So unless you go by a middle name, or have some weird situation going on, the name you provided [ our restaurant ] to legally obtain employment is [ Peter ]. Besides, I wouldn't want you to be named James."

Peter is visibly defeated by my smartypants-ness. "Why not?"

"Because I just broke up with a James."

Bug-eyed, Peter scurried off and never called me her name again, nor challenged me regarding his name. Mental happy dance ensues.

Peter apparently believed that this episode brought about the need for me to have a nickname. I was unaware of this need. But the next shift I bartended with Peter serving, he asked me if he could call me "Bar Wench." I replied that he could not. An hour later, "How 'bout 'Bar B*tch?'" Definitely not. Another hour passes in this quest for a nickname, and Peter has now grown the balls to strut up to my bar, slam his hand down forcefully, and state quite emphatically, "Well, it's either be 'Bar Wench' or 'Bar B*itch.' Which is it gonna be?"

"Neither," I snapped as I continued working. "'Bar B*tch is offensive. And 'wench' is already the nickname a friend of mine calls me. He has a very special place in my heart, and only he gets to call me 'wench.'" (Oddly enough, that is true). Again, Peter is visibly defeated. And again, I'm doing a mental happy dance as he slinks away. A few hours later, he comes up with another nickname suggestion that is so random, so hilarious, so wonderful, that I joyfully allow it:

Superstar McAwesomeville.

For once in my life, I have no words.


[ degreed waitress ]

You said what?

Pico de gallo. Pronounced "peek-oh  day  guy-oh" by anyone who's been here in Texas longer than five minutes.

Or so I thought.

Nope. Clive the old fart gringo called up last night to order some "kway-sa-dill-luhs" to-go. Oh, but "hold the "pike-oh dey gal-loh. And you can give me some sour cream."

Facepalming must be my favorite thing about taking phone to-go orders, really; I mean, I do it so often..


[ degreed waitress ]