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 ]

What planet are you from, lady?

Miss Picky at table 82 complained about literally every part of her meal. Some highlights...

First, she complained about her Strawberry Lemonade: "These strawberries aren't fresh. I want fresh strawberries." Despite multiple explanations, she still apparently couldn't comprehend that we don't even have fresh strawberries, only a thawed strawberry compote. Somehow, this required a manager.

Then, she sent this salad back for being "too brown and wilty."

Huh?

Trent and the producers

Once again, all of the names have been changed to protect the innocent. And the self-absorbed.

Remember my last post about strawberry lemonades and fruit teas? Well yesterday I dealt with the other end of the beverage-making process: I was the lunch shift bartender. But I'm using the term "bartender" quite loosely. See, on weekday lunch shifts, I make approximately fifteen alcoholic beverages over the course of about five hours. So I wouldn't really call myself a bartender, per se. I mean, I am the person who stands behind the bar, but instead of making awesome beverages, I handle a steady stream of to-go orders and serve the occasional bar guest. Well, that's at least what I attempt to do between the countless requests for tea and lemonade flavorings that come staggering in every three minutes or so. 

Mid shift, Trent came by for a squirt of peach syrup for his sweet tea. Again. 

"Already?" I asked.

"Already." Trent replied and handed me the glass.

"Wow, they must be thirsty. It hasn't even been five minutes!" I pump the syrup into the glass and hand it back to him.

He puts the mixing tin over the glass and shakes the drink, mixing the flavoring in thoroughly. "Yeah. Well apparently they're movie producers. And they're very thirsty because they've just finished up producing a movie." He smiles as if the awesomeness of his guests had rubbed off on him.

"Oh, that's cool!" I gave him a smile that implied I cared far more than I actually did, and instinctively rolled my eyes after he turned away. Trent thinks he's hot stuff and is determined to be the center of attention, and I usually just smile and laugh to humor him and then disregard half of what he says. Want an example?

An hour or so earlier, I walked into the kitchen and saw Trent for the first time that day. Instead of exchanging hellos and pleasantries, Trent flashes me his cocky, crooked smile and says, "I have sad news for you. I'm leaving [ our restaurant ]. I got a job at [ another restaurant, but a much nicer one, where he could probably make enough tips to not struggle for minimum wage like at our restaurant ].  I'll be leaving in February."

I looked at him with surprise, as I had assumed it would be a little more demanding to get a job serving at [ the nicer restaurant ]. Trent has only been with us for about three months or so, and we're his first ever serving job. Most nice places require more experience than that. Our own managers haven't even moved him up to the cocktail area, big party sections, or closing/leadership sections yet, so I'd assumed he wasn't that strong of a server. I didn't realize a place like [ the nicer restaurant ] would actually hire him. With all of this surprise running through my head, I simply said,

"Oh! Wow!"

I guess Trent took my shock for sadness and decided to comfort me. "I know," he said dramatically, pulling me in for a hug. "You won't get to see me very much."

I return the hug, and over his shoulder I am rolling my eyes in annoyance at his ego. I give a huge mental shrug. Trent's leaving? Fine by me. Do you know how many dozens of servers I have seen leave [ our restaurant ] within three, four months of working here? I am no longer phased by this concept.

Trent just keeps talking though, "But we can still hang out at Dalton's apartment and get drunk again sometime."

Uh, what? That happened one time, like a month ago. A group of us servers together just chillin' for a fun night of board games and movies. Not everyone was even drinking, and even those who were didn't get drunk. Don't make it sound like it was some crazy party. All I wanted to do was just hang out with Eloise and Hermione and Dalton. I didn't even know you were invited till I showed up and saw you. And call me Rhett Butler 'cuz frankly, my dear, I didn't give a damn. 

What I actually said, though, was, "Sweet." And I walked away.

That's one of the blessings about working in a restaurant. There's usually so much hustle and bustle in the kitchen that most conversations you have with the other servers are held in one- or two-minute snippets, so walking away mid conversation isn't really considered rude, but rather standard procedure. I mean, we all got stuff to do, man... table 108 needs a fourth side of ranch, and the cheapskate lady at 112 needs more lemons and Splenda so she can make her own lemonade for free. Ain't nobody got time for that! a full conversation! Constantly doing things for your tables means you can always duck out of an unwanted conversation gracefully. Score!

Anywho, I decided to walk back from the kitchen into the bar and was careful not to trip over Trent's ego along the way.

As Trent came back to the bar for about seven more peach teas--all for one guy, mind you--he told me that the guys at his table have been telling him some interesting behind-the-scenes information on the filming of these movies. I thought nothing of it, really, given that I've seen tons of celebrities in my restaurant.. I mean, we get a lot (read: a handful) of famous rappers (read: YouTube wannabes) eating in our restaurant and bragging about their success. One of them even filmed something in our restaurant (Really? Our restaurant? You must be really ghetto. Or desperate. Or both.).

Actually, it turns out that these guys were legit. They are the producers for Iron Man 3 and some other cool stuff.  So now when Dalton, Eloise, Hermoine, and I go to see Iron Man 3 in theaters in May--without Trent, hopefully--and they're all like "Whoa, that was so cool! How did they do that?!?"  I can be all like "Uh, peach tea. Duh."


[ degreed waitress ]

Hydration frustration

Let's pretend you're eating at my restaurant.  And I am your server.  If I were to approach your table and say, "Hey, guys!  How're y'all doing?" you would most likely answer …"good"… 

Maybe if you're particularly friendly, you might say… "good, and you?" 

Or maybe you're feeling apathetic today ("I'm doin' alright..."). 

Or overly energetic ("Great!" or "Fantastic!") ….more often than not I fall into that last category, to be honest.  But no, not the people I serve.  Instead, I have this conversation fifty-seven times a day:

Me: "Hey, guys!  How're y'all doing?"

Guest: "Strawberry lemonade"

Hold the phone. 

Strawberry lemonade is  a status of wellbeing now?  I had NO idea!  Thank you for enlightening me!

This is why (if I actually make it to the part of my opening spiel where I introduce myself and ASK about drink preferences), I prefer to just simply ask what you want to drink.  Sure, we're supposed to push "coke, tea, or lemonade" with every table.  Or the "drink focus of the week" (thank you, Corporate).  But frankly, I don't do that.  Wanna know why?  Because I don't want to remind you that I even have flavored teas and lemonades. 

See, asking for tea usually means unsweetened tea.  But honey, this is Texas.  We drink a little tea with our sugar here, so quit using my entire caddy of fake sugar that I'll have to refill later and just get the sweet tea that actually tastes good (unless you have a really good reason, like you're diabetic, then go ahead).  But then of course, if a guest wants a sweet tea, there's a good chance she's going to want a flavored tea--because God forbid her tea actually taste like tea.

If she asks for a lemonade, she's probably going to get "pink lemonade" (which--as was obviously forgotten--is called Raspberry Lemonade by anyone with an age in the double digits) or, worse, Strawberry Lemonade.  That's right, she wants me to scoop a clump, uh, I mean, a dollop (sounds so much nicer, right??) of thawed strawberry compote that's so unnaturally pink that it looks, well, unnatural, into a beverage that now involves chewing. 

In concept, the process really is quite simple.  First I have to make a glass of regular lemonade or tea and ring in the drink, and then go to the bar where the bartender will give the flavoring as ordered.  If it's a tea, I have to shake it and garnish the rim of the first glass served.  Ta-daa.   But in practice, these flavored concoctions are a pain in the neck when the restaurant is busy.  They are time consuming and darn well annoying. I have to wait for the bartender(s) to get to a stopping point amidst serving the handful of people seated at the bar, processing dozens of simultaneous to-go orders, and making headway through the constantly growing list of alcoholic beverages ordered--you know, actually doing his own job--so that he can finally reach the opportunity to acknowledge me and this lady's fruit needs.  I may spend a good two or three minutes at the bar simply waiting for the bartender.   That two or three minutes effectively doubles the amount of time it takes me to bring the drinks to the table.  I can't drop off the teas and lemonades  at the bar and go take care of another task and just come back to pick them up because then the bartenders won't know which tea belongs to which server and which flavor to squirt in--so unattended teas get ignored. That two or three minutes is lost unnecessarily and occasionally frustrates the guests because of how long it's taking me to get her drinks.

Once I serve this guest a fruit lemonade or a fruit-infused tea (Yes, it's called infused now.  Why?  Because I shook the damn thing, so now it's fancy.), one of two things is going to happen:

1--She hates it: "This Strawberry Lemonade is too tart!"

Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot  to warn you that our lemonade is flavored from lemons. Which are tart. And yes, I'm also sorry that the one dollop of juicy strawberry compote, which by the way has as much sugar as an entire can of soda, isn't sweet enough to meet your sugar overdose needs!  Can I get you something else instead? 

Usually she'll just ask for another scoop of strawberries (back to the bar!). Or switch to a soda (off to find a manager so I can start the hour long process of reminding him three or four times to remove the first drink from the check).

2--She guzzles it down.  As in.. She sucked down every last drop of lemonade and is now using her fork or straw or fingers or something to grab out all the last bits of the pink fruit-based clump. And I haven't even finished taking the party's entrée orders.  So annoying.  Now, thanks to Miss Sugar Addict over here, I have to choose between getting her a refill right away and ordering the table's food.  Either the whole party's food order will be delayed because she's dehydrated, or she's going to continue to be empty and thus get frustrated with me. And then shake her glass at me while I'm five feet away assisting another tables. Guess what, I'm going to choose entering in the food orders every time.  And then bring her two drinks at a time to make it obvious that she's ridiculous: "Here ya go, sweetie. I brought you two since you're so thirsty, and I thought I'd save myself the extra trip," flashing her a smile that's sweeter and faker than those strawberries.

[ degreed waitress ]

Christmas tips rock my Christmas socks!



[ photo credit ]

I was certainly not excited about having to work on Christmas Eve, but luckily our restaurant was closed on the 25th itself, and was closing early (at 9pm) on the 24th. 

 

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.)

 

 

[ photo credit ]

 

 

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:



[ photo credit ]

"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?..." 

 

 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!





[ photo credit ]



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 ]