To All the Hosts I’ve Dissed Before/Kenny Loggins Sighting

I waited my first table when I was 18 years old. I was applying at restaurants all over Nashville in hopes of getting a hostess position since it generally paid a bit over minimum wage. I applied at The Cooker Bar and Grille on West End Ave., but instead of hiring me to host the manager thought I would make a better server. It was that day that this waitress was born. That was more than eight years ago.

And in that eight years I have never shown any love for the hostesses. Excuse me, host staff. I mean, I would fill in occasionally as a hostess at the casual dining, chain restaurants where I served, and believe me that job is a cakewalk. When I filled in as a host I usually spent my time shifting my weight from foot to foot or holding a door for someone or writing names on a piece of paper. So not that hard.

I said the petty things every server on the planet has been heard to say a time or two. Like, “There’s got be an IQ maximum to work as a hostess.” (Oh, har.) I mean, how hard could it be to walk people to their tables. It’s not rocket science to seat servers in rotation. As a host you put up with a bit of attitude about wait times, fend off a few exasperated sighs, but after 20 minutes those rude customers are someone else’s problem. As a host at least your wage doesn’t depend on a guests’ appraisal of how well you do your job.

Let me be the first to offer a sincere apology to every hostess I’ve ever said a foul word about. I, a bitter old waitress, am sorry to any member of any host staff I may have slighted or underestimated in any way. Now that I have found myself working as a host three days a week I fully empathize with your plight. I really had absolutely no idea.

I can’t speak for other restaurants, but where I work the hostess has to shuffle myriad responsibilities. There is usually only one of us. Sometimes two. Once per week there are three of us, but only for the two busiest hours on Saturday night. As the only hostess my responsibilities include any and all of the following, possibly at the same time. Possibly three or four or more at once. I clean windows, “brasso” the brass, answer the phone (”No, we don’t take reservations. Yes, I know it says so, but that isn’t our web site, it is Citysearch’s web site.”), bus tables, roll silverware, retrieve menus, water plants, call for cabs, give directions and, in a karmic turn of events, take heat from the servers when they aren’t making any money. I also must seat servers in rotation, while recording the number of people at every table, adding them up at the end of every hour. I must then seat servers based on the number of entrees ordered at their tables that evening, so that everyone has as close to an even number of people as possible.

That sounds like enough to keep one extremely busy, but a manageable amount of responsibility overall. And it is. It’s just that, at times, the customers make it really difficult. For instance! The other day I was hosting during a lunch shift when the clientele is nothing but business people. Business people with armloads of paperwork and quick draw handshakes who roam around talking out loud to themselves–until you realize they are wearing one of those obnoxious hand-free cell phone kits. We were on a twenty minute wait which necessitated me doing the drill just about everyone who’s ever eaten out EVER (and had to wait) is very familiar with: taking the last name, smoking preference, the number in the party and, in this case, a description of the representative from that party. For finding them later. Which can be very confusing. (Although the descriptions are priceless. Like, “obvious toupee, moustache.” Or, “man bag, too-much-product guy.”)

Well, on this afternoon I had not one, but two, parties just walk in the front door and never check in with me. These three very boisterious and self-important gentlemen walked in, parked themselves just to the left of the host stand and proceeded to talk loudly whilst making big, huge sweeping gestures, never once thinking to speak with anyone about maybe sitting down to eat eventually. I waited about five or six minutes before I put them down on the waiting list as the ? Party. When a table was finally available for the ? Party, I made my way over to the men and asked, “Are you waiting for a table?”

“Why, yes,” he smiled and prepared himself to be seated.

“Oh, because I never got your name or any information.”

I only let them panic for about half a second. “But I’ve been looking out for you, and so I’ve got something ready right now.” They were gracious, but were not at all apologetic. Not that they should have been.

Later that afternoon another party of three, this time all women, a bit older, came in and did the same thing. They came in, stood two feet away from me, so utterly absorbed in their conversation that no one could be bothered to arrange for a table. Once a table cleared and it was their turn I did the same thing.

“Are you ladies waiting for a table?,” I asked sweetly.

“WELL, THAT WAS THE IDEA,” one of the women practically yelled at me.

I sighed and seated them without comment, at which time they promptly asked to be moved.

Which is another fucking thing. Oh, my God. I have never seen people so into picking where they sit to eat in all my life. Granted, some tables are better than others, but most times it makes no sense. They point to a table similar to the one you’ve taken them too and ask to move. You take them to the table of their choosing, knowing full well the outcome: his legs won’t fit under the table. He’s too tall. I knew that. Which is why I didn’t take them there in the first place. They want to sit by the window, but nowhere near the smoking section, which is pretty much impossible. They want to move because they like the color of the flower at the other table better, like this crazy lady said the other day.

Which is fine. You’re paying $22 for some salmon, go ahead and pick your own table. But don’t get all pissed off when the server isn’t right there with your drinks. She probably just got two other tables, and now you’re number three, since switching tables threw the rotation totally off balance. And perhaps you could ask nicely. Instead of nuh-uh, nuh-uh, nuh-uh-ing me as I try to show you to a booth. Where I work people mostly want to switch table so they can be seen by all the other fabulous scenesters. Or to not be seen, which was the case with Kenny Loggins.

Before the other day I had heard the name Kenny Loggins, but I figured he was some washed-up, B-rate country singer. Had no idea he was a Doobie Brother.* Anyway, these three men came in and asked for a table in non-smoking. I took them immediately to one in the center and told them politely that a server would be right out. I was about to walk back up front, when from behind me I heard, “MA’AM! MA’AM!!”

As I am wont to do when someone doesn’t say excuse me when trying to get my attention, I tried ignoring him. But this bearded guy caught up to me and pointed to a dirty table against the wall. “How about that one?,” he said.

“Sure once it’s clean I can move you right over,” I responded, “or you can sit here if you like.” I motioned toward a clean table exactly like the one he wanted, but in the window.

“No, here,” he said, and proceeded to sit right down at an unbussed table. The server about to take that table caught me making a face behind their backs. She didn’t smile, but quickly bussed the table. She came down to me a couple of minutes later.

“Don’t you know who that is?,” she asked me all dramatically, making fun of herself. “That’s Kenny Loggins.”

Here’s me: “Who?”
Her mouth dropped and she said, “Footloose–hello?”

I rolled my eyes and laughed when I saw Kenny sitting facing the wall, so that no one could see his famous face, so he could eat kick of his Sunday shoes and eat in peace. The server giggled and informed me that Kenny Loggins wears foundation.

How this open apology to the hard-working hostesses of the world turned into a Redneck Gawker-style entry about a Kenny Loggins siting is beyond me. But let it be known, hosts and hostesses, that this server applauds your exhaustive efforts and your underappreciated abilities. Your value is immeasurable.

I salute you, Takers to the Table!

*I initially thought Kenny was a Doobie Brother, but turns out he only co-wrote “What a Fool Believes.” Further proof I had no fucking clue who Kenny Loggins was.