Entries from April 2004 ↓

Reading the article about restaurant service (found at left) that has long passages from my boss about what it means to be a good server has me thinking. It has me thinking about my weaknesses and my strengths as a member of a somewhat elite wait staff. So, I made a list of them and posted them below.

Strengths

-I greet tables with water in hand. It makes guests think I’m on top of my game and, in my opinion, gives diners a chance to order something I can ring up: wine, cappuccino, iced tea. This usually saves me time in the long run, because most people want water anyway.

-I will not crowd you. I take great efforts to consolidate my movements so that I am at your table less. I am not an intrusive server. (Unless you are entirely ignoring me, in which case I’ll sweetly insist that you order or say something, anything.)

-My wine presentation rules. I can open a slippery, cold bottle of chardonnay, never letting the label not face the guests, without once setting the bottle down until every glass has been poured. It’s harder than it sounds.

-I am an obsessive prebusser. I won’t hover over you to take away a single empty sugar packet, but damn close. I like a clean, clutterless table when I dine, so that’s what you get. If I can’t pick it up and move out quickly I won’t go in. I have mastered the delicate balance between cleanly and in the way.

-I take special care with your dessert. I’ll heat your chocolate cake and add thin ribbons of lemon peel to your sorbet. I like to decorate.

-I know a lot about the menu. You have a question about the food, I likely have an answer. Though I may not remember every seasoning, I do know all I need to know to answer most questions. I feel more comfortable and confident that way.

Weaknesses

-The chances of my forgetting your soup or salad befroe a meal are very, very slightly higher than average. I don’t forget much else because I write down everything. People DO NOT PLAY when it comes to a) food and b) money. I take no chances. But dammit, if occasionally I don’t forget someone’s butternut squash bisque.

-I sometimes cannot hide my emotions. It is said I have a rubber face–an expressive mug that tells no lies. My tables are so not fooled.

-When telling the specials I talk with my hands. I hate that I do it. Half the time I see my hands going crazy in front of me, and I can’t believe I am doing it. “The bottom of the plate has spinach and bechamel,” my hands make this swooping gesture to simulate the bottom of the plate is lined. When I say “finished with” I do this little sprinkly finger motion that is foul and offensive in every way. But I cannot stop it.

-I do not know enough about our extensive wine offerings. In fact, I’m downright ignorant about them.

-If I get busy I tend to freak out. Some people remain calm, somehow, when they are balls to the walls busy. I, however, sometimes cannot. I tend to start to sweat and get uptight and am unable to even communicate what I need to those willing to help.

-I’m short and have a hard time reaching things. Especially at long tables. I just might have to lean into the table a bit to get your coffee mug. Least there is one on this list I can do nothing about.

It snowed in Nashville last Monday, so when the temperatures reached 80+ degrees AND I had the day off on Saturday, the VCB and I made our way to the park. There was an Earth Day celebration. We took my camera.

Old, very loud man on treadmill: YOU KNOW THAT ONE CAN OF POTTED MEAT EQUALS A CUP OF LARD? IF YOU ARE OUT OF LARD JUST USE POTTED MEAT.

Very sweet, petite redhead who works at the gym on the treadmill beside him: Really? (sounding astonished)

man: I’M JUST PULLING YOUR LEG.

redhead: I thought you might be.

man: YOU KNOW, I GOT MY DEGREE IN ANTHROPOLOGY AND ALL IT GOT ME WAS A TRIP TO THE CRAZY HOUSE.*

(a minute or so later)

man: YOU’RE NICE.

redhead, sweetly: Yeah, it’s tough. It’s hard to find a balance between nice and politely telling someone to shove off.

man: YEAH, I KNOW WHAT YOU MEAN.

man: DID YOU KNOW I WAS IN VIETNAM? …

Their conversation was enough to warrant me finishing early on the treadmill.

*No shit it did, old man.

I can’t stand the guy who works as valet at my restaurant. Let’s call him Craig, ’cause let’s face it, Craig is a dick name. When I first met Craig I was brand new and unaware of the magnitude of this guy’s dorkiness. He said he needed a ride–he doesn’t have a car–and that he only lived 2 blocks away. [What kind of valet doesn’t have a car? Not the kind I want driving mine.] I told him I’d be happy to drop him off since I was clocking out anyway. Thanks so much, he said, it’ll only take two minutes.

So, we trudged up the hill to my car and the whole time I’m resisting the urge to throw him my keys, and be all, “Run! It’s the green one!!” But I figured he’d been getting bossed around and running all night so we both walked. Once in my car he realized that he forgot to do any sort of closing duties in order to leave. It was about this time that Craig’s dipshitedness began to materialize before my eyes. He didn’t take his box in or sign the book. He was so sorry, he assured me, and ran in to take care of business. A full five minutes later he returned, and that was when I noticed his seriously foul body odor begin to cloud up my car. He refused to sit in silence as we drove, instead making the most inane of small talk before asking if I could drive him through at Wendy’s. He hadn’t eaten in 13 hours and he was starving. How do you deny a guy with no car and an empty belly fast food? Begrudgingly, that’s how. The line at the drive-thru crept along so slowly that it took 5-6 more minutes to get to the menu to give the order. Which was ENORMOUS. Stinky Craig ordered two double cheeseburgers, a “biggie” french fry and some other fried chicken strip thingy. And he only told me what he wanted and made me order it. Meanwhile, my lasagna in a box is growing cold in the floorboard of my car.

Then, without asking, he began eating his food in my car. Whatever, I was going to have him out of there in a few seconds anyway. But the smell of onions and his armpits made me want to hurk–a smell to this day I can fully remember. I finally dropped him off and made my way back to the expressway when I noticed it had been half an hour since I clocked out at work. So, from then on I sorta didn’t like Stinky Craig.

Since then he has continually made my life a little bit of hell. First of all, I hate the way he saunters. He puffs out his chest and puts a thumb into the waistband of his khakis and walks around like a cowboy fresh off a horse. It’s so repugnant. Sometimes I’ll look outside and catch him doing calf raises or squats. Not discreet calf raises, no. He’s got one hand on a street sign, the other on someone’s Jetta and he’s all bent over doing full-on, gym-style calf raises. No wonder Craig is stinky.

And he’s always telling me what he is doing after work. “I still have thirteen sets of keys and I told a group of girls I’d meet them at 11.” Group of girls. It will be one girl, if any, once they get a whiff of Stinky Craig. Oh, and my managers are constantly telling him not to smoke or talk on his cell phone while on duty. Sometimes I look out and Craig is on the phone, smoking, all the while idly scratching himself.

And he always wants to talk. Always. It’s slow, he gets bored, and sometimes so do I. But Craig takes that as a sign that I want to hear how many pages of the newest John Grisham or Stephen King he’s read while waiting to park cars. I will be busily working a crossword when I hear, “I read 250 pages just now.” And that is all. Just the declaration that he can read and has done so in a quick-like fashion. I can barely manage that fake, annoyed smile one give when trying very hard to express one doesn’t give a shit.

Oh my God, and he never has a pen. Seriously, every day. And every day he tries to profer some lame-ass excuse. “Do you have a pen, I left mine at home today?,” he asks EACH AND EVERY CONSECUTIVE SHIFT. “I bring it at dinner, but can’t remember it for lunch.” Or some other empty bullshit excuse. I’ve just begun to hold out the little box of crayons when he first walks in the door. That way, I hope, there will be no exchange of actual words. Instead he says, “Why do you keep a box of crayons under the host stand?”

“We used to keep them for kids to, ya know, color with, but lately it is only used for dumbshit valets who never, ever manage to bring a pen,” I said. Actually, no I didn’t. But the next time Stinky Craig has the gumption to ask me for a writing utensil I just may punch him in the throat. Or the dick.

Jermaine Jackson named his son Jermajesty.

Informed.

Walk in the front door with your head up, head back. Place one pointy-toed stiletto in front of the other and throw each shoulder with every stride. At the first sight of the others toss your hair. Your lipgloss is mirror slick.

Air kisses for the lady. She is wearing brown cords and brown boots. Her hair is curly and pulled up with a barette. Rest assured in the knowledge that you outshine your dinner companion ten fold. Make no eye contact with her boyfriend until she excuses herself to the bathroom. Then make sure you whisper something about how he smells in his ear and slyly show a bit of tongue. Sneak peeks at him later while she’s eating. Bite your bottom lip once, not twice.

It’s your birthday and you are wearing your red off-the-shoulder dress that accentuates the slope of your tiny waist to the dramatic arc of your hips. Your hair is shiny black from the $30 blow out.

Your nipples harden beneath the thin material of the dress. With every sip of wine you grow wetter.

Your fuzzy haired dinner companion is slurring. She indulges in alcohol since she found out she can’t have any children. She’s on drink number four, which for her tiny, curveless frame is more than plenty. Notice her face looks sadder and sadder with every sip.

He’s only nursing beer. He allows his wife the luxury of a few hours drunk. They’d been trying for over two years before she learned she was barren. He wasn’t as devestated as she was about it. You notice when he reaches for his wife’s hand her eyes begin to tear up. She excuses herself to the ladies’ room.

While she’s gone slide the palm of your hand up the length of his thigh. Feel him harden beneath your hand before he grabs your wrist hard and pushes you away forcefully. He looks you in the face and says he’d love to fuck you. But he loves his wife far more than that.

When she emerges from the bathroom, mascara matting her lashes, he drops a $100 bill on the table and escorts her out of the bar. He will tell her he was too concerned about her to stay even a minute longer, never mentioning your encounter.

Take a cab home and finish the tequila your sister bought for your birthday. Cry later when you masturbate.

-Mom made us Easter baskets. Snickers eggs and new coffee mug and stuffed animals. Rock!

-Bocce ball in the backyard. My sister calling it “Hibatchi ball.”

-My mother drunk on boxed wine, referee-ing Hibatchi ball while screaming out the play-by-play to everyone, including the neighbors.

-Seeing my sister in love with a really nice guy. Finally.

-Watching the video of my mother’s February wedding in Hawaii.

-Laughing hysterically as the wedding official continually makes dumb jokes with the camera man.

-Seeing Mom’s new beach room mobile that hangs a mere 4 inches from the bed. Martha Stewart she is not.

-The VCB was there.

A lot of my old photo albums that were hosted at another site are now offline. Starting now I am slowly moving them over to this here TypePad server.

The first one to be resurrected is Vegas. You’ve probably seen these before. Now they are available in a handy thumbnail gallery. Typepad kicks much ass.

(Oh, and by request: the video of me dancing and drunk on Fremont St. The girl at the end is my sister, who was also drunk.)

UPDATE:
Now available for your perusal: Los Angeles

B., one of my favorite fellow servers, mysteriously lost her voice last Friday night. She had a touch of a cough earlier in the week, but otherwise she didn’t feel bad at all.

Later that night I heard her greeting a new table. “Hi. Sorry about not having a voice. Not sure how that happened. I’ll try to speak up.”

A condescending woman at that table asked right away, “Are you contagious?”

B. said, “No. Why? Do you know someone who needs to be quiet?”

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.
Continue reading →