Another Day at the Rat Race

Work yesterday was more than eventful. I was the “late server” yesterday, meaning that after everyone else leaves at 2, I stay until 4 or later taking all the mid-day tables. Usually on a Monday I’ll have 2 or 3 or 4 tables in those last two hours. But yesterday the people continued to pour in well after lunch rush. I was waiting on six tables, two of them 4-tops with multiple courses.

One lady had an allergy to onions and needed me to quiz everyone in the kitchen about her order. She ordered the chicken quesadilla with no scallions or salsa, but also needed to know if her chicken had been marinated in anything that had ever touched an onion. All the while my new 4-top beside her sat drinkless. I found out about the chicken–there was and never had been any onion–and watched as even more new tables accumulated in my section.

Waiting tables at this time of day can be very frustrating. All the waitresses have gone home, as has the bartender. So I have to pour my own wine, run all the food that comes up and reach for condiments and dressings that were long ago put away. Everything takes twice as long.

The kitchen that time of day is filled with both the lunch and night kitchen crew, PFG and Sysco representatives and the gentlemen who refill our coffee and tea and shout really loud about football. “Let me know if I’m in your way, sweetheart,” they say. If only I had more time on my hands I would say something, so instead you get my elbow in your ribs.

Table 23’s order was soon ready, which I noticed as I began to put it on a tray, looked disturbingly wrong. I peeked into my notebook to see I’d rung in two grilled chickens when I should have hit crabcakes. I was so totally fucked. I informed the chef of my fuck-up–the same chef who just 30 minutes prior had to cook a halibut for a ticket that got lost long after we’d 86′ed the fish special. He said nothing to me, just shot me a look of unbridled disgust and got to making the crabcakes. I informed table 23 that their missing entrees would soon arrive. The table next to them waved me over to order four desserts and decaf coffees with cream.

After one more angry inquisition about the still absent crabcakes from my customers, the fried fish cakes finally showed up at their table. I had time to take a quick breath and greet my new duece.

“I’ll have a glass of wine,” some blowed-out, bleach blonde, big-breasted lawyer’s wife-type said. Like she was at Shoney’s and they have just one kind of wine or some shit. I pointed out the by-the-glass list very plainly on her menu, which she glanced at briefly and sighed, as though she should not be required to ever do as much work as reading takes. She chose the J. Lohr and her meek dining companion followed suit. I promptly brought them two J. Lohr rieslings–the only kind of J. Lohr wine that we carry.

I later learn they thought they were ordering chardonnay and asked to switch to that. When I asked my manager to void the rieslings she said I sure did have problems with my voids that day. As if the fact that those bitches couldn’t be bothered to read a wine menu was in any way my fault.

Things settled down a bit by 3 o’ clock and I began clearing the dishes of departing diners. On a trip to the kitchen with an armload of plates I see out of the corner of my eye a long, hairless tail. My immediate reaction was to think, “Oh my God, you so did not just see that.” I made my way around the booths where I spotted the tail and took a look. Standing right in front of the bar in the middle of the dining room was a motherfucking RAT, just chillin’ like a little villian.

I thought only seconds about whether I should say anything to anyone. HELL NO, was my conclusion after recalling last week’s plunging incident I was recruited for. Not 60 seconds later my boss was screaming to the chef about the rat out front. Ultimately the sous chef trapped it in a bucket and put it outside. Right in front of the lady who’d come in for coffee with her client from New York. He told me he was from Queens where rats come head-sized, so I felt a little better. Until he pointed out he never saw them inside restaurants. At first the lady with him thought it was a kitten if that gives you any idea of this rat’s size.

Later I was near the backdoor finishing up my duties with a tray in my hand when it’s buzzer rang. It was nearing 4 pm., the time when the night servers arrive. I thought I would find someone wearing an apron out back, but instead I found an old lady of at least 100 and her equally ancient husband. “Can we get something to eat?,” she asked me. I told her I’d be happy to show her to the front door, but she said she wouldn’t mind making her way through the kitchen, since she and her husband had been driving for two hours to find our place.

I actually thought for a moment about allowing them to, since my mind was weary from all the rodent wrangling, but then I foresaw each and every one of the kitcken staff taking turns kicking my ass. And they all have big sharp knives. I insisted on showing the elderly couple through the front door.

Luckily M. arrived about that time, ready to take tables so I pawned granny and gramps off on him. I then finally sat down to the cold tomato soup and broccoli I’d ordered an hour ago. Hot, tired and still wigged out by the rat, I opted not to eat and wrapped up my food to-go.

Relieved to be done with the day’s hellish shift I grabbed my purse to leave. And wouldn’t you know that on the way out the door I discovered I’d locked my goddamned keys in my car.