Entries Tagged 'The Restaurant Chronicles' ↓

The bread was a big draw for diners who chose to eat at the Cooker. I know that because people told me, often emphatically. Since the bread was complimentary, served before the meal, and replenished as often as was wanted, perhaps it had something to do with the restaurant chain’s ultimate demise. When your best attribute is free that makes for poor profits.

The Cooker served both homemade rolls and fresh-from-scratch cornbread. In fact, they employed a person full-time to make only bread, all the time. The rolls were wheat (though by no means whole wheat) that wound around like small cinnamon rolls, but with no glaze or sugar. I never really thought they were all that great, but I was clearly in the minority with that opinion. The cornbread, on the other hand, was shaped in rounds, individually, and they were damn good. 22 fat grams (each!) worth of delicious. Each table was to receive one roll per person in a basket, and each basket got one piece of cornbread per table. Unless there were more than four people seated, in which case there could be two pieces of cornbread. But, of course, this was never enough for 98% of my tables. Which is understandable, I go through chips at a Mexican restaurant like a junkie blows through nickel bags, but damn! At least let me bring the people what they want, which is mounds and mounds of hot, free bread served with plenty of whipped margarine now. I was often ordered to bring a scoop of margarine for each piece of complimentary bread I served.

But the managers watched the coveted woven baskets with their single-ply wax paper sheets enveloping the fresh bread like hawks. Only 4×1+1 pieces of bread could make it out to the table, unless the table had specifically requested extra. Because if there was anything that the Cooker cowtowed to utterly and completely it was the whims of guests who took advantage of that very fact.*

Because explicit requests for extra bread were the only exception made as to how much went out on the first round, we exploited it. We lied. We could tell when a table was going to run us the entire time for more free, filling bread–maybe we’d waited on them before, maybe they’d told us they were starving, maybe they expressed their love of cornbread–and so when harassed by management about it we’d just fib a little. It got to be so prevalent, though, that I’m surprised the managers didn’t go ask patrons to verify if that was true. Of course, they’d never want to offend a valued guest, so we played that for all it was worth.

Danielle, the woman who was the sole bread baker there, was a tyrant. Her job was hard, no doubt. She had to make an extraordinary amount, dare I say a shit-ton, of bread. But that bitch was crazy. She would throw bowls when she got pissed, which was every Friday night, Saturday night and Sunday morning. They only scheduled her during the busiest hours because she was incredible at the baking part. The bread she made was consistently fluffy and soft or moist and savory, depending. And she did just fine, so long as there wasn’t a rush. But if there was a push at the door and production became too stressful for her–a low threshold to be sure–she would lose her shit.

Servers asking for bread when she was clearly busy was usually the tipping point. See, servers constantly have to ask those who work in the kitchen for stuff, despite not being their boss. ("How long on that steak?"; "Is there dairy in that?"; "Can you wash a few bowls?") Servers, the people separating the diners from their food, ask for knowledge, knives, help reaching, estimated time of arrivals, extra dressing and a billion other things. They are needy people who can’t do much for themselves back there besides ask.** Asking Danielle how much more time before the bread was ready could cause a melt down. She’d start cussing, as if under her breath, but everyone could clearly hear her. "Fucking bitchass kids ain’t gonna tell me what to do. They can kiss my black ass!"

If a waiter was unfortunate enough to have been out at his table for a while, perhaps getting railed by his guests about why they can’t be eating bread, and he came back to inquire with a bit of an edge to his voice, all bets were off. Danielle would start slamming shit. Doors to ovens, metal baking sheets (heavy, industrial ones that make a lot of racket), cutting boards, random passersby. "I’m gonna sue!," she’d yell. "This place is some bullshit. I can’t believe this shit. There should be three of me. Fuck you 18-year-old motherfuckers telling me what to do. I swear, I’ll sue!"

No one could ever figure out what she was going to sue over, but she was never fired. I imagine she went down with the sinking ship some years later.

*In fact, I heard once a manager say that he would get shit from the fellas upstairs if he had too few "comps" for the week. They’d say he wasn’t doing enough to satisfy the patrons.

**Some servers are also back-of-house employees, but even the most able server has his hands ties when it comes to access to items in the kitchen.   

I flew low and kept my nose clean for the first several months, always going directly home after my shifts. Either that, or I drove down to Murfreesboro to be with Cal. It took a while for me to wriggle out of my shell. It helped when Jolene began working there.

She was a grade beneath me in high school and, while we were by no means close, we ran in the same circles. She was a cheerleader the year I decided to quit. We’d end up at the same lame field parties or stupid school dance. It was a relief to see her show up one day at a new employee training class.

Jolene had long, chestnut hair that she spent a lot of time grooming. Sometimes she wore it in well-sprayed, hot rolled curls. Other times it would be stick straight and glossy, the effects of a vigorous blow out. She wore her makeup in thick layers, on her eyes, cheeks and her plush, wide mouth. Glitter eyeshadow and red lipstick in the daytime.

Jolene was the kind of girl who would go out for drinks with co-workers on her very first night, inviting herself if no one else did. And that’s exactly what she did working that first night of training at the Cooker.

"You have to come with me," she pleaded, grabbing my wrists and bending at the knee. "I have a fake ID that works every time. I’ll just order for you!"

"Okay, maybe." I mustered a doubtful reply, knowing full well I wouldn’t go. I was pretty well wedged up my boyfriend’s ass back then, a product of rampant insecurity. I’d never go out when I could run home to him instead.

I finished up my tables on that very slow Monday night, wiping down booths and tipping out before even 8:30. While settling up with the house the phone at the hostess stand rang. It was for me.

"Girl, you better get up here." It was Jolene. She was calling me from the pay phone at TGIFriday’s on Elliston. I could barely hear her over the roar of shitty pop music. "Everybody’s here, and we’re outside. It’s gorgeous out! Bring Lia, and I’ll order a drink for you."

I looked at my watch, then down at the paltry sum I’d earned that evening. I decided to go anyway.

"I don’t have anything to change into, but okay," I said. She assured me I looked hot then hung up.

By the time I arrived there was already a screwdriver, strong and tall, sitting beside Jolene in front of an empty chair. People I’d worked along side for weeks and weeks were suddenly completely changed. They were relaxed and already lubed up from the alcohol. Some of them even cheered at my arrival. These weren’t the same gruff, no-nonsense assholes I worked with day in and day out. No, with a few beers and a few hours away from kissing people’s asses and they became more than tolerable. They were really cool.

I drank too many screwdrivers that night. Three, I think. Jolene ended up leaving with the scruffy long-haired server who’d been bringing me cocktails all night without so much as asking for I.D. I crashed at Jeffrey’s house, the curly-haired, unassuming server guy who like Tori Amos as much as I did. I called Cal and told him I was sleeping at Jolene’s.

I went to class the next day with a monster headache and belly full of guilt.

I don’t remember my first table the first night I went solo. I do remember having a three table section on a Tuesday night in the back dining room. I made $34 after tip out. Yes, that first night on the floor I truly learned how restaurants earned a profit: the tip out. Not only do eateries pay their employees just over $2 an hour (in TN), they can also pay their busboys, bartenders, hostesses and to-go cashiers the very same rate, and many do. In many a restaurant across this great nation waiters and waitresses pay the bulk of the earnings for front of the house employees.

At Outback Stake House* servers were required to tip out 3% of our total sales for the evening, despite what we made in tips. I tipped out well over $30 after many, many long and grueling shifts, sometimes taking home just 7 or 8% of my sales, instead of the 12-15% that people leave on the table.

However, at the Cooker tip out was voluntary, and I use that term loosely. Tip out there was given to the bartenders and the busboys, not the hosts. This happened at the end of each shift. Tipping generously resulted in promptly cleaned tables and quickly made cocktails. Skimping on a co-worker due to a bad night was considered bad form. Skimping could also get you talked about, or worse, stalled at the bar’s well, waiting for a frozen daiquiri that is melting just out of your reach. Tipping out is a fucking racket.**

The staff at the Cooker was huge, as was the place itself. It took a while to get to anyone, so I kept sticking with Lia.  I felt lost on the days she didn’t work. They scheduled us for the same shift a lot, which looking back now, was nice of them. There were so many servers on the schedule, I shit you not, there were at least eighty.  Some people worked just one day a week. I would for a month or more, working, getting familiar with folks when some very tanned girl with beads in her hair would show up, saying she’s been waiting tables for a while on an island somewhere.

We always had "line up" before every shift. We’d stand for 15-30 minutes getting a pep talk from managers, drilled on the specials, scolded for last night’s slackery. The bosses even came by to to individually inspect our uniforms. In line up we were assigned our sections and opening sidework. This was labor you did while waiting for your tables to fill up, anything from scooping butter balls into ramekins (easy, but messy–plus you had to put the butter scoop in hot water while working, which created a nasty hot butter water that would always make me gag) to hauling buckets of ice from the back to the bar. As an aside, the design of the West End Cooker was atrocious–the bar and the kitchen on opposite ends of the building. There was no ice machine up there!

After the rush of people died down I’d get "cut," stricken from the floorplan, finito, done bringing anybody anything. I had to roll up 150 forks and 75 knives up into linens, "spec out" all my tables by topping off condiments, wiping and sweeping and then so closing "sidework." After my first solo shift at the Cooker my task was to consolidate salad dressings and clean out that bin. The closing server who had to okay my work before I could leave made me go back and scrub the bin five times. Maybe six; it was a lot. I nearly cried that night, scrubbing the stainless steel, wondering what spot or crumb he could possible have been talking about. He was so vague in his demands to redo it. That dressing bin shone like the top of the Chrysler building!

It wasn’t until I stared at my bedroom ceiling that night, tired but unable to sleep, that I realized I’d been hazed. The next day when I asked him why he did that he said it was for my own good.

*They accepted checks way back in the day, and I will always remember seeing one with that written in the Pay To line.
**Though I benefited nicely some years later when I moved behind the bar.

Saturday night was the same as Friday night, except I had a little bit more confidence. But not much. I got Sunday off, thankfully, because beginning on Monday and going through that Friday I was on the schedule to train. I was exhausted and sore after my double dose of food running that weekend. I’d spent hour after hour balancing heavy things, all the while maintaining a smile. The most I’d carried at my other job were stacks of movies and video games.

The training class was scheduled in the evenings, after my classes. There were five people in my training group, an elementary school teacher, a 40-something former alcoholic, and three college students, one of which was Lia. I got to know her better as we continued to be introduced to everything at the same time. She was a member of a sorority at TSU. She kept long acrylic nails with tiny jewels embedded into them, and they never seemed to hinder her. It was impressive. Her makeup was always flawless. She was older than me by three or four years, and I think she found my naiveté amusing. We stuck together.

Our trainer was an immaculately dressed and coiffed man named Gregory. He was one of the most effeminate men I had ever met in my life. He was also one of the best waiters I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.

His training was nearly as good as his serving. For five days he quizzed me about drink ingredients, wine, liquor and beer lists, dessert options and "pivot points." But more than that he taught me how to take control of a table and orchestrate the meal without it seeming as though I was the one in charge. He taught me how to consolidate trips to the kitchen or beverage station and how to subtly upsell items without seeming pushy. I didn’t take to all these techniques like a duck takes to water, but he did arm me with a shit ton of knowledge.

Towards the end of the training week I was allowed to shadow Gregory as he waited on the tables in his section. He introduced me as his trainee and let me fill up coffee mugs and water glasses. He also allowed me to fetch bread. By the end of the week I had my own two table section, a veteran server watching over me like a hawk. She took home all the tips I earned that night. They were her tables, after all. She said she usually gave her trainees a cut of the earnings, but that she was trying to make rent. I knew from being nosy that she took home more than $100 that night. Just that was satisfaction enough.

I had the weekend off after my intense training week. It would be the last weekend I’d have free for a long time to come.

[This is another installment in a retrospective series I’m writing
about working in the restaurant industry.  I will attempt to tell the
tale of my ten year stint "in the trenches" as one of my bosses used to
say. (Constantly.) Names and other minor details have been changed to
protect the not-so-innocent. But the rest is totally true. Or, at least
that’s how I remember it. To read just the installments in this series,
click on The Restaurant Chronicles in the category cloud on the right-hand column.]

My mother was nice enough to take me shopping for the uniform that was required of me. 100% cotton, button down oxford shirts were surprisingly expensive, and just one wouldn’t do. We had to have them dry cleaned, and so you had to have at least three to get by. Some people tried to go on two or even one, but they always looked like shit. Stained and wrinkled. They got yelled at for that. We were also required to buy all-white all-leather tennis shoes. I certainly didn’t have a pair of those in my closet, so those had to be bought new, too. After being hired I was told I was to start the very next day.

My first shift was on a Friday night, the second busiest night of the week, competing only with Saturday. I was scheduled in at 5 pm as a "runner." I had no idea what that meant, but I knew I at least had the shoes for it.

I came in that night to find a manager who introduced himself and showed me how to clock in. One of his legs was shorter than the other, and he had to wear a big shoe to balance it out. I say this only because this guy was a first-rate asshole, and I knew it always came back to the leg. And that he was very short. Anyway, he handed me a dark, forest green apron and pointed me in the direction of the kitchen. I straightened my Winnie the Pooh tie (wretch, I know), knotted my apron and headed for the florescent glow.

There was another girl who started her first shift that same night. She was a TSU student with gorgeous eyes (thanks in no small part to her olive green-colored contact lenses) and a complicated weave. Her name was Lia. We were both scheduled in as "runners," and all we knew so far was that we had to be in the kitchen. We stood nervously next to one another, mostly quiet, watching the swirl and hustle of servers and cooks moving all around us as if we didn’t exist. For about half an hour. That is when Burt arrived.

Burt was the expediter, a fit former Marine with the haircut to prove it. He introduced himself, then gave us a short list of directions: stay out of the way, pay attention and always, always come directly back to the kitchen. It was as if they didn’t want us seen around actual customers.

Our job that night, Lia and I, was to deliver food to the tables in the dining room. Burt would take the plates from the cooks on the other side of the line and arrange everything. He’d add a sprig of parsley to each entree, fetch salads that were waiting on "the cold side" and set up each tray according to who ordered what. He could tell this based on the order in which the items were rung up. Each table–all 110 of them–had a starting point, designated on the floorplan, found on page 12 of my server information packet. The starting point is the chair in which Person #1 (he who gets his plate first) is sitting. Plates are delivered in order from there. Unless, there were women or elderly patrons at the table, in which case you served them first, then went back to the proper rotation. We had to know all of this on night one. I don’t know when Lia got hired on, but for me it had been the day before. I had to cram.

The task that night was a fast and furious one. I got sweaty. It was hot in the kitchen, especially in a starched shirt and tie, but I enjoyed the quick pace. Made the time go by fast. At least at first.

The only real snag of the evening were the large trays, the ones that must be carried on the shoulder or above it. These giant, oval trays that could hold 4, 6, even 8 plates were too much for me too handle. I was petrified of dropping an entire table’s meals. I had to get the tray onto your shoulder, balance it there and have someone follow you with a tray jack. I had to carry it far, far away from the kitchen down a narrow hallway or up some stairs, for heaven forbid, up to the always packed bar. Did I mention that the West End Cooker had 110 tables? The place was enormous. There were two kitchens!

I noticed Lia was also avoiding the trays. I could hardly blame her. I tried as hard as I could to time it just right, but the large trays were unavoidable. Burt set one up with a few entree bowls, salads and a basket of bread, when I caught Lia eying me nervously.

"Girl, I can’t do this," she looked at me, wiping her wet brow.

"I know, my heart is racing. I’m so scared I’m gonna drop it," I confessed.

Burt interrupted us. "That’s your problem, ladies," he said. "You’re scared. You have to own the fucking tray, okay? Make it your bitch. Saddle it up, grab it real good and take off. Don’t let it intimidate you, ladies."

I loved how he called us "ladies" all the while cursing like George Carlin. I immediately liked Burt.

I didn’t drop any trays that night, which is a perfect miracle. The next day I came in early, loaded up trays with empty plates and practiced.

I pulled onto West End Avenue and headed east. I drove past an attractive bistro that spelled its name with art deco lettering. It captured my attention, but looked too fancy for a first timer like me, but I did keep it in mind. The next restaurant I came upon was the highly popular Houston’s. I know that, because Cal told me, it was best to apply for work in the downtime between lunch and dinner–between 2 and 4 pm. Even at 2:15 the place was still on a wait for seating. So, I looked diagonally across the street at a strip mall. There was a Honey Baked Ham store, a posh hair salon and a chain restaurant called Mozzarella’s. I parked, slid on a shade of too dark brown lipstick and hit the double doors.

Once inside I was quickly greeted by a server whose first words to me were, "One?" It took me a second to realize he was asking me if I would be dining alone. I told him I was interested in applying for a hostess position. The young, clean cut waiter who was terse with me at first broke out into a huge grin.

"I don’t know if we are hiring, but let me get you an application," he said, his head buried in the stand that held the menus. He came up with an application that he presented with a flick of his wrist.

"The manager isn’t in until 6, but you should definitely fill this out and leave it here," he informed.

"Will do," I assured him and made my way back out to Piece of Shit car.

"No, seriously, you should come back," he almost pleaded with me. I laughed and swore that I would.

I left my car in the lots and walked the 50 feet or so to The Cooker. I was greeted by a lovely blonde who said, after I asked, that they were always hiring. I was glad to hear it at the time, but looking back now, that should have been an enormous red flag. After filling out the extra long single sheet piece of paper I sat smoothing out my new skirt and waiting to talk to a manager. After half an hour or so he asked me to join him at a table in the middle of the dining room.

He looked over my application for what felt like forever, just nodding. He sat silently for the better part of ten minutes.

"You live in Ashland City," he told me, like I wasn’t aware. I nodded at him.

"You have your own car?" He eyed my suspiciously. I told him that I did.

"What happens if you get stranded in Ashland City? Don’t expect to call in just because you don’t have a ride. We schedule you and we expect you to be here. We expect you to act like an adult," he said in a distinctly assholeish manner.

"I think I could handle it," I said, snubbing my nose. This ass wasn’t going to get gruff with me without me at least being on the clock. And I wasn’t yet on the payroll.

He cocked a lip at me in a pitiful excuse for a smile. He wanted to make sure I had a little bit of fight in me. He didn’t have to push too hard to find out.

"We have some host positions open, but we could really use servers. I’ll take you on, but only as a waitress. What do you say?"

"Sure," I blurted, knowing the money was infinitely better than what hostesses made.

We shook hands and he left me to look over copies of the menu, all the bar drinks and their descriptions and an outline for rules and dress code. Flipping through the papers I realized that he’d handed me about 75 pages of information.   

I worked at a video store during the last part of high school and for my first semester at college. It was late November when I decided to quit the video store and look for a job as a hostess at a restaurant. I was dating a guy, Cal, we’ll call him, who worked as a server at O’Charley’s. He was 24, and I had just turned 18. I thought he was incredibly worldly and intelligent, although it turns out I was wrong about that. Anyway, our first few weeks of dating consisted of me hanging out after hours around the bar where he worked while he finished up and clocked out. We’d drink white zin and screwdrivers while his managers looked the other way. I liked the atmosphere there. It was obviously lax and even sophisticated for a girl who grew up in a city in a dry county. I’d learned from Cal that hostess jobs were easier to come by than server jobs, and that as long as you are at least 18 and female you could get on pretty easily. Lucky for me I was both.

One day I decided to skip all my classes to go out and look for that hosting job. The night was spent at Cal’s house, holed up in his room, just like most every night. I was going to school (barely) about an hour and half away. I transferred the following year, but for a while I was putting some serious mileage on my Piece of Shit car. And getting virtually no sleep. I remember driving back to college once from his house and thinking, in what seemed like a completely rational manner, "I can just close my eyes for a second. Just for a second. It will be fine." It’s a wonder I didn’t kill myself on the road to and fro, lo those years ago. On one drive I distinctly remember having a dream while driving! Not good. I was very lucky and incredibly stupid at 18. But, I digress.

I decided to blow off school for a valid reason for once, I thought. I was going to make a career move. I was going to ditch my dead end clerk job at Movie Gallery in Ashland City, mere minutes from where my parents lived, and find a job at a hot little eatery downtown. Something hip.

I awoke that morning and put on the thing I thought looked best on me. A ribbed turtleneck and some holey jeans that one belonged to my stepfather. When I twirled on Cal’s bed showing him my outfit he just shook his head.

"I think you ought to dress up more. Sure, it’s a restaurant, but you want to make a good impression," Cal told me, softening the blow with a smile. His tone really said, "You dumb bitch, what are you thinking with that on?" Looking back, I can’t blame him.

I drove over to Stones River Mall to look for something suitable to wear. It was easier than going all the way back to Ashland City where all my clothes were. You see, by this time I’d lost my scholarship (long story, not quite as bad as it sounds) and had moved back home with Mom and Stepdad. Dorm life in Clarksville was over. I cried, but it was no huge loss. I’d be transferring the next year anyway.

Oh yeah, Stones River Mall. It is still in operation, and may be the worst mall in the great state of Tennessee. There’s a cookie store, a meager bookstore, a J.C. Penney’s, a Sears and that’s about it. I think I ended up buying a skirt and top from the only store worth looking into really (at that time), American Eagle. I came out looking generic as hell, but at least there weren’t holes in it.

I needed to find a job close to home, but on the way to Cal’s house. So, I hopped in my Piece of Shit car and headed to Nashville. West End. I’d just get off on the exit at 440 and start at the top. I was newly adult, wearing a brand new corduroy skirt with matching blouse, and ready to take on the city.

[This is installment one in a retrospective series I’m starting about working in the restaurant industry.  It will attempt to tell the tale of my ten year stint "in the trenches" as one of my bosses used to say. (Constantly.) Names and other minor details will be changed to protect the not-so-innocent. But the rest is totally true. Or at least that’s how I remember it. To read just the installments in this series, click on The Restaurant Chronicles in the category cloud on the right-hand column.]