Buon Appetito!

Switch Over

2007-10-23T23:33:00.000-07:00

It's been a long time... shouldn'ta left you...

The Decision

2007-10-22T07:51:00.000-07:00

going realname

2007-10-21T00:37:00.000-07:00

So I've compiled all my eLife into one webpage finally. My personal page has photoalbums, my music, and...a blog.

Since I'm writing less and less about the restaurant, I'm considering swithing this straight over to my personal blog. It would show my real name, but that's it. No home address, no phone numbers, none of that.

I would be more inclined to post regularly if I didn't care about the topic, and if I had viewer comments letting me know who's still reading. The day to day posts would include just about everything from restaurant to music to anything. I still change names of work people and also would enver give out the names of people I work with, for their sake.

So what I am wondering is: would you select list of 500ish daily readers go to that blog every day instead of this one? Would it lose the magic if it wasn't entirely anonymous...if you had a face for The Waiter?

Let me know your thoughts...

The Stalked: Part 2

2007-10-16T22:57:00.000-07:00

"Ummm....someone else, someone else, someone else...I meant someone else. No no no.. no . no. Not.. no." clapping his hands together and shaking them at head level.

He hurredly mumbled his way to the checkered cab ID#91 that awaited across the street as I stood and walked straight to the window. Sitting in the back seat, the door slammed shut as he shook his head so hard the black cap almost fell off. He reached to right it as the cab pulled away.

"So are you calling the cops?"

"No, I'm calling Anthony (the landlord) so he knows to watch out for him."

"There are two cops down the street about 4 blocks, and two units I saw on foot as I came in. They'd be here in plenty of time. Although technically, all he did was walk towards the building."

"Yeah. He's never seen anyone in here with me though. I think you scared the sh*t out of him."

"Well, I'll stick around for awhile. He's in stalker mode...invested in a cab ride over here at 12:30am for the sole reason of seeing you. He'll be back."

"Either way I'm damn sure glad you were here. No one freaks me out like that man. I swear he's actually the devil. And if he's not, something is just not right with him. The problem with semi-homeless cracked out war vets is that they've seen it all and have nothing to lose. You know they still haven't cleaned out his apartment? Everyone's too scared to open the door. God knows waht's behind it. He used to sit in his bedroom with an orange light on in the middle of the night and scream to himself. But not a scared scream...one of those haunting maniacal plan kind of screams."

"Yup. I'm sticking around for awhile."

35 minutes passed before we decided to leave. I was going to walk her next door to Anthony's and then go home. Out the front door, down the steps, and just turning to the left I saw Cab91 pull up again. Turning fully around, I looked the Fare straight in the eye. He pulled the black cap down over his face to try and obstruct my view in time...but you don't forget a face like his. Cab91 never slowed below 20mph before pulling away.

I took Gracie next door, put my ridiculously small bluetooth headset in my ear, my black jacket on, and walked down the intersecting street immediately across from her building. It's a row of houses on either side, with street lamps, not streetlights, but old school lamps every 4 houses. There are trees twice as often casting enough shadows that it's difficult to be seen if you don't want to be. I tapped the button and pulled my hat over the little blue flashing light. Gracie came on line.

"Can you see your front door?" "Yes."

"Can you see both directions down the street?" "Yes."

"Good, now keep the lights off. We don't want him knowing that you have friends in the building next door and that you spend time there. I give him 15 minutes before he comes back and when he does, I want to see what he does when he thinks no one's watching."

"Where the hell are you?"

"Turn your head left. Looks straight up German St. about 5 houses. Left side. Just right of the sidewalk."

"I see nothing at all. Wait, are you waving your cell phone?"

"Yes." "Yeah, I don't see you, but I see your cell phone. Wait, it's gone."

"That's why I'm using my HandsFree. Less light, and free hands."

"OK. Now you're creeping me out a bit."

"Yeah, well...now we've got eyes. Hit me if you see him."

15 minutes passed and nothing. Tapped the button again..."Gracie, I'm heading home, but I'll be up for a bit. Call me if anything happens."

I live about 1.5 miles due East on the same main street as Gracie, so I hopped in my car, and drove home. I parked in the back and decided to walk to the front of the building to enter the front door. As I hit my sidewalk, Cab91 passed me, Westbound. Through the back window, I could clearly make out the black cap and the collar of his brown leather jacket. He did not see me, for the cab passed while I was turned with my back to it and in shadow. I felt like I was in a teen horror film.

Tapping the button as I ran down my driveway, "Gracie! He's coming your way. He'll be there in 45seconds. I'm on my way!"

I dove in my car and peeled out of my parking lot. I didn't want more than 5 blocks between us. I saw the tail lights three traffic lights down, 2 blocks from Gracie's building.

"You see him? You see HIM?!" "Not yet. Nope....wait. Now I do. He's slowing down...stopped. But he's not getting out of the car."

"He's seen your lights out. He thinks you went somewhere with me because we were both outside when he passed last. I can see his taillights driving still westbound. I'm on him. I want to see what he's doing and why he's still sticking with this cabby."

Maintaining a distance of about 100 yards it was easy to track the cab. It sticks out in traffic. I wasn't worried about the Fare seeing me because he had to be dictating directions to the driver. The Driver was haphazardly turning down streets, turning around, stopping in parking lots. At first I thought he was trying to ditch me and then I realized they were drug-hunting. The area they were in isn't known for its stellar reputation, but it's not a bad section of town that I would refrain from walking through alone at night. This strip, lined with sports bars, pubs, McDonalds, 711, and a Dunkin Donuts is a haven for people who don't sleep. Therefore it's perfect for people looking to score a little something. I was wondering if the fare planned on paying in dope.

Finally, Cab91, still holding his original Fare, pulled a random U-turn and headed back Eastbound. Neither the cabby, nor the Fare looked at me as they passed...I didn't look directly at them either, but their heads didn't turn. I took this as a good sign.

I caught a light, made a turn and kept an eye on his tail lights the whole time in my mirrors. He was heading back to my neighborhood. Here's where I became very eager to know why he was going my way. I hung back about 3 lights length because I knew this stretch is one dimensional, no reason to turn off the main drag this far down.

Now well passed city limits and into the highclass suburbs, Cab91 continued on its easterly course and sped towards a village that has a canal cutting through it. A quaint, New England-feeling village lined with county sheriffs. Right before the bridge over the canal, I pulled off and down a street that parallels the waterway for 2 miles. I killed time, turned around, finding Cab91 going back the way we came. Half a mile's distance, I pulled behind him. I saw his lights take a right into a plaza.

This plaza closes down around 9pm. It's the East side, so they're money conscious. Lights out by 11. All of them. As I passed the plaza, I saw the cab pulling behind one of the stores, catching the tail lights trailing away in the pitch black, then going dark themselves.

Here's where I decided to lay off. I'm not stupid, and not suicidal. Why did this cabby act like this? Did he know the Stalker Fare? Perhaps by this point it was just drug related. Either way, I wasn't about to stroll up and ask. I had intended to find out where this guy lived, what he was up to, or who he was staying with. Having gained none of this while chasing the goose, I headed home, watching my back. In the parking lot of a bank was a local black and white. I pulled up next to him, rolling my window down.

"Hey, I don't know what it's doing, but as I passed that plaza back there, I saw a cab pull behind the paint store."
"You been drinking sir?"
"No sir, not at all. You want my ID to run my license?"
"Nah. But I'll go check out that cab."
"Thanks."

I went home with a wary eye. I came in, locked the doors, and posted part 1. I didn't receive a call from Gracie that night. I went to bed.

The Stalker: Part 1

2007-10-14T23:35:00.000-07:00

I feel a bit bad for not keeping up my writing end of the deal. Basically the Trattoria has been on the slow side and uneventful, or so busy and insane that I have zero desire to recall the events. But this story I was sure you'd be interested in, despite the fact it has nothing to do with the restaurant biz.

I was doing my faithful evening of practicing tonight and came near the end when I received a phone call from my friend Gracie here in town. She recently swapped apartments and I had yet to see the new place, so I stopped by somewhat on the later side.

We were sitting in her living room, enjoying a nice cigar. She started talking about the fact that her stalker had returned.

Backstory:
When she lived in her basement apartment, a gentleman in his late 50s knocked on her door one day. He looked a little cracked out and asked for food. About 5'10" and dressed with clothes that hadn't left his back since the 80s, his thin frame appeared fragile. Gracie is quite the generous person so she got some bumblebee tuna and carrots. He then followed it up with asking for money. She was wise enough there to deny him cash and shut the door. His apartment was across the hall from hers. When she would come home, she could tell he was peaking at her with his door cracked open just a hair. She was always a little too afraid to look directly at him while he did this.

As time passed she heard him attempt opening her door late at night or tapping on her door or pacing back and forth in front of it. When she would leave for class in the morning, a small scattering of cigarette butts would be strewn about the hall immediately before her door. Meanwhile, as things got creapier and he wouldn't leave her alone, she went to the landlord who gave him a warning: Stop, or eviction will ensue.

A few weeks passed with no confrontations or bizarre scenarios until one morning she woke up to find a sample digital photo menu sheet shoved under her door. If you get digital photos printed, they give you a table of contents page as an overview of each image. This particualr sheet was composed entirely of images of his penis. Reasonably disturbed, she took this to the landlord who promptly evicted the strange man. Before he left he stood outside her door screaming profanity and uttering words of future harm.

Some time passed before he returned to hassle her again. This one came with still more threats. It was at this time that police interaction seemed to have no effect, so a friend of hers paid him a visit when he arrived outside her window. It was more than a month before she saw him again.

She moved apartments from the basement to upstairs in the front. Quite the upgrade. Gracie was hoping to dodge the delusional with the move. It was a failure. He showed up ranting and raving and being lewd. He had arrived in a cab specifically to let her know he was planning on cutting off her fingers and toes followed by a hit to the temple with a hammer. She showed me this screaming session. Thank God for videos on cell phones.

So she caught me up on the info and at the perfectly flawless moment in the conversation, he arrived outside the building in a cab, came up to the window, looked in, saw me, and said, "Ummm...."

Where I've been and where we're going

2007-10-05T12:37:00.000-07:00

Peoples, hola. I've not been working much. In and out of town, weddings, and then some other stuff. So, now that I'm back in the routine, I'll try and hunt down some good stories from this upcoming weekend to give you Monday. Ciao tutti!

Props where props are due

2007-09-17T19:42:00.000-07:00

Back up and running is Holy Observer, a hilarious site run by a few friends of mine. Read with a grain of salt...lest you become a pillar of one.

HolyObserver.com

Friday Debacle

2007-09-16T20:28:00.000-07:00

Friday night was chaos. Complete and utter chaos.

Half of the line was new and half of the line was veterans. What was causing the disastrous debacle? New "roll-outs."

We've been bought out and our menu changed a little. The staple chicken parmesan dish has been drastically changed and it's become wildly popular. On top of that, the ticket time for the dish has been extended to 16 minutes. So on a Friday night when the kitchen has underprepped the chicken parms, is training a pack of newbies, and the host staff was compiled of 3 girls lost in space, it was a wonderful addition to the mayhem that the foodrunners were also new and didn't remember table numbers.

Can you tell the Trattoria just went through a hiring wave?

Included in this onslaught of fresh meat were: 2 new dishwashers, 3 new waiters, 2 foodrunners, 4 chefs, 3 hostesses, and a bartender.

The groove was off enough that the regulars were curious about the air of confusion. To the ones I new relatively well, I went right ahead and explained. For the irregular customers (and I do mean irregular) there was a lot of ignoring going on.

One bizarre table after another...

(the woman who winked at me while her husband and son weren't looking, and had to yell at her mother because she forgot her hearing aid)

(the big Italian-American guy who tried to coach my Italian to impress his tiny blonde trophy girlfriend despite the fact he americanized every diphlong and couldn't roll his r's)

(the arrogant prick that sent back two glasses of Ecco Domani merlot because it "didn't taste right," but the third glass from the same bottle was "excellent." It's a $5.50 glass of wine.)

...was just icing on the cake.

When it was time for me to be cut from the floor I was overjoyed until I realized the girls cut the floor too early and without asking how far to cut. So I was assisting at the podium to finish filling the floor and a 4top with two college girls in volleyball hoodies came almost running in with two remarkably well-dressed parents almost skipping in behind them. I jumped at this table. Two starving athletes just out of a game with parents in from out of town? Gold.

Sure thing, this one night-redeeming table ordered wine, two appetizers, four entrées, three desserts and coffee. The ease of this table was briefly interrupted though by the one really big thing that went down..the thing that I'd never seen in our restaurant before:

Stefano, new dishman number 1, was on pan detail pulling dirty pots and pans from the window between the external kitchen (The Line) and the prep/dish section of the kitchen (The Kitchen). If the chefs aren't caferul, they spill oil and remaining food on the floor in the precarious area making it dangerous for the guys in the back. Stefano speaks primarily Spanish.

Jack, new chef number 1, was on sauté detail, closest to the window. He needed extra space on the window so he shoved pans out of the way. Stefano was below cleaning the spills so he wouldn't kill himself. At a particularly ill-timed moment, Stefano ducked out of view and Jack tossed a pan with olive oil through the window. It missed Stefano by inches, he jumped up and started yelling. Jack yelled back, pissed because Stefano wouldn't do his job "properly." One yelling in Spanish and one in English, on The Line that technically is almost on the dining room floor. Finally Jack took a handfull of mushrooms and hurled them through the window. Stefano stormed off.

This was recalled to me by one of the chefs standing right there, I heard the tumult from across the dining room, excused myself from the table, and went straight for the kitchen. At this moment I walked in, followed by the General Manager, two waitresses, and Jack who was coming to find Stefano. Stefano was coming across the Kitchen with a hateful look in his eyes. Right between them was the GM. As soon as Jack saw the look that said Stefano may be a foot shorter but he'd clearly kill him, he stepped back.

"Listen man, I'm sorry. I crossed the line." At this point he raised his hands forward, which Stefano took as a forceful gesture. He stepped forward, threw a cup of Coke in his face and shoved him right in the solar plexus so Jack doubled over, falling into waitres A who I caught, and placed to the side. Here's where those of us who have worked security in the past clicked from restaurant mode to bouncer mode. Dishman 2 pulled off his apron and came up behind Stefano. I threw my towel from my shoulder, dropped the apron and stepped up behind Jack. Jon threw off his towel and came up behind the GM.

The two fighters took one step in, realized that the other 4 of us all moved in at the same moment, and time just stopped. Everything froze. No one spoke. Jack leaned in, Stefano leaned in, and Dish 2 and I moved simultaneously, taking the shoulders of the guy in front of us pulling him back, both taking hold from under one arm, across the chest and over the far shoulder stealing their balance. The GM jumped in,

"Alright alright. Back, guys, back. Jack, get your ass on the line, Stefano, come with me. NOW!"

I walked back onto the floor and completely forgot about the drinks for Table 61...the last 4top with the volleyball players. As I approached I realized that the younger of the girls and I have mutual friends. (why it didn't click before is beyond me)

She called me by name and asked slowly, "Um...what just happened?" I realized my tie was all crooked, my towel and apron both gone.

I literally pulled up a chair, sat down at the head of the table, and recalled the entire night's events to their eager ears. When the tale was done, I continued the service and they finished their meal plesently. I had done all my sidework and there was nothing left, so they asked me to join them while they ate dessert. I gladly complied, giving my night a pleasant finale. Well, ultimately, the finale was the 30% tip.

Lack of Posts

2007-09-14T08:42:00.000-07:00

So tell me people, how many out there are reading this and want it still going?

To be blatantly honest, waiting tables has been the last thing on my mind when I come home from a double shift day, shower, go out and rehearse for 3 hrs. I have very litle desire to rehash the events of the day.

Thus I'm considering throwing in the towel on Buon Appetito!

Is there a steady stream of readers who want me to carry on, or will everyone end up being happy that there are (and always will be) 900 other waiter blogs out there?

Moving on....

2007-09-04T11:08:00.000-07:00

So we worked it out that I could work through the end of the week, a Thurs/Fri/Sat night string of shifts and his busiest. It's not ideal to stick around after being laid off just because there's always a little tension (or such is my guess, having never been laid off before).

The Thursday shift was decent. The Bistro has an open mic/coffee shop time on Thursdays and I'm friends with many of the people who show up. Topher took off for awhile because he was finding it awkward to bum around while I was there. He hadn't planned on me working that week till I badgered him into it, so he had overstaffed...there was no need for him there anyway.

The musician that runs the open mic is one of my cigar-smoking/guitar-toting buddies and when he set up, found there to be almost no one signed up that week, he decided that he and I should just play for the majority of the time. So I hopped on the piano and we went to town.

After some time Topher came back and was mildly pissed that I wasn't behind the bar, but I didn't get up because the three waitresses were sitting around doing nothing at all. He just shot me an evil look, to which I replied with a wave and a smile, then turned back to the keys. ...He let me go early with the girls and he closed by himself.

I walked in Friday around 4pm only to find that he was again gone. At least I didn't have to work with his seemingly dejected self. I had never seen him so bad when he finally showed up. Borderline suicidal was the best way to describe it. I pulled him aside:

"Listen, I did the math. I'm picking up a few extra shifts at the Trattoria. Would it help you if you just gave me my money from last week and last night and I got outa here?"

"Actually, yeah, it'd be a huge help."

He went straight to the cash box, pulled out a stack, coutned it out, handed it to me and that was it.

"Thanks." I said, and walked out then and there.

Next door I popped in to the Sushi Bar and sat down.

"What's goin on Waiter?"

..and I told him the whole story.

"Brutal, bro. Sashimi on the house tonight, man."

Seeing the Red

2007-08-22T23:33:00.000-07:00

It's been ages, I'm aware.

My brother and I took a roadtrip and I got home literally 5 hours ago. Where, you ask?

We've talked about a cross-country trip for quite some time now and realized that this is our shot, this summer...so we made it happen. Prior to this trip, I'd visited 44 states and we tallied up to a total of 46!

Snagging my sister's brand new car, we set out for San Francisco, from New York. 50 hours and little sleep later, we drove across the Bay Bridge and set eyes on what is now my favorite city in the world (that I've visited anyways, and that's a lot).

San Francisco was downright fabulous and I might just have to apply to a grad school there for vocal performance. It's elite, and completely worth the application fee just thinking I could live there.

After San Fran, we meandered our way up the West Coast to Seattle, visiting Pike's Public Market for it's 100th birthday.

Being so close, and having never actually been there, we decided to keep going North to Vancouver, BC. A city which made its way onto my list of top 10 Cities Visited. There my friend met us and acted as a tour guide, showing us the best beer, salmon, and ice cream in Vancouver, as well as the best photo-ops.

So we trekked back across the states, dropped off my sister's car in Philly, and drove home in my bro's Jeep.

As soon as I hit home I popped into the Bistro to touch base with Topher about goings on. So we stepped outside while he lit up a cig.

"So how've things been while I was away?"

"Actually, they've been...well...slow, at best."

"That sucks... You're in the red, aren't you?" looking in the window at the 2 tables...his dinner rush for a Wednesday night.

"...yeah. I can't do this anymore. I'm at a loss. Well, no. Honestly, I have to let you go. I just can make the numbers add up, and I can't even meet rent this month I don't think."

He had the look of a man who's life's work just got run over by a steam roller. I didn't have the heart to tell him that his senior waitresses (and good friends) are quitting tomorrow night after their shifts.

To be continued...

Blood, Sweat, and Tears

2007-08-05T11:36:00.000-07:00

The Bistro groove has been fabulous. Topher reached a point where he realized I'm worth having around. Thursdays, I wander in between 4 and 430 and he takes off by 5, and the Bistro is mine for the rest of the night. I tend to run the show on Saturdays also.

Fridays we have two live bands (6-8 and then 9-11) so I stick around long enough to set up both bands and take off halfway through band 2's set.

Wednesday through Friday I work lunches at the Trattoria making some extra cash.

All in all the schedule is wonderful, the money's good, and we're all having fun. That is, until the air conditioner kicked the bucket at the Bistro...

A Gentleman and a Scholar

2007-07-25T11:45:00.000-07:00

Lunch lunch lunch and the Trattoria. Typical groove and I've got three tables presently with an open one nearby. The first one has two women with a binder and reading stats for some sales project. The second is a couple that won't say a word to me. The third is a table of two kind gentlemen over a business lunch. I turned around and the fourth was sat with a single gentleman with a Cuban-style shirt and wrap-around sunglasses.

Typical spiel up till:

"So you've been here before then?"
"I actually was one of the chefs when it first opened."
"Well, I can certainly skip all the speeches for you then. Can I get you a beverage while you look through the menu?"
"A Tanqueray and grapefruit, please. But can you make sure there's actually Tanqueray in it this time? Last time it was just grapefruit. And I'll just take spaghetti with meat sauce and meatballs."
"No problem. Thank you sir."
"You are most kind."

I got the drink, rang in the order, and headed back to the table. "How is that?" "Quite good. Thank you for following up."

The meal came promptly, was cheesed, and added a second drink to it. Returning with Drink #2, I asked how everything was.
"Everything is perfect. You, sir, are a gentleman and a scholar."
"Why thank you sir."

Less than 5 minutes later I found his table empty and a gift certificate laying there. I had not yet presented the bill. I ran the card through and discovered it was shy by about $1.30. What a wonderful past-employee, neither a scholar, nor a gentleman himself.

All the details...

2007-07-12T22:17:00.000-07:00

One week into the new job I get a voicemail from Topher (owner of the Bistro).

"Hey man, we need to talk. Come in tomorrow at 3."

That day was a day I have off...not a good sign.

I walk in just before 3pm and walk into the kitchen. "So." ...giving him that look that says 'Let's talk, and now, and not beat around the bush.'

All he did was nod, wipe his hands, and exit the kitchen. We walked outside into the courtyard next to the Bistro where he sat on a bench and I pulled a chair up, sitting with my back to the Sun so that to look at my face, the light would hit him right in the eyes. I planned on making this as uncomfortable for him as it was for me.

"I am a total jackass. Seriously. I am, it's killing me. I talked to my accountant yesterday and he asked what I was thinking hiring a manager right now. I have no budget for it, even though I thought I did. I don't know what to do, I'm totally lost here. I had this great idea to bring you on board and now it seems I made a huge error in judgement. Not on hiring you! But that I can't afford you."

I said nothing. He paused awkwardly.

"So, basically, I'm at a loss here."

"Yeah, well, this kind of leaves me screwed over. I kind of on a whim reset my entire life's schedule so we could make this work ASAP. I asked you to crunch the numbers before you officially offered me the position so this exact event would not happen. I can't just up and go back to my old managers and say 'Hey, I know I asked you to totally change my availability a week and a half ago, now I need my fulltime position back.' It doesn't work like that."

"I'm so unbelievably embarassed by this whole thing. I'd hate to lose you even though you've been here for a week. The girls love you, the kitchen staff listens to you, I think you're a hugely positive influence around here and can help a lot. This place needs someone like you in this position."

"Well then, let's work out something where I stay here and make this work. I'm not going to just let you up and kick me out. Especially after only a week's work."

"Well, I don't know how monetarily, but I want you to work through this weekend." at this I actually laughed out loud.

"How about you let me work here for three more weeks because you're screwing me."

"OK. And in the meantime we'll see what else we can work out."

So I left shortly after discussing assorted details and came back the next day for work.

"It's just not going to work out. I cannot find a way."
"I'll figure it out...don't worry. I'm not leaving here without kicking and screaming out the door."

If I didn't love this place so much, I'd never had worked this hard...not to mention, I get "Manager" on my résumé.

All night I tossed and turned, leaving me barely able to work my lunch shift at the Trattoria (which I do 3 days a week for extra spending cash...i.e. cigar money)...but it was not in vain. Based on talking to a friend of mine which sparked an idea, I wrote Topher the following email at about 4am:

Topher -

So it hit me tonight while I was chatting with some friends... What
do I know more than anything else? Music and music business. I've
been a performer, stage manager, tech, and booking agent
for ten years. I know how they think, what they want, need, and how
they act, and am great with musicians in the business field. You're
looking to build a reputation as a place of not just fabulous dining,
and service, but also of entertainment. You've got the first part
down, but the last one can use some work. Here's where I come in.

Job title: Entertainment Manager

Job description:
Book bands, work out scheduling for live music for Friday and Saturday nights.
Work weekly/bi-weekly with advertising agents on encorporating the music aspect
into your business image. Perhaps talk to local colleges about music events and advertise
in their papers, etc.

Thursday night assist with open mic, and growing that area.

Friday and Saturday nights dealing directly with the bands.

Thursday, Friday, Saturday nights PERSONALLY providing acoustic music
from 6-9pm...(basically, I'd be your house musician also. this way
you'd always have a scheduled dinner musician on those nights)

Honestly, I think this is the best all around idea for our situation.
It allows you to achieve that reputation as an entertainment center.
But this is an area of expertiece on my part and something I am no
stranger to. I think this is the niche that works best all around. Send
me an email and let me know what you think, or leave me a voicemail
tomorrow.

I could start THIS WEEK, and we can talk details Monday afternoon.
Honestly, I'm more excited about this than the Front End Manager part,
because this tailors the whole image of the Bistro and has potential for
a specific Bistro persona that I can give. Like you said, you know
service, you know restaurants, and you've figured a way to work those
out on your budget. This might work out the other end of this and
still stay in budget. Ciao.

It was, in fact, perfect. So presently I am the acting Director of Entertainment and Marketing for the Bistro. While I'm present Thursday through Saturday, I often host or work behind the bar, filling gaps as needed when I'm not playing. Topher finally feels comfortable enough with a new chef that he can take time off in the evenings, leaving me in charge...which is a huge weight lifted from his shoulders. On top of that, there's shockingly no awkwardness between us due to the initial hiring/firing spree after a week of employment.

Now that I've hit a groove on both fronts, expect more posts...

Catching up

2007-06-26T21:38:00.001-07:00

I'll catch everyone up on the drama... I've been a little opera busy recently so everything else has taken a backseat. Fear not, more stories resume soon.

True Colors Shine Through

2007-06-17T23:05:00.000-07:00

"Hey, I got the note about your new availability and I wanted to let you know that it's just not enough notice. Two days isn't near enough time, I have a business to run here, and you can't just call the shots. So this week I'm not going to be able to do it, next week we'll see. Call me with questions."

Thus was the message I got from our service manager at the Trattoria...

3 days after telling our General Manager about my new availability...

6 days after letting him know about my new job offer and getting the OK to make the change to waiting Trattoria tables only 3 lunches a week while I manage at the Bistro.

The Service Manager felt out of the loop because he didn't know about my occupational change and wasn't told about my schedule change until he happened to walk into the office. He's always wanted to be buddy-buddy and thinks we could be great friends. This is something I'd never allow to happen.

"Hey, I'm calling about the schedule adjustment message you left me last night."
"Yeah, you can't just do that to me. I have the schedule half done already."
"Well, it's been in the works for awhile now, and Rob OKed it. So call him."
"Well Rob doesn't do the schedule! I have a business to run here."
"I already figured out when I was starting my new position and set up that schedule at the Bistro because Rob told me to go ahead and do so."
"I'll just have to call him and figure out what to do." *click*

During my next shift I was talking to several people about his poor attitude towards the situation. Rob particularly was pissed he wasn't called because he was looking forward to "slapping him around."

The next evening, I called Jenna and happened to catch her right before she left the Trattoria.
"Hang on a sec..." and I found myself talking to the Service Manager again.

"Hey, i didn't want you to think I was pissed at you. People said you thought I was pissed. I was really just disappointed. You know? Now I won't have someone who can sing opera on Saturday nights anymore. I've lost my Saturday night singer."

And I laughed. "Put Jenna back on."
"Hey."
"Hey, did you hear what he said?"
"Yeah? Losing a singer for Saturday? That was his big disappointment? Not, 'we're losing you' or 'we'll miss having you around,' but that you sing and he feels lost not having someone to sing? You barely sing on the floor anyway!"

I think Dr. Cox said it best: "People aren't nice. People are bastards. Bastard-covered bastards with bastard filling." And my respect for our SM dropped to the floor.

This is me taking notes on what kind of manager NOT to be.

Best of Both Worlds

2007-06-10T21:24:00.000-07:00

This last week has been a jumble of directions, advice, and decisions.

I sat down for my non-interview with the owner (Topher) of the Bistro to talk about the job description of Front End Manager for his place. We chatted about details and money and hours. I then went back to the Trattoria to discuss my future there with my general manager. I was shocked to find that they had no issues with me immediately dropping my shifts down to only 3 lunches per week.

I have to say that I've been greatly impressed by two of my four managers at the Trattoria and I immediately went to them to hear their opinions when I was offered my management job. I knew they'd give me legit sound advice.

So later that night I returned to the Bistro to catch up with Topher and finish our open-ended conversation. Sealed with a handshake, I became the Front End Manager of a chic little bistro. Standing at the bar, several of the employees were chatting it up and asked me how my own conversation went. I gave them the good news.

Right off the bat, I picked out my number one problem girl: Gabby. Gabrielle full version, not Gabby because she's chatty, although fitting. She's young and presently a hostess...a position my Bistro doesn't really need, and a position Topher and I discussed getting rid of. She drinks wine on duty when no one's looking, talks to friends instead of paying attention to customers, and hits on guys that I frankly find frightening.

"So are you in?"
"Yup. Just got done talking to Topher."
"Doin what? Bartending or waiting tables?"
"I'll be your manager."
"...really."
"Yeah."
"You have experience with that?"
"I do. At my present position I was hired to clean house in the host department. You know, reorganize that section of the staff, retrain those who needed it and hire and train new ones. No more slackers in that department."

she chuckled nervously, "you mean...like me."
I chuckled back, looked her dead in the eye and said "Exactly."

I start at the end of this week. It promises to be fun.

Change of Scenery

2007-06-05T21:54:00.000-07:00

So I haven't been keeping up as I should because many many things have been going on. New trainees, old people moving away, and more importantly: a possible job change.

I was asked by another restaurant owner to help him run the place. His café is a smaller bistro-type place with about a third our numbers in staff and clients. He is a pro in the kitchen, but needs help with the Front of the House. I find out details later this week. So it could be an interesting transition: Waitstaff to Management.

What Vacation Can Do

2007-05-30T11:58:00.000-07:00

I've been out of the Trattoria for 5 days. We spent the weekend running around Connecticut, singing for a friend's wedding...which was fabulous.

But the downside to time off is that it takes awhile for my head to get back in the game. I woke up with the alarm this morning, wandered over to the Mac to check my email, showered, and sat back down at the Mac to watch Entourage.

I rarely wake up with ample time to do other things besides shower and breakfast before work. Today was no exception.

I was trying to figure out why I was up so early after going to bed at 3am when it dawned on me, I went back to work today. I ran, got dressed, grabbed the keys and ran out the door. Normally I keep a couple ties and my apron in the car so I don't have to worry about them during my half-asleep morning routine. I have cleaned my car completely before the trip and there was nothing in the backseat. I also realized I was wearing my prescription sunglasses, having left my regular glasses on my desk.

I turned around halfway through the commute, retrieved the items and was almost there when I got the call from work: "We're out of milk, can you pick some up on your way in?"

They hadn't noticed I was late, nor did they seem to care. I immediately slowed down now that the mad dash to work was unnecessary. Milk procured, I wandered in still not quite awake. Thank God lunch was not a heavy rush. Now hopefully dinner will be slow too...

A Shift is Coming...

2007-05-22T22:12:00.000-07:00

I can feel it...and I'm not the only one.

We started seeing the signs around Christmas. It's a dark cloud. An imminent dread. Our clientele is changing.

Dinner finds us with a whole new playing field. We're finding an influx of the 10% tippers, the ratio leaning towards their end...their numbers growing. Particularly on weekends. My favorite was the hick with no sleeves, a sunburn, Looney Toons tattoos, a wife with big hair, and a kid with sweatpants...and a 9% tip. That's right, we're starting to get the Olive Garden crowd.

What to do? The money's getting worse, but I get a flawless schedule. I'm a big fish in a small pond. And I'm only in town for a year. Grad school auditions are coming up, so I need pull in the scheduling department. It's like a slow but steady torture.

Wines sales are at an all time low, except our pathetic house wine. It used to be that people would ask me to try it, I'd pour a sample and they'd almost laugh and then order a nice DOCG Chianti. Now, people ask for a large glass of the house "red" (they don't even care what it is), and then rave about how wonderful it is. Seriously? The last place I had a decent house red was in Tuscany, at a tiny hole-in-the-wall trattoria where the owner cooked all the food. The last person that served me a decent white wine that I didn't have to ask about was this guy: Art House Spoleto.

Our lasagna tastes like Chef Boyardee and we've been selling it in record amounts. Our halibut has sat lonely in the walk-in, waiting for someone who cares. The amount of Beringer White Zin "on the rocks" that passes me everytime I near the bar is depressing.

What is happening to the world?

On a roll...

2007-05-22T12:10:00.000-07:00

Since I'm in a linking groove, I've decided to branch out a bit. Readers are always asking me about me, and I've started a new project more for myself than anything else.

I've mentioned I'm a musician and this new blog might show another side to me. Don't expect the names to be real, or great details that will give away who I really am. But there will be tidbits from inside the the lives of performers, happenstances from on stage, and a lot of monotonous drivel about what I'm singing and why...often with translations. I'm using it for myself as a type of vocal diary. You'll find this here:

OperaDude.BlogSpot.com

Spotlight: Brooklyn Babe

2007-05-21T13:22:00.000-07:00

So on one of my other blogs I used to spotlight friends of mine or websites or something else when applicable. I don't really do it here because you're here to read my restaurant whims, but I found something notable today.

A friend of mine was telling me about some con artists far beyond the heft of the Crutchmaster that she encountered at her restaurant recently. Her blog isn't entirely food-service related, but it's still worth reading. She's been added to my links list to the right, but here is a link directly to her story:

Brooklyn Babe's Encounter with a Con

Smoke Break

2007-05-17T10:37:00.000-07:00

I've always been on a kick about smokers being able to take breaks when no one else can, that's the only addiction that you can bring to the workplace and not be reprimanded. Several of us have considered taking up the habit just so we can walk off the floor more regularly without a care in the world, getting other people to watch our tables.

It was a particularly slow lunch shift when Candice and Page decided it was time for their nicotine fix. Each had two tables. Candice a 2top and a 3top, Page with a deuce and an 11top. Neither of them decided to tell anyone where they went, and just walked outside. The problem is that our weather has been stellar recently and it's been lending itself to long smoke breaks. In this case, a 17 minute smoke break.

Unless the pacing of your tables allows for absolutely no conversation, beverage refills, check closing, or anything else a customer can dig up, 8 minutes is the most you should go without checking on a table, whether or not you're actually speaking to them. Beyond that, the patrons seem to want to see you around...that is, unless you're in a fine dining establishment, which ours is not.

Again, in the case of Candice and Page, this was a lunch shift which means most of the diners are on a tight schedule and it's our job to aid that, not hinder it. That faster you can get a good lunch out and turn the table, the better your tip will be (save for long business meetings, but those are easy to read).

So I walked out of the kitchen and noticed the gentleman from Candice's deuce standing, cash in hand, next ot his booth with a scowl on his face. There wasn't even a check on his table yet. It was obvious he wanted to get out and fast.

I was right next to the door of the kitchen, clearly off the floor and I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to find the head of Page's 11top which a worried look on his face.

"Hi. Um. We're kind of in a hurry and I can't find our waitress anywhere."
"How can I help you?"
"We need about 6 to-go boxes and the check."
"No problem, I speed things up for you."
"Thanks, I appreciate that a lot." ...he then handed me a $5 bill.

I ran, grabbed to-go boxes, and tried to hunt down Page and Candice. Normally I wouldn't help the people who are actually slacking off...it's their tip, not mine, but we share responsibilities when we're weeded. And the $5 helped my motivation.

Our head chef went over to Lonnie, the service manager and said, "Hey, what's with the slackers in the back smoking away and ignoring tables?"

Lonnie immediately got their butts in gear, after which she came to me. "So what's going on on the floor." I gave her the scoop and the girls got a talking to. They also were put on silverware duty for the afternoon.

Page shot me an evil look.

"Why'd you tell on us?! That was mean."
"First, Lonnie asked me what was going on. Second, what is this? 3rd grade? If a manager at my job, my superior asks me something, I'm going to give a straight answer. And those customers are pissed."

For the next two days, I had to endure the whining and annoyed glances from the Duo, but sometimes it's funny how in customer service, the customer comes first. Weird.

The Special Day for Mom

2007-05-13T21:18:00.000-07:00

I'm getting quite sick of Mothers Day...from a server's perspective. Don't worry, concering my mom, it's still fine.

Mother's Day brings out the worst crowd. Call it white trash, call it uncultured swine, call it whatever you want, but nonetheless, it's still a horrible dining turnout.

These are the people who do not go out to eat unless they have coupons, or there's an all-you-can-eat special, or there's food advertised for under eight bucks. These are the people that don't understand that you shouldn't roll out of bed, throw on sweatpants and loafers, and take mom out for lunch. The ones that think 4 screaming children will shut up if you ignore them and just talk louder rather than parenting. The ones that think they can walk in, and seat themselves anywhere they feel like it without consulting one of the 3 hosts on duty.

That it's not cool to assume that because it's mom's special day that there will naturally be a table seating 9 just waiting for you immediately upon your arrival even though you never called for reservations and claim that you did. Taking reservations is what we do. We're good at it. We wouldn't pretend it's not there just to see the look on your face.

That just because you can't afford to go out regularly that it's understandable to tip 10%.

The dining crowd that turns out for holidays pisses me off because they feel the need to be treated with extra special care because there's something to celebrate and therefor are entitled to hassle the world, get their way no matter what, complaining like their world is crashing down if they don't get those wants to a T.

None of us enjoyed working Mothers Day today. Normally the sheer volume of customers makes up for the lack of quality tables, but such was not the case this year. Many reservations either didn't show or cancelled last minute, and the walk-in crowd was on the slow side. Due to rogue reservations, entire sections sat empty for 30 minutes at a time.

Management did keep us shy of insanity. When I arrived this morning there were danishes and gatorade and other assorted edibles in the back of the house. All day long, new things showed up for us. By the time shift change came, a stack of pizzas came in and we hit them like a school pf piranha. I think without it, we might have killed and eaten customers.

All in all, I hope that I won't be working another Mothers Day on the floor...not at my present location anyway.

Something Random: Cello/Flute mix

2007-05-10T14:22:00.000-07:00

Alright, so this is VERY unlike me to do, but I have to give these guys props. I played the cello for awhile and attacked the flute briefly, but these guys are fabulous. And since this is my biggest voice to the world right now, I'm posting it up here:

Don't worry, more restaurant stuff tomorrow.

-Ospite

Do not covet thy neighbor's table

2007-04-29T11:32:00.000-07:00

Every shift there is a table that all the other waiters are envious of. Whether it be their demeanor, their excessive wine count, whatever. The make-up of this table is all relative. My turn was with 5 ladies ranging from 35-45 years old. And it was a birthday. And they started drinking at the bar already. This is my kind of table.

Most waitresses hone the flirting skill to use at tables with men who are hoping for a little extra service along with their food. The good ones can get a table of guys wrapped around their little finger.

Waiters have a different approach...the cute, loveable, mildly flirty, exceptionally polite, witty, and chivalrous man gets the best tip. It's even better when it's a birthday celebration. It means I get to sing.

Women get a certain way when they're sung to...I'll leave it at that.

So this smashing gaggle of girls was a complete riot. There's always one that takes the lead, is the primary talker and the decision maker. In this particular case, she was 38, blonde, dressed very nicely and bearing a remarkably bright rock on her left hand, and noteably beautiful. She was also the most flirtatious.

Prima Signora: "Ok, so who's drinking what here? I'm going with white, you two always do red, and you two always get what I get. Should we grab glasses or a bottle?"

Me: "Well, with a bottle you average about 4 full glasses. You want a bottle of each?"

Seconda: "Ha! I'm keeping my eye on you...you're good. Up-sell, up-sell, up-sell." which she followed with a wink.

Me: "You kidding? 5 fabulous ladies out for a night on the town? You better believe I'm getting you as much alcohol as possible."

Prima: "Oooh. I like you. And I like the way you think. Give us a sauvignon blanc...this one here, and a DOCG Chianti."

Me: "Well, I certainly like you and the way you think. I'll be right back."

The wines flowed freely and the conversation grew to deafening volumes. I was fine with this, the Trattoria was particularly loud already, and it kept me informed as to their enjoyment level. Finally the birthday cake presentation was underway, I sang, they melted, and eventually I dropped the bill.

Prima: "Ok, let's close this up so we can go over ot the bar."

Me: "Oh no you don't. If you're staying in this restaurant, there's no way I'm letting you leave this table."

Prima: "Aren't we holding you up? Slowing your turnover?"

Me: "Of course. But I get a kick out of you ladies. You're my table of sanctuary. My other tables are stuffy and uptight and clearly not having any fun. So I come over here as a relief. In fact, I may keep you here until we close."

Prima: "You see this? This is my phone number."

..she wrote it on some paper in front of her...

Seconda: "He's married remember? He's not going to cheat on his wife with you."

Prima: "Hey, married people don't cheat. They have affairs."

Seconda: "Not gonna happen." She snatched up the piece of paper.

Me (trying not to laugh uncontrollably): "now that we know who's really running our lives, shall we drink?"

Prima: "Of course. Grey Goose and tonic...heavy on the goose, and two limes."

The rest ordered dessert and drinks and they remained for almost another hour. What I had said to them was not a lie. Certain tables you find relaxing to be around and it's a pleasure to have them there. Sometimes the sanity is worth slowing the turnover. And sometimes if you're lucky enough, the tip ends up more than what two tables would have been. They ended up literally being my last table of the night. I added up my checks and went to cash out. Their tip made up 1/3 of my earnings for the night. You can be sure I'm keeping an eye out for them again.

Involuntary Exodus

2007-04-29T11:28:00.000-07:00

Normally it takes something pretty significant to for the management to up and actually fire an employee where I work. We haven't figured out why exactly, but it seems that when it's time for someone to go, they simply are no longer scheduled to work rather than there being a comfrontation. Personally I think it shows a certain amount spinelessness in the management. There are some people that just need to be fired.

The Jackal flat out hated working at the Trattoria, but we're not entirely sure why. Had her level of professionalism been higher, her shifts would have been better, her money would have been better. It was clear she wanted to do as little work as possible, pulling no weight at all. Her status in the restaurant was voluntary.

Then came the No-Call/No-Shows. This is not a good move for any server, but for some reason, the members of our staff that are the least important seem to get away with it, as if it is almost expected of them. This is frankly pathetic. The moment that Dre or I, or someone else on the training team pulled something like that, we'd never hear the end of it. But when the Jackal does it, she squeakes by with barely a reprimand.

That is until the NC/NS became routine with her. Several shifts went by and finally she was called in for a meeting. She was put on suspension and not allowed to work for a week. How she was making her bill payments, I'm not entirely sure. So if work didn't matter in the first place and she skipped 3 straight days, I'm going to guess that a 7 day suspension would feel like a vacation.

On day 6 of her scheduled absence, she came in to meet with one of the managers. They had quite the intense conversation in the back of the restaurant (though still on the floor) during the dead hours. She seemed upset that she was making no money and she needed to work. Said manager claimed she would receive another fresh start but had to go above and beyond her normal efforts in order to regain the good graces of the big wigs. They returned her to the schedule.

Her first shift back she was "sick" for and had to call in. The second one was another NC/NS. It was not until then that she was called and relieved of employment over the phone. Her shifts were given away and she will get no further chances. We have not heard from her since.

Next up: Pornstache. The man who, though in his forties, married with several children and a foster child, constantly made creepy comments to the younger male bussers and dishboys. His nickname is derived from, well, his vintage-style "pornstache" mustache. He had a rumored reputation of being a thief, was generally disliked by customers, and often was hopelessly ridiculed by the rest of the wait staff due to his ridiculous behavior. He was the only waiter I ever had a customer say they didn't want waiting on them.

His tableside manner was all money-oriented. His annoying habits were looked past because his sales were the highest in the Trattoria. His policy was to push each table along as fast as possible to create ideal turnover, whether or not he felt it would effect his tip. He became rude and had previously been demoted from the training team based on customer complaints.

Finally enough was enough. He had a record amount of complaints. This particular customer made brutal conversation with the top of our food chain, commenting on his attempted dissuading of the patrons order particular dishes, heavily pushing wine on them, and because flustered when they would not order dessert. He too received the Phone Call.

The news was not spread until the following evening. Dre was given the task of leaking the information to the waitstaff. Like wildfire, word was out that He was gone. On a note that was both sad and humorous, I have never seen the mood of a staff become so jovial so fast...and this simply from the canning of one particularly unmissed employee.

The Proposal: Part II

2007-04-25T23:53:00.000-07:00

The plan was to bring 6 roses in 6 installments, paced and separated by 6 cards throughout the couple's meal.

The same-siders were giddily enjoying their evening despite the gentleman's visible nervousness. Mark was trying to give them their space while allowing for proper service all at once. She seemed happy, yet not entirely playing along.

It came to the end of the meal which drew out the remaining 6 roses, bringing closure to the dozen, and as Mark cleared some dishes and left, The Proposer prepared. Eavesdroppers were perched nearby.

With the best of intentions, and the cheesiest follow-through, he popped the question...only to be met by the subtle sidestepping of a women not entirely sold on the idea. She bobbed and weaved in search for a way out, keeping composure but obviously not having the guts to shoot him down in a public place. Perhaps that was why he chose our trattoria.

Finally she caved. She agreed and the dessert followed.

At the end of the meal, The Proposer handed Mark his tip...nearly the equivalent of Mark's entire earnings for the evening prior to this table. Virtually a 100% tip.

Some time has passed since this event and the hubbub has died down. Or did until...

The woman returned to the restaurant during a shift I was not working due to my injury. Rumor has it, she was in with yet another gentleman...again sitting on the same side of the booth with this one. Heavy flirting was witnessed. It is alleged that her finger bore no ring.

Long Story...

2007-04-22T11:19:00.000-07:00

...I hurt my hand Friday night and typing is a grand annoyance. Hold tight while I wade through the pain. The Proposal: Part II will come soon enough.

The Proposal: Part 1

2007-04-19T11:50:00.000-07:00

He came in about 90 minutes from close, a stack of cards and a dozen roses.

He made a reservation for two and arrived 30 minutes prior to drop off said items. The date was waiting to be picked up but he wanted all details perfect and clear with the waiter. Mark set up the table away from the rest of the dining room, since this guy planned on popping the question.

There was an air or mild humor and suspence with a dash of nervousness thrown in. Mark particularly didn't want to screw anything up, seeing that this was a bit of a big deal.

Then they walked in...and we all looked at each other, a bit confused.

We'd never seen the guy before, but the woman was a regular. A regular who's never in with the same guy. She tends to dress with a bit of promiscuity, sits on the same side of booths with her comanion, gets a little "handsy" from time to time. And this was our first time ever seeing the Proposer...

Wings and Misinformation

2007-04-09T12:17:00.000-07:00

We trekked to Buffalo for Easter Sunday this year. The In-Laws live there, and seeing that it had been awhile since we'd visited, they found us at their dining room table for a nice meal of steak and potatoes. Not your normal Easter dinner, but they did have a butter lamb on the table, which my brother-in-law happily decapitated. While warmly digesting in the living room, we enjoyed the Master's and some of the most off-balance greens work I've seen in a long time. Not to mention Tiger's almost-crying losing face. Sprawled out on a comfy leather couch, my mobile rang. My good friend, and tax-accountant, whom we've nicknamed Winkle. It was time for chicken wings.

For those of you uneducated in Buffalo Wings, let me link you to the Anchor Bar. Buffalo's oldest wing joint with the best sauces sits right on Main St. near downtown. Now, I'm not a fan of Buffalo. It's a sad little city that I can't spend more than a day in without feeling mildly depressed...not to mention the annual snowfall is ridiculous. My apologies to readers who might live there. BUT the wings are fabulous.

So the wife stayed behind to help plan her sister's wedding while I took to the streets with Winkle.

We pulled in to the Anchor Bar and saw 3 cars at 850pm. Not a good sign. We walked in, finding the bartender and one other customer, so we hit the bar.

"Hi guys. Listen, we already did last call, so no alcohol, but I can get you wings."
"I called earlier, the guy said you closed at midnight..."
"Yeah, sorry about that, he was misinformed. But you want wings?"
"Absolutely."

So we ordered 30 wings and some ginger ale, caught up on goings on, and watched Family Guy (say "cool." now say "whip." now say "coolwhip."). As soon as we were her last open check and the last customers in the place, we closed out our bill while she refilled our ginger ale. She was kind enough to let us hang out till she was ready to lock up, which was exceptional. I hate being That Guy who shows up as the kitchen closes.

Here's how this is supposed to go. When you walk in somewhere right before close, remember that they aren't obligated to serve you after closing hours. So if they close at 9pm and you came in at 850, technically they have every right to kick out. Be nice to them, because you've ruined their night. So when Family Guy was over, I left $10 on our $25 bill and we made our way out the door. Waiters, you of all people should know how to play the game.

Out of Whack

2007-04-05T21:12:00.000-07:00

With a stretch of good weather, we've enjoyed a pick-up in the pace of the Trattoria. Spirits have been up and we've brought some newbies onto the floor. It's always a positive experience to bring on the fresh meat when the energy is good.

Lunch today was normal Thursday fare, a solid mix of business and casual diners. I must admit, it came as a surprise, due to the splendid weather fleeing from our presence. I expected a dead calm with the icy winds blowing what I swore was snow sideways across the doorway. The only effect it had on the lunch crowd was that they were running, rather than walking, in the door. And coffee sales were high. Beauty of a day for our Cap machine to cease functioning.

I stood next to said farce of a cappuccino machine talking to Lynn when i saw myself sat...4top. At least things were staarting to move now. Bread, and other sundries in hand, I approached the table which was on the far side of a small wall. As I rounded the corner, I saw a 3top at the far end of my section, out of view from the rest of the dining room. How had I missed seeing them sat? Since I had already opened my mouth to greet the 4top, I couldn't exactly skip over them. As I placed the bread on the table, the 3 women in suits shot me a hideous look. I was screwed. It was early enough in the shift we were obviously not slammed. There were no other assumptions to be made besides that I had been ignoring them.

The greet at the 4top was smooth, they were regulars, knew what they wanted and ordered their main course with their drinks. I tried not to sprint across the dining room for more bread for the 3top, pretending they had been sat second. Bread, greet, orders...the whole process was awkward as if they were holding a dreadful secret against me, waiting for me to slip up. I could tell they had a speech prepared. Their eye contact amongst each other was far from subtle. Thankfully, the meal was swift, and the speech came in the form of a 10% tip. For once, it was my fault

"Hey, how long was 72 sitting there before you sat the 4top?"
"You mean the 3 business women?"
"Yeah."
"I don't know...about 5 or so minutes."

At lunch, that's an eternity that they clearly held against me. In the back of my mind, I was thrown off, just a bit. The image of a cartoon Central American emperor dancing around and bumping into a little old guy crept into my mind.

"You threw off my groove!"
"I'm sorry, but you've thrown off the emperor's groove." I sighed and continued the shift.

I had a couple hours between shifts so I decided to go home and clean so the wife wouldn't have to when she got home. Her Med School friends and she were planning a Scrabble extravaganza. I was glad to be working...Scrabble's not my game.

My guitars and sound equiptment back in their rightful homes, I set off back for the dinner shift.

As clearly expected, there was a large list of un-sat waiters standing around praying for their first table. I had some time before I was to be sat. I was silently thankful my section was different from that of the lunch shift.

We waited. And waited still longer. It was not at all what you'd consider a rush. My first table had a very upset young boy who had just awoken from a nap and seemed pissed about it. My second table took 7 years to order their drinks. Then the entire restaurant just sat. This is when our groove is the worst. We lose track of time, and the sense that we're actually waiting on people. Finally table three for the evening decided to order wine.

The bartender was busy retrieving things for her bar customers and I reached up on the rack to grab two wine glasses. One stem was pulled tight against my finger, slipped quickly and the alternate motion sent it sailing off the rack, bouncing off the head of the bartender, skipping into the shelf of well drinks, and shattering on the floor. It was almost impressive. And it was also right then, that all 3 tables needed something. I was destined to be out of whack all night long.

A Dark Day

2007-03-28T00:20:00.000-07:00

It seemed a little darker than usual for a Saturday. The entire day just had an imminent sense of doom. As the time passed, the forboding grew to an eerie level. Lunch and dinner seemed to meld together with no break separating the sad monotony of table after table...bad tip after bad tip. I felt like I was barely working, just creeping along like a slug, taking orders, running food, forgetting odd items, looking at the checks as I printed them up. Tables lacked their appeal, that fresh new-face quality that normally keeps me from boredom.

It was almost as if the customers themselves didn't exist. Just their food and their money.

Maybe it was this that caused the pathetic tips. I couldn't pull a percentage higher than 12%. I was more sad than pissed. I started second-guessing myself as a waiter.

While the 40-something hag literally yelled in my face about her salmon that was too orange and not pink enough, I glazed over. I found myself emotionless.

When the doors were locked and I cashed out, I looked and the bills in my hand. $27. For the Day. For a Saturday. Average tip sat pretty at 8%. Ridiculous. I considered quitting then and there. Finding a new profession. I decided to sleep on it.

And sleep I did. When I walked to my car, I opened the door, sat in my seat, and woke up in my bed strangling a pillow. The world's most horrendous Saturday was a dream. The perfect dream for me to awake to and realize it's really Monday morning and I have a double shift ahead of me. I mentally prepared for the longest Monday of my life.

Walk (off) the Line

2007-03-25T22:37:00.000-07:00

Dinner rush, same old same old. We've all got the groove and the atmosphere was feeling upbeat. When we're running like a well-oiled machine, the patrons feel the vibe and everything is dandy. Happy waiters make happy customers.

Things were so smooth in fact, that I had the time to sit back, chill a second and decided to bus one of my tables as soon as they retired for the evening. It was then that I saw the only flaw in the evening: The Pit (or dish) was a little swamped and Kenny was in his usual perturbed-punk rant mode, annoyed with the world. This is normal, but the lax attempt for working had caused him to be the only cog not turning efficiently.

We began running out of side plates, salad bowls, and silverware. Customers got dirty glasses. What was smooth as obsidian felt like trying to skateboard in a gravel pit. My next couple trips to the kitchen allowed me to see the debacle that was the dish area. It was time for an intervention.

Several of us talked to the manager. He pulled Kenny aside:
"You need to pick up the pace man. We're all running smooth except for you."
"Well, I didn't want to do dishes tonight, I wanted to do pans."
"Your job is to wash whatever needs to be done. Right now, I need you on dish."

We didn't notice any change for the better. In fact, things seemed a little worse. We were all rush, rush, rush. Not until we realized we were each rolling our own silverware did it dawn on us: Kenny was nowhere to be found. We checked dry-storage, the walk-in, out back, bathrooms, everywhere. He was gone. He did not return. Needless to say the night only went downhill from there.

"It's Saint Patty's Day! Everybody's Irish tonight..."

2007-03-18T22:58:00.000-07:00

As expected, I worked the dreaded double shift on St. Patrick's Day, the king of all drinking holidays.

Many of our staff had toyed with the schedule to hit certain pubs in town that started Guinness at 25 cents/pint at 10am. It pays to be hammered by noon.

The rest of us sucked it up and worked what we knew to be a slow day. When I cleaned off my car of snow on my way in, I realized it would be far worse than we expected. After our warm streak, no one wanted to venture out in the biting wind and snow...no one except those at the parade. But then again, I'm sure they were amptly fueled by the Jameson at that time of morning.

The flow of the day was slow but steady. I had a 3top of late 50s women who were a total blast.

"I was going to write down her number for you, but she said 'No no! He's married!' so I refrained."

"Probably wise. I am, and my wife would have hunted you down." Which of course got raucous laughter. They tipped my about 35%.

The majority of my tables all day were regulars, which was good because most repeat customers at my trattoria tip above average. That part too was nice because we did about 1/3 what we'd normally do in business for a Saturday.

I got "hacked and slashed" from the floor roughly 2hrs earlier than normal and listened to my voicemails.

1. My wife was hanging with a bunch of friends and wouldn't be home anytime soon.
2. A friend of mine was down from Canada to drink with us...

...so I ran home, showered, and ran to a friend's house for much consuming of Jameson, Bailey's, Strongbow, Guinness, and combinations for bites and carbombs, and also the ritual viewing of Boondock Saints. Many thanks to The Renee for reheating her fabulous corned beef and cabbage so I didn't miss it this year!

Needless to say, I found a pillow for the couch and wandered home in the morning.

Debatable Presence

2007-03-07T22:22:00.000-08:00

When people eat out they can look beyond certain things, like other people making their food, not knowing where the food's been, who's wearing gloves, etc. The one thing they simply cannot miss is a server who appears ill.

We really shouldn't be handling and serving food when we're sick, but we do it anyway...up until it's clearly visible that we are in no way healthy. Ironically, this is usually passed the point of contagious, but people don't care about details, they just know that their waiter looks like he hasn't slept in a week and is suffering from some horrible, un-named virus that will become the next pandemic.

When we don't work, we don't get sick days...we simply don't make money. But if we work when we're visibly ill, patrons will either ask for other waiters or tip horribly. At least the table turnover rate is good. Nonetheless, being a waiter and being sick is atrocious.

This atrocity has been my week. I walked into work and the hostess said,

"Hun, you ok? You look like last Sunday morning's hangover combined with roadkill."

"Gee thanks, kiddo. Now pretend I'm not here and only give me 2tops, because if I get anything higher than that, I might just collapse on the floor, and let me tell you, if I do, I won't get up. I simply won't care. The busser will have to carry me to my car." The sad part was, I wasn't really joking.

The shift was slow...thank God. I cashed out without saying a word to the onduty manager, crept out the door, drove slowly home, oozed into bed and flipped open my cell phone. The onduty heard my first words to her of the day,

"Hey. I'll be in bed for the next 36 hours. Don't call me. I'm skipping my next 3 shifts. That cool?"

"I was wondering why you hadn't brought it up earlier. I almost sent you home this afternoon but I cut the floor early, so you got out timely anyway. Will we see you Monday?"

"I'll call in Sunday with a status check."

"K. Get better!"

So, I'm back in the groove now. But to be honest, after taking off so much time in a row, it's hard to go back...

An Anniversary for a Crumbling Icon

2007-02-27T20:40:00.000-08:00

This is post number 100. Not bad considering there are 52 weeks in a year and I've been blogging here for just over that.

But something is happening in the Trattoria. We've been attempting to put our fingers on it, but can't quite seem to nail it down.

The managers have constantly been nagging us to get off the clock as soon as possible, sending people home who cost them too much to have on the floor/line, and in general complaining that it's so slow that labor costs are killing them.

Now, we're here to make money, so getting a shift cut short is ridiculous, especially when customers are barely creeping through the door.

Thursday I decided to go back to my roots and switch shifts with one of the hosts. At this point in time, I wanted to get out early, hang out with the wife, and see a friend play a nearby coffeehouse. He gladly obliged and was hoping to make more money on the floor than at the podium.

To everyone's surprise, we were packed that night. The rush started early and wouldn't let up. Normally you'd applaud and be happy for the waiters. This was not the case. Due to the management's bizarre frame of mind, they had seriously inderstaffed the entire restaurant. All afternoon, they kept only one chef on, meaning he had to both prep the kitchen for dinner as well as cook anything that was ordered during his shift; thus requiring him to be two places at one time. Naturally he chose to cook for immediate patrons as opposed to prepping for future ones.

So short handed in the kitchen, in the Pit (dish), and on the floor, we were all screwed.

The one manager present ended up washing dishes for 45 minutes while he waited for 1 of 2 dishboys scheduled. Only one showed. I called servers in early to man the floor. The chef's were pulling more than their own weight. The service was slow, sloppy, and pathetic. Ticket times went through the roof, dishes were shabby. Waiters were exausted from trying to pick up too much slack. This always effects the customers' interpretations of how the restaurant is run. For once, those who complained incessantly...were right.

Friday too, was rough. Saturday wasn't quite as bad, but Sunday and Monday again became loathsome. What is happening to a management that I once looked up to?

The Definitive Geek.

2007-02-20T00:08:00.000-08:00

According to my wife, I'm a huge geek. This is not new information. Between classical music, being the only vocal performance major to voluntarily take astronomy and physics in college, smoking a pipe, using Mac computers long before they were "cool," and being completely obsessed with anything written by J.R.R. Tolkien, there have been clear signs that I have a summer home in Geekdom.

Right before the third Lord of the Rings (LOTR) movie came out, a theater near us did a trilogy showing. Films one and two extended editions and a special previewing of the third. We purchased tickets two months in advance and slept in a van in the parking lot so we'd have perfect seats. This started a tradition.

Once a year, we throw a Trilogy Extravaganza. Large amounts of food, several devoted friends, and 11.36 hours of film. We've done several now, so this week we wanted something to set it aside from the rest. Authentic Hobbit meals. We gathered our information from the books. Hobbits eat the following meals daily (you know, if Hobbits were real): 1st breakfast, 2nd breakfast, Elevensies, Luncheon, Afternoon Tea, Dinner, Supper. True to form, we prepared and consumed the following meals, with many thanks to Ben and the others that aided in the cookery:

1st Breakfast: Chilled vanilla custard served with fresh peaches, strawberries, blueberries, and blackberries.
toast with jam.

2nd Breakfast: Eggs, bacon, sauteed mushrooms,orange slices.

Elevensies: Breakfast sausage links, lembas (basically honey cakes), marinated tomatoes, plain tomatoes, cheeses, pickles, apple slices.

Luncheon: Roast chicken, roast carrots, roast potatoes, blackberry tarts

Afternoon Tea: Baby greens salad with raspberry vinaigrette, scones, tea sandwiches.

Dinner: Rabbit stew, hearty bread, butter.

Supper: Tomato soup, breaded fried mushroom croutons, and apple pie.

Beverages included ales, cider, juices, water, and Ent Draught (pineapple juice, African Rooibos Red Tea, ginger ale, and honey)

It was a very long, very filling, day.

9 wines, 1 hour

2007-02-13T20:33:00.000-08:00

Our wine reps showed up just before 5pm, Monday, for a wine tasting involving some of our more rare selections. 9 wines in tow and stacks of 6oz plastic cups. They started the opening speech for the waitstaff and opened bottle number one.

We started with the two Pinot Grigio imports. They popped the corks and started around the room. We each snagged about a 2oz pour and listened intently to information 90% of them were going to forget and only 3 of us would actually use. It was when he saw the glazed-over look on our faces that one of your managers strolled over to get us more involved...besides consuming wine.

Several of our waitresses are young and require practice opening the bottles, so they were in charge of the upcoming wines for tasting. It was at this point (the Chardonnay) that the pours lept from 2oz to 4oz. Normally, we only pour 4oz for patrons when doing presentations at tables.

5:30 hit and customers started walking in the door. Many of us were running to and fro waiting and drinking, waiting and drinking. Needless to say, many of them were remarkably relaxed with their tables, almost giddy. One of our youngins (whom I shall now refer to as Cocky Newbie, or Cnoob for short) became all too comfortable chatting with our waitresses and I was afraid he'd start hitting on his tables...

Cnoob walked over to Kimberli as she stood at the micro. No human should ever be that close of a talker. He also looked like he'd spent the past 8 hours baking in the Sun. Clearly wine is not his typical poison.

It made me consider the level of alcohol in all of our systems. Not everyone had full tastings from each bottle. But worst case scenario:

9 bottles, 1 hour. An average of 3 or 4oz per pour. Somewhere between 27 and 36oz of wine.

I couldn't remember the last time I sat down and drank the equivalent of 1.5 bottles of wine in an hour by myself. Thank God most of us are heavyweights.

Hot Stuff

2007-02-04T20:37:00.000-08:00

I wasn't scheduled for Saturday night, and I've no idea why. Saturday is Money Day for people in the restaurant business. One third of my week's income is received on that day, so to not be schedule is brutal. The beauty of working as a waiter is that shifts are given up or picked up on a whim.

I worked through a mundane, slow Saturday lunch and was desperate to get something for the evening rush. Even if I had to bus tables. Something had to be done.

If you pay attention in the world, you can learn a lot. Say you're working security, don't worry about the punks rampaging about, keep your eye on the 20-something loner with the floating eyes...the eyes that are constantly examining, ever wary, assuming someone is always watching. It's him you have to worry about, because he's afraid of being watched for a reason. This is the person who gathers all the information in while scanning the room...people's positions, attitudes, attire, hair, and watchfulness. The one who knows what they can get away with when. I approached the host podium with those eyes.

I needed to find the roster for Saturday's dinner. Small talk. Works with the hostess everytime...new shirt, new shoes, what'd you do last night. I skimmed the roster while we chatted and found Dre on the list with a 3pm in time. Fabulous.

Dre works only one or two nights a week now, lives 15 minutes away with her husband and son, and can often be persuaded that she doesn't want to work. Her number is in my cell phone. It was 2:35 and I had to move fast.

I abruptly ended the 'conversation' up front and fled to dry-storage where I new I had good signal on my mobile and wouldn't be found using it.

"Hello?"
"Dre, it's me. You don't really want to work do you?"
"Well, I was just getting ready to leave now, rather annoyed that I had to go out in the cold. Let me call you back within 5?"
"Deal."

She called in 2.5 minutes with wonderful news. Her shift, in my favorite section, now belonged to me.

Saturday ran normal as Saturdays go. I was on a roll with great timing, a solid groove, and not a single tip under 22%. I had a huge smile on my face until the Trio was seated at table 60. Three girls in their 20s. Jet black dyed hair, excessive tanning almost to a glow, make-up that took 3 years to apply, ample cleavage. These are the kind of girls that naturally assume they can squeak by in life based on hotness alone. This is a trait I have never enjoyed in anyone.

I did the typical spiel and never let my eyes linger too long. The moment they see you checking them out (or not checking them out, but rather looking anywhere but eye contact) they think they've got you. They tossed their hair, pursed their lips, made longer-than-normal 'thinking moans,' and acted flirty with each other. I flicked the switch on my back that changed me from ManMode to WaiterMode. (i.e. sarcastic, dry, and never giving an inch)

"Can I get this without the chicken in it?"

"Sure."

"Good. So it's cheaper then, right?"

"No, I'm sorry, it's not. The meal has a set price that I am unable to alter."

"Mmmm...come on. It's not that big a deal. Since I'm not getting the most expensive ingredient, it should be cheaper."

"While that is actually logical, it's not the case. You see, we have a computer system in which all our menu items are entered. It automatically tallies the items for your meal, and the pre-programmed price setting. It can't be altered."

"Well, that sucks." - over accentuating the "s's" and shooting me puppy dog eyes. This is a look that has simply made me laugh since I was in 6th grade. I caught on early that it's only a manipulation tool and became hardened to it, much to my benefit.

"That it does."

I ring the order in and return with their waters when they decide to persuade me to buy them drinks. It was one of the girls' 21st birthday... sure it was.

"I'm not allowed to buy drinks for patrons. Restuarant policy." - there is no such policy...not one that's not personal anyway.

They became rambunctious at their table, as if they had already consumed much alcohol. My other tables were clearly annoyed. I turned to approach them, right as the girl closest to me shifted her arm, accidently knocking a side-plate to the ground. Normally they'll hit, crack in a couple places, and bounce a bit. Something special happened with this one. It hit the floor with the explosivity of a 4th of July firework. The shards launched in every direction, sliding to a stop some 30 feet away. It was impressive.

Seeing the 12 shades of embarrassed red on her face and stifling my uproarious laughter, I donned the stern face and said, "Seriously ladies, are we not adults here?"

They shut up for the rest of the meal, paid in full, tipped well, and even apologized on their way out the door. Sooner or later, they have to realize not everyone buys the act.

Philanthropic Times

2007-01-28T21:50:00.000-08:00

Typical Saturday night found us with the average hustle and bustle of the weekend crowd. Big reservations and oodles of walk-ins kept us scampering around hoping to be quick for the best buck.

Frank normally has a quality presence with larger parties and fares well. This night was no different. 8 guys were taking out one woman for her birthday. It was a large celebration with joyous laughter, constant witty banter, and much alcohol.

He took extra-special care of this table, for Frank tends to be both a ladies man, and a Man's Man. Almost everyone likes him. This is a wonderful trait when your well-being depends entirely on the generosity of your customers.

To celebrate the year anniversary of birth, we presented the woman with a birthday cake.

"Sing us a song! Sing us a song! And none of that boring old 'Happy Birthday' stuff!"

They had heard me sing other tunes throughout the evening and were hoping for a raucous affair to match their boisterous goings on. Naturally I obliged with the beginning toast from La Traviata, "Brindisi"...a tune you would all know should I sing it now. They laughed and clapped and cheered and seemed very pleased.

A short while later, the party departed. Frank was standing at the cappuccino machine and looked crushed.

"You alright? How'd you do?"
"It was horrible! He signed the credit card receipt but didn't write any dollar amount down! I got stiffed on a 9top!!"

I thought for sure he was going to burst into tears. I would have come close. His night was completely ruined, and it was only half over. When you have an atrocious experience with one table, it's so tempting just to give up on the rest of your tables.

One of our oldtimers found out about it and decided to change the outcome herself. She went to each of the waitstaff, explained what happened to Frank, and asked for a small donation. The old management used to do it this way, using the generosity of the servers to up the staff's spirits as a whole, and also mend what damage was done with the stiffed server.

We all chipped in, because we know that what happens to one of us, happens to all of us. By the time she was done, she'd collected over fifty dollars. She gave Frank the stack of cash. He didn't know what to do. He was shocked, and humbled by the gift from the servers. It was a moment when we were all proud to be part of the staff, knowing that each of us had a touch of philanthropy in our hearts.

Return of the Crutchmaster

2007-01-21T22:20:00.000-08:00

As I had noted, table 28 was making my evening pretty interesting. I was keeping the rest of my section occupied and enjoying the brief downtime of one less table when i turned around and saw them sitting at 28. Crutchmaster, her two kids, and her friend whom they apparently can never leave behind.

For those of you new enough to not know quite who this nemesis might be, dig through the archives to late July.

For a brief taste: "She very slowly and dramatically entered. About 40, black tank, khaki shorts, hair pulled up, and two crutches to support her broken ankle ... She then proceeded to ask around hoping someone would relinquish their relished position in line. It's like being chosen for the promised land. Obviously most people simply stared at her as she milked the injury for all it was worth. As time passed, she convinced her children to come up to the podium every five minutes to check on the status. You'd think I'd be exaggerating...but I'm literally not. We started timing them."

It seems this woman had the same birthday three months running, on which she dines with us, rudely demands a piece of free cake (which she will relinquish to her children for their consumption), and will pull this and the crutch routine on every server and employee with whom she comes in contact. On her last visit, several of us finally put the pieces together and decided to never again let her get away with cons, no matter how small.

So there we were..staring at eachother from two tables away. I had vowed to call her out on her false claims of birthdayhood, claiming it necessary to check ID before retrieving a cake on her behalf. All of my haughty words came sweeping back. I had an obligation. And to be honest, I was a little scared. This was The Crutchmaster afterall.

Holding the gaze of her wee beady eyes, I approached the table.

"Welcome back! It's been some time since you've been here. Or at least since I saw you last. How is everything? I see the cast is off."

Bam. Both barrels from the get-go.

She was thrown off. Confused. Startled. What else did I remember? Who else besides me might remember it too? The two minions and her dear friend just stared at her as about 5 seconds passed before her lips parted for an answer.

"Good good. Yes, I don't have to use those stupid crutches now."
"Which is also good because we haven't much room to prop your foot up tonight."
"Yes well, this corner is cramped. Could we get more room here?"
"Short of knocking down that wall or asking customers to leave, I hardly see how. So, shall we start with drinks? I know you're all familiar with the menu."

Again, they sat motionless for a moment. This time it was my turn to be on the offensive. I knew the tricks, the plots, the wiles. Not on my watch. Not again.

Drinks, appetizers, main courses...all went smoothly. I was awaiting the Birthday request, and had had the entirety of the meal to prepare myself for such an occasion. I had the check printed, book in my apron, prepared to drop. To-Go boxes in hand, I couragiously stepped to the table.

"So I'll let you box those up whenever you're ready. And as I recall, you tend not to save room for dessert, as our meals are rather substantial in size. I'll leave the check here and take it whenever you are set. But by all means, don't feel rushed, and please take your time."

I smiled. I looked at the kids, the friend, and last at the Crutchmaster. With the smile plastered on my face, I flashed a look that said, 'That's it. That's all you get.' Part of me wondered if it would work. I turned on my toes and stepped quickly as I heard my name called from a table at the end of my section.

"I'm sorry to call you over here again.."
"No no. By all means, I'm at your service. You have no idea what you've saved me from."
"Pissy customer over there?"
"Let's just say we have a history."

I retrieved the plates from this blessed soul who called me over and even got them free espresso for their troubles. When I returned, the Crutchmaster was gone. There was cash in the book, and a 15% tip on the table. I couldn't hold back the joyous manly armpump with an audible "Booyah!" That's right. I actually uttered "booyah" on the floor, causing much amusement for the surrounding tables.

I had slayed the dragon. I do not expect a return.

Table 28

2007-01-15T10:55:00.000-08:00

I've determined that certain tables are blessed and others cursed. Each table has a life of its own and it influences the behavior of patrons at it. Tonight I had a table that is always good to me; it often provides me with personal entertainment. I turned that table about 4 times, 3 of which kept me going back for more...

Round 1.
They were about 22. He was dressed plainly, she was decked to the nines. That kind of presence tells you she's out to get noticed. (this is a common theme with 20-something female diners in general). Clearly "together" as they walked in the door hand-in-hand. He got up to use the restroom several times during the meal and each time he did, she'd beckon me over for small talk. See was sitting in the corner of the restaurant with clear view of the far side where the bathrooms were. I could gather from her demeanor when he'd walk back onto the floor and took it as my cue to not appear as though there were flirting going on...despite the fact I found her number on the table and she was fond of adjusting her bra while I was present and her boyfriend absent. Sadly, the boyfriend paid, and thus the tip was average.

Round 2.
Son, 30s. Mom and Dad, 50s.
"Can I get you something to drink while you're looking through the menu?" (Same old line)
Dad: "Drink? Yes. Hell yes. I'll start with a Grey Goose dirty, extra olives."
Mom: "Sangria"
Son: "Same."
I can already tell I'll love this table. They drank well, but not too much, ordered a several-course meal, and were extremely pleasant to serve. As I was returning with the dessert menus, I noticed the mother was sitting on the floor against the wall, head in her hands.
"Ma'am, can I get you something, or help you?"
The two guys seemed to not notice, acting as this happens regularly. I knew they weren't drunk enough to ignore her, so I took her silence (except the unpleasant yet soft moaning) as a note that this was normal. I was about to turn and walk away, when I heard her say "Um, hot tea...lemon." "Of course ma'am." She then proceeded to get her plate handed to her by her son so as to finish her veal on the floor...where she drank her tea, and also finished off her son's cake. Father paid for this one, and the tip was 25%, and I was the one to help the mother off the floor as they left.

Round 3. The CrutchMaster's Return: To be saved for next time...

Paging Bloggers to MySpace

2007-01-08T01:07:00.000-08:00

The phenomenon has leaked to Blogdom. I noticed WaiterRant on MySpace, so I decided to follow suit. Can't hurt, right? Seat My Table does MySpace

Clunk

2007-01-07T22:48:00.001-08:00

It was a pathetic shift. I walked in the door and from the get-go I was annoyed. I was scheduled as a food-runner. This is the guy who's not your waiter who brings you your food. I hate this job.

The hourly is minimum wage plus tips. But here's where the servers' personal feelings get involved. How they tip out is based solely on how much food they happen to see you run to their tables. If your timing never crosses their path, they don't know which of the three runners took the food and therefore which ones to tip. The tips are bound to be lower in this case.

So I was running and, being a waiter also, people ask me for beverage refills, sides of sauce, remakes for their food, etc. I end up being yet another waiter to them. I had 5 dishes remade for 3 waiters, sold more alcohol than if I had been on the floor myself. The GM pulls me aside and says, "Why aren't you on the deck running food? Better get hustling, I'm keeping my eye on you tonight." I get reprimanded for bettering the customers...fabulous.

On top of this, we run into the issue of our dishes. For our entire restaurant we had only 30 pasta bowls. A ridiculous number. Half what we should have. We were continually running out of spoons. It was apparently my job to remedy this as well as run food. This of course cut down on my face time with the waitstaff, again, hacking my tips.

Candice was one of the other two runners. She tops out at about 5ft and has a permanent look of annoyance and angst. She's a real joy to be around for sure. Oh, and she's a slacker. She hates her job as a waitress, makes no money because customers can tell she's forever pissed, and makes no move to fix things.

Candice was walking in front of me as I was bringing bowls and plates from Dish with my arms more than full. Meandering empty-handed, she decided to turn around without warning and ran her head directly into the plates. A soft thunk was heard from the collision and she put her hand to her head. I was shot the most evil look I've seen in months and I stifled a chuckle. We were all moving at top speed. A restaurant can be like a freeway. If you're not moving along with traffic, you'll get run over. I'm going to guess she fought with her boyfriend and decided to smoke a joint on the way here to forget it. ...per usual.

So trying to keep the tears from welling up, she skulked into the kitchen hoping for a pity party. Sadly, she got one. Immediately I "ran dishes into her head." My popularity waned drastically.

Now, normally, I'm well-liked in the restaurant, but I've slowed down my socializing with the rest of the waitstaff due to other responsibilities. This isn't an issue when I wait tables, but when my tips depend on the rest of the staff, they tip the people they hang out with. It's restaurant politics. It was a 5 hour shift that felt like 30. The only thing that brought me any joy, was the short person vs. the dinnerware. It was a pathetic shift.

The Mother Clause

2007-01-02T23:49:00.000-08:00

It was a busy Saturday right before Christmas. Just to keep the bloody Christmas music out of my head, I was running around singing "Shine on" by Jet. It's one of my tricks to make me feel like I'm keeping pace rather than actually being frantic. But no matter what, there's always a table that throws off your groove entirely.

This one was completely oblivious to the fact there was anyone else in the restaurant. 4top with what seemed be parents and two girls, one about 25 and the other about 18.

"Can I get anyone anything to drink while you're perusing the menu?"

silence

"Ok. I'll give you a minute to look through the wine list."
"No wait, we're figuring it out."

Now, I don't mind when tables want my attention or even my time. It's why I'm there. To serve. But when I'm clearly very busy and they simply want me to stand there for 5 minutes twiddling my thumbs without actually interacting it's a bit annoying.

So, standing a bit longer, I can't help but hear the youngest girl discussing the chocolate martini she had last time she was here and she wasn't a big fan of our wine list. Finally, the 'parents' ordered a rather blasé pinot, and the younger daughter looks up at me...

"I'll have a cosmo."
"Can I see some ID?"
"....what?"
"ID, can I see some please?"
"But I'm with my mom."
"....so?"
"That means I don't have to show it to you."
"No, it doesn't change anything."
"Fine, I'll have water then."

For the rest of the meal, she continually started talking about alcohol everytime I walked by. "i had this before." "I had that before." As if that should make me cave, wipe away a tear, and toss vodka down her throat.

Walking Trophy

2006-12-27T23:59:00.000-08:00

She comes in with friends all the time. A stay-at-home wife married to a ridiculously wealthy man. Middle age. Very well-kept body. The gravity-defying body of a 20 year old. As if someone once told her she didn't actually have to age. Huge rock on her finger, as if someone once told the guy that if the diamond was large enough, love didn't matter.

"So, my friend here and I are going on a cruise in February."
"Yeah, sounds nice. Where to?"
"Mexico!"
"I love Mexico."
"Oh, you should totally come. You can bring your guitar and serenade us."
"That would be a total blast, but I think my wife would have an issue with it."
"Why tell her? I bought new lingerie or this trip." she flashed a wicked grin.
"Yeah, Victoria's Secret has gret sales this time of year." I may be married, but there're tips involved here.
"Victoria's Secret? Honey. Gucci. The things I could teach you."
"I don't doubt it."
"Well, I'm in here enough... you change your mind, you just let me know."

Needless to say, the tip was 50%.

39 and a half foot pole

2006-12-20T19:31:00.000-08:00

Dre was busy in the kitchen so I ran her food out to 61. It was a couple I recognized from a previous evening along with their mother who's got to be pushing 90. I've sung to them for their anniversary and they tip well.

"So do you have a holiday song for us?"

"Sadly I don't."

"Nothing?!"

"I really don't. I'm not very good at remembering the words to Christmas carols and I don't really have anything else prepared. I'm sorry."

"That's crazy. Ave Maria?"

"I've never actually taken the time to learn that. I suppose this might drive me to do so. Let me go get you some fresh grated parmesan cheese."

They were quite nice about it, even joking that it was pathetic a musician on any level didn't have any Christmas songs performance-ready. On my way to the island with the cheese, Dre passed me.

"Hey, I ran 61, can you cheese them? I have to do a greet."

"Sure. Thanks."

I carried out my routine, rang in drinks, then the order. They were my second of two tables for the entire night before I volunteered to leave the graveyard in Christmas lights. This time of year, office lunch parties are our bank. Dinners are dead.

Dre walked over as she saw me standing against the wall trying to stay awake.

"61 is pissed at you." she exclaimed, laughing with a wide grin and quinty eyes.
"I know, I know. I don't know Christmas songs! It's humiliating for me too. I'll learn something by next year."
"You better. They're calling you the Grinch."
"Me? But my heart's not three sizes too small!"
"That may be true, but I wouldn't touch you...with a 39 and a half foot pooooole." she finished her last line singing.

I stayed fr away from table 61 for the rest of the night.

Forget Milk and Cookies, Leave Him Pasta

2006-12-18T21:52:00.000-08:00

They strolled through the door soon after the dinner rush was done and there was just a dribble through the door. Rosy cheeks, fur-lined collar, big black boots, snow white beard offset by the crimson suit. His wife was more casually attired. The Clauses had arrived. The host walked them straight back to my section.

As he passed me, he said, "I figured if anyone could have fun with them, it'd be you."

Ironic that I never believed in Santa.

I did a typical greet as I would anyone else, except this time, every eye in the place was watching my table...especially the little kids. You could see the astonishment on their faces. He was actually eating here. Of course, on some level, I think it shattered their reality, just a little bit. Here he is, The Man, The Myth, The Legend... and more than a week before Christmas.

Mrs. Claus is a bit of a picky eater, but nothing we couldn't handle. Besides, she was remarkably jovial the whole time. Kris Kringle himself was surprisingly laid back, and far less energetic than I expected. He was real chill. It was a pleasant evening in general and they wre a joy to wait on. I'm hoping for some good gifts in my stocking this year,

Santa's drink? Magic Hat #9

Santa's tip? 25%

Getting Personal

2006-12-15T21:52:00.000-08:00

I'm not big the whole "tagged" thing, but I'm tired and my post for tonight is in draft form. So this is to appease the blog gods:

1. I'm a big fan of J.R.R. Tolkien. I read the Lord of the Rings trilogy once a year.

2. I once ran into Luciano Pavarotti backstage. Literally ran into. He was not a happy man.

3. I own more shoes than my wife does.

4. I started my first blog because I couldn't sleep and was bored.

5. I once went a month without sleeping. A disorder. Ask my doctors, freaked everyone out. I now know why the Soviets used sleep deprivation as a torture device. Worst month of my life.

Mind Erasers

2006-12-09T22:44:00.000-08:00

She had that slightly stoned and drunk look from right off the bat. 35 and still a party girl, you could tell. I mean, she was pleasant enough, but certain things confused her: Why I would pour oil onto a little dish. Why I would talk so loudly. Why I kept skipping her order (after I had taken it twice. That's right. Two different orders.)

"What can I get for you ma'am?"
"Why would you do that?"
"Do what ma'am?"
"Pour that in there. Now there's oil all over it."

At this point, her date, seemingly fifteen years her elder, jumped in with a huge grin on his face.

"That's for the bread."
"But we don't have bread!"
"He'll bring us some."
"But there's oil on there now... I need Citron and Seven.. yeah. mmm.."

More alcohol. Exactly what she needs. They clearly had done some social drinking before leaving for dinner. Who knows, maybe she needed to be loosened up before dating this guy.

"Don't worry, I'm driving."
"No worries. You want me to put that in and hunt down some bread?"
"Yeah, we'll get to ordering shortly."
"Certainly."

She wasn't slurring her speech, and there were no specific signs of total inebriation, so there was no reason to cut her off. Besides, they had been sitting for all of 5 minutes. When I came back with the bread and drink she exclaimed, "Oh! Bread. Gooootcha." I couldn't help but chuckle. You know you would have too.

She ordered a salad with seafood with a side of pasta. He ordered a steak, also with a side of pasta.

"Wait, don't leave. Why are you skipping me?"
"I'm sorry, ma'am, I had no intentions of doing so. What else can I get you?"
"Well, I need food. For dinner. So. give me. Hmm...pasta something. no, chicken, yeah chicken."

We finally nailed down a chicken dish to her liking and he decided he too needed some alcohol and I couldn't say I blamed him. Part of me felt like asking if her looks were worth the trouble. Instead I just got him his Bud Lite.

"Did you take our menus? I need to order food. I shouldn't drink this much without eating."
Rather than go through the entire ordeal again, I simply said, "Don't worry I've got you covered." and rattled off a particular chicken dish I was sure she'd enjoy.
"Oh, he's good." She leaned precariously over to her gentleman friend to say.
He laughed. Out loud.

With some food in her and water, she started to sober up a bit. They took their time eating and by the end, I think her buzz was gone. I noticed she wasn't getting lost on her way back from the bathroom as she had the pervious two trips.

"Would you like anything else to drink ma'am? Another Citron and Seven?"
"In a couple minutes... ok. Now. Yeah, thanks."

He had another Bud Lite (only number two) and I started clearing the table next to them.

"Hey, do you have a good bartender?"
"Yes, yes we do." She has, in fact, had ample traning in the industry as well as being a professional party planner at the celebrity level. Her annoyance for pricks in showbiz changed her mind for career paths and she bartends on the side of interior design. All that to say, she knows how to play the game, learned a lot along the way, and can sling alcohol with the best of them.
"Good. good good. It's time for shots!" she said with a particular vehemence.
"Really...and what shall we be drinking?"
"Mind Erasers!"

Seriously. Had to be almost forty years old. At an Italian restaurant, not a cub or a bar. But hey, I'm not going to judge. Besides, this guy is happy about the fact that she's warm enough that she's down to her halter top and having a good time. He's paying.

She was happy. He was happy, therefore I was happy...especially when I found a 25% tip left on the table.

Little People

2006-12-04T16:37:00.000-08:00

Most waiters tend to hate children. They're loud, often messy, disruptive, and needy. Most of the time. Parents also seems to require their wishes immediately before anyone else in the restaurant.

I recently have had the joy of waiting on particularly enjoyable little people.

Today my last table at lunch was a grandmother, mother, and two young boys. Jack was the youngest. Propped in his highchair, he was quite adamant about getting french fries with ketchup and mustard. Sadly we have only honey mustard but his mother suggested I get it anyway. Upon receiving the honey mustard, he placed the tip of his finger in it, then put it in his mouth. With a spectacular grimace, he said, "Eeeew!" and clean his finger off...in his hair.

Jokingly, his mother asked, "Do you happen to have a kiddie bath? Or something I can scrub him down with?"
"Well, I think our dishwasher might fit him in it on the cold cycle, but I suggest the hose in the back."
Jack found all this quite humorous. Then his icecream came. Vanilla, with chocolate sauce. It was clear that he did not enjoy the icecream but certainly liked the chocolate. So he proceeded to separate them in his mouth, swallowing the chocolate and spitting out the icecream.

Saturday we were enjoying a leisurely push before the dinner rush started. He was about 2 and silent as a mouse. White-blonde hair and huge sky-blue eyes. He made eye contact like an adult and only stirred when he heard me mention chocolate milk, which he got and was quite excited about. He was one of the best-behaved customers I've had in weeks. His parents were pleasant also. As I dropped off the check, Gavin (as was the wee one's name), reached for the check, promptly opening it and pointing to his father the amount owed. I walked away with a chuckle. When I returned to pick it up, Gavin took the mastercard, placed it in the book and handed it to me with a matter-of-fact, "Here you go, sir." I'm expecting him to rule the world by the time he's 25.

Preparing for the revolt.

2006-11-30T21:39:00.000-08:00

He was called into work on a day off. Early. One of his managers was in the office waiting. The news was not good.

Several times, our culinary manager has been warned about hanging out with our waitstaff outside the restaurant. Apparently it crosses some invisible line. The problem is that the waitstaff love this guy. Not because he lets them get away with murder, but because he knows how to run the restaurant well. His judgement is wonderful, and he commands the respect of 98% of the staff. We are willing to do his every bidding. Partly because he comes out from time to time and has a beer with us responsibly, has a good time, and we enjoy his company.

The office meeting ended his 10 year stint at our trattoria.

There was an uproar amongst the employees. Many of them owe him for their jobs. There are now only two competent managers, both with their hands quite full. This means the two relatively useless managers will pick up the slack. There's talk of a mutiny. I myself have already begun the quest.

From Jackal to Newbie

2006-11-27T17:49:00.000-08:00

The Jackal is moving to the floor. Whose decision it was and how it was made are unknown, but either way, I'm fairly interested to see the result.

The table she was at was getting under way. She was approaching with wine, oil, and bread, as is standard fare for the trattoria. For those of you who don't eat Italian food, extra virgin olive oil/herbs/pepper/sometimes cheese, are poured into a shallow dish for the dipping of bread.

The Jackal was chatting with the table, making small talk as she reached for the bottle to pour into the dish. Reaching right, she retrieved the open wine bottle and proceeded to pour a fine chianti into the oil dish.

As she went for the spices, a shocked look came upon her face. The guests laughed.

"No no, go ahead. We usually like pepper in our chianti."

She desperately grabbed for a fresh dish and tried to play it off as if nothing had happened.

Return

2006-11-24T22:03:00.000-08:00

Sick and tired. Not the phrase, but actually suffering from both. All last week I was trying to figure out my ailments. I never get sick for long, only a matter of days. Usually 4 or 5. So rather than shell out for a bloody doctor visit I decided to wait it out. On top of that, I had to call in sick for several days straight. Immediately following, my wife and I meandered to Harrisburg and Philly for assorted parties.

Monday. Double shift at the trattoria. Tuesday, flight to sister-in-law's for Thanksgiving.

Let me tell you that spending Thanksgiving in the home of two professional chefs requires that you bring a good pair of stretchy pants. The spread for the turkey day was exquisite.

Tomorrow, it's away from traditional American fare, to tradition Italian. Due to the horrid amount of consumerism that takes place this weekend, I pretty much guarantee some quality updates here.

The Shrine

2006-11-16T21:06:00.000-08:00

Typical busy night and I'm boxing up food in the kitchen.

"Hey, check out table 61."
"Why?"
"It's a surprise, but do a walk-by. It'll be worth it."

Now, normally when people tell me to do this I end up talking to a long lost friend of the family and I get roped into a conversation that lasts 10 minutes, which can kill any waiter's groove.

I grab a bev tray and some glasses and step briskly by this relatively secluded booth in the trattoria. What I see slows me almost to a halt.

3 later-middle-aged women were chatting loudly. They had decorated the table with lace and doilies, three pictures of their late friend who had died on the anniversary of that evening, and a candle to represent his presence in spirit. I felt very bad for their waitress. It was clear they'd be there for awhile.

A Bit Nipply in Here

2006-11-10T11:36:00.000-08:00

I approached the table seeing a toddler, mother, and her mother. These 3-generation tables are always tough to call. Sometimes they're ornery and sometimes they're remarkably sweet. As I walked forward, I noticed the child's head inder the mother's shirt. I was approaching from a good distance, so I observed this far before they observed me.

My first thought was that this child was far too old to be breast-feeding. My second thought was that she was doing this in front of everyone. My third thought was that as they noticed me, the mother removed the child, placed her in the child seat, didn't fix her shirt, and did she not realize that her right breast was still showing, nipple and all?

I did my greet, mostly facing the grandmother, so as not to appear as though I was staring. When the mother talked I made strict eye contact. It's hard to say something in this case, because you don't want to act as though you are watching her chest. at the same time, it's mildly inappropriate for topless wome to be in the restaurant...even if subtle. By the time I had procured bread and drinks, the shirt was down a bit more except the nipple on the right side. The shirt was bunched just above it. This woman was short enough that as she leaned near the table, you'd have to be looking directly to notice it. How she didn't notice that her stomach and chest were showing is a bit of a surprise. I took the orders and walked away. I noticed Nicolai about to seat several young gentlemen directly nearby and came to the realization that I needed to say something.

Turning around, I began playing over the conversation in my head. It had been several minutes since she had stopped nursing. How do I explain the fact I let her bare breast go on so long unmentioned? How do I bring up the topic? Ma'am you're nipple is sticking out?

Just when I was ready to open my mouth, she stood up to go to the washroom. It was then that she noticed her shirt. She looked up at me with a sheepish look and several shades of red on her face. I smiled and mouthed "It's ok."

As she walked out of the bathroom on her way back to the table, she passed me, saying

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize. Nursing's so much of a habit, I forget to check myself afterwards."

"No worries, I don't think anyone else noticed."

Their tip ran around 30%.

The Competition

2006-11-06T22:04:00.000-08:00

They've just opened down the street. It's a similar place to ours. Traditional Italian. A tad smaller than ours, open kitchen, and a bar twice the size of the one stretching on our west wall. And a staff that's brand spanking new.

The problem for us is that the owner's got a bit of a reputation...a good one.

Tonight was dead. Particularly dead. I walked away with 4 tables. Total. For the entire night. When I left I decided to ditch the uniform and check out the competition to see if that is where our business had gone.

I strolled up the sidewalk, prepared for the worst, so I pulled out my mobile, set it to silent, and pretended to have a conversation. First off, let me tell you how beneficial the fake phone call can be. You chatter aimlessly into space while surveying the landscape for details and important facts. Not to mention, most restauranteurs will acknowledge you, but not serve you while on your phone. It paid off doubly when I was almost attacked by the over-zealous, seemingly 12 year old hostess. The door was flung into me and I had to grab it with my non-phone hand to keep the handle from breaking my ribs. "HI!!"

Pulling the phone from my face.. "Got a take out menu?"

"SURE!" Seriously. She was almost yelling. She then thrust the to-go menu at me. I waved towards a chair to note that I'd be sitting there while chatting and deciding. "OK. Just let me know when you're ready." The first words she spoke ather than yelped.

I scoped the place out. Their waitstaff was young, and had a feeling of immaturity, similar to the host staff. Their wine list was small, and their menu equally small in ratio. The atmosphere was, sadly, more charming than ours. If I looked at the two floors, juxtaposed them and had to decide based on aesthetic alone, I'd have chosen theirs. Not to mention, the food smelled delicious. But then again, maybe I'm tainted because I spend all day, four days a week at our trattoria. Either way, I was tempted to order food on the spot, but their menu is pricier than ours and I didn't feel like attacking the meal alone for the sake of scrutiny.

On my way out the door, I realized I have waited on their assistant manager. Hoping to sneak out and not look as though I was sizing the place up, I hear a "Hey." that shattered that hope. It was Milhouse, who was dining with Gwen. He dragged me back to his table where he introduced me to his waiter as another Trattoria employee. Friggin brilliant Milhouse. Cover blown.

I stopped and chatted for no longer than 5 minutes. I exited. As I did, I couldn't help but wonder how much our business would be effected. They were on a 30 minute wait. But that could simply because the staff is incompetent. Or it could be because they took our Monday dinner rush. We shall see. I silently hoped that the Crutchmaster, who has been unseen for over a month now, would find a new lair there.

Near Perfect

2006-10-31T23:08:00.000-08:00

Lunch rush was pretty much done when a middle aged black couple walked in. The rest of the 4 servers closing out the lunch shift kind of fled. The shift was almost over and stereotypes abound. Seeing that we had no host on (as we often don't in the middle of the afternoon) I took the liberty of seating them in my section. In my eyes, a customer is a spending customer, and anything helps...especially when lunch has been slow.

They were starving. Antipasti, entrée, drinks. The man was busy chewing, so I asked the wife:

"So how does everything taste?"

"Off the chain!"

"That's what I like to hear."

"I gotta tell you. This, is Italian food. I'm particular you know. If I eat bagels, I want 'em cooked by Jews. Pizza, by Italians. Enchiladas, by Mexicans. Chinese food, by Chinese. Sweet potato pie...she better damn be my grandmother! I. Am. That kinda person. And let me tell you, my sister, who thinks she's Italian, is comin in here. Hell, I'm bringin all the kids and everybody!"

"You do that. Bring them in, and we'll show them how Italian is done. I'll grab your check and you make sure you come back. I'm holding you to it." ...flashing my waiter smile.

"Oh, you better believe it!"

As I got the check, I decided not to tell her that none of our chefs are Italian. In fact, one's Mexican, and he makes some pretty unbelievable pork chops. As they walked out, I noticed the signed check and picked it up. 50% tip. A nice generous helping of sweet potato pie and my day would have been perfect.

Reasons for Madness

2006-10-26T21:20:00.000-07:00

I walked past a couple in their early 60s standing in the middle of our dining room, no host in sight.

Me: "What, were you guys just abandoned here?"
Man: "Oh, no no. We just applied for waiter positions, and we're scoping the place out. You know, seeing what we got ourselves into."
Me: "It's a solid place to work. Management is nice. The discount is worth shaking a stick at."
Woman: "Actually, we considered being the singing entertainment tonight."
Me: "Really? Excellent, give me a sample."
Wom.: "Well, we haven't yet talked through our repetoire for the evening. I'll get back to you."
Me: "Good good. You do that."
Man: "Actually, this is an Italian place right?"
Me: ...dramatic pause...
Man: "You got guys that sing for guests?"
Me: "You're looking at him."
Man: "You huh? I shoulda figured."
Me: "I sing per request. We don't have any roving minstrels or anything."
Man: "Ok. You wanna do me a favor for a couple of bucks?"
Me: "Obviously."
Man: "Our friend and his wife are coming in soon. I want you to come up to us sometime during our meal and act like you already know us. My friend is Big Al. I'm Buzz, that's Sandy. You know, one of those "HEY, HAVEN'T SEEN YOU IN AGES!!' kind of things. Then we'll talk and work into the conversation a segway for you to burst into song? Think you can do that?"
Me: "Buzz, I live for this kind of stuff."

He hands me $5.

So when three of the four entrées are run, I grab the fourth from the "foodrunner" and give Big Al his pasta, only to turn around and be 'surprised' to see Buzz sitting there. We strike up a 'catching up' conversation that leads me to talking about giving toasts where I immediately break into "Libiamo" from La Traviata. The place bursts into applause.

I go back and greet the table just sat in my section. She works for a big opera company on the West Coast doing hair and make-up. Apparently the Trattoria was teaming with opera fans. Now, this woman has been in the opera biz for 20 years and I'm just barely tapping it now, so I'm in a little over my head, but the conversation was priceless.

It was the end of the night and Opera Hair Lady (OHL) and her husband were my only table. Buzz and Big Al and their wives were still over in Milhouse's section. 30 minutes talking with OHL, 40 talking to Buzz and Gang. Huge tips all around. THIS is exactly why I wait tables.

...and Maude

2006-10-24T21:43:00.000-07:00

Harold has worked at our restaurant for awhile now...prior to my hiring anyway. He's the black sheep, the ugly duckling. He doesn't quite fit into the society well. I have the feeling he was always beat up at school for his quiet demeanor, and crossed eyes. He now seems bizarrely content to hide in the kitchen washing dishes with his headphones on.

He walks to work every day and it takes him hours. Why he doesn't take the bus is beyond me, but he walks everywhere. I think he has found solace in solitude. Safety in singularity. If there's no one around, there's no one to hate you or talk down to you or look at you like you're the oddball. He can have an attitude, but it's my belief that it's caused from low expectations. Almost no one at work talks to him. He wafts through the kitchen like a spectre. He never makes eye contact. He's there, but not really.

One of the most recent hiring waves brought in Jimmy. He's a very large, very loud, black man. He's a riot, and Harold's exact opposite.

Tonight, they were on shift together. And there were words.

Jimmy for some reason cannot stand Harold and tonight he was set off. Harold is notorious for under-the-breath comments, and unkind words that are virtually inaudible. Apparently Jimmy caught one such comment tonight.

"Listen you motherf*cking little b*tch, I want you away from me. Don't even come close to where I'm at!" ...and this went further and further.

Now the section of the kitchen where they are stationed isn't close to the dining room but Jimmy is far from softspoken. As I walked out and hit the floor, I could still hear his voice clear as a bell. That's when the soon-to-be-rumble becomes my problem, when my customers can hear it. When a patron's meal is disturbed by personal back of the house issues is when management needs to step in. Did they? Of course not. Not until I approached the closing manager.

"You realize I can hear Jimmy on the floor? And not quietly either? I can pretty much pick up every four-letter word."

Swear on your own time and your own dollar, but when you're in the trattoria, your mouth will be clean, and your personal presentation will be professional. Or you find a new place to work.

Well, rather than yell back, because that's not something Harold does, he simply kept 'invading Jimmy's space' and causing more issues. The manager told them to quiet down and spoke to Harold about his attitude and Jimmy about his volume level. Harold was then told to empty to food garbage cans with were borderline overflowing. He took off the slotted top, threw it on the dish line, spilling dumped food everywhere...on the dishline, floor, counter, everywhere.

I thought Jimmy was going to throw a plate at him. He was livid. I think he may have done something if the manager hadn't walked in just then.

"What the F*ck is this? Harold...seriously?! Are we 8 years old again? You're hand washing the floor now because I'm not having my server trapse this f*cking sh*t into my dining room! Get on it. NOW!"

It took ages for everything to get cleaned up. We all had to stay late because annoying customers stayed so long we had to turn up the lights and turn off the music on them. I felt like I was working in a bar. I walked outside after an age-long shift to find it cold and rainy. As I drove home I passed Harold walking in the rain. I didn't slow down. I didn't pick him up. I didn't go out of my way to help him, even though I'm pretty sure he needed it. I'm wishing now I'd been the bigger man and done what no one has done for him in ages...done something nice...given him a break.

Downfall of FrontEnd Civilization

2006-10-24T11:04:00.000-07:00

I was back on the floor. I had turned over my section when I discovered that two new people were running the show up front, one of those was brand spanking new. I'm talking, this was her first training shift. The other was Nicolai. Then the Jackal showed up. She's been intentionally removed from the front and repositioned as the person in charge of to-going food. Tonight, some how she had ended up on the host staff. And she's the last person who should be training a new recruit.

We have one waiter who we like to call Usher due to the startling resemblence when he's out of uniform. He was stationed to-going last evening which he was pissed about. So, having turned over my section and being totally empty, I switched with him so I could keep an eye on the hosts.

Let's just say it got so chaotic that I was again switched over to host and the Jackal was transported to my previous area. She was mildly pissed that she was told I could do her job better. Ok, mildly is the understatement of the year.

We got the floor cleaned up and organized what was going on. After that, we rearranged the outflow from the kitchen. What took the two of us about 20 minutes to do, The Jackal couldn't do in 2 hours.

The rest of the night was boring. I wish that I could make the money up front that I'd make on the floor. I suppose that I'm making it better for us servers in the long run, having a host staff that can actually run a floor. Too bad I don't get tipped for The greater Good.

Groovless

2006-10-22T22:37:00.000-07:00

I don't know what happened. Tony was out of town still so I was filling his shoes. Donna was sick, but present at the podium taking names. Kimberli was calling the floor while Nicolai was seating tables. I was filling the gaps, doing table visits, floating, seating...whatever was necessary.

4pm on was nonstop patrons. I'm not going to argue about this, it's fabulous. My issue was at 6pm when we suddenly realized that no one was going anywhere. Campers everywhere. I could practically hear BoyScout badges being awarded.

"Timmy gets the twirling-pasta-with-a-fork badge. His third this evening. Joshua will be awarded the badge for best wine pour. This is his first tonight."

It's here where we run into problems. The quote time immediately becomes obsolete. There's not really much that can be done about it because the tables are occupied.

"Hey, listen here. We were told we'd wait 45 minutes. We've been standing here for almost an hour and a half! Fix it!!"
"Sir, the wait quote is a suggestion. We can't make the tables turn over. Believe me when I say we wish we could."
"Well, this is ridiculous. You can't clean tables while people are at them?"
"Tell me this: Would you want us to start bussing your table halfway through your meal because the people behind you want to sit down?" ...silence and he walked away.

On top of the camping tables, we run into the reservation list as well. So those who have reservations have precedence over our wait list. When one of the rare customers decides to actually vacate his table, the reservations are the first to take it...even if someone's waited 90 minutes.

Donna was getting sick and tired of the turnover rate and the pissed customers. Nicolai took the helm and Donna and I grabbed a quick word near the kitchen.

"We've got to some up with a technique for servers to turn over their tables. You know, make them leave."
Now, she's a young girl. About 20ish. Graceful and stylish, with long blond hair and the physique of a ballet dancer. Occasionally I realize that she's not been around as much as some of us and doesn't always consider the positions of the server and their perspective.
"We simply can't do that. You can't rush customers. If you do, tip drops like you wouldn't believe. If you make server here, you'll see. You want the customer to have the best dining experience. After they get the menu in their hands, the debacle of the wait time seems far less significant."

It got to the point where our reservations were taking all our available tables and waitlisters were leaving due to aggrevation.

"Listen, we can't have people walk out on us!"
"Yeah, well, then do me a favor, one of two things: 1. either get our eating customers out right now and open tables, or. 2. You take the podium and deal with everyone."
"FINE."

To my utter amazment, the service manager took the helm and started taking names and hacking it out with the disgruntled waitlisters. It took us until almost 8pm to settle from the mayhem and rekindle our normal dinner groove.

The hidden stash of 100Grand bars and Reese's peanut butter cups were all that kept me sane. I can't wait to get back on the floor.

A Side of Hugo Boss

2006-10-19T22:44:00.000-07:00

"I think this is the only time I'll ever say this Gwen, but I'm extremely envious of the 8top of flamboyant homosexuals you're about to get."

"What?! You're married!"

"I'm giving you an 8top. All remarkably well dressed and in excedingly good moods."

"So why are you envious?"

"Because when gay guys are out for a night on the town, they are a friggin riot. I love them. And they tip with gusto."

"Ooooh. That's good to hear."

I'm filling in for our head host while he's visitng family in DC, so I take the 8 very chatty guys to Gwen's table. Hugo Boss, D&G, Armani, it's everywhere. Hair that couldn't be more perfect if it came from a salon. And the smells. I have to admit, it was the best smelling table I've ever seen. And curious thing is, that of the 4 distinct colognes I perceived, they all complimented each other and weren't overpowering in the least. Mind boggling.

Yes, I enjoy our homosexual diners. As I stated to Gwen, they tend to have a lot of fun when they're out and about and they spend money. Let me tell you that it's refreshing to see big smiles and dramatic expressions from a table throughout the meal.

Now it may seem as though I'm stereotyping here. And I am. I have yet to have a table of gay men that wasn't fabulous. Nor have I seen a party including homosexuals walk through our doors that hasn't ended in a really good tip. Or at least a solid 20%. So this is a stereotype I enjoy making and one that I think uplifts the gay community.

So as the night went on, I aided Gwen in her many trips to the table, making sure their dining experience was all it could be. After they were gone, I pulled her aside. "So? How was it?" "30%!! You were so right." "See, finally a people group that enters with a positive flare." "Ha. Flare."

SubStandard

2006-10-17T12:33:00.000-07:00

It felt like such a long day. I opened lunch and came back on soon after for the dinner shift. There's something weird about how working a double shift in a restaurant can feel like three days worth of work. It's for this reason that I wasn't real happy when I saw table 17 get sat.

They are in there mid twenties and their tips are always atrocious. There's always something small to complain about, some reason to try and get free food. They act pleasant, but somewhere deep inside I think they're hoping to get 'hooked up' because they come off initially as sweet.

"How are you folks doing this evening?"
"We're fine. We don't want to hear the speech. You can skip it."
"Very well. What can I get for you this evening?"
"Arnold Palmers. And can we get strawberry flavor too? And bread. Right away. And balsamic vinegar. And the oil and butter too."
"Sure."

Let me interject that Arnold Palmers are the biggest pain in the buttocks to make. People suck them down like any other drink, and then want hundreds of refills. On top of that in our restaurant we run into another issue: Bev station placement. Where we keep the iced tea is near the bar. The lemonade near the back of the house, and the flavors in a third location near the cappuccino machine. In order to do each AP, you have to hit all three stations. No one ever tips accordingly for them either.

"That took a bit of time for a couple drinks and bread."
"My apologies, Arnold Palmers are a little complicated."
"We understand. Just make sure the refills come soon though, these won't last long."

Clearly they are the only ones inthe restaurant.

me: "So what can I get for your main course?"
wom: "Can you make me a pasta dish with mushrooms, broccoli and penne. I want both alfredo sauce and meat sauce on it."
man: "And I want lasagna with alfredo sauce on top of it."
wom: "And I hate to have to complain, but the bread is substandard tonight."
me: "I'm sorry?"
wom: "Substandard. It's always much better than this."
me: "I'll see what I can do." removing the offending bread from the table...

I retrieve fresh bread which they immediately hack into. By the time I'm ready to turn to the table next to theirs and take their order, I feel a hand grab my arm.

"Still subpar."
"Care you to give a little more detail?
"It's dry and mealy nad jst downright gross inside."
"I am quite sorry. I'll be sure to tell the manager."

Our bread is made specifically for us by our bakery. Thus it's the case of bread, and not the loaf. We can't just up and make bread...it's why we have a bakery. Sadly the entire case was bad,

"I regret to inform you we've had to rid ourselves of that particular case. Hopefully the ones being readied now will be to your satisfaction."
"Good. now, we need refills on the Arnold Palmers."
Once again, they were the only ones in the world who existed.

The new bread was just as bad.

"This bread is just as disgusting as the other three loaves we tried. I would like the manager to provide compensation. He should buy us dessert."
"I'm sorry ma'am, but the entire restaurant is in this position and all the patrons are dealing with the same bread issue. I doubt the manager would go so far as to purchase dessert for the two of you and leave the rest of the patrons hanging, and I know for sure he will not be treating everyone to dessert this evening."
"Well, we should get something because normally there's enough bread to make us happy for the whole meal."
"How were your meals themselves, the bad bread aside."
"Oh, everything else was good."
"Splendid." ...and I walked away.

Just like the last two times I waited on them, their tip was 10%. As they walked out the door, one of the other waiters said, "Ah...so you got the 10% Arnold Palmers tonight huh?" I was relieved to hear it wasn't just me

Lost and Found

2006-10-15T14:42:00.000-07:00

I was stuck in the section of our restaurant that I can't stand. It's the back corner and the layout is quite bizarre. Most people don't like to sit there, and the ones that do end up setting up camp for what feels like decades.

I'd had 2tops all night long, so when I saw a small birthday party walk in the door, I wandered up to the host and claimed the party for my own. The tips for the 2tops averaged over 30% all day long, so I figured while I was turning them over like crazy, I figured I'd get a party that would camp at my big table that wasn't being used.

After 20 minutes, they made their way to my table. 3 of what would be a 5top decided to hang out and wait until the birthday girl and her mother would arrive. Bread and water for the three and I returned to my myriad of 2tops.

Some time passed and the two ladies found their way to the tiny celebration. They ordered drinks, birthday girl first to the mother last. This 70 year old woman was a tad on the nutty side. She ordered water without ice, a second glass filled with ice, and lemon on the side. She had a thick British accent and the strongest perfume I've ever smelled. When the dinner orders were placed, she opted for alfredo with penne, chicken, two basil leaves, and a small dish of ground pepper on the side.

Halfway through the meal, she stood up and walked around the table a couple times and then wandered off. Her daughter had to go find her. They returned and the little brit ate tow more bites before she had to go to the bathroom. 15 minutes passed and she had still yet to return. Now the sister-in-law was sent to find the wayward woman. She came back alone. Apparently the blue hair was nowhere to be found. Now the son was off to locate her. I was slightly frightened to learn that she had driven herself. I was glad to hear the car was still there. 20 more minutes passed.

The son returned, I presented the birthday cake and they ate briefly. I boxed up all the leftovers, as well as the basil leaves and pepper...just in case they old lady was found. After this bizarre saga, I realized they forgot to tip.

I turned to the 2top behind them.

"What was that debacle?"
"I'm not sure, but I kind of feel bad that they couldn't find their mother."
"How was their tip?" (Which is funny, because customers rarely ask this)
"They forgot to tip entirely. Drama drama drama."

When that 2top left, I found a 100% tip on their table and a small note that said, "Thanks for the entertainment...I hope she's found."

Looking for the Chieftans

2006-10-12T22:14:00.000-07:00

Thursday lunches are random. We never know if we're going to get slammed or if we're facing the cold stiff breeze of an empty dining room. Today was one of those pathetic days where we have entirely too many people on the floor so the table spread is too broad. Therefore we look busy but we make no money.

My third table was sat with three placesettings but only two gentlemen. Another incomplete. Lovely. They walked in laughing, these early 60s guys. At least I knew I could be a little relaxed. And it turned out, also remarkably sarcastic...

"How're you guys doing today."
"Good good. But, where's the Irish music?"
"Well, until we change this place into and Irish pub, I think you're stuck with Italian."
"Alright. Just makes sure you call me when that happens."
"Sure thing."
"I do have a couple menu questions."
"Hit me."
"Corned beef and cabbage?"
"Nope, but the closest thing is going to be the salmon."
"So colcannon's out then too huh?"
"'fraid so. I would also like to note we lack bangers, yorkshire pudding, and chips.'
"That's a shame. Maybe we should go somewhere else."
"How about I get you bread and you figure out which country you want to dine in."

I retrieved bread and oil and they decided to wait to order when their 3rd arrived. They hung out for about 15 minutes when their friend walked by...from the back of the restaurant. He had been sitting in someone else's section for almost 30 minutes. Since that waiter had him before I had the two of them, they joined the first guy's table. I was bussing what small amount of things were on their table when the sarcastic man returned.

"Hey, can I take the rest of that bread so we've got extra?"
"Sure."

Rather than retrieve the bread plate, he grabbed the whole uncut loaf with his bare hand. Shaking it at me he said, "Don't you worry. We're gonna tip this guy big so you get some." He then traversed the trattoria, tearing the bread with his hands and stuffing it in his mouth.

Hiding Something

2006-10-10T10:05:00.000-07:00

We have a particular waiter we have yet to entirely figure out, Richard. He's middle age, married, with a couple kids but he leans quite far towards the effeminate side of the scale. He talks incessantly about his family and music like the Partridge family. He enjoys standing quite close to our late teen dishwasher guys talking. He's remarkably creepy. Also, things such as cash and keys tend to disappear when he's around. But all of this is heresay of course.

His sales rate is higher than almost anyone else in the restaurant, so as long as there's no proof and his customers are reasonably happy, the management does nothing, he makes them money. This waiter tends to be the punch line in many intertrattoria jokes. The "porn 'stache" doesn't help. One of our bartenders is trying to persuade every male in the restaurant to dress up as him for Halloween.

Yesterday, one the regulars from a nearby hardware store popped in for his usual pasta bolognese. I took his order, rang it in, settled the bill and went to retrieve his food. I came back and he said,

"Hey, what's up with the flamer?"
"What?"
"The flaming waiter. You know, serious 70s porn look. Comes over and starts hitting on me."
"Oh, you mean Richard. He's 'not gay.'"
"Ha. Right, what the hell ever."
"Seriously, he's got a wife and kids."
"No way."
"Yup, we've seen them."
"There is a serious cover-up going on in his family."
"Fortunately, it's not my job to make judgments on his life. I don't ask questions."
"Probably wise just to stay out of it. Thanks for lunch. I'll catch you later."
"No worries. Later."

Memoirs

2006-10-08T21:29:00.000-07:00

I received an email today from a friend of mine in Umbria, Italy. I suppose that last post about being "just a waiter" was a tad misleading. So I decided to give you a little more detail about what I do.

I've spent ample time wandering the US, Canada, Mexico, and Italy. For the US, I was camping, sight-seeing, and checking out what we've got going on in this country in 44 states. And for those of you who complain about it...get to know more than your state, then whine to me. Canada and Mexico have been traversed for much the same reason...to get out and around. To see what there is to see. As for Italy, well, I was singing opera there.

I settled into the restaurant business because it gives me the schedule I adore. I don't have to be in till 10am and I'll wander out no later than midnight. I get all the practice and rehearsal time I need. After all that, combine it with money that pays the rest of the bills, and you've got yourself my ideal non-musical occupation.

I've spent a bit of time getting into writing and producing between here and Vegas for several other artists. I do very little performing of my own music (which is anything from jazz to jam-band or acoustic rock). So when that particualr commentor mentioned that I was looking for my personal fame at my tables, it couldn't be farther from the truth. Believe me, I get my stage time.

I have to admit, this anonymity thing is greatly enjoyable. I can kick back, say whatever's on my mind, tell you all the dirt behind my "day job" and get stuff off my chest. In the meantime, we all hopefully have a little fun doing it. I'm not waiter because I don't have any other options. I do it because I enjoy it. I write these memoirs because I enjoy it.

...and I sit with a Beck's Oktoberfest in my hand at my favorite pub which happens to have wireless internet. Life is good.

Down Another Two

2006-10-05T22:33:00.000-07:00

Our host staff is dropping like flies. I sadly had very little hand in our last hiring spree, save for one, and it's starting to show. Not that I'm talking myself up, but we recently hired 4 new hosts, only two of which are staying around...one of whom was my recommendation.

Maddy started training with Donna almost three weeks ago. They were hired by one of our managers while we were in a desperate stretch. Donna received a good interview and I had the chance to chat with her briefly. I liked her immediately. Style, grace, poise. She would do well with patrons. Maddy, on the other hand, was hired last minute and was supposed to meet Donna and I for their first training session. I found this out 30 minutes before their arrival. Well, 30 minutes before Donna's arrival. Maddy called and said she'd be a couple minutes late. We waited 15 minutes for her and then started. She showed up 35 minutes into our little session. 50 minutes late for your first day on the job should have been a clue.

She showed up for only one shift. The others she called in and didn't show. She got pulled from the schedule and never requested to be put back on. Two days later she quit.

The other one was a blast of a girl. Young, but vivacious. She had spent a year in Sardinia. On her first day of training, I liked her immediately but she seemed a little too immature. For her, the job just wasn't enough. She became startlingly apathetic after only a couple weeks. The bubbly attitude faded to a blasé mentality that kept her trudging around the floor and only becoming interested when cute guys walked in. She's down to one night a week. "That's what I get for hiring children." said our general manager speaking in hyperbole.

So once again, we start the hiring wave of hosts...hopefully ones that will actually want the job they're applying for.

Feeling Special

2006-10-03T23:07:00.000-07:00

"When I'm old I'm going to be mean and sarcastic and scare small children."

"What?"

"I am. I'll have paid my debt to society. I will act however I choose."

"What brought this up?"

"Table 70. This guy's been bustin my chops all night long, and his wife's doing the same. I asked them if they wanted either fresh ground pepper or perhaps freshly grated parmesan and he said, 'Now you listen to me kid. I want to grate my own damn cheese and put all the pepper on I want. I see you waiters strutting around all cocky, grating cheese like you're a big somebody. Well I want to be special. It's my turn to be cocky. So you bring me the cheese and just leave it right here. I'll watch over it.'"

"I have to visit this table."

"Do it. That's going to be me someday. I'll tell my grandkids all about the tragedies of war. They'll be fascinated..until they lay their cute little heads down at night to sleep, then my stories will sail through their heads: 'So when Fernandez stepped on that mine his torso was blown sky-high. Course his legs were clear gone and we had to drag his bloody, gut-leaking stump to the HMV or we'd be capped too."

"Do whatever you want with your grandchildren but don't tell that story nears guests."

"I don't know...this guy may want to hear it."

I walked back into the kitchen thinking to myself that I'm going to miss that guy when he goes back into active duty next week. I'm just glad he's safe in a bunker being the guy doing the interrogating. Oh the stories he'll have next time I see him...

"So what're you doing these days?"

2006-10-01T22:29:00.000-07:00

I normally toss a couple posts a week your way, but this week I ran into issues. Internet was down, which was the first problem. Second was that this week was remarkably boring.

There were no customers that stood out. There were no huge issues with employees, just the same old run of the mill stuff that goes on. It's October and the rent is due, that's about it.

My old college had homecoming this weekend and my wife decided to run their annual 5k (she too is an alum there) so I figured I'd go and be supportive. I skipped homecoming weekend last year and the year before. I usually prefer to not "catch up" and play the congenial game. The people I want to keep up with, I do, the rest...well, we don't talk because I don't care.

Of course, I can't say that to their faces as we talk about "how great life is" and "what everyone's doing these days" or "did you hear so and so had their third kid?!"

The most interesting part is that this was the first homecoming I'd been to since I started waiting tables. Granted I'm in the middle of a crapload of other things and waiting tables is my steady-money "day job," but when people say "What're you doing with yourself these days?" and I reply with "Well, I wait tables at The Trattoria" it feels overshadowed by their "Ah. Yeah. I'm working on my PhD now." I hate the bragging game so I try and talk up my wife's degree's and accomplishments. But I love my life and the insane hours I keep working on 900 things at a time. I love the schedule I get to work at the restaurant. I love everthing I've got my hands in now and I've got nothing to prove. So for all you people who go back to homecoming to brag about what you do now, how far you've come, and where you're going with your brilliance, please spare us the gory details that make us suicidal. If we wanted to know, we'd look you up.

So much for your daily dose of iron

2006-09-24T21:53:00.000-07:00

We've coined it as the "nationwide spinach recall" on the floor. We're not supposed to mention "Escherichia coli" or "e. coli" or "kidney failure."

Patron Situation 1:
"You guys aren't serving any spinach are you?"
"Yeah, we figure that the chances are pretty slim of getting an infected batch."
Hey, you've got to have just a little fun with them. She turned a little white.
"I'm kidding. We knew before it hit the media and we haven't had spinach inhouse since before you saw it on CNN. Fear not, we're spinach free."
"Thank God."

Apparently people think that we prefer lawsuits to keeping our customers safe.

Patron Situation 2:
"Ok...so I don't want any spinach anywhere near my food."
"Don't worry sir, there's none in the restaurant at all."
"Ok...so they won't have any raw spinach near what I order?"
"No sir. We've thrown all the spinach out. There's none anywhere."
"Ok...good. I don't want to hear about spinach near my food."
"As far as I know sir, there isn't spinach within a quarter mile of where you're sitting."
"Really? That close? Maybe you should make all my food well-done."
"Absolutely."

Because I hear that e.coli travels by word of mouth...

Patron Situation 3:
"I'm sorry to inform you that in that salad, we'll have to substitute romaine or bib lettuce instead of the spinach."
"Oh God. I hadn't thought of that. Well, at least you're on top of things. Has this whole debacle caused problems for you?"
"Well, it effected far more dishes than I'd immediately thought, but most customers have been very gracious and understanding."
"That's good. I take it you got rid of all the spinach you had in the restaurant?"
"We certainly did. We immediately removed all presence of the dark green leafy terror."
She laughs...then pauses.
"Wait, did you compost it? Please tell me you composted it. If you didn't I'll feel ill all night. I'd hate to think of pounds and pounds just wasting away in your dumpster."
"Sure madam. We..uh..we composted everything."
"Thank God."

Really we had it incinerated, but I simply can't have an ill patron at my table...nor one that finds us (and therefore me) to be lacking environmental savvy.

Hand in Disaster

2006-09-19T14:18:00.000-07:00

She was late again. I like this particular waitress but she has this thing with being on time...she just can't seem to be. So I was left to open solo yet again. This means I have to fully prepare everything alone. Coffees, fresh brewed iced tea, lemons for water, full table and floor check and all the other assorted little things that go into prepping a restaurant for guests. On top of the that, we'd had a delivery so there were many boxes to be unpacked and sorted, etc.

So when the first guests arrived I was putting the finishing touches on my uniform. When the second table arrived, I was just getting drinks for table 1. When the 3rd table arrived, I still hadn't yet taken 2's order yet. 4 and 5 showed and I was trying to run food to 1 and 2. Luckily 3 was a table of, well not regulars, but close. They'd eaten with us on several occasions. They saw I was singlehandedly running the floor as the guests swept in surprisingly early, and were gracious enough to not take the wait personally. They finally received their food and all was well.

I ran checks and desserts all over creation, finally settling back with table 3 who had let me know to take my time. When a customer tells me to take my time because they are not in a hurry, I will take them seriously. These are dangerous words to utter to a waiter, expect him to follow through. They expected me to take them seriously and we chatted nicely as I bussed some of their dishes. I had her plate on my left arm, his plate in my left hand, a smaller side plate on that, and several utensils on there as well. I reached with my right to pick up her salad plate (which see insisted on eating slowly throughout her meal). We serve said plates chilled and it had 'sweated' considerably. The dear woman decided that I needed to also carry her coffee spoon on the plate in my left hand, so she placed it there. This changed my balance and caused the fork to slip which shifted the sideplate. I countered it with a balancing act keeping the sideplates from landing in her face...in doing so, I altered the grip with my right hand. The now wet plate launched from my hand, striking her glass sending diet coke (with lime) across her place setting and onto her lap.

I put the dinnerware down on a nearby table, helped her clean the table (not her lap, that's her husband's job) and appologized profusely. She was good-natured about it.

"Are you going anywhere immediately after this ma'am?"
"Thank God, no. Can you imagine the looks I'd get with coke on my crotch?"

Luckily I was on my way to box her lasagna and retrieve their check. The husband waited around as his wife walked outside, clearly embarrassed. I had her lunch comped and brought him the food wrapped and also the check.

"Sir, I've taken her meal right off the bill. I am very sorry about the mess."
"Oh, her jeans will be fine. Besides, the look on her face totally made my day."

He handed me the bill with cash, said "It's all yours." and joined his wife outside. The tip was 25% of what the original bill would have been including her meal.

The moral of the story is, don't disrupt the waiter's carefully practiced arm-carrying technique. Oh, and be kind when they occasionally screw up, especially if you had a hand in it.

The Streak

2006-09-14T19:47:00.000-07:00

Still the slow streak. It's been hard maintaining any kind of will to wait without a groove. I find myself getting careless.

The 9top birthday party asked if they could bring in their own cake. Not an issue for us at all, until I went to light the candles. I borrowed a fellow waiter's lighter which is notoriously flamer-thrower like. This little tidbit, I had forgotten and clicked the lighter. The flame swept across the two candles, lighting both, and then igniting the frosting on the far side. The frosting lit several inches requiring me to shake the cake out.

Today wasn't much different. During our lunch "rush" I rang up a check and ran the card through. As the Customer Copy and the Merchant Copy printed out, I separated the customer copy with the itemized check. Ripping off the Merchant Copy, I circled "Merchant Copy" and put and "X" next to the signature line, and proceeded to sign my own name, place it in the book and deliver it to the table.

"Um...this is already signed."
"I'm sorry?"
"Is this my check? The part I'm supposed to sign is already signed."
I couldn't help but chuckle.
"My apologies. I kind of zoned out and signed it myself. Let me tear that up and print you a new one."
They too laughed. The tip was 20%.

This has been a week where the flow has been steadily slow, the tips average, but I have yet to have a table this week that I haven't enjoyed waiting on. At least the pathetic pace hasn't been entirely miserable.

The Stiff?

2006-09-11T08:35:00.000-07:00

Regular groove for a weekend night. I'm up front training the new wave of hosts and we're on a wait. They walk through the door, a young relatively alternative couple. He had tattoos from hands to shoulders, black hair spiked a bit save for the bangs which were pushed down...very emo. Black tshirt and jeans. The girl was similarly clad with multiple facial piercings.

This is normally the kind of couple that waiters can't stand getting. Cheap and slow.

Surprisingly, they were extremely congenial, polite, considerate. They were pleasant about the wait time and didn't give us a hassle when we blew the quote time a bit. I took them back to their table and due to their kindness, checked up on them from time to time.

They stuck around a little bit, but nothing beyond a normally long dinner. When the waitress stopped by to take the check she asked if they needed change, got the "you're all set, thanks for everything" reply. She walked back to the kitchen, opened the book to double check the amount left. She turned white.

"Did they stiff you?"

She held up a 200% tip.

Mr. Secretive

2006-09-06T21:53:00.000-07:00

Lunch "rush," c. 12:15pm.

2top is escorted to my table. I approach carefully, recognizing the lunch meeting type. Two guys who want somewhere to discuss business but away from the office. This usually connotes much inter-office gossip and bashing of fellow employees.

"Gentlemen, good afternoon. Have you been here before?"
"Of course."
"Splendid. Let me skip the spiels and head straight to drink orders."
"Iced tea." "Club soda with lime."
"I'll return post-haste with those as well as bread."
They simply stared at me. Maybe they weren't prepared for the use of 'post-haste' from a waiter.

I retrieved the appropriate drinks and then orders and then ran their food. As soon as their plates hit the table, it was as if I ceased to exist. Now normally for lunch-meeting types, they ignore you the whole time. But these two were chatty until their food arrived...the change was quite dramatic. When checking up on them, I was literally ignored.

"How is everything gentlemen?"
....not even a glance in my direction. They just stopped talking as if I walked into a confidential get-together without password clearance. The man seated to my left even yanked his legal pad from the table clumsily. I walked away without opening my mouth, for danger of getting yelled at.

I proceeded to ignore them for a solid 45 minutes. They made no gestures my direction, or eye-contact of any kind, until a plate was pushed to the table edge. I was there in an instant.

"What else may I do for you today sirs?"
"I'll take a coffee. Black." "And more tea for me." ...the latter of which again removed his legal pad and held it under the table.

After the drink drop, I let them be for another 25 minutes. We were now up to roughly 85 minutes of dining time. So much for turnover. When I meandered back to their table, they looked mildly annoyed at my presence.

"I'll leave this here for you. If you want anything else, simply let me know. And take your time." which is code for get out now. From the get-go, I could tell the tip was going to be crap. I can also take a certain amount of being looked down upon, but whatever was going on at their table clearly should have taken place in a locked room with no windows. When I placed the check on the table..they both gave me immediate hateful eyecontact. I held their gazes without changing face from my emotionless, neutral waiter expression. The one on the right mumbled something under his breath which I could not decipher. Nor did I care to ask. I trotted off to another table for a greet.

By the time I had done the lunch speech at the new table and turned around, the 2top of wannabe CIA field agents had left the building. Their tip: $5.00 on a $42.00 check. I'll remember those faces. Part of me wants them again...just so I can comment on the contents of the legal pad before it vanishes under the table.

Chamber Wenches

2006-09-03T11:08:00.000-07:00

We've recently hired a couple hostesses and it's my job to train them. Which I don't mind all that much, except that it means I spend less time on the floor, and more time at the podium.

It was a particularly hectic Thursday evening. The kind that made me wish desperately that I was waiting instead...until a 13top of girls walked in the door. Not women. Not young ladies. Girls. Ages 14-17. Out for a night on the town sans the parents.

The danger of looking at the reservation book is that you have no clue what the party's actually like, simply how many are in it. And I was suddenly very glad I was not serving. Now a reservation of that magnitude is bit abnormal on a Thursday evening so servers hear the number and jump at the chance to wait on a party. That's why we never tell them the age and/or make-up of the party's attendees.

These wannabe 'ladies' start arguing with me about the fact they couldn't sit immediately down at their table.

"Why are we just standing here? Why aren't we sitting down yet?"
"Because, miss, there's currently a party at the table you'll be sitting at. They're taking a little longer than expected."
"There're people sitting at OUR table?!"
"Of course. Reserations allow us to plan ahead for a party, but we can't simply hold tables for hours."

And I walked away. I could tell these were the girls that get their way whenever they want based on acting as pretty and seductive as they can. At that age, any guys in school would bend over backwards for them. Not me. Not here. They had to wait extra. Why? Because they were going to be pricks to my waitress no matter what.

I had the bussers take their time with the partytop so the waitress could milk the other two tables for all they were worth, realizing the 13 girls weren't going to leave anything substantial. We prep the table and seat the princesses of evil.

From the get-go, their waitress walks over to me.

"What is our policy on kid's menus?"
"I'm sorry. What?"
"All of them want to order from the kids menu."
"Not a chance in hell. They want to run around town acting all grown up without mommy and daddy, no going cheap at this place. Tell them 10 and younger only."

As time went on, things only got worse. One of the girls decided to make their table a barnyard. She looked the waitress dead in the eye, exclaimed "Oh s**t." and dumped her glass of Coke on the table.

Later, another one did the same, except she swiped her glass with her hand, as if waving away a fly. If they weren't chastizing the waitress, were intentionally ignoring her when she talked. The nearby patrons were clearly annoyed at their behavior, several of whom mentioned it to me on the way out the door.

"That party of girls had the most horrific behavior I've ever seen in a restaurant. Where are their parents?"
"Believe me. I wish we could have denied that party entrance. But the reservation was taken, and we don't usually have to ask if parents will be present. I will from now on."

God's Gift to Women

2006-08-29T22:50:00.000-07:00

We've picked up a few new waiters recently. Turn-over rate is high in this business. One of the more recent aquisitions is a 20-thing guy who's pretty decent looking, who works out and tends to be rather intelligent. The problem is, he thinks he is the hot catch on the floor. I think he's set the record for having hit on every waitress we've got. With no tact.

"You've got killer eyes."
or
"You could be the hottest girl working here."
or
"No, seriously, let me take you out sometime. Believe me I know how to have a good time."
or
"Tell you what. If you want to party all night long, just come back to my place."

It's a confidence thing...meaning he's been endowed with entirely too much of it.

"I'm the best waiter here because I move the fastest."
or
"I'm the best waiter here. Don't believe me? Look at my alcohol sales."

We don't care. And we never will.

Enter Waitress Gwen. She's close to the same age, beautiful, and going through a not-so-fun divorce. She's quite possibly the sweetest person I've met. This means she is beyond diplomatic to the point that she sends the wrong signals. She doesn't want to be mean, or hurt anyone. What she doesn't understand is that guys need to be hurt from time to time. Taken down a knotch. Or three. I'm encouraging blatant confrontation on her part.

It's only a matter of time before inter-waitstaff relationships take place, but just like in any other job, it's not a sexfest. And despite the fact there are many parties, and drunken nights spent chilling at one particular waiter's pad, not every waitress, hostess, or bartender is fair game for lewdities.

Enter Waitress Kimberli. Small. Boisterous. Classy. Lovely. But to her misfortune has a rather nice bit of cleavage no matter what she's wearing. She's not of the "if you've got it, flaunt it" school, but some shirts leave less to the imagination than others. So attending a birthday party at said waiter's pad, the afformentioned arrogant "best waiter here" guy walks over to her, reaches out and shoves his bottle of Bud Lite between her breasts.

"Here, hold this...hahahaHAHAhahaha."

What kept her from kneeing him firmly in the groin is beyond me. What makes him think women enjoy this treatment: also beyond me.

Update

2006-08-26T08:45:00.000-07:00

Don't worry. Things have been a bit busy recently. I'll have several posts next week.

- Ospite

Slip of the Tongue

2006-08-21T13:12:00.000-07:00

I had the luck to open and close lunch today. Monday lunches aren't worth working unless you've guaranteed a decent number of tables. The beauty of opening and closing is, that for a stretch of time at both ends, there are only a couple waiters on. Thus all the tables go to only a select few.

My first table of the day was a group of what appeared to be what I call the "casual gaggle." A group of several 60-ish women who chat more than they eat. Obviously there for the company, they tend to ignore service, good or bad. I love waiting on women, especially older. Their tip is directly related to waiter charm.

Me: "Good afternoon ladies." (ignoring the fact it was technically 11:45am) "I'll be taking care of you today. Have you all been here before?"
Woman 1: "Oh yes, regularly."
Me: "Well I shall save you the spiel. Would anyone care for a drink while perusing the menu?"
Woman 2: "Wine. Deffinitely wine."
Me: "Ma'am, my thoughts exactly. Perhaps a house white?"
Women 3: "mmm. Yes please."
Me: "A bottle and 3 glasses coming up."

I dropped it off and gave them some time to decide on their order. They were extremely pleasant, patient, and actually a joy to serve. Which I have to admit surprised me a bit. Normally three American women in their late fifties to early seventies tend to be demanding and ultra-high maintenance.

These particulars ended up ordering only soup and salad...but kept drinking. Glass after glass, they wandered through the equivalent of two bottles. They informed me they'd be around long enough to be sober by the time they left. They were old enough to know how to be responsible. But as time went on, I noticed something particular with woman number 2. Her speeh was weird, but I couldn't put my finger on it. Finally after about 90 minutes at the table it clicks. Her accent is changing.

Her Northeast American accent slowly faded into a British accent.

This didn't seem to phase her companions at all and it didn't diminish. The next 90 minutes of sobering up were filled with giddy laughter and much story-telling. As the alcohol wore down, so did the accent. By the time I left (and they were still there) the dialect fell back to a Northeast hyperactive tone. I hope to wait on them again. Enjoyable, good tippers, with virtually no maintenance.

A little chat

2006-08-15T22:06:00.000-07:00

Ungodly slow. Today was horrific. There's nothing quite as unbearable as sitting around for an hour waiting for your first table. I'd rather deal with pissy customers that sit there doing nothing.

Finally 59 minutes pass and I await the :59-:00 count to an even hour. My first table walks in. Middle age couple. Well, first they stood at the door for about 4 minutes chatting. I know this because Tyler knows this. And because I'm near the clock. And I think the lack of patience is making me lose my mind.

Finally they sit. I approach and they ignore me completely. Still chatting.

Me, chipper as always. "How are you folks doing today?"
Him, visibly annoyed. "Uh..we're good."
Me, ignoring his attitude. "Clearly you seem familiar with our restaurant so I'll save you the spiel."
Her, unpleasantly cold. "Yeah, that'd be good."

I skip it and move on, get their diets and bread and the usual.

"Have we made any headway on the menu?"
Her, light-hearted, almost giddy. "Ha! No. God no."
Me, trying to shy away from bi-polar comments. "Tell you what, I'm here for awhile. Just flag me down when you're ready to order."
Both nodded and resumed their conversation. Lovely. Back to boredom.

I go back to my perch and zone out completely. To that point where my internal soundtrack kicks in and I look at life like a movie. "Life in slow motion, somehow it don't feel real..." Waiters moping about. Chefs barely paying attention to what ingredients go in. Customers talking with their hands.

I get smacked on the head.
"What?!"
"You were humming again. And singing some 'da da daa daa dah...' thing. ...and swaying."
"Sorry."
"Table 70 wants you."
"Nice. Maybe they'll just sit there and talk while I stand next to them for company."

I ooze off the stool and crawl over to the table. Waiter grin.

"All set?"
Her, slightly grumpy now. "I just want something like pasta. Rigatoni. Can you do that?"
Me, wondering what this guy put in her drink. "Would you like anything on it?"
"Red sauce or something. I'm not really here to eat. I'm here to talk."
"No worries ma'am. Take your time and I'll leave you be."

At this point I was actually glad to simply sit. I'd lost the will to stand, much less wait tables. For the following hour and twenty minutes, I visited the table twice. To drop the food, and to quality check. Then, I left them be until they flagged me over for the check. The tip: 25% even. The internal soundtrack kicked back in ...

"While I was watchin,' you did a slow dissolve..."

Calling you out...I mean up.

2006-08-12T18:17:00.000-07:00

We, like most restaurants out there, have a pager system for when our wait gets excessive. Name on the list, pager in hand.

Contrary to popular patron opinion, they do not work outside. So on a gorgeous night like tonight, when the hostess has handed out 50 of these, you better be prepared to answer that page within seconds. Sitting on the benches outside, sadly, is out of pager reach. Now, we don't simply make people learn by experience alone, we make the pager range quite clear.

"So, do these work outside?"
"No, they don't work any further than the front doors."
"Ok."

They immediately proceed to exit the building. about 15 minutes after their quote time, they wander back in, a little past being perturbed.

"Yeah, so we were quoted a half-hour wait. We've been here for about 45 minutes now. Clearly you don't understand how to tell time. Either that or you need to fix the system."

"Sir, I informed you that they work only as far as the doors. You asked me. We rang up your pager, you didn't show, so we moved on the list. You'll have to wait for another available table."

"That's ridiculous" As he storms off to the right, all of five feet, making sure he doesn't miss the page again.

Now, some people feel a certain attachment to these pagers. As if it is their chosen time. Or as if they've won the lottery. Still others get too personal.

I approached my 5top this evening. Five lovely ladies all around 25-30 years old. After running through the speech, I noticed they still had yet to return the pager.

"Miss, I'm sorry, you can't take that home." I say with a jestful tone. She replied with a wink and a smirk.
"But I like it. ...It vibrates."
"Ah..true. But you need the base station to transmit and set it off."
"Well, that's why you're here..."

For the sake of clarity...

2006-08-10T11:41:00.000-07:00

It has come into question whether or not Waiterrant and I are the same blogger. Here's a little background and clarification.

The Great Waiter and I are not the same person. I started reading Waiterrant back when it was on blogger.com and decided to start my own. In a sense, you could say I was inspired. There is a large underground of waiters/restaurant employees who tell the behind-the-scenes tales of the dining industry. The events are 100% real. (You seriously couldn't make some of this stuff up. The Crutchmaster, for instance. Completely legit.) The names, however, are changed, to protect the innocent, and keep our actual locations, thus occupations, safe.

I would also like to mention that I have great respect for Waiter, being a pioneer of sorts in this small cult we call the Anonymous Guild of Restauranteurs.

I offer my thanks to the loyal readers. Ciao tutti.

The Short Con: Return of the Crutchmaster

2006-08-06T21:34:00.000-07:00

That's right. She's back. I was so happy we weren't on a wait, lest I be forced to use physical force upon her children.

She fumbled into the trattoria, led by those fabulous wee annoyances of hers and immediately demanded a table large enough for her to spread out. Naturally I obliged and appoligized to her waitress for having to take her.

In the kitchen I bumped into the waitress who waited on her the other night.

"She's back?! Please tell me not in my section. Please tell me you sat her elsewhere."
"Don't worry, I passed her to someone else. I'm not that malicious."
"Thank God."

It was as usual that the Crutchmaster be the malicious one, having the waitress do her bidding simply so she felt she had some control. At the end of the meal, I was standing with Dre who had had her previously. We watched a birthday dessert wander by and over to the Crutchmaster's table. The waitress bid her a happy birthday. Dre looked a little confused.

"Wait. She said that it was her birthday when I waited on her the other day."
"Come to think of it, last time she was in here, sans the crutches, it was also her birthday."
"How long ago was that?"
"About two months ago."
"She had the crutches then, remember? She pissed off some other woman because her crutch fell into her chair, almost making her drop her drink."
"I was definitely not here for that."
"She seems to have a birthday every time she's here."
"Wait, you're saying last time you saw her before last week she was on crutches?"
"Yeah....wait..."
"I'm thinking the birthday isn't the only con she's pulling."
"I'm gonna do a fly-by and check out that ankle."

She walks near the Crutchmaster and pretends to ready a nearby table for guests. She walked back hurredly.

"It's neither a cast or a bandage on her foot. It's one of those easy-on/easy-off immobilizers. I bet you $100 she puts it on when she goes out to eat on busy nights trying to get special treatment!"
"That's ridiculous."
"Think about it! If people are scared of her, I bet she gets free stuff all the time. Who's going to question the injured woman with a big mouth who likes to make a scene?"
"True. Well, next time she's in here on her 'birthday,' I'm checking ID. And screw the waiting in line thing...from now on, she has to wait twice as long as everyone else. See if she comes back after that!"

A slightly maniacal grin spread across my face.

"My. Now isn't that the evil look of the day."
"That's it. The Crutchmaster has met her match. She is my nemesis."
"Oh god... please don't get all 'superhero,' 'out to save the world from powerful maniacs' on us."

The grin simply grew.

I'm melting

2006-08-02T13:07:00.000-07:00

68F target goal. Actual temperature: 81F.

"Why is it so hot in here? Don't you guys have air conditioning?"
"Yes sir we do, but between the kitchen and the actual bodies in the restaurant, we can't seem to keep the heat down."
"Why is it so busy?"
"Do you have air conditioning at home?"
"You better believe it."
"Would you want to cook in your house if you didn't?"
"Good point."

If I can say one thing for the heat, it's driving customers in the door. I suppose they all want to stay out of the cancer-causing rays and don't want to sweat while standing still. The main issue here is that our air conditioners are working overtime trying to cool down the dining room which is a difficult task considering that half our kitchen is external. The heat put out by a sardine-esque filled floor tends to raise temps a bit too.

Caitlin wandered over to me wiping her forehead after taking care of a particularly demanding table, "You know it's far too hot when you break a sweat grating cheese."

It's times like these I'm particularly glad we don't have an out-door dining service.

The Crutchmaster

2006-07-31T13:03:00.000-07:00

Saturday. Packed solid as usual. Our walk-in wait was roughly 85 minutes and our reservations booked completely with no room to spare. I was up front covering for an ill co-worker.

She very slowly and dramatically. About 40, black tank, khaki shorts, hair pulled up, and two crutches to support her broken ankle.

"How long is your wait for four?"
"About an hour-fifteen."
"What?! That's crazy. Can't you see I'm on crutches? My ankle is broken!"
"I'm sorry ma'am, but without a reservation, I can't bump the rest of the wait list to get you a table."
"Can't you just ask someone else for their spot in line?"
"I can't do that. Reservations are the only ones that aren't effected by the walk-in list, and reservations must be taken 90 minutes in advance."
"Fine. I cannot stand around for over an hour with crutches. If you refuse to do anything then I'll do it myself. I'll ask around and see if people will give me their spot."
"Be my guest."
"Can I see the list so I know who to ask?"
"No you may not."

She then proceeded to ask around hoping someone would relinquish their relished position in line. It's like being chosen for the promised land. Obviously most people simply stared at her as she milked the injury for all it was worth. As time passed, she convinced her children to come up to the podium every five minutes to check on the status. You'd think I'd be exaggerating...but I'm literally not. We started timing them.

Finally their time had come. We brought them to the first available table.

"Wait, what is this?"
"The first available table. Is there a problem?"
"Where am I supposed to put my foot up?"
"We can pull up an extra chair here so you can keep it elavated."
"No no. We need more room. Isn't there a table with more room?"
"This is the first thing we have open. I don't know when the next one will get up. So it's this one, or you can wait again in the bar."
"Fine. FINE! We'll stay here. But our service better be damn good!"

I strolled past her waitress on her way to greet the table."

"Have fun with that one."
"Bossy?"
"Yeah watch out. She's the Crutchmaster."
"What?"
"You'll find out."

The Oasis

2006-07-26T21:59:00.000-07:00

Typical Sunday late lunch. Not remarkably busy, but steadily rushed. The bored Sunday diners, the bustling post-church patrons, the "we only eat out on weekends" customers, and the run of the mill "I have to get what I want now because we're out on a special day and we deserve more than anyone else" guys out with their mothers.

I'm holding a small section and have decided to keep it that way, turning other tables over to other more spirited waiters today. I'm tired and my feet hurt. I want a nap. I suddenly feel old. Stretched. Like butter scraped across too much bread. I need a holiday...

Standing idly next to the kitchen I see my table for four become a table for two. Excellent. My lucky break. As I approach I realize something is awry here. The couple has not spoken a word to each other since entering the trattoria. With most couples, this tends to mean they are fighting and it will be a tense meal.

I do the greet, the speech, the drinks, take the order. Still bare minimum from these two to me and nothing at all to each other. They simply look around the restaurant rather than at each other. Neither seem upset or irritated. Just apathetic. They eat is silence, drink their coffee in silence, and I realize that my role too, should be silent. These folks have become my oasis on the dry and weary land that is my dining room. I grow to love them deeply. I learn to love the silence. I am sad when their check is ready and I must send them on their way. The hour of verbal abstinence was lovely.

Part of me was still awake, and I was curious about their take on the dining experience. I glanced at a note scrawled on the receipt they left:

"Thanks so much! It was a wonderfully relaxing lunch. We'll be back!"

I await their return with baited breath.

Comments Update

2006-07-25T17:03:00.000-07:00

Just so everyone knows, I disabled the requirement to be a blogspot member for comment. Now anyone can comment, member or not! I love the feedback. Ciao tutti!

The High Ground

2006-07-22T23:26:00.000-07:00

We are booked solid and I take 5 seconds to gaze across the dining room...my battlefield.

I actually prefer a smaller section where I can attend to the guests' every whims, making witty conversation, and make sure the dining experience is flawless. I come off as the people-pleaser type, but really, underlying it all, I'm a manipulative goal-setter who looks at each table as a personal conquest. The goal is to make them more happy than they've ever been at a restaurant, which in turn makes them give me the most money possible. It's a win/win. They're happy, I'm happy. Until I'm running around like a chicken with my head cut off.

At a certain point, there's a level of being terse that's required in order to spend only the bare minimum of time at each table so you can tend to the others just long enough to cover what's required and hurry off to do the next.

I have 3 minutes before the steak comes up at table 30 for the man who's been a waiter's bane all night. Before I retrieve it, I have to check on a nearby table who recently received their main course...the quality check.

"How is everything?" What I want to hear is 'Fabulous.'

"Um, well, my pasta is cold." The exact opposite of fabulous. I'm taking heavy fire, being flanked.

"Would you like my to have it reheated?" Trying to push back the onslaught.

"No, no. It's ok. I'll order something else. May I see a menu to refresh the choices in my head?" The fire is too heavy, my line is pushed back. The steak for 30 is up. I've lost the high ground.

This is when I declare it too busy for anyone's good. When I approach a table and pray I need to spend only 5 seconds there. Anything longer breaks my groove. That's not a groove really, that's simply hysteria...running on adrenaline.

After getting him a new menu, a new main course, getting 30's steak, going back and checking on the new main dish, going back and checking on the steak, running an assorted 15 beverages all over creation and stopping back at my first table of the evening, I find the man of the man/woman couple glaring at me. I had forgotten their tiramisu. Wait for it. The most clichéd pissed-off diner's line:

"How hard is your job?"
I paused, turned and gazed across my battlefield again, men wounded and crying out for their mothers. The enemy setting up camp in our domain. I turned back to the livid man with a huge smile across my face. I laughed. No reply, I laughed all the way to the kitchen to retrieve the dreaded tiramisu, all the way back, and was still chuckling as I placed the dessert on the table. As I placed it in front of his wife, I looked at him, still smiling and asked,

"Do you want to take over for me? Those two kids need chocolate milk. That guy's going to need a perfect manhattan straight up and no cherry in two minutes. Do you know the specials for tonight? because I got sat again. Don't worry, it's only a 5top that looks angry they had to wait 40 minutes for a seat. That guy's about to wave for their check. There will be two pesto dishes and a grilled halibut up for that 3top in about 30 seconds, but don't you dare forget to bring more bread with that, or your tip will drop by 5%. There's a 4top reservation due in 5 minutes right here next to you. Oh, and don't forget to please everybody all the time. How hard is your job?"

Yes. I cracked.
No. I didn't comp a thing.
Yes. He stiffed my tip on his pathetic $38 check.
No. I don't care about losing his business.
Yes. It felt fabulous.
Yes. I had regained the high ground.

La Lupe

2006-07-16T11:00:00.000-07:00

I spent a chunk of this past week in Philadelphia visiting my sister. She does a lot of work in Kensington and I was getting the grand tour. We saw the touristy things only briefly and then moved onto real Philly. There was no way we could wander through Center City on South. and not stop at Jim's Steaks for quality cheesesteaks with mushrooms and whiz.

While Jim's is a landmark in the cheesesteak world, I have to say that the dining experience that hit the spot was La Lupe. If you're in the mood for some serious Mexican food it's the place for you.

We grabbed a table outside around 9pm and our waitress was a little slow so I scoped out the joint while conversing with my sister. One cook. One waitress. 18 tables. Wednesday night. Only 6 tables were occupied.

Most of the patrons looked like locals and regulars, specific with their orders, knowing the menu well (my sister falling into that category). One of the 6 tables, however, fell clearly into the tourist category. They were rude, demanding, and couldn't understand why the waitress couldn't say more than "hi," "ok," "thank you," "you're welcome," "yes," and "no" in English. As the meal went on, I watched her table interaction closely...her nervousness is what first drew my attention. She greeted the tables with "hi" and that was it, waiting for the customers to speak first, giving their order. She then wrote the entire meal names on the ticket, no abbreviations...which is waiter suicide depending on table size. She was obviously brand new at this. But at least her body language had charm.

She held her 6 tables well and the food was fabulous. My enchiladas hit the spot with the Manzana Verde soda accompanying. Should you be in Philly and want some good Mexican, find Geno's Steaks and then head east for La Lupe.

Also, if you decide to chill at Geno's make sure you speak English, or don't expect service.

Breath of fresh weird

2006-07-12T08:39:00.000-07:00

Stuck at the door. Yet another hostess pulls a no-call, no-show so I get shoved to the door alone for the evening. It seems our host staff is dropping like flies.

Early evening a tiny man walks in holding the hand of his son who I presume to be around 8 years old. I give the father the quick read and then the son. Father was about 40-45, high cut khakis, plain brown shoes, and a cream oxford shirt. His hair was askew and he held that prominent professor look. The son was clearly tentative about entering and seemed completely nervous about the prospect of eating out. He had the appearance of a boy who has never seen the Sun. His skin was a remarkably pale, dark circles around his eyes, as if he'd emerged from a cave. His navy blue polo was tucked into his shorts and as he gripped his father's hand with his left, his right held tightly to a Purell hand sanitizer that was in a special holster, strapped to his belt. This was going to be interesting.

Three table tries before I found one suitable for the boy who was quite particular about the position in the restaurant. Not too close to the kitchen. Not too close to the bathroom. Not too close to the front door, but not in the middle of the restaurant.

Finally sat, I ran through my small speech and then let them be. I watched from my post as the boy used the sanitizer on his silverware, his hands, and then replaced it to it's holster. Part of me wondered why he ever left the house, and part of me wondered where you get a Purell holster. He proceeded to rearrange the silverware exactly to his liking...twice. His father and he never spoke a word until after the waitress had taken their orders.

To my surprise, they sent their food back only once because it was not flawless. Actually, because there was a small sauce splatter on the rim. Sadly, the kitchen probably stirred the pasts was a spoon, wiped the rim and sent it back as a new meal. Either way, the kid ate it.

How does someone so young face the world so paranoid? I pondered that he could have a sickness that has weakened his immune system, but if that were the case, I would think his parents would then cook for him at home, not taking him out. The constant rearranging of his chair and things on the table led me to believe in a germaphobic OCD. Whatever the case, the father tipped generously, obviously clued into his son's behavior as slightly abnormal. And to be totally frank, they were surprisingly pleasant people with whom to converse. Even the seemingly weird can be a pleasant switch from the normal demands of high-strung wannabe Italians.

A wink and smile

2006-07-09T20:54:00.000-07:00

Even restaurant employees have the need to visit a different establishment besides their own. It was about 930pm and I received a call from one of my fellow waitresses informing me that most of the wait staff would be ending up at a particular bar after work. My wife is working on her grad degree at present and thus I was banned from my home. Well, it was expressed that my distracting presence could best be used elsewhere as she was behind on her work. So out I went.

After utterly destroying the aforementioned waitress in a game of darts, we congregated outside because most of my fellow workers wanted to chill with a cig in one hand and a brew in the other. Our state has a strict no smoking law, so they are banished to the out of doors, spilling into the parking lot slightly. We sat around sharing stories of the evenings, narrating our guests down to the size of peas and squashing their heads under our heels. It had been a bad night on the floor.

We are an animated bunch and our war stories took quite some time. As I gestured with my right hand, I realized I had yet to get a beverage from the bar. A colleague was kind enough to toss some cash my way and I wandered in, waded through the crowd up to the bar, and shouted out for a Johnny Black on the rocks over top of the overly loud, off-pitch live music. As I was praying to retreat to the smoker's haven of the parking lot I watched as something unfolded in front of me.

A girl entered the bar, showed the doorman her ID and proceeded to procure a beer from the bartender who was ignoring me and choosing the hot patrons instead. She went outside with her beer. As the barkeep finally poured the Johnny over the refreshing ice, clinking ever so nicely in the glass, the doorman walks over, showing the ID to the bartender.

"Did you just get this girl a drink?"
"Yeah, she's drinking a Blue."
"Is that her?" he points to a different, and clearly younger girl in the doorway.
"No. Looks like her, but that's not her. Sister maybe trying to use the same ID. Bag her."

The the bouncer goes over to the girl, escorting her outside. I retrieve my drink and head back outside as well. The older sister had a beer in hand, her boyfriend also drinking, the youngest one complaining loud enough for the county to hear. At this point in time, the crowd of people escaping the music had grown to about 25 or so. Her companions finished their drinks and all 3 prepared to leave. The youngest girl had parked reasonably close to the gaggle of cancerstickers. She mounted her RAV4 and pulled out of her space. Rather than turning the wheel right and angling out of the spot, she deliberately backed straight towards the crowd, dramatically slammed on her brakes, and screamed at the top of her lungs, "CAN'T YOU SEE I'M BACKING UP HERE, PEOPLE?!"

2 seconds of silence passed as she remained motionless with more than enough room to leave without killing bystanders. Those seconds were followed by an uproarious laughter from all watching. Her wheels squealed neerly as loud as she had.

Back in the trattoria yesterday, I found myself staring off into space as I walked passed the line, bumping into the co-worker who had bought my drink. I bumped her shoulder and she nearly dropped her pasta bowl. She wailed at full volume: "CAN'T YOU SEE I'M BACKING UP HERE, PEOPLE?!" ..and followed it up with a wink and a smile.

Gordon Ramsay would've shut us down

2006-07-03T21:00:00.000-07:00

The day before a national holiday. You'd think my 'Powers That Be' (PTB) would have the common sense to staff well for a day like today. Of course I'm heavily connoting that they did the exact opposite.

We did about $2000 more tonight than we did Saturday night, and we did it with one host, no bussers, no one calling the line, and 4 chefs instead of our usual 6. We were also 5 waiters shy of a full floor. Our standard weakling of a Monday night staff got slammed with the onslaught of a full-bore Saturday crowd.

Our costs this summer have been sky-high and the PTB have felt the pressure of running a business and not simply a dining experience. Recently, they have felt the urge to not purchase items that are key to the very business they claim to "run:"

(1) dishes. At full capacity, we run out of side plates and pasta bowls.
(2) silverware. With a full floor, we often end up seating customers without the table being set. The servers are then required to procure place settings and bring them after diners have been sat and are often already eating bread.
(3) standard glasses. at three-quarters capacity, we run out of standard glasses for water, icedtea, and soda. Tonight I actually had to hold off on bevs until the dishwasher spit out more glasses. Needless to say, that was not a pleasant tableside chat

Tonight our Service Manager was the only PTB present. Usually if needed, he'll bus tables if we happen to get a little hectic. He reached new lows tonight when the line was crashing becuase of the lack of chefs, the tickets were falling apart because no one was calling food as it came up, servers were taking far more tables than they should have been because the host was freaking out and feeling mobbed (needless to say he should not have been left alone). Each restaurant failure pulled him towards its black hole. Finally he simply ran in circles like a chicken with its head cut off, being remarkably busy doing nothing at all. Then he hid in his office. To be totally honest, I'm shocked no one either got fired or quit tonight. ...but either way, I made out like a bandit in tips.

86 odd items

2006-06-29T22:47:00.000-07:00

"How can you not have that?! You're a Italian restaurant for God's sake!"

It's been a long day hearing those words over and over. Everyone assumes that when they walk in the door of a restaurant we have some kind of psychic ability to know exactly what they want and clearly understand it must be had, lest the world end. Well today has been a day that has shattered their faith structure concerning restaurants. Part of me just wanted to close the doors and walk away. But, I don't own the place, so I have to refrain from kicking out a dining room full of people.

Contrary to popular belief, we do not conjure up the ingredients for our food. Many of those ingredients are imported from Italy and we receive daily shipments or large deliveries every-other day. Today was a day the truck was to arrive.

For those of you who have been hiding in a cave for the past few days, the East Coast is getting bombarded with rain. It's washing away roads, practically sinking towns where they rest, and causing general mayhem. One such town is a central distribution hub for certain ingredients in our trattoria. When feet of water hinder the driving experience, we don't get our deliveries.

AnnoyedGuy: How is it possible you don't have that?
Me: Well, sir, we were scheduled to get a delivery today of certain goods, but seeing that the town from which it was supposed to arrive is currently under water and in a state of emergency, you will have to simply make a different dinner choice. At least you didn't have to canoe to our restaurant this evening.

The sheepish look on his face meant that I had effectively put him in his place without actually disturbing his dining experience. Now to ring up the order and go do the same with the next table...

Racial Profiling

2006-06-26T20:07:00.000-07:00

Cops aren't the only ones who use it. Waiters do too. There are certain assumptions made about a table long before the waiter greets them. They read you like a potential boss would, as soon as you walk in the door for an interview. Clothes, hair, attractive features, conversation styles, body language, and skin color.

Now, I am a firm believer that, for the most part, the attitude with which you approach a table is the attitude that will be returned to you. Waiting tables, or anything in the service industry, is a constant sales opportunity. Sales involves reading the customer, learning their needs first, then their wants, and then convincing them they need just a little more than they need, and the cost is justified.

There is still the initial part of meeting the customer's needs. Most people can see when they're being played and will get defensive. A good salesman helps the customer get the best thing for them. A happy customer or client is an instant advertisement, and the best kind, a testimonial.

So why is it that most waiters see certain tables and immediately approach them with bad attitudes? Stereotypes. Sadly, most stereotypes stem from some sort of truth. Based on my experiences and those of my colleagues, I have decided recently to approach the possibly poor tipping tables with confidance, poise, and congeniality. I am pleased to announce that among non-caucasian customers and non-American customers, I have proved that a little kindness goes a long way...at least in my restaurant.

My study over the past month has displayed an increase in the aforementioned ethnic groups tips based solely on my behavior. It goes to show that things like this are completely unacceptable:

A waiter is sat a 3top in his section. They are clearly of Indian heritage and are speaking Hindi upon listening in. This waiter, having issues with Indian and Asian customers, approaches the table saying, "So does anyone here not drink alcohol or consider themselves a vegetarian?" The male gives the waiter the most ferocious look I've ever seen. The tip ends up 4%. With an introduction like that and service along the same suit, how could he expect anything more?

Interesting diets

2006-06-20T09:55:00.000-07:00

Next time you're sitting in a restaurant, pay attention to the people around you...how they order, what they order, how they eat, and how much of it. The degrees of variation are as numerous as the people who eat.

It's a Thursday night, marginally busy, but not stressed. One of our several 6top reservations arrive. A family out for a meal together: father, mother, two preteens, and the grandparents. All are nicely dressed, classy, but not showing off. I take them to my favorite table in the restaurant.

They have a seat and the waiter has gone about the presentatin/drink orders, etcetera, when the mother wanders my way and takes me by the arm.

"Excuse me. I was wondering if you might have a list of your nutritional information. My daughter is anorexic and it's better for her to see the caloric content of the meals."

"I'll see what I can find out for you ma'am."

Now, anyone that is worried about diets or calories or what's in their food...you can't go out to eat if you're picky. There's a reason it tastes so good. One of the other waiters and I decided to figure out how healthy it was to eat at our trattoria. We came to the shocking discovery that should you gorge yourself on an appetizer, a salad, an entreé, a dessert, and one glass of wine, you could consume up to 5000 calories in one sitting. 2.5 times the daily recommended caloric intake for an average human being. In one meal. At that moment I suddenly lost all desire to eat anything from our menu.

How on earth is that feasable? Butter and extra virgin olive oil are the primary culprits. So when this woman wanted to know how healthy our meals are, it took all the will power in the world not to tell her that her daughter would be shocked to see the results.

When you go out to eat, expect to put into your body, far more fat and calories than you would if you were cooking. Either than, or expect to pay premium price for an extra healthy meal.

Sandra didn't know this. Sandra came in one afternoon, waiting for her husband to get out of work. She spent about an hour in the bar getting loosened up and extra chatty. I learned where she went to school, who her highschool sweetheart was, where she currently works and why her boss is a prick. I also learned this was her husband's and her first night without the kids in over three months.

"WAIT to have kids for the love of God."

This of course after she found out I was married and wanted to hear my life story.

Finally her husband arrived and I gave them a specail table out of the way, knowing it was an exceptional night for them. I gave their waitress a heads up as to Sandra's extra-talkative special needs and sent her on her way. Though my information in no way prepped her for the conversation I overheard while taking care of another table.

Sandra: "So everything looks amazing here. But I'm so on a diet right now. Goota keeps the calories down! Um..do you have anything on the menu without calories? I mean something with like none in it? that would be great.
Waitress: explodes with laughter... "Sure. If you're ok with icewater or unsweetened iced tea for your meal."

Silence.

W: "Oh my god...you're serious. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to be sarcastic, i thought you were kidding."
S: (now chuckling) "Oh it's no bother. I suppose it was an absurd question. Tell you what, just get me some salad. OH! and a steak. Yeah. Steak. Nothing else. Wait, no...another Cosmo."

I do

2006-06-14T20:32:00.000-07:00

Weeknights, our dining room shuts down around 10pm, though we always have the random 9:45 walk-ins. Technically we can't really refuse them service, since we're open, though I always want to make excuses and kick them out. The kitchen goes down to two chefs and most of the secondary staff has left...not to mention we'll close with 3 or 4 waiters.

9:30pm, he walks in. Late 30s, reasonably well dressed, khakis, loafers, and an olive drab button-down. Something seemed a little off though and I couldn't quite place it. He carried in a red rose and a brown paper bag.

With an awkward smile, he told his waitress that we was waiting for his...brother. Who waits for their brother with a crimson rose and an unmarked bag? Nonetheless, I'm not one to judge. Minutes tick by and still no brother. After about 15, he hails his waitress and explains the scenario.

"OK... so I'm actually waiting for my boyfriend. He was supposed to be here before me, but he's running behind. I'm sorry I didn't tell the truth. I'm nervous. I want to propose to him tonight. Can you help me?"

He pulled the contents of the bag out and placed them on the table at his boyfriend's place-setting: several pictures of men without their shirts, and a copy of Playgirl. He then pulled out a gold wedding band and handed it to the waitress.

She was now the nervous one.

"How do I assist a gay proposal? This is way over my head. Any proposal for that matter. But now I'm nervous! He left the 'how' of the proposal up to me!" peering at the wedding band like it was the One Ring.

As they were scheming in the back, I was running through assorted Will & Grace episodes in my head. I landed on the one haunting me. Will was waiting for his date, who was late.

Jack: "Will, have you forgotten how to speak our language? 'Running late' means you're being stood up..."

Sure enough, 10pm came along and our friend was calling frantically on his cell phone to no avail. The boyfriend was not responding. at 10:10 he could not wait any longer, was passed nervous and bordering on furious. Almost shaking, he requested the ring be returned to him, put it in his pocket, and stormed out the door.

The waitress had his drinks comped and wandered back into the kitchen to inform the "pastry chef" that her wondrous plans for a proposal cake were no longer needed.

"I had finally found my purpose in life! I had a big presentation prepared! Why'd he have to go and do that?"

"Wow, I think perhaps his loss is a tad worse than yours."

As I walked to my car, I found him still sitting in his, waiting for his long lost bofriend. Part of me had a touch of sadness for him, the other wonders what kind of "marriage" is based on a copy of Playgirl.

World Cup Fever

2006-06-13T06:40:00.000-07:00

I'm not the largest soccer fan really, but there's something about the Wolrd Cup that gets to me. Every four years, the best players for the world's most-played sport get together and prove their worth on the grass. Often, decades of political angst go into these matches and billions of people tune in.

Call me old fashioned, but I don't have cable TV. I grew up with rabbit ears donning the top of the television set, so all we got was local. So, I'm also not a real big TV programming nut. But now there's the World Cup and I find myself without ESPN.

Taking place in Germany this year, the WC is broadcast live their local time. "Well, that's normal." you say...and you'd be right. But it poses a problem for me, that I can't just tune in during the middle of the day on my TV. It also means that I'm not likely to knock on the door to a pub at 8:55am so I can watch a match. I have one other alternative: go to work.

Like every good bar, we have two TVs in ours, both with ESPN and ESPN2 and I simply couldn't miss the USA vs CZE match yesterday. I strolled in about 6 minutes before the match, grabbed the remote and found ESPN2 just as the German soccer kids were leading the pros out onto the field. Excitement welled up as I turned up the volume, hearing the fans cheering in the background. I would give anything to be there right now. The restaurant is dead, so I turn up the volume still more.

It turns out that the good old boys from America choked when they hit the field. Their playing was sloppy, uncoordinated, and sophomoric. Naturally my zeal for the sport rose from my lips as the match went on, forgetting there could be customers around the corner.

"Come on boys, your performance is pathetic! You're letting me down!"

A short, balding man in a suit walked around the corner on his way to the bathroom just then.

With a thick sarcasm, "I'm sorry, am I interrupting something?"

"Oh, hey there. I'm only allowed to yell at work while the World Cup is on."

"Screaming at customers is unacceptable?"

"Tends to be."

"Well, I think I'm the only one in here, so enjoy all the yelling you want."

"Thank you, I certainly shall."

When the Czechs ended up stomping us 3 - 0, I followed through...

Professional Appearance

2006-06-08T07:47:00.000-07:00

A reasonably busy night but I find myself puttering around the trattoria front to back of the house. Nothing major is going on, a couple of parties and a reasonably full floor, but there's no sense of urgency. As I wander towards the front door, a woman walks in. Early 30s, medium build, white skirt, black tank (stylish, not casual), and a black jacket... and unbelievably large breasts making her cleavage start much higher than you'd expect. The outfit she's wearing in no way attemps to cover them, nor does it act as if they aren't there. On the contrary, "the girls" are on full display tonight.

She approaches my hostess and asks to be sat with the "well dressed man who arrived in a Mercedes convertable." The hostess looks at me and then at the woman.

Hostess: "I don't have any gentlemen sat alone waiting for anyone."
Large Breasted Woman: "Are you sure? Because I'm a little late, and he should certainly be here."
Me: "You're more than welcome to do a lap around the restaurant and see if he's here."
LBW: "Well, I've never met him before. I don't know what he looks like."
M: "Ok, well, I'll wander around. If I see a man alone, I'll ask for whom he's waiting and see if her name matches yours."
LBW: "OK. Thanks."

I do the lap around and find no such well dressed single male.

M: "Ma'am, I didn't see him. Would you like to have a seat and wait for him?"
LBW: "No, I'd prefer to meet him at the door. If I sit down it'll seem like a date. I don't want to give the wrong impression. He's a lawyer and this is strictly business."

All of me was screaming, "Really? Then you should have worn a shirt." but I kept my mouth shut.

Sure enough, a Mercedes convertable drives up at far too great a speed. Out hops a mid-30s male in a particularly fabulous charcoal suit, white shirt and remarkably shiny shoes. I gauge the outfit at c. $1800. This does not take into account the $45 he spent baking his skin in a lightbulb tube, pretending he's been in the Bahamas. He saunters in with the biggest swagger I've seen in the past year. Striding directly towards the Woman on Display, puts his hand on the small of her back, and kisses her on the cheek. Not that "Hi, it's pleasant to see you again" but that slimy "I'm trying to be more suave than I am, check me out, I'm amazing" kiss on the cheek. She turned to him startled. Now I understand why she did not want to give the wrong impression. She may not know what he looks like, but he obviously has a reputation.

I seat them toward the back so they may have a bit of privacy, but still in a place where I can keep my eye on them throughout the meal. He pulled papers out and laid them across the table and she was signing things left and right. As the meal progressed, he was less and less subtle about staring at her cleavage and soon began touching her hand, arm, and shoulder to get her attention or for emphasis. Smooth. It was the "let's see how comfortable you are with me touching you" routine. Her response, she took off her jacket and leaned forward. It was such a display that two waiters and three tables became momentarily distracted, pausing mid-stride, and mid-bite. So much for the professional appearance. But hey, it worked for Charlotte York, who am I to argue?