You Get Tough With It
May 3rd, 2008 by Waiter
It’s a busy night at Café Machiavelli and one of the POS computers is down. Forced to share a single terminal, the stress level among the waitstaff is running high. I’ve got several tables to input, but a newbie waiter, hovering over the touch screen as she frantically searches for the right buttons, is blocking my path.
“What’s the holdup?” I ask, trying to filter the frustration out of my voice.
“How do you modify a steak medium well?” the waitress, a sylph of a girl no older than nineteen, begs.
“Touch the ‘Steak Special’ icon first,” I reply.
“Okay.”
“Then hit ‘Modify Item.’”
“Okay.”
“Then hit ‘Temp.’”
“Okay.”
“Then hit ‘Medium Well.’”
“Is that it?”
“Yes.”
“Then what?”
“Are you finished with the table?” I ask.
“Huh?”
“Are they getting anything else?”
“No.”
“Then exit out,” I say.
“How do you exit out?” the waitress asks.
Groaning inwardly, I hold on to my patience by remembering IT people put up with this kind of shit everyday.
“Hit the button that says ‘Exit,’” I say.
“Thanks.”
“Now let me in there,” I say. “I’ve got to put in five tables.”
“But I’m not done yet,” the waitress wails.
“How many tables you got left?” I ask.
“Three.”
“Listen,” I say. “Things are nuts tonight. Tell me what you need to order and I’ll put into the computer for you.”
“No,” the girls says, shaking her head. “I’ve got to learn how to do this.”
“I understand you want to learn,” I reply. “But now’s not the time.”
“I wanna do it!”
A lightening bolt of stress flashes from the top of my head to the base of my spine. As my chakras begin to smoke, stomach acid vaults up my esophagus and starts filling my mouth with the taste of regurgitated lunchtime pizza. I’ve got cappuccinos to make and desserts to plate. If I don’t get my orders into the computer soon, I’ll go into the weeds and be destroyed. Swallowing hard, I channel all my frustration into my eyes and unleash my thousand yard waiter stare. The girl’s resistance, predictably, implodes.
“Okay,” the waitress whimpers, “You do it.”
As the girl reads from her order pad, I input the information into the computer. What would have taken her ten minutes takes me only two. Digital generation my ass.
“So,” I ask. “Is everything’s in now?”
“Yes,” the waitress says, sullenly.
“You sure?”
“Yep.”
“Don’t take it personally,” I say. “You’ll learn the computer when it’s slower. Tonight’s just nuts.”
“Okay.”
“You’re doing well,” I say, my voice softening. “It just sucks your first night is so busy. You’ll be okay.”
“Thanks,’ the girl replies.
“If you need help let me now.”
“I will,” the girl replies, a small smile playing on her lips. “Thanks.”
“No problem.’
I turn to the POS computer and start inputting my orders. As my fingers fly across the keyboard, a hulking presence reeking of garlic suddenly materializes behind me. It’s Willem, Café Machiavelli’s manager.
“How long you gonna be?” he hisses in my ear.
“I’ve got three more tables to do,” I reply.
“Let me in there. I’m way behind.”
“So am I.”
“I’ve gotta void a credit card receipt too,” Willem huffs. “Let me jump in front of you.”
“Dude,” I reply. “Wait your turn.”
“Why don’t you do as I say?” Willem shouts.
I was a restaurant manager once, and, truth be told, I was famous for cutting in line while other servers waited to use the POS machine. Saying I had an emergency with a customer’s credit card was my usual MO. Sure, maybe this is karma paying me back, but I’m not in the mood to accept life lessons from the universe right now.
“I’ll be done in a minute Willem,” I reply. “Chill out.”
“Goddammit!” Willem shouts, stomping his feet up and down like an angry child, “I need to get in there!”
“You’re having a temper tantrum now?” I reply, not taking my eyes of the touch screen. “Get a grip. Start drinking early or something.”
Willem storms off. I finish putting my orders into the computer, make my cappuccinos, plate my desserts, and run everything out to my tables. I’ve got an extra minute so I help out the food runner, extract a broken cork out of a bottle, recite the specials at one of the new girl’s tables, answer the phone, take a reservation, greet and seat a new table, hang up some coats, and direct an old man to the restroom.
As I head back to my section, I look over at Willem. He won’t speak to me for the rest of the night. I’m not worried. In his early thirties and turning into a drunk, Willem will consume several vodka and tonics, drunkenly grouse about how he’s under appreciated, and then stumble home early – forgetting all about my earlier intransigence. I used to work with drunks and drug addicts. I know how it goes.
I shake my head. I used to help people like Willem. Now I find myself standing on the sidelines secretly rooting for him crash and burn. I’m an asshole like that sometimes, but the restaurant industry is a tough business.
And you get tough with it.
The formula is excellent tonight, sir.
April 30th, 2008 by Waiter
Waiter Nephew! He came at 3:45AM. 8 pounds, 7 ounces and 21 inches long. Mother, baby, and wiped out father are doing well!
What Recession?
April 29th, 2008 by Waiter
A few weeks ago I mentioned that some customers are tipping less because of the recent economic downturn. Well the LA Times has a good article about that very topic. In car culture LA, with gas well over $4 a gallon, it’s a miracle anyone’s driving to a restaurant, much less buying dinner.
Where’s Mr. Fusion? That’s what I want to know!
Iron
April 24th, 2008 by Waiter
It’s Saturday night and Café Machiavelli is bursting at the seams. Impatient customers waiting to be seated are laying siege to the hostess stand. Since my section’s closest to the entrance, I get to hear the panicked bleating emanating from the entitled hordes. Aggravated, I remember how defenders of medieval castles repelled besiegers by dumping cauldrons of boiling oil on top of their heads. Now that I think about it, I do have access to a deep fryer.
“My reservation is for eight o’clock!” one aggrieved customer, a fat man with a bad comb over, shouts at the hostess. “It’s already eight-fifteen. I want to sit down now!”
“I appreciate your patience, sir,” the hostess replies sweetly. “But I can’t seat you until the rest of your party arrives.”
“Unacceptable,’ Comb Over, says, tapping the expensive watch strapped to his fleshy wrist. “We shouldn’t have to wait to sit down.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“I want to speak to the owner,” Comb Over demands.
“Sir…..”
“Get him now!”
The hostess picks up the house phone and dials the owner’s extension. Within thirty seconds the owner is talking with the folliclly disadvantaged customer.
“Has everyone in your party arrived, sir?” the owner asks, smiling a broad friendly smile.
“No,” Comb Over says. “The third couple’s gonna be half an hour late.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” the owner says. “I cannot seat you until the entire party arrives.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Comb Over snorts. “Who ever heard of such a rule?”
“As you can see, sir,” the owner says, ignoring the man’s question. “We’re very busy. I’ll be happy to seat you when everyone’s here.”
“If you don’t seat us right now,” Comb Over says, “We’re leaving.”
“Then I’m sorry to lose your business, sir.”
“Are you serious?” Comb Over says, looking aghast. “You’ll let six paying customers walk out the door over some silly rule?”
“Yes, sir,” the owner replies, still smiling his broad smile.
“That’s nuts.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“I’m never coming here again,” Comb Over says, in his most intimidating wealthy man’s voice.
Café Machiavelli’s owner is 6’2 and weighs two hundred and fifty pounds. A retired cop, he’s got a semi automatic pistol discreetly holstered underneath his blue blazer. After a lifetime busting down doors and arresting some very bad dudes, he decided to open a restaurant. Somehow I don’t think Comb Over’s intimidating him.
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out tonight,” the owner says, unperturbed. “I hope you’ll come back another time.”
I enjoy watching the expression spread over Comb Over’s face as he realizes he can’t push the owner around. Besides, his options are limited. He’ll never get a reservation some place else this late on a Saturday night. He’s screwed.
“All right,” Comb Over says. “We’ll wait. But could you at least give me a nice table?”
“Certainly, sir,” the owner replies. “I appreciate your patience.”
“Okay then,” Comb Over says, slinking back to his wife.
Many restaurant owners, afraid to lose a single dollar, mistake submissiveness for hospitality and turn themselves into doormats. That’s a mistake. Trust me, if the dining public thinks you’re a wimp, they’ll run roughshod all over you. Sure, a restaurateur has to be friendly and accommodating, but he must also possess a core of iron. Well run restaurants consistently enforce rules governing cell phones, small children, partial seating, and customer behavior - even at the risk of lost revenue. That’s the only way to ensure a pleasant dining experience for everyone. And if a customer storms out – good riddance. You probably didn’t want them in your restaurant anyway.
Eventually the night ends and the customers go home. The waiters, post shift drinks in hand, assemble around a back table to divvy up the night’s take. As we count the money the smell of cigarette smoke and the soft murmur of tired bitching fills the air. After a few minutes the owner comes over, drink in one hand, holstered gun in the other.
“The money ready?” he asks.
“Almost,” Willem, the manager, replies.
“You guys got any vodka left?” the owner asks, rattling the ice in his glass.
“Want some?” I say, holding the bottle out to him.
“Don’t mind if I do.”
The owner sits next to me, places the holstered gun near my right elbow, and extends his glass.
“What caliber is that thing?” I ask, pouring out three fingers of grain alcohol.
“It’s a forty-five.”
“Well,” I say. “That’s one way to keep the staff in line.”
“Work wonders with the vendors too.”
‘I’ll bet.”
“And I never get robbed.”
“Good to know,” I reply.
As the owner drinks his vodka and sorts out the cash, I covertly glance at the black pistol resting inside its well worn holster. Remember what I said about a restaurateur needing a core of iron? My boss just happens to carry iron too. For a moment, I wonder how I’d act if I was packing heat underneath my waiter apron. After a few seconds of reflection I realize that would be a very, very bad idea. Think of Travis Bickle with an order pad.
That’s okay. I always have my thousand yard stare.
Thanks Amazon!
April 17th, 2008 by Waiter
I’m happy to announce that my book, Waiter Rant: Thanks for the Tip - Confessions of a Cynical Waiter, was selected by Amazon for inclusion in their Summer Reading Preview (Nonfiction)! Very cool! Many thanks to the folks at Amazon.com!