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.
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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.
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October 23rd, 2007 by Waiter
It’s Sunday afternoon and I’m walking through the neighborhood where I used to work. When I pass by The Bistro’s front window I take a peek inside. A waiter I don’t know is standing in my old section and talking to customers I don’t recognize. As I watch the server’s lips silently move I get the feeling that the restaurant’s plate glass window is an extra-dimensional membrane, separating me from an alternate universe that’s strange but familiar at the same time. I shake my head and walk away. What a difference a year makes.
I cross the street and head into Starbucks. All the baristas I used to know are gone. I order a cup of coffee, slip a few coins into the tip jar, and leave. Outside the sidewalks are crowded with teenagers holding hands, retired couples peering into store windows, and young couples walking their dogs. Because summer’s overstaying its welcome the neighborhood’s restaurants still have their outside tables set up. Pedestrians are forced to navigate around the throngs of chattering al fresco diners camping out on the limited sidewalk space. I feel sorry for the waiters. People who like to eat outside are usually pains in the asses. Servers are happy when the cold weather arrives and these socially vain bad tippers are forced into hibernation. This year, however, global warning seems to be prolonging the pain. Maybe it’s a sign of the Apocalypse.
As I walk down the street and sip my coffee I pass by a vegetarian restaurant. A customer sitting on the outdoor patio is haranguing a harried looking waitress about his tofu. I can tell the server’s struggling to keep her cool. Vegetarian al fresco diners are no different than their flesh easting compatriots. If anything, they’re worse. A line from the Gospel of Mark floats into my head. “Nothing that comes into someone from the outside can make that person unclean; it is the things that come out of someone that make a person unclean!” Is smugness a form of uncleanliness? I wonder.
“Take it back,” the imperious beatnik snaps at the waitress. “I don’t want it.”
“But it’s what you ordered sir,” the waitress replies.
I stop, lean against a lamppost, and pretend to savor my coffee. I’m interested to see how this turns out.
“Haven’t you heard the expression the customer’s always right?” the beatnik hisses.
“Of course I have,” the waitress says.
“Then why are you arguing with me?”
Suddenly I recognize the waitress. A cute blonde around thirty, she always split an entrée with her boyfriend at The Bistro every Thursday night. I remember her because she always sat in my section and I thought she was cute. I also thought that her boyfriend was way old for her. As I close in on forty, however, I’ve noticed I seldom have those judgmental thoughts anymore – probably because I’m going to be the guy that’s much too old for someone one day. Luckily, in spite of what I thought, it was obvious the couple was very much in love. I remember that they were nice people and good tippers. My mind races. What happened to this girl and her boyfriend? Are they still together? Are they happy? Why is this woman waiting tables? Was she always a waiter and I didn’t know? Is she supporting her art career? Making some extra bucks while she writes the great American novel? Quick cash to finance a root canal? Who knows? It’s just interesting to see someone I used to wait on working as a waiter themselves. In some circumstances that would be delicious revenge. Not today though.
The blonde waitress smiles weakly and takes the plate from the haughty beatnik’s hand. . “Very well sir,” she says. “I’ll ask the manager to take care of it.”
When the waitress walks away the beatnik turns to his companion. “Can you believe that stupid bitch?” he says. “Where did she learn to be a waitress?”
“Hard to get good help these days,’ the man’s companion replies.
I look up from my coffee and calmly peer at the beatnik. It doesn’t take long until he notices I’m staring at him. When our eyeballs met I bore into him with my thousand yard waiter stare. The man starts looking very uncomfortable. He probably thinks I’m a psycho. If the situation was reversed I’d probably think the same thing. For my purposes, however, that’s OK. A weak smile plays on my lips. The beatnik looks nervously away. I sip my coffee and hold station by the lamppost.
After a short interval the blonde waitress returns. “The manager said we’ll make up a new plate for you,” she says. “It’ll take about ten minutes. To thank you for your patience we’re comping your raspberry ice teas.
“Uh, thanks,’ the beatnik says, glancing anxiously at me. “That’ll be fine.”
“Thank you sir,” the waitress replies tonelessly. “Sorry for the mix-up.”
The waitress goes back inside the restaurant. The beatnik and his companion are looking at me. Satisfied that I’ve satisfied some kind of karmic debt, I wink at them and walk away. I know this’ll sound weird – but suddenly I feel like Batman.
And like all good superheroes I walk off into the setting sun and never look back. I smile to myself. Who knows? Maybe in an alternate universe I am Batman. What a difference a year makes.
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September 3rd, 2007 by Waiter
I arrive at the supermarket to do some food shopping. My first stop is the deli counter. The long line of impatient elderly people waiting for luncheon meat has enough canes and walkers between them to start small medical supply store. I take a number.
“Serving 55!” the tired teenaged boy behind the counter shouts. “Now serving customer 55!”
“That’s me!” a grey haired old woman yelps frantically, waving her ticket like she’s won the lottery. “I’m next. Don’t skip me!”
I sigh and look at the paper stub in my hand. It reads 67. I have a long wait so I decide to get some other shopping done. The produce section’s next to the deli so I pick up onions, garlic, green peppers, carrots, asparagus, broccoli, prepackaged baby spinach, tomatoes, and some lemons and limes. I take a pass on buying potatoes. My roommate still has a twenty pound sack of rice under the kitchen counter. I bag everything up and cast a glance at the deli counter.
The “Now Serving” sign clicks over to 56.
I head over to the dairy section at the other end of the store. I grab a carton of eggs, a quart of milk, a pint of heavy cream, yogurt, and one of those little snack packs of chocolate pudding. I know I’ll be to tired to cook one night so I pick out a frozen pizza. I walk over to another aisle and throw a loaf of seven grain bread into my cart. Another aisle provides a jar of olives for my martinis. I look at my watch. Several minutes have elapsed. I head back to the deli counter.
“Now serving 58!” the teenage deli man calls out. “58!”
I shake my head in amazement. The Himalayas will erode into dust by the time my number’s called. What’s worse, the line of old people at the counter has doubled in size. Olive loaf must be like crack cocaine for people over seventy-five.
The worker behind the counter’s valiantly trying to fill everyone’s orders - but that’s tough when slicing meat for old people. I worked in a deli when I got out of college. I feel the deli kid’s pain. I remember how the seniors would shriek “That’s too much! I’m not gonna pay for that!” whenever the meat I placed on the scale crept .000000005 ounces over the geriatric bologna weight limit. To this day I cringe whenever I hear an oldster say “Slice it thin!”
Suddenly I hear the high pitched whine of an electric motor. An old lady in a mechanized scooter, the kind with the wire shopping basket perched over the handlebars, pulls up next to me, almost running over my foot. The look on her face is one of simmering rage.
“How long is this line?” she snaps.
“Pretty long,” I reply.
“What number are you?”
“67.”
“Could you get me a number?”
“Sure.”
I reach over and pull a ticket out of the dispenser. It reads 75. I hand it to the old woman She regards it with obvious displeasure.
“I’ll be dead before I get to the end of this line,” she harrumphs.
“I guess when your number’s up, it’s up.”
“Huh?” the old lady asks, squinting at me curiously.
“Nothing madam.”
I head back into retail mêlée to pick up some big ticket items. The seafood case yields a tasty looking piece of swordfish and I snatch the last ribeye steak out from under a chubby housefrau preoccupied with pushing her pudgy fingers into every package of ground beef she can find. I remember I have pork tenderloin and chicken breasts in the freezer so I stop with the major protein purchases. The steak and the fish are already costing me $20. Visualizing the week’s menu in my head, I decide I’ll make a chicken and pasta dish with pepper and onions on Wednesday and bake the pork tenderloin with fresh rosemary on Thursday. I’ll have the steak on Saturday and make swordfish risotto tonight. Add some curried egg salad, tuna fish sandwiches, pizza, leftovers, and going out for dinner at least once ……if I play my cards right I’ll have enough food for ten or eleven days.
That just leaves the deli counter. I’ve been making a concerted effort to not eat too much processed food – but I love roast beef and Swiss cheese sandwiches slathered in mustard and mayo. As I head back to the deli I pass by the self serve bakery. Maybe I’ll get a nice roll for my sandwich. Mmmm. The bakery has cheddar cheese rolls. Perfect.
An old man cuts in front of me but, respecting my elders, I decide to say nothing and wait patiently. Ignoring the wax paper and plastic tongs at his disposal, the old man fingers every cheddar cheese roll in the tray with his bare hands. He even sniffs one and puts it back. So much for getting cheese rolls. There are still a few European sandwich rolls left. I’ll get one of them.
As if he’s reading my mind, the old man starts moving his bare hands towards the European sandwich rolls. No way am I letting the old bastard get away with this.
“Sir,” I say firmly. “Please use the tongs.”
The old man whips his head around and looks at me like I’ve threatened to reduce his Social Security benefits.
“What did you say?” he barks, his eyes narrowing into suspicious slits.
“The tongs are there for a reason, sir,” I reply, trying to remember I’m speaking to one of my elders.
“Screw you!” the old man says.
I’m not surprised by the man’s reaction. I pull my thousand-yard waiter stare out of semi-retirement and lance the geezer though a rheumy eyeball.
“Sir,” I say evenly. “How would you like it if I touched your food?”
“Jerk!” the old man says, wheeling his cart away in a huff.
I chuckle and shake my head. Being old doesn’t mean you can’t be an asshole. At least the man’s grubby hands didn’t touch my European rolls.
I bag up some rolls and head back to the deli counter. The “Now Serving” sign reads 65. I decide to wait until my number’s called. I notice the old woman in the motorized cart is now parked in the handicapped space next to the deli counter. No, you read it right the first time - my supermarket has a handicapped space next to the deli counter. What’s next? An expectant mother zone?
Finally my number’s called. I order a quarter pound of roast beef and half a pound of domestic Swiss. The kid behind the counter look relieved to be serving someone in striking distance of his own age. My order’s ready in a flash.
Finally it’s time to pay for my purchases. Since I hate those computerized self-serve lanes I look for a register manned by a human being. To my chagrin, I notice that the hygiene deficient old man from the bakery is in the “Twelve Items or Less” lane with a cart brimming with stuff. I’m behind a woman shopping for a family of thirty.
As I wait on line I think about what it must feel like to be old. My parents are in their sixties and I’m beginning to catch glimpses of how they’ll act when they’re ancient. My mother will be one of those friendly, talkative types and my Dad’ll be the guy wearing a winter coat in August. I like to imagine I’ll end up like Hugh Hefner, the eighty-one year old babe squiring founder of Playboy, but the odds are good I’ll turn into a hermit type that dotes on his dog and is surrounded by books.
Finally it’s my turn. The girl at the register rings me up. The total’s $62.34. I feel like grumbling about the high cost of living but I stop myself. It’s not the cashier’s fault prices are so high. I give the girl some cash, bag my purchases in politically incorrect paper bags, get my change, and walk out the door.
As I head to my car I spy the hygiene deficient old man throwing the last of his shopping bags into the back of an old Cadillac. After he slams the trunk shut he carelessly shoves his shopping cart away from his car, not caring where it ends up. I watch the cart pick up speed as it hurtles downhill towards a parked car. Since I’m too far away to intercept it, all I can do is watch helplessly as the cart smashes into the side panel of a new looking sedan. Ouch. That’ll leave a mark.
I shake my head. That old man’s probably been an inconsiderate bastard his whole life. Despite my occasional Logan’s Run fantasies, I have no problem with elderly people. When I think about it, growing old is a privilege. Some of my friends never made it past 35. But advancing years doesn’t guarantee wisdom. If you’re asshole when you’re forty the odds are good you’ll be an asshole when you’re seventy.
I hope I end up like Hef.
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April 19th, 2007 by Waiter
“Hello and welcome,” I greet my new table, a prosperous looking couple in their fifties. “And how are you this evening?”
“What are the specials?” the woman says, not gracing me with eye contact as she rummages through her purse.
“I’m sorry madam,” I reply. “I haven’t gotten the specials from the chef yet.”
“You’re kidding!” the woman says, speaking into her cavernous handbag. I want to know the specials now.
The chef tells us the specials at 5:30.
That’s ridiculous, the womans husband blurts, finally looking at me. Its 5:10.
“We have to wait almost half an hour?” the woman whines, turning to her husband. “I think I want to eat somewhere else Bob.”
Can you ask the chef to tell you the specials now?” the husband asks.
“I’ll try sir, I reply,” knowing its a fools errand.
I walk back to the kitchen. Javier, one of the biggest assholes I’ve ever had the displeasure to work with, sneers at me when I walk in the door.
“Whatchu want pendejo?” he asks.
“I want you to tell your wife to quit bothering me,” I answer. “I’m not into transsexuals.”
“You think You’re funny maricon?”
“I know I’m funny Javier,” I reply. “Where’s Guillermo? I need to get the specials.”
“I don’t know where he is,” Javier says, waving me away. “Find him yourself.”
I exit the kitchen and don’t bother looking for Guillermo. He’s probably at his apartment taking a dump. Guillermo has a phobia about using the restaurants bathrooms and likes to go home to use the toilet. I can’t blame him. If you saw the staff bathroom you’d understand. I return to my table to deliver the bad news.
“I am sorry,” I say. “The chefs at the farmers market picking up fresh herbs for tonights specials. We expect him back in a few minutes.”
“Really?” the husband exclaims.
“Yes sir,” I reply. “The chef takes his specials very seriously.”
“Wow!” the wife exclaims. “We’ll wait.”
“Very good madam,” I say. “I’ll return when I know the specials.”
“Thank you waiter.”
I walk away from the table, knowing my customers are entertaining some grandiose foodie vision of a white coated chef waltzing though an open air market, lovingly picking out herbs for their consumption as opera music plays triumphantly in the background. If they knew that Guillermo was home straining out an infant sized bowel movement, busting his temporal vein in the process, it would fuck ‘em up for life.
A few minutes later I spy Guillermo sneaking in the back door, his arms are laden with glossy looking cookbooks. I want to ask him if that’s his bathroom reading material but stop myself. Even I don’t want to know.
Guillermo and the head waiter huddle for several minutes and go over the specials. In this restaurant the chef never tells us the waiters specials directly — That’s a job for underlings. The head waiter laboriously writes down all the specials, double checks them with Guillermo, and calls the waiters over to repeat the process.
“I hope we don’t have the short ribs again,” Gunter says. “They sold like shit last week.”
“Who eats short ribs at an Italian Restaurant?” Carmela chirps. “Who thinks up that kind of shit?”
“Fucking fusion cuisine,” Gunter grunts.
I like Gunter. A career waiter, his strong Germanic features remind me of a Wehrmacht soldier from those old WWII newsreels – after the surrender at Stalingrad that is. A battle hardened restaurant veteran, Gunter looks like hes seen everything. His thousand yard stare even scares me.
“Sushi’s next,” I say under my breath.
“Enough talking,” the head waiter says. “Listen up. For appetizers we have the roasted corn fritters with gorgonzola cheese and jalapeño.”
“So we’re a Mexican restaurant tonight,” Gunter snickers.
“How about selling tacos?” Carmela suggests.
“Yeah,” Gunter says, “I bet you’d like to hustle that fish taco of yours amiga.”
“Fuck you,” Carmela says, laughing.
“Enough!” the head waiter snaps, trying to maintain order. “We’ve got a lot of specials to go over. Pay attention.”
We listen and scribble the specials down in our dupe pads. When the head waiter finishes we have twenty-one specials from every type of cuisine imaginable.
“What the fuck?” Gunter groans. “Did Guillermo just get his copy of Gourmet Magazine?”
“No,” I say. “But I saw him walk in with a bunch of cookbooks.”
“He probably took em out of the library,” Gunter replies. “He does shit like that. That’s why were having endive marmalade served with everything tonight.”
“Mira!” Carmela says. “Endive marmalade? I don’t even know what that is.”
“Would someone please pass the jelly?” I chuckle.
“How the hell do you expect the customers to remember twenty-one specials?” Gunter asks the head waiter.
“Sell those specials,” the head waiter says, ignoring Gunter. “Push the short ribs. You guys didn’t do a good job selling them last week.”
“Why can’t we print the specials up for the customers?” Taylor, a trainee waitress asks. “So they could remember them all?”
“Because,” the head waiter replies haughtily, “This is a fancy place.”
Fancy place my ass. If You’re eating out and it takes twenty minutes for the waiter to recite the specials – be wary. If a restaurant offers a million items the odds are good they cant cook any of them well. Many places think having a large list of specials is impressive. It isn’t. Its the mark of amateur restaurateurs everywhere.
“You still didn’t answer my question,” Gunter says, glaring at the head waiter.
“Sell, sell, sell!” the head waiter says, still ignoring Gunter. “Get those check averages up!”
I sigh to myself. The head waiter funnels most of the big spenders into his extra large section while the dregs get sent to new waiters like Taylor and me. While the head waiter has twelve tables in his section, Taylor and I have three or four. The systems rigged so only the people who kiss the head waiters ass make any money.
“Can I have more than three tables?” I ask. “Then I could get my average up.”
“Less talking,” the head waiter says waving his finger at me. “You need to sell more desserts before we can talk about you having a bigger section.”
I shut my mouth. The head waiter here is a joke. A patronizing small timer who’s only interested in protecting his little slice of empire, I’ve discovered its no use arguing with him. I need to find another job.
I sigh deeply and get up from the table. I walk over to the table that’s been fantasizing about the specials and rattle through the entire list.
“How do you expect us to remember all that?” the wife asks.
“I’m sorry madam,” I reply. “I know its a lot of information. I’ll be happy to repeat the list.”
“Now I’m confused,” the woman says, looking befuddled. Something tells me confusion is this womans natural state.
“I’ll give you a few minutes to decide,” I say, departing the table.
As I walk back towards the waiter station I see Guillermo sipping an espresso. He’s a nice enough guy and, to be fair, I’ve never eaten his cooking.
“Hey Guillermo,” I say.
“What?”
“The people on 43 were impatient to get the specials so I told them you were at the farmers market getting some fresh herbs.”
“That’s some creative bullshit my friend.”
“Creative bullshits my middle name.”
“I was home using my bathroom,” Guillermo says. “I can’t get comfortable here.”
“That’s what I figured. Just don’t tell them that.”
“Hey,” Guillermo grumbles. “I washed my hands.”
The chef finishes his espresso and walks away. I spend the rest of the shift guiding attention deficit disordered customers though a maze of specials. The night would’ve gone much smoother if Guillermo had stayed in that bathroom.
Fancy place my ass.
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