I Must Be Getting Old...

My focus is broken as I catch Gina in my peripheral vision, bobbing and weaving at her table.  She looked like shit.  And that was putting it nicely.
I stood her up the previous night even after I heard about how "dank" the show was going to be. Heard the afterparty would be off the hook as well.  What the hell does "dank" even mean?  Am I getting to the point where I need to look words and phrases up on Urban Dictionary?  
 
Well.  I stayed in. Again.  Watched a few movies (thank you, Netflix). 
Here's the catch:  I didn't come into work today with a massive hangover wishing I was chopped liver.

I remember those days, not too long ago, when I was in her shoes.  Hoping my tables would be having a "no fuss" kind of day.  Hoping the rest of the servers would pick up the slack on the side-work and not rat me out because we've all had these days.  Hoping someone would want to stay through and finish the shift for me so I could go back home and lie down. Hoping I could disappear because all I wanted was a five-minute break to get my shit together.  

 Why do we do it?  When we know we have places to go the next day, things to do..."responsibilities".  Good lord, does being an adult suck sometime.  It's one thing when you're jammed like a sardine in some cubicle with your head pounding and splitting as you're forced to look at a computer monitor and return phone calls all day.  It's quite another when you're job description is to be timely with orders, look well-kempt, and for god sakes-- smile.  It's a little hard to do all of this when your face is hovering in a porcelain bowl every ten minutes.


I always wonder what guests think when they get stuck with someone who's had a rough night.  Can't be pretty.
  Should the worker have shown up to work?  No.  Probably not, especially had they been sick.  Which is another issue at hand.
Cold and flu season.  If you're sick, stay home.  That's just plain gross, especially in the food industry. I, nor do you, want someone who has been sneezing and coughing handling their dishes of food.  Cleanliness is godliness, however I cannot guarantee you are washing your hands as you should.
Could you as a guest ask for another server? Definitely.  I would advise to as well.  And don't you dare feel guilty about it.  Better safe than sorry.

If I come into work looking like I was hit by a train, it's because I'm working a sixty hour work week-- not because I was tanked the night before.  If I'm irritable, it's because I am now the person who shows up on time to complete the side-work that won't be touched for another thirty minutes by those just rolling out of bed.
If I'm calling in sick, it's because I'm legitimately ill and do not wish to spread my goobers to others.

I walk in on Gina later on in the bathroom and can't decide if she's really sick, or just sitting there in an act of "poor me".  I laugh to myself and shake my head as I skirt out of there and hustle off to pick up on the tables she's passing.  One man's loss is another man's gain.  And boy, I'm happy to coming out on top with that.


- Malia Etienette

Photo Credit:
"What is a Hangover?"- www.sciencebasedlife.wordpress.com
"Employees Must Wash Hands"- www.webstaurantstore.com
"Hangover Cures That Aren't Healthy"- www.abcnews.go.com

Hellidays are Here

December 1st.

Another Thanksgiving has come and gone.  Just like that, guests from out of town are back where they came from. The restaurant settles in for another lull just before the other holidays really hit.
 

I understand Thanksgiving, but at the same time...I really don't.
Families throw extravagant feasts.  Lavish, decorative orchestrated productions. After stuffing our pie-holes and saying grace, claiming our deep gratitude for everything we have, we what?  We just as quickly jump in our vehicles and race off to the stores because of course Black Friday starts early-- and we buy all the shit we don't yet have in our lives already.  And if we miss those sales?! Cyber Monday.
 

That's thanks alright.

As my mother and I'm sure her mother has always said if our plates weren't clean, "Finish.  There are starving children in China."  What we didn't eat became breakfast.
Well I'll be damned, there are starving families here, maybe so close as next door.  Somewhere along the way, we have lost the meaning of holidays and have let materialistic belongings and the Hallmark-tackiness of it all serve as the backbone, the main reason for running the show.
 
I'M not entirely innocent either.  I remember there being a time where I would think I was clever-- armed with a fat, black, felt-tipped, permanent marker, furiously scribbling deranged circles around items I wanted in catalogs, leaving it out on display where my mother would surely see it.  The miracle would be if I didn't encircle or highlight half the items in the magazine.  What are we teaching kids?  I associated holidays with receiving.  Screw giving.  I wanted things.  And now?  Things don't matter.  It's the time that I get to spend with my family and those important to me.  The world was crazy to think that only one day should be designated (and should suffice) for giving thanks-- it should be everyday you open your eyes and realize how very lucky you are to have what you do.
 

Looking at myself now, I'm not sure what to think.  I'm no Scrooge, but do I see myself in shades of green... with a sinister smile, turning my fingers around the tips of a mustache.  A grinch?
Bitter much? No... Maybe only tired of seeing the same thing over again.  Like a broken record repeating itself.  Serving guests that need to be drunk to sit across the table from in-laws. Running martinis for women reminiscent of Sex in the City whom have never worked a day in their lives, yet pass gift bags from spas and boutiques around the table.  Hauling heavy fur coats to the back to be hung because their haughty owner wouldn't make the trip themselves, and instead hurled the garment at you.  Silly me, I keep forgetting servers are the help.  It's hell.  This month, I will be praying for patience.  Something that cannot be bought.

I hold my breath. Count back from ten.  Exhale.

 

I've never been very good at saying thank you.  I've never had much to give when it comes to giving gifts.  Thankfully, it's actions that speak louder than words.

So give back with your actions. Show appreciation. Show love.
Be present. That alone is what the holidays should be about.

Thanks...(really)
Malia Etienette

Photo Credit:
"Thanksgiving in the US"- www.timeanddate.com
"Amazon's Naughty, Walmart's Nice?"- www.forbes.com
"Average Child's Christmas List"- www.72point.com
Grinch- www.bristolrising.com
"Carolina Charm: Operation Sandwich"- www.northcarolinacharm.com

What The HALAL Are You Serving !?

I thought I knew what the term meant.  Silly me, living in a fairly Jewish populated area, I was thinking "kosher".  No, no.  The two most definitely hold a different meaning.  

When a guest asks if the food is halal, it is because their faith does not allow them to eat the meat of an animal that was not slaughtered in such a manner.  Those animals are considered dirty and against the religion to consume.  It's not like Little Miss Lamb Chops had AIDS or anything crazy.  It is simply a belief that is practiced, and shouldn't be taken lightly by others. 



Ready for the breakdown?

Halal, in Arabic, means permissible.  It is a specific way in which the animal for meat is slaughtered, known as the Dhabihah.  Tied up by its feet and hung upside-down, the throat of the animal is slit for all the blood to exit the body.  Of course, I am skipping the part where the butcher (who must also be Muslim) prays over the animal before it is slaughtered. "Bismillah" (In the name of god) and "Allahu akbar" (God is the greatest x3) are proclaimed as the neck is slashed and the animal drained fully.  Anything else would be considered "haraam" or unlawful to eat for one who observes the religious law.





 


Perhaps a month ago I had a table who inquired if our meat was halal.  Unsure how to answer the couple, I asked Wulf whom had been in the middle of a conversation with another guest.  I figured, if anyone, the owner should know where we obtain our meats and if it is or is not something my guests can order. 

With a look of annoyance for the interruption, and a touch of "of course, you idiot", he asserted that the meat was indeed halal.
So tonight, the topic comes up with one of the cooks.
SURPRISE!
Turns out, not ALL of our meat is halal.  The ground meats certainly aren't.  The tenderloin for the tenderloin hummus certainly is not, and so on... So what is?

My stomach twisted in such a way that I had just consumed a mouthful of something gone rancid.  That spoiled feeling was the horrible enlightenment that I naively allowed someone to eat a meat which they would never be able nor willing to eat had I known the actual fact of the matter.

 

Even though what is done, is done, and YES I was most certainly unaware that "halal" does not encompass all of our dishes-- I definitely feel guilty about the incident.

It's like mixing up drinkings and accidentally serving a devout recovering alcoholic booze, informing them that theirs is only soda water with lime.  Or having a vegan eat a dish with eggs or chicken stock.  It's not a matter of, "what you don't know won't hurt you".  It's just wrong-- even yes, for a Muslim to eat non-halal meat, downright sacrilegious.


Look before you leap? Always. Hell, in this case, inquire (maybe several times) before you eat.


-Malia Etienette

Photo Credit:
Symbol: www.northafricapost.com
Boycott Banner: "Unfair Trading. Boycott Halal" www.boycotthalal.com
Slaughterhouse: "In France, Politicians Make Halal Meat a Campaign Issue" www.npr.org 
Sickly: "13 Things You Should Know..." www.health.com 

People Watching

Every Thursday and Friday evenings, I have certain obligations I need to attend.  On a few of these particular days, I'll find myself killing time at a Starbucks writing posts like this.

There's people, like the student to my right, pouring over textbooks with highlight-stained pages.  Quiet, calm, collected.  Damn near invisible.

My mother and I share conversation over lattes, taking in the surroundings-  mostly just people watching.

As with serving, there's always that couple that you're stuck waiting on-- the one that you could almost put money on finding them locked inside a steamy car in the parking structure, mid make-out session, while you are taking off from your shift.
 
That specific kind of  "first date" couple happens to stroll into Starbucks, and literally makes us think WTF or as some friends of mine have recently put it, "da fuq"?


 
The tall sneakerhead in a hooded sweatshirt and flat-brimmed hat is joined by a much too giggly Arabic girl.  Like a defective Tickle Me Elmo, she just won't shut the hell up.

I know it's no library, and it's certainly not church, but c'mon man, keep it down.
"Heheheh, oh mah God. I totally do that," she squealed.

Do what. My eavesdropping or "unintentional overhearing" kicked in.

"I totally take my purse with me when I go to the bathroom!"

Why wouldn't you?
Maybe you'll need a crotch stopper?  Maybe getting robbed today isn't a great idea?


 
And please.  In between giggling like an idiot at something that isn't funny in the first place so loud the entire coffees hop is listening in, please, flip your hair a little more.  A hunter on the prowl, she shoots an arm across the table and latches firmly onto the boy's bicep, steadily getting closer because her first choice of giving a handy would be too obvious under the petite table.  Please, keep touching your chest with your opposite hand when you speak because it draws the poor boy's attention to your only two redeeming qualities about yourself since intelligence is most arguably not an asset.

I think to myself, why am I single when there are dimwitted, superficial broads or even better, tarts who are even duller than watching paint dry in committed relationships?  Not my time apparently.  And to be quite frank, I've got a lot on my plate and it's going to take someone who is understanding, patient and strong enough to accept life as it is.


Yes. This is basically what his view was, plus some clothes.

My mother looks up at me over her phone and asks if I'd like to switch spots for a better view.  I decline.  My mom goes back to scrolling through Facebook and it's many wonders, and she says without breaking her gaze, "Don't ever dumb yourself down."

Soon enough, it is looking like the guy seals the deal as she clings onto him, damn near dry-humping his leg as they get up to leave.

Finally.

I used to be a wild one.
I used to be all about the attention.
I used to have an unbreakable tolerance for drama and nonsense, much like the tolerance I have for waiting on guests.
 

Where has it gone?  Who knows.
And I don't want it back.  No one should ever want that back.
They say ignorance is bliss.  Is it?  I'd rather have my eyes opened to see things for what they really are.  It's been a long time, but I'm finally getting the bigger picture.

The door closes behind the traipsing couple.  I let out an audible sigh of relief, thankful for the tranquility restored.
 
All pain is only temporary.

<3 Malia Etienette

Photo Credit:Gary Coleman- dev.ryot.org
Latest Tickle Me Elmo- www.usatoday30.usatoday.com
Purse Snatcher- www.ohanablog.com
Boobs- http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Woman_in_a_bikini_grabbing_her_own_breasts.jpg
Waitress- www.clatl.com

Don't Shoot the Messenger

Haven't you ever heard that?  It's said for a reason, you know.  Not just one of those cliches that people reuse so much that it loses its meaning, but the phrase actually DOES mean something.



In the service industry, this happens all too much...this whole "shooting of the messenger".
I'm sure it is just as likely to occur in other workplaces as well.  People create scapegoats, throw others under the bus.  It's a common practice and hey, someone has to take the blame, right?

If the food is bad at the restaurant, people bitch at the server.  If the food is too salty, people bitch at the server.  If it's too cold, people bitch at the server.  If the room temperature isn't right, people bitch at the server.  If the music is too loud, if the drink isn't strong enough, if their child is out of hand, if the menu has been changed, if the prices have been raised, if we no longer offer that kind of beer....people constantly take their issues out on the front runner of the service-- the waiter-- and more than likely the tip is docked because of this misunderstanding which only adds insult to injury.


So this is a case of an instance I experienced with less than stellar customer service based in a retail setting.  Since I have not used any actual names of people, places, cities or venues, I'll stay on that track just for the sake of anonymity.  For fun though, let's just call this store Smart Fan seeing as how everyone is intelligent enough to figure it out for themselves if they so wish.

The salesperson I had was warm, friendly and helpful.  He didn't breathe down our necks like typical salespeople do for the sake of staking out commission, but let us wander instead.  Milling through the rows of couches, my mother and I tested each out for comfort so thoroughly even Goldilocks would approve.  After bouncing on and reclining into nearly every couch on the showroom floor, I finally settled on a larger, very traditional tufted sofa and a patterned side chair. Twelve hundred bucks later, I was informed that the delivery date would be two weeks. 

Of course, the three hour window that we are given from Smart Fan, the delivery guys show up with ten minutes to spare.  Not like I didn't have anything else to do that day as it was my day off...

The couch shows, not the chair. 
Where the fuck is my chair.
 


The reason the delivery took two weeks was because I was waiting for both pieces to be treated with a stain-resiting chemical and delivered together... I could have had the couch the same day of purchasing it, but didn't want to inconvenience myself with two delivery dates.  So the funny part is, the couch which was readily available was postponed and the chair I had waited on didn't show after all. 

A much necessary call was immediately placed to the company.  The discussion quickly turned into a full-blast faucet of excuses, the Niagra Falls if you will, on behalf of the furniture store.  A torrent of explanations tailed by even more justifications. Something about how the warehouse is in Grand Rapids. Something about the distributor not having that chair.  Something about how my chair was part of a set on sale so it may have gotten sold to someone else.  Sifting through all of the bullshit, all I heard was someone not doing their job right.




Usually, this is the point where the customers I wait on decide go all Jekyll and Hyde on me and dump a case of whoop-ass on my once semi-acceptable day.  Which is exactly what I wanted to do.  Tear someone's face off and hand it back to them after doing a shimmy-shaking, heel-grinding Mexican hat dance on the inside of it. 

But I didn't.  I thought about all the times I have gotten the wrath of someone else's mistake.  I dealt with getting put on hold for more than several times, and calmly explained the situation for the eighth time to whom I was speaking.  A few more minutes later and another hundred was knocked off my bill for the trouble.

Of course, if your food gets messed up, I'm not going to grant you a hundred dollar comp.  And if someone spills wine on you, we'll pay for dry cleaning.  If you want a replacement, that money does actually come out of the server's personal piggybank.  The point is, if there is an error, I will do my best to apologize, listen to what needs to be fixed, and try to rectify the situation and make amends.

God willing, you're the kind of person that has a little grace within themselves to hold whatever it is, in, and not go apeshit with a bad case of verbal diarrhea on how you really feel.  That's just obnoxious, and such extreme Negative Nancy's are quite frankly the kind of people who we don't fix things for. :)



So now, here I sit, no longer on the floor of my apartment, but in a fully furnished room as I look over at my newly received accent chair and smile to myself.  Life ain't that bad.

- Malia Etienette


Photo Credit:
Shooting the Messenger- www.elementalseattle.com
Not Rare- www.devdogtyson.blogspot.com
Furniture Fail- www.cheezburger.com
Apology as Cure- www.reportingonhealth.org
Life is Good logo- www.glidemagazine.com

Careless.

"They were careless people, Tom and Daisy-- they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness, or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made..." F. Scott Fitzgerald



This is the exact quote that sparked into my head as I heard the screech of metal upon metal collide.  This quote also unfortunately describes a good portion of the population of the city I reside and am employed in.

Whether they actually reside here or elsewhere, work in the area, or have somehow managed to make an expensive place like Buckingham their regular hangout, it's those reeking of an heir of entitlement that act as such...the "who do you think you are's" and "how dare you's" with a touch of the "do you know who I am's" and my personal favorite, "the owner and I are friends".

 And yes, I do say this because of the fact that we encounter people like this daily-- Now this isn't the whole of this city, absolutely not, but it does represent a good part. Good enough that certain behaviors, attitudes and personas are no longer surprising, but expected to come with the package.

Women, who drop their own wine glass and then offer up their heeled foot for you to wipe it as if we offered a shoe shining service on top of just the food and beverage. 



Confronted with a soiled shoe, dangling mid-air in your face, the lady looks down upon you as though she is Christ and you are her Mary Magdalene...minus the gratitude and adoration.


All you can think is "excuse me?" while the look on your face properly says, "eat shit."

Bitchy girls who wear skirts so high you can see their crotch from the front, who shit all over guys who do approach them, and then just look desperate while the ones they're after fail to strike while the iron's hot because their wallet-sniffing can be sensed a mile away.  ("Haven't you heard?," said Daisy to Gatsby, "Rich girls don't marry poor boys." FSF...a mantra to learn in this city)

Misbehaved and ill-disciplined children who will have a mind-shattering and humorously rude awakening of how society really works when reality hits in the future.

And men who... don't even get me started. 


I watched the young boy climb out of his newer-model, shiny luxury vehicle and examine the truck of the blue-collar worker all banged up...and then dreadfully turn to see the crunched up passenger door of his own as his hands instinctively clapped to his mouth.  All because he didn't want to wait for the car in front of him to hook a left at the light. 


Careless.

But nothing a credit card can't fix...gloss over...erase such a nagging mark from existence. Money always has its way.  With money comes power, priveledge and apparently today, the right of way.



I observe the face of the worker from afar. Aged and distraught.  I know, as another worker, where this is coming from.  The worry and stress of taking on yet another bill, unexpectedly when you're already tapped out and bled dry.



I can empathise-- and I do, as I sit down on the bench from which I'm writing this account-- watching the worker offer up his information to the unphased policeman as if he was offering up the last ten dollars to his name.

I consider my day so far, and what I've been dealing with lately...and I take a deep breath. 
Today isn't so bad.  There is always someone else out there who is having a harder time than you.  So you might not hold all the poker chips, just learn to play the best hand that you were dealt.  Folding isn't an option at this particular table.  There are always the positives in life.  Find them.

<3
Malia Etienette

Photo Credit:
Daisy & Tom:  www.theauburngirl.style.it
Suited Child: www.memegenerator.net
Love Lifted Me: www.jeromepolitzer.com
Fender Bender: www.autos.ca.msn.com
Black Amex: www.uniquconsulting.com
Grumpy Old Ken 3/2011: www.grumpyoldken.blogspot.com

The "Buckingham Bubble"

I finally did it.
I moved out.

Yeah, you're thinking, big deal.
Well it is one.  I'm 25, still not done as far as education, working to live...walking a fine line between struggling and comfortable.  It has been a huge step in the right direction towards being independent and self-sufficient.
Obviously I'm closer to work... my boss seems to love this.
"Oh, must be nice," he'd say in a thick Lebanese accent, "that must mean you can work all doubles next week, yes?"  Well, way for shooting myself in the foot on that one.

I could practically-- if weather permits (thank you Michigan)-- walk myself to work if I wanted.
Yes, this was partially the reason for moving to the city.



Throughout the move-- the packing up of the cars, the back-and-forth trips, here again, back again,
hauling heavy boxes up a staircase, strapping mattresses and boxsprings to the roof of a car, unpacking and organizing, putting those damn non-English instructional 3000 piece IKEA dressers together, sweating on one of the last "nice weather" days of the year-- my family was there for me.
No bitching. No asking "but do I have to"?  They called all plans off for the day in order to be there.
 
After all of the grief I have given my parents over the years-- and I mean absolute shit-- there they were, pouring out their heart and their soul along with their pockets so I could comfortably move in.  I was not an easy child to raise... for reasons unknown, too complicated to even explain, I was super insubordinate, unbelievably headstrong and defiant as I grew up. 

After all the slammed doors, "I-hate-you's", and picked arguments, the empty threats to run away as a youngster...the lost sleep as I'd rudely come home late and disturb their sleep, the horribly failed chores, having to fall on my ass to learn the hard way, that fucking swear cup I'd have to fill from when I was younger, and even the ruts of trouble I find myself in to this day.

After all the teeth I've kicked in and the gray hairs I've been responsible for...

Here they were, freely giving themselves when they didn't have to.
Maybe it only took a quarter of a century, but I see it.  I couldn't have been blessed with better parents. I love them.

Some would say they were just happy to get me the hell out of the house.
Others would explain it as unconditional love.

I sit back, and I look around at a new, not-yet-familiar surrounding that I am now calling home.
Home, a modest place in a city of snooties.  An envied address in the "009", the land of yoga pants and luxury SUVs, of Starbucks sipping, brand name rocking, physically maintained women rushing to their hair and nail appointments down the block. 

No, of course I will never let this area mold and define me. It's funny and even somewhat ironic, moving into the city whose residents I scrutinize and calculate. We'll have to see how this goes.


One foot in front of the other.

One day at a time.

This is me, learning to walk on my own.
 
-Malia Etienette

Photo Credit:
Moving Day- www.fanart.tv
Autodest Labs Moving Day- www.labs.blogs.com
Snow Storm...- www.earthobservatory.nasa.gov
When Good Kids Run Away- www.parents-are-people-too.com
Reflection on the Poem "Footprints"- www.ronedmondson.com

Crumbsnatchers

Rugrats.
Tots.
Little terrors.
Minor...major headaches.

They're your kids.

Now let me rewind this just a bit and preface this post by saying, if you have children you may be offended by this post.  Know that I don't give a damn.  I'm sure you've taken your children out once or twice and threatened to take them home if they don't shape up.  And if this moment hasn't happened yet, as you say to yourself, "Oh, never would I have to with my little angels," oh...that moment-- it's coming.

And if you can truly, honestly say that your children are well behaved in public at all times because you have put the fear of God in their little heads, then this is a snapshot of those other cabbage patch kids that have given us servers grief during our shifts... how a disaster can be averted, and how to create a wonderful dining experience for all.

Manners are a godsend.  Seriously.  I can't tell you how appreciative I am of parents who remind their children the please's and the thank you's and the may I's.  It's a breath of fresh air. 

As servers, we are paid pretty much by our guests to take orders and serve food.  This does NOT mean that we take orders from your snotty, ill-mannered child.  No server likes it when your child snaps, "Go get me a" and "Where is my"....and you as a parent thinks its cute.
The sound of that is like nails on a chalkboard.

Not only do we dislike being bossed around by your five-year-old, we are also not your babysitter.  We should not have to collect and wait with your three-year-old that you left behind as your entire group has exited the restaurant and is already down by the crosswalk.  Headcount anyone?

These are the parents who aren't active in the supervision of their children.  These are the parents too concerned with finding the bottom of their sangria than wondering where their spawn got off to.  These are the kids who serve as minor speedbumps in the aisleway for a server.  In hauling a heavy tray overhead, we don't look down at our feet while we hustle to deliver the hot-food-hot and cold-food-cold.  If your child is down, running amuck near our knees, they are getting taken out.  Their bottoms belong in a seat, not in the way of the workers.

We love when you bring a goodie-bag of coloring supplies.  We don't love when you allow your child to color in all of our menu's.  Ask kindly, and we will provide plain white coloring paper for your child to express his creativity with instead.



Everyone loves a good song...which is why we provide music overhead to establish the dining ambiance.  If your child would like to contribute to the music with his or her golden pipes, we appreciate if you remove your child until the tantrum settles down.  Yes, we all know what self-soothing is.  This method is however ineffective in a restaurant setting.  Unlike a church, we do not offer a "cry room", yet we do have a lobby way towards the entry.  Go sit down.  Go for a walk outside.  Please be mindful of everyone else surrounding you that is trying to hold a conversation, or is struggling to top your child's screams in order for the server to hear their order.
 
If your child needs to use the restroom, please accompany him or her.  You have no idea the state we have discovered the bathoom to be in after your little one has wrecked it.  Water on mirrors higher than even I can reach,  half a roll of the economy-size toiletpaper stuffed into and clogging a toilet, and puddles literally everywhere.  No, Dane Cook, it wasn't a wet dog, it was someone's unsupervised child.  And yes, there has been shit on the floor.  I don't even want to go into how this could have taken place.

Some kids are picky, we understand.  Growing up, my younger brother refused all food except bread, cheese and hot dogs.  This is why we have a children's menu.  We have items like a children's cheeseburger, pizza, buttered noodles, hot dog, chicken fingers and fries....



Due to this, I don't expect to come to your table with your child eating a slice of pizza from the pizzeria down the street because your child doesn't like "our food".  Unacceptable, and you as a parent are not setting a good example.  I shouldn't be the one to point it out.  Seeing as how we offer kid's pizza, your child can either order off of our menu or go hungry-- not be catered to-- since it is also a health code violation to bring in outside food and beverage.
We also don't like finding cheerios, chex mix, and goldfish stomped on underneath the table for us to pick up as if we just played a game of 52 Pick Up.  If you plan on bringing snacks, please keep them on the table.
So now you know why some servers grind and grit their teeth when they see a ten-top consisting of only two adults being sat in their section.

We are not your crossing guards, bathroom attendants, babysitters, whipping boys, or maids.

We are the waitstaff.

Learn it.  Live it. Love it.

With that said, may I take your order?


-Malia Etienette

Photo Credit:
"Holidays for the Littlest Angels"- www.womanaroundtown.com
"Help Getting Organized"- www.getbuttonedup.com
"Lost Child"- www.kidsvancouver.com
"Arts Heavy Preschool Helps Children"- www.bumblebeesrus.com
Crying Children- www.gweem.net
"Picky Eater: Age 5 and Beyond"- www.sheknows.com
"11 Thoughts and Strategies for Dealing with Picky Eaters"- www.parentables.howstuffworks.com

On Proving People Wrong

Waiting tables, day in and day out, can turn a person into a really mean sonofabitch...the kind of person that even if every seat in an establishment was occupied except for the one next to him, I'd opt to remain standing.

You always wonder why the guy behind the bar is such a grouch.  "What's up his ass?" is the typical thought most people have.  It's years of having other customers shit in his Wheaties, that's what.


I hate to admit this, but it's 100% true, after serving in several establishments in different cities with different demographics, there are stereotypes that emerge-- and I know it's not nice, but I am only being honest.  This is true for what we believe you will order, how you will treat us, to how you tip.

What I'd like to talk about is the tipping.  Yes, money does make the world go round.  It also pays my bills.  Even I am guilty of getting a certain table, and cringing because I know (intuition perhaps) I won't receive more than ten percent if I'm LUCKY, because hell the stereotype says..... Don't sit there, behind your computer and shake your head saying, "Oh no, not me. Never would I..." because then you would be a horrible liar as well. We're all guilty of it, and you're right. It's nothing to be proud of.


I have worked at places where certain tables get nicknamed.  A sampling of the names I've heard are "Fifties Diners," "Penny Pinchers," "Monday's," and "Canadians." The rest aren't so nice.



Yes, we know it's horribly cruel and absolutely not fair to the individual, but when one particular group only perpetuates the stereotype we servers can't help but keep it to a generalization.



A week ago I had a table and...as most of my stories do start--  I knew I'd have my tuckus ran, and boy did I ever.  Five different appetizers.  Multiple rounds of drinks.  Several main dishes. Dessert. Coffees.
The tab rounded up nearly to three hundred.  Of course, any server at this point knew they'd walk with sixty before tip out on that table (if their service was stellar).  I was hoping for fifteen, maybe eighteen percent.  Sure, I'm lowballing myself but I'd rather be mildly surprised than be sorely disappointed.

What was the tip? Twenty-five dollars even.
You do the math.  I'm no whiz, but I would say I was shorted there just a bit.



The first things to reel through my mind were, "Was I that bad? Did I forget something?  Was I neglectful?  Was it the food they disliked?"

There's a million and one things that could have gone wrong, and we don't like to immediately do it, but sometimes we jump to the foolproof and clearly-obvious-because-we're-just-judgemental-assholes, "It's because they're foreign" or "It's because they're X."



I quickly put an end to my poutiness and sulking, realizing I still had four other tables that needed to be checked on because where I lost money on one, I had money to make on another.

Low and behold.



A call came in several days later with a woman on the other end asking for me.  She was concerned, mentioning I had waited on her earlier that week.  She continued on to explain the wonderful service I had given her, her husband and friend, and how absolutely awful she felt when her credit statement had shown the tip her husband left was less that satisfactory.  This guest apologized again and again, asserting that I was supposed to have received 25%, not the measly $25.

Blown away, I thanked her for calling and that her phonecall back was enough.  It isn't everyday that someone calls in to admit a mistake.  Two days later she left a small note at our front hostess stand, thanking me once again and hoping to have me as a server in the nearby future.  Enclosed in the sealed envelope was an additional $60.



Rarely.

I repeat, rarely does that ever happen.  Shocked, it just reminded me that stereotypes are a bunch of bull.  No person should be preconceived as guilty for someone else's shortcomings.  Additionally, not every shorted tip was done purposefully. Accidents, just as a server could screw up an order, happen.  She not only went out of her way to apologize, but also corrected and even overcompensated for the mishap.

People like her make me grateful, and also tell me to hit the brakes on making groups of X such a lump sum.  There are other cultures, races, countries that simply do not see eye-to-eye on the matter of tipping or dining ettiquette in general, and that's just the way the world works.  You're not going to win them all.  This isn't a race. I need to slow down, appreciate people for who they are, and never assume.  Yes, we all do know what they say about that, thank you cliches.



And THANK YOU, "Mrs. I" for more than what you should have left.
For proving me wrong, and teaching me a lesson on goodness.
You are an honest person and truly, deeply appreciated.

-Malia Etienette

Photo Credit:
Armed and Angry: www.imfdb.org/wiki/My_Name_is_Earl
"It's Not Obama's Fault You're a Jerk": www.patheos.com
"Tipping Archives": www.madamenoire.com
"Prize Giveaway Tee": www.mindfieldlive.com
Tips Article: www.grownsoul.com
The Giving Tree Cover: www.allisoncherrybooks.com
"Give Thanks Every Day": www.greatist.com
Stereotyping picture: www.madamenoire.com

MINE

Always the most exhiliarating moment for a server... and least favorite moment for the dining guests.... dropping off the check.


It's the time when we are one step away from bidding you and your lovely guests adieu, forget us worrying about if you even tip the full twenty percent or not. Sometimes we are just happy to be getting rid of one more table, sending you out the door, parting ways-- especially if yours is the one with the child who smashed all of their food under the table, if you were uneccesarily rude, or if you ran our asses off when we could have done ten trips in one.



Last night I had a table, who in the middle of my opening spiel, cut me off to tell me, "Before you get any further, let me tell you that we will not tolerate the shitty service we just received over at the last place we were at.  You better have a personality."

Well. I do, and at that exact moment it was about to flip into "bitch mode"...if my words and actions didn't have any weight on my job, I would quipped, "Before you cut me off again, let me tell you that I hope you aren't as hoity and demanding as my last guests."


At that instant, I wished nothing more than to drop off the check-- for the waters-- and tell them to kick rocks.

She was looking up at me with a flash in her eyes, and yet somehow still looking down her nose at me. The woman was mid-to-late-thirties and very well..."maintained" I suppose.  I glanced down at her hands and saw no wedding ring.  No surprise there; if she was willing to snap at a complete stranger the way she just did to me, she probably took a hot dump on anyone she ever dated and sent them running for the hills. It's the instantly recognizable case of crazy woman syndome (yes, we're all a little crazy, some definitely more than others), but I believe I've seen this before:





So instead of satisfying my growing frustration, I killed her with kindness. Kissed her ass a bit.

On the other half of the restaurant, my coworker Britney* was dealing with a much different table. Super nice until Britney approached with the check. 

At The Valley, it is simply policy that we set down the check at the front of the table when service is through unless someone requests to receive it over the rest of the guests.  This part of the policy is the "first come, first serve". 


As Britney presented the check, two of the guests dove for an interception while the book was still aloft in mid-air, Britney's hand still attached to it. Like savage beasts fighting over prey, all civility goes out the window.



This, as servers look at it, is just plain rude.  We come to work to serve food and drinks, not to be mauled and assaulted by guests leaping for ownership of the check. 

Not only that, but then we have to shoulder the hard feelings by those who wanted to pay but lost out to another guest.  Don't fling your shit at me you monkey, look at your friend who snatched the bill out of your hands because you paid last time. 



Where is your grace, where is the class?!
When Britney complained to me, I remembered a time a gentleman nearly took my thumb off as it was stuck in the checkbook.  Plain hostile.

As my mother always put it, when you go out to a restaurant it as though you are eating in someone else's house.  Use your manners. Be polite.  This is The Valley, not a barnyard. This rule of thumb should be in effect from the second you walk in to the time that you leave.  As a server, it is my responsibility to be kind and courteous at all times no matter how unpleasant those I serve may be to me.  As a guest, even though you are being served and are to be having a wonderful experience, it is a two-way road.  We don't care how much money you throw at us (even though money is the root of all evil), it is not worth us having our teeth kicked in.

Golden Rule.  You got it.

-Malia Etienette

Photo Credit:
"The Last Pastrami": www.windsorstar.com
Dropping off Check: www.capitaladvancesolutions.com
"Is Taylor Swift that Crazy Ex-Girlfriend?": www.thetrendguys.com
"Lifestyle- Daily ISO Los Angeles": www.dailyiso.com
"Holy Smokes!...": www.cavemancircus.com
"Bitch Mode": www.someecards.com
Monkey: http://degrassitv.files.wordpress.com/2011/05/monkey.jpg?w=540
"Lioness Attacks": http://assets.nydailynews.com/polopoly_fs/1.1084701.1337980698!/img/httpImage/image.jpg_gen/derivatives/gallery_635/lioness-attacks.jpg
"It's Your Birthday": www.someecards.com