None For You

Every restaurant has a head chef. Ours just happens to have his own cookbook with his face plastered across the front, selling for damn near $70 up at the hostess stand.  Williams and Sonoma, as much as their shit is over-priced, doesn't have many books for seventy bucks. I'm not sure what load of crap we're peddaling, but come on already.



A bit about our little gem- Ricky*. This chef is from Lebanon...green carding it perhaps? He's cultured, sure- but very self-serving. The kind of person that seems to be looking down his nose when speaking to you. He's spoken of having servants in Lebanon from when he was growing up.  A cook. A chauffeur. A caretaker. A maid. In his culture, if you have the means and the money, you can buy just about anything. 

There had been a time, on a very busy night that an oil had fallen from my apron, shattering in the doorway going into the kitchen.  Frustrated, I held the door open so no one else would swing open the door, and slip on the mess. I called for Darlene*, one of our bussers, to grab the broom since I had no idea where they were.  My intentions were good, not to use her to do my dirty work for me.

Appalled and horribly offended with my apparently brash and brazen request, Ricky took it upon himself to ream me out for using Darlene. How dare I.  Who was I to order someone else around? It's not like he has ever demanded another person do his bitch work. Nope. Not him, definitely not. It's not like I'm tipping the bussers out 20 bucks a night on top of their hourly wage or anything. That would just be ridiculous, right? Ha! Shame on me!

In times like these, I'm itching to snap back. The words, sharp and callous, sit on the edge of my tongue simply begging for me to open my mouth and let them rush forth.  I bite my tonuge, feebly mutter "I'm sorry". Forcing an apology in livid disagreeance.


So last night we had a regular come in.  Bobby*. The guy is awesome. Very low maintence.
Bobby's straight up New York accent makes me think of the Soprano's every time he stops in for a visit. Quite comical. His family owns a meat company, and he had brought it two different kinds of deli meat for the servers to test out.  The meat gets put out on the back expo counter in case any employee would like to sample it.

What happens?

Ricky swoops in, confiscating the food from the servers and hiding it.  One pack is wrapped up and goes home with Mama*, our real back of house chef who comes in at the crack of dawn to prep everything for the day.
"This-" he scolds us, "is property of Wulf."
Seriously? It's fucking deli meat, that was handed by its original owner to the servers as a treat.
"Until it is okayed by Wulf, no one can have any." Um. It wasn't like we were stealing anything.

That's that. We were a little shirked, but went about our business.

Not even twenty minutes later, what do we see in the kitchen? Ricky shoveling handfulls of rolled up meat into his pie-hole, and snapping pictures of himself doing so on his iPhone.

Are you kidding me??

It's not always the interaction out on the dining floor that gets under the skin of the employees during shift, but those who work right alongside them.

If Ricky did something (ANYTHING) other than come in for just a few hours, and order others around- taking long breaks, disappearing off into the downtown, take ten minutes with my food that is getting cold so he can decorate it with parsley, and feel the need to rub elbows with and smother the big names in the area with "on the house" extras and special treatment....I might like the guy.

Ricky...
What a primadonna.


-LM

Photo credit:

http://www.cooking-culinary-arts-schools.org/wp-content/uploads/2012/10/Head-chef-TS.jpghttp://www.customlicenseplatesandkeytags.com/images/LP-1138%20MY%20BAD%20!!!%20License%20Plate%20-%20X340.jpg

Youtube:
Marina and the Diamonds- "Primadonna"http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S8httDjxJqI

Mind Your P's and Q's

 

She watched me curiously.  Like I was an exhibit on display.  I felt naked...raw and exposed- like one of those sushi serving models. 


"Can I help you?"
"Oh, ha," she blushed. "I was just noticing your eye makeup."

...Really? It's like if I didn't speak up to break the intense, rock solid eye contact, you were going to leap up over the table and make out with me, all animalistic-like. Geeze, weirdo.

"Well, thank you, I..." before I could put my two cents in, she butted right back into conversation.
"Yeah, how many shades did you use?" she asked, her predatory gaze narrowing in on me.
Caught off guard, I hesitated.
"I...I don't know. Four maybe, five shades?"

"Uhmmm...yeah," she droned like Bill "O-Face" Lumbergh from Office Space, "You really only need three." Now- I never said I was an expert in cosmetology.  I simply put on my face, come into work, clock in, serve food, deal with some people that are pleasant and some that aren't as much, clock out and go home.



Yeah...Did YOU get that memo?

She continued, "The reason I ask is because I do makeup over at 'X' Salon and I could totally do you over if you'd like.."

UM. Hold it, sister. Who is this broad? Do me over? That implies that you're fixing something that is wrong in the frist place, and thank you, but I think I look damn fine today.

You'd think I looked like THIS girl:


I saw the way you were eyeballing me earlier.  Unless this is some sneaky way for you to get your face super close to mine...(Kidding). Look lady, I know this is just you fishing for business, but where is the tact in a back-handed compliment like that?!

What have I learned???

TEN.
You're kind of an asshole, and I want to hit you square in the face.  And by kind of, I mean completely.

NINE.
I had a really long day thus far, and you're only making it longer. Thanks for that.

EIGHT.
Well, you're not so cute yourself either.

SEVEN.
Fix my makeup? Please. Let me fix your manners.

SIX.
Good grief, you and your materialistic, cloned friends are just as self-absorbed.

FIVE.
AUUUUUGH. Just....DAMNIT.

FOUR.
My mother taught me better than this; Just nod and smile.

THREE.
God, I'm crabby. Did I eat lunch today?

TWO.
Wait. What was I bitching about?

ONE.
So. Did you want the falafel in a wrap or as an entree?

EXHALE.

I think I'm getting the hang of this afterall!

me: 1
bitches: 0

So I might be coming off a little bit like my shit don't stink...and know, I don't truly think that.
If you have worked in the service industry or a similar field, you can relate to my qualms, and if you haven't- well...you simply would have to walk a mile in my shoes.

-LM

Photo credit:

Grassroots Motorsportshttp://grassrootsmotorsports.com/forum/off-topic-discussion/good-god-almighty/53637/page62/

Disabled link. Google image.http://memegenerator.net/instance/28653096

Youtube user: Wonderland Makeup
"Everyday School Makeup *Spoof*"http://youtu.be/gfAxkNsw-zI

On Having Grace...(1/20 post contd.)

So that last post got me thinking... and reminded me of my very first night on the floor, still in training, at The Valley*. 

I spilled clam chowder on a man who came in to dine with his wife.
First of all, it was an accident...and honest mistsake. I am not the most dainty thing you've ever seen, and the amount of available space to set food on the table is extremely limited.  You have a table that is just shy of 2'x2'. Working with this space or the lack thereof is literally like playing a wicked game of Tetris- something I was NEVER good at.

After placing two waters, two glasses of wine, two sets of silverware, a large metal wire bread basket, salt, pepper, olive oil and two plates for the bread...well, there really isn't any room for much else.

As I greeted the table with the two cups of soup, the wife made room for hers and I set the steaming cup in front of her. I turned to place the husband's down, and in doing so, he pulled the bread basket to give his wife more room, but had tapped the plate I was holding which carried a cup of piping hot, delicious homemade clam chowder.



I watched in horror as the cup ominously glided towards him on the small china plate.  It hit the lip of the plate and some of the chowder had jumped, right out of its rightful home onto the crotch of the man  whom was conveniently wearing khaki pants.

Suddenly the man stood up, barking mad.

Furious, he spit the words "incompetent," "clumsy," and "stupid".  His face was beet red and he became so livid, he could barely spew out any other monosyllabic dig. The man wanted me fired.

I stammered, visibly upset, and began apologizing profusely.

Not good enough. They weren't having any of it.



"What are you going to do? PAY for our meal? Are you going to PAY for our dry cleaning bill?" the wife had chimed in, shaking her fists. Calm down, Barbara. You're telling me as a housewife of someone in the OC, you don't know how to operate a washing machine? Stop the jokes, you're killing me.

My plan of action: BLAST him.
No...I wish, but not like that. It's an acronym for servers to handle angry birds like this one.

Believe that he is right no matter what. Even though he knew he should have just sat back and let me place the soup in front of him without almost knocking the entire bowl out of my hands...he's right.
Listen to why he's so upset.
Apologize as if there ain't no tomorrow.
Satisfy the guest. I already had sprinted to retreive soda water and a fresh towel.  At this point I had to alert the manager and owner to handle the rest.
Thank them for their understanding.. I actually wasn't given the chance to pull this one out of my hat, and I'm glad I wasn't.  Having to squeak out those two little words to them following the insults made directly to my face would be one majorly bitter pill to swallow.

The couple refused the continuation of my service after the clam chowder catastrophe. Do I blame them? Not entirely, but as a guest, if this was to happen to you...how would you react?
I certainly wouldn't have caused that big of a scene. Yes, our soup is hot but not scalding. It wasn't red wine that you were splashed with.  You are a grown man, act like one.

Kill him with kindness.

When found in a situation that puts you under stress, pressure, or simply puts you on the spot, the way you react is a blatantly vivid and quite accurate description of the kind of person you are- not just the one you portray yourself to be.
Showing a little grace really could go a long way, especially in this particular guest's case.

I know I'm no saint when it comes to this. I've lost my cool before- havent we all?  All of these encounters have only helped me to further put my own life into a better perspective and analyze things differently.
Since that day, I haven't made that mistake.  I can't say he's changed any though.

-LM

Photo credit:
The Wall Street Journal
"Fish Joint Reels in Crowds"
http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424127887323777204578191712092560422.html

The Steve Scott Site
"The Stupid Guest Author Post Need Not Apply"
http://www.stevescottsite.com/stupid-guest-post-authors-need-not-apply

My Mother Used to Call Me Grace

 

There's nothing like a busy Saturday in a restaurant.....
Chaos ensues as tables are ushered into The Valley.*
I sometimes feel like I'm trapped in an episode of Hell's Kitchen with Gordon Ramsay.
Cooks bark at eachother- at you- in foreign languages, I'm sure none of which is very nice



The owner can be found at either table 1 or 21 with his cronies. Half the menu is dished up in front of him as well as a bottle or two of our most expensive wines. This happens every other night. How are the finances not in the red?? Anyway...

A show is put on.  One fun thing about this place is the amount of space there is to freely move. If we are on a wait, the walking space is further constricted. Tables are placed practically on top of each other. Since I can't stand in the aisleway, my tuckus is literally chilling in someone's husband's face as I try to take an order. Cute, I know. It's rather uncomfortable at times.

I had rung up drinks for a table close to the front entrance. I stacked them all neatly onto my serving tray: a few classes of wine, a fruity martini, and of course the breadbasket, salt/pepper, and olive oil.

My first route is completely blocked by the bar, so I head for the center aisle.  Of course at this time, it's only fitting that the rest of a party joins a booth.  Instead of just sitting down like normal people would, these Desperate Housewives get up and do that creepy squealy thing you would expect from a fifth-grade girl.

I held my breath and put a valiant effort into refraining from rolling my eyes.

"I haven't seen you in forever!"
"Oh mah gah! You look sO GoOd!"
"Lookit your hair!"

AHH gobbeldy gook!! Sit down!!

"Ahem...uhh...es'cuse me.." I say in a polite, not-too-loud voice...

Nothing. They were flipping their hair, and the bantering ensued. The weight of the tray started to bear down on my grip.  My hands started to clam up, and my balance wavered.
Seriosuly now?

"DRINKS BEHIND!" Hah. Gotchya. Thank you very much.
As I smiled and began to navigate my way around the obnoxious women, my foot knicked one of their oversized luggage bags of a purse that was conveniently placed in the walkway.


My tray unsteadily  jogged forward and back again.  The oil shot out in front of me, smashing on the hardwood floor, splattering everywhere.  The wine was saved, as it swirled in the stemmed glassware, but the martini sloshed, spilling and soaking down my front.

Of course the women sat there and glared at me, the klutz that I am.

Awesome. Now that I smelled like a French Whore (which most definitely was the name of that particular martini), I had to head back and deal with cleaning up the mess. Ah, rubbing salt in my wounds.

My mother always used to call me "Grace" just so I would have some. Very fitting. She clearly didn't use it enough. I never was the ballerina, as I was actually kicked out of little kid ballet class. How I ever came to be a waitress is beyond me!

I mean...I literally felt like THIS poor girl:

Pretty bad, huh? I find certain instances like that very trying. I'm trying to work on my patience in dealing with others. I'm learning to breathe and just "let it go".  I know it's not a race.  And lucky for me, at the end of the day, everything comes out in the wash.  Tomorrow is a new day.

-LM

Photo credit:
www.areyouscreening.com

Foodspottinghttp://www.foodspotting.com/reviews/1489273

The Inspiration Room
"Carlton Draught in Slow Motion"
http://theinspirationroom.com/daily/2010/carlton-draught-in-slow-motion/

Youtube Video:
"Clumsy waitress falls through window" posted by jutube123

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xE5WPAfTA40

Accepting All Applications...Just Not Yours.

"Ohh myy..." she muttered under her breath as a gentleman came into view through the entry door.

"We're not hiring," she said.

How can you say that?!? Especially when we have the HELP WANTED sign pasted up in bold, royal blue letters right outside our front window?



He just stood there. Head bowed to the ground, staring dumbly at his feet. He wrang his weathered hands around a winter hat.

I recognized him from having seen him in the restaurant before. It hit me.  His clothes were the same.  The EXACT same. This hinted that it was either one hell of a coincidence, or that this really was his only set of clothes.

A wave of sympathy and guilt rushed over me.

Fumbling through his pockets, he retrieved two folded up pieces of paper. Applications.
He had completed two, and in handing them over to our front of house General Manager (I use this term very loosely), Christie*, he made a note of it.  He looked up and made eye contact. At first reproachfully, but he soon found his confidence. One of these was to go to the owner, the other was to be saved in case that first one was to be "lost" again.

Christie's perfectly ski sloped nose wrinkled.  Her dramatic eyebrows furrowed.  Ive seen it before; this was the look of judgement.

"Um, thank you," she reluctantly obliged, confused that he didn't listen to her original statement- or perhaps at his dogged determination. "We can keep these on file and we'll contact you if we have an opening."

He looked at her, dubiously, knowing full well he was being blown off for the second time.
Scooping a handfull of saran wrapped peppermints out of the bowl and scurrying them into the front pocket of his Carheart, he left.

Like many of the men who have approached Christie in her lifetime, she- the maneater- just as easily shot this one down. She even joked about it, flashing her pearly veneers, as I caught the words "dirty" and "homeless" being thrown around.



The message was clear. "You are not good enough."

Why couldn't we just give him a shot? We need the extra workers. Sometimes I say I hate my job.  Okay...that's a bold-faced lie.  A LOT of the time, I say that.

This is someone who wanted to work- who needed to work, just to live.  Not for the luxuries of new Louis Vuitton handbags, or manicured extensions.  He needed it just to eat. And you're going to deny him an interview because he isn't as well off? ...Must be nice, having that power.Shame on you.I talked the matter over with my mother... "You should tell your owner," she said.  "If the man needed pants and a shirt, I would buy him pants and a shirt.  You need to tell Wulf*."
Would Wulf care that Christie snubbed an opportunity? Probably not. but then again who knows. All I saw this as, was futile.  Turning in someone above you, as I have learned from an earlier experience, doesn't always work in your favor.

I nodded in agreement, partly to appease my mom but inside I know it's a losing battle. It's such a sour, bitter chord that it hits. The want to make a difference, and the knowledge that no matter what you do, you are doomed to fail. 

Times like these make me that hardened person I warned you about in the first post...
They bring out the ugliness in people. The reality we unspeakably thrive off of. The undeniable, poisonous truth.

I don't know what's to become of him, or where else he went that day. I don't know if there was a single kind soul in this city that took pity, or shed a light of mercy on him.  I don't know if anyone saw hope in his willingness, his display of being proactive, or his potential.


If anything, I hope he found what he was looking for.

-LM

photo credit:
Rhode Island Future
"Tales of the Unemployment Crisis: Trev Hedge"
http://www.rifuture.org/stories-from-the-unemployment-crisis-trev-hedge.html

University of Nebraska-Lincoln News Blog
"Are Americans applying fordisability as an 'early retirement' http://newsroom.unl.edu/blog/?m=201105

Yes, Please- May I Have Another?

What do you think of when you picture a waitress?

Do you picture one of those cute, fifties coney girls from the movies? The ones with the skates and the unnatural perma-smiles plastered on their faces, like they came straight out of a Zoloft ad?




Or the Hooters broads with the barely-there spanks and tanks and tall, crisp white socks?
A statuesque figure in a neatly pressed, spotless tuxedo shirt, a snug bow tie and black floor length apron? 
Or even still, a crotchety, squat woman in a food stained screen-printed tee with a notepad whipped out, rushed on taking orders?

It's funny, when you're actually in the game you begin to see things slightly differently.

To me, I see an entirely different world being unveiled.
I see an overworked student who has to stay up late tonight to write a term paper.
Someone who worked the last twelve or thirteen hours straight without a break, and who also had to eat in the back of the kitchen, standing up.
There's a single mother who has to work the closing bar shift to provide for two other mouths, no thanks to a deadbeat dad.
An actor, not as successful as he dreamt he'd be, turning tables in hopes he'll one day see that silver screen.
Others are struggling because of the dismal job market, the cut backs and stagnation.
 
Where I work at, a fine establishment called The Valley*, our servers come from all different areas of life, but no matter what restaurant you're at, there is always a common theme or struggle with these workers. It's why we're here. This is our indentured servitude.  Yesterday I worked from 10am until 10:30pm. I pocketed maybe fifty dollars after all was said and done, after buying lunch on my break, tipping out and paying $10 for parking at a structure that rakes in half a million dollars a year by itself.

Fucking scam.

Sometimes I find it frustrating, this whole "serving" thing.  I'm back in college for a full 16 credits this semester, just so I don't get stuck in this job for the rest of my life.  My only life other than school IS work. A whole 37 hours a week outside of my educational schedule. When do I find the time to do my homework? Not really sure. Sometimes it falls to the wayside. I take "burning the candle at both ends" as kind of a motto for life.  It's my natural high, and also what may just be the end of me. Even with reading this over, I'm sounding like a bottle of piss and vinegar. =[



I work in a extremely affluent city filled with professionals and business owners alike.  Elitists. When asked, outside of work, what I do for a living, I get a few raised eyebrows.  It's embarrassing at times when your cousin owns his own house and is a school teacher- he's two weeks younger than I am. I'm almost twenty-five.  It's embarrassing when I know half of my high school has moved on in their lives, and have families of their own.  It's embarrassing when lawyers in the area ask my major.  Upon responding with Communication, some scoff.  Tell me I'll never get anywhere with that degree.

And all I really want to do is to tell them, they can take their silver spoon and shove it up their...

Asinine statements like that really should just be brushed off, but they still break me down.  When calling my name, use it.  I had to learn the menu, and memorize your complicated order to a T. The one you modified four different times, creating a custom meal that doesn't even exist with what we have to offer. The least you could do is remember the name of the person who will be handling your food.  And no, gentleman, it's not "sweetie" or "hun".

When asking for a refill, if I haven't noticed your half empty glass already, it's "When you have time, could you..." or "May I..." and oh man..."Please and Thank you" work WONDERS. Not this "Hey, get me a..." or my favorite- waving the glass around in the air like you're looking to make a toast. And please, don't snap your fingers at me.  I have six other tables that I'm juggling, and I am for sure working one hell of a lot harder than your trust fund child ever will in their entire life.

I'm at work, but I'm not your lackey.
I'm your server, not your slave.
I'm your waitress, not a mind-reader.

If you need something, simply ask nicely and thou shall receive. 



For those who understand:  86 Rudeness, SUB Manners.

A little respect goes a long way.

And NOW? On to the rest of my homework..

-LM*

Name of establishment changed to protect privacy.

photo credit:
www.freakingnews.com

Meghan Mitchell "Tired Waitress" http://society6.com/mitchellpostproduction/Tired-Waitress?show=promoters

http://www.danlikesthis.info/2012/05/please-and-thank-you/

Welcome to The Waiting Game of Oakland County

“IT” is not too enticing. Certainly isn’t a white-collar career. You don’t even need a degree.

 

It’s not knowing how much you’ll bring in on any given day. A slow week could mean late or even unpaid bills. It’s adding insult to injury- tipping out a chunk of what you make every day to other workers who may not have done anything for you, and then having to pay for parking as well. It’s having someone order $165 worth of food and then stiff you on the tip, or better yet having someone dine and dash. Little do they know, although it is illegal for a company to do so (at least in MI), the restaurant may make the server cover that tab out of their own pocket.

It’s putting up with people’s attitudes, and trying to not have one yourself- from parents with ill-disciplined children and needy Gucci-toting yoga moms to dealing with the rudeness in other cultures. It’s having to greet that last table that walks in 5 minutes before the kitchen closes, and then being stuck at work for another two hours.

It’s just like the movie…with the exception of messing with the guests’ meals.

It’s sexual harassment. It’s working at a private restaurant with no superior to the chain of command. It’s being blacklisted from any other serving job in the city if you open your mouth to file a report because the owner has the Chief of Police in his pocket.

It’s mind games.

It’s learning to shit or get off the pot.

You need a thick skin, because something as silly as this can leave you a very hardened person. The stress can boil you down to be nothing more than a mere eggshell, too fragile, expected to crack at any moment. You've got to learn how to juggle, and let what's not important just roll off your back.

It’s a stepping stone, a place to keep your balance long enough before you leap onto something bigger and better in this life.

Then again, it could always be worse. This is the world of waiting. Welcome to a day in the life of your average server.

My hopes in this blog are to offer a little insight from the person taking your order...perhaps anecdotes, a lesson here or there, maybe even what to keep an eye on as a customer- or just some humor.

-LM

img. taken from www.sarcasticreviews.com