Not Your Typical Post

I've learned, crazy enough, you can't find love in a bar.  Funny, right? Douchebags prowling around til closing time, sniffing out the single and just-drunk-enough-to-make-a-bad-decision girls to wrangle home.  At the same token, girls wobbling around in their sky-high stilettos are waiting for a wealthy man to cover their tab and sweep them off their feet.  This has completely bastardized the tradition and idea of dating...this ideology of gold-digging vs. trophy wife mentality.


I only mention this today because I see this all too often in a city such as this.  Too many couples wed for status or money. I wait on plenty who have chosen this philosophy, and honestly it leaves me a little jaded. 

After I left work today, I received a text from a friend.  He just got a new car...what was wrong with the old one?  Absolutely nothing.  He was told, I'm sure by a greasy-ass salesman, that this new car represents success.  Now that he makes X amount per year, he'll now be able to use the flashy ride to help find a good woman to stay at home and take care of him.

What he said was not only frustrating, but found a very deep sense of sadness within me as well.

A man recently said something profound to me, "No matter how many rooms you have in your home, you can only be in one at a time.  Nor does the size of the room matter...when you close your eyes, it's all the same."  Unfortunately not many people here would agree with that statement.  This city-- hell, Oakland County in general, but this city in particular-- prides itself on status, if I don't have to say it a million times. Material possessions, top-shelf products play a part in who you are.  Forget having good morals and a personality.  How heavy is that credit card in your pocket?  Is it metal? Is it black?  Jackpot.  Hello, baby.


I told him, (here's my free therapy as a bartender) using status and things to reel in a woman will only find you one kind--

A gold-digging bitch. Someone you will grow to resent down the line because no one likes a leech.  Someone that will never meet you halfway on anything.  Probably a daddy's girl who will need to be supported in order to be fulfilled as your love is not, and never will be, enough.  For she doesn't love you unconditionally, but regrettably your bank account.  For better or for worse, as long as you are maintaining her wants, needs, yoga classes, botox, shopping sprees and salon appointments, she will love you.  For richer or for poorer is not an option.  The day that happens, she will find another man more able of supporting her.  

 

Look instead , I told him, for someone who prides themselves on family and the basics.  Who won't toss the future children at some nanny.  Someone who has cleaned a damn toilet in her lifetime, because that isn't beneath her.  Someone who has her own ambitions, with substance and character.  A level head on her shoulders, with a sound reasoning aside from the slight ebb and flow craziness that accompanies anything with a vagina.  Bottom line-- you are looking for your best friend-- not some in-the-flesh blow-up doll. 

And if those qualities-- or the lack thereof-- really DO appeal to you, then I feel terribly, incredibly sorry for you. Your best luck is at the strip club.



But what do I know?  I'm just a bartender.
To each their own.

Cheers.

--Malia Etienette

Photo Credit:
Red bottoms- www.elitedaily.com
Odd couple- www.redorbit.com
I Ain't Sayin' She a Gold Digger- www.epicjaws.com
Titty Bar- www.nydailynews.com

The Truth Hurts

When I began college, somewhere along the way I decided on a Communications degree. These days I'm considering that maybe I should have pursued a psychology degree instead.  Small talk at the bar, exchanging friendly banter turns into a full out therapy session-- 86 awkward chaise, SUB heavy dose of booze.



"Bartender," I was unaware, is also code for "secret keeper of the people". Rule of thumb, if you don't want your business out there, do not make it so widely known. You find out more things than you wish you ever knew. Who's got illegal business. Who enjoys the finer offerings of the titty bars. Who dabbles in wheeling, dealing and partaking of drugs. Who's cheating on their spouse. Enough information to make your head spin, and certainly enough to ruin the lives of half the socialites. 

At the end of the day, "bartending" is exhausting, leaving you with a heavy heart, and a conscience that just feels...dirty. Guilty by association.  Of course, as a bartender, one is expected to listen, nod, smile, offer those two glimmering cents worth of advice and then simply let it roll off your back-- out of memory-- in one ear and out the other. 




Unfortunately that is not always the case. Hearing just about everything under the sun, it can weigh on you and keep you up at night.  So what is the code of conduct here?  The wise man said nothing?  Sometimes it makes me wonder. Is honesty the best policy?

It is well known that the "right" thing to do is most often times also the hardest, and obviously the least glamorous thing to do.  You either stand idly by and watch people hurt each other, or you choose to speak up and become the villain-- even the outcast, marked with betrayal.  Those who stick by you are your true friends. 



Recently I was put on the spot. Word travels fast in a town so small...and I, I took the road less traveled by. Has all of that made a difference?  I don't know.  I know I lost a friend, potentially ruined something big for him.  Only time will tell.  I just know that I'm worn out from playing dumb-- because that is something I am most certainly not. I'm also not a good liar.  Never was, and never will be.  

Sometimes the truth hurts. 

"In the final analysis, it is between you and God. It was never between you and them anyway."
-- Mother Teresa

--Malia Etienette

Photo Credit:
Kid on Couch- www.adsoftheworld.com
Gossip- www.cnn.com
Buddha- www.what-buddha-said.net

THAT Couple

A couple waltzed into The White Rabbit, the new establishment I work at.  The newest attraction is a cute, themed boutique restaurant of the hob-nobbing city which draws in multiple demographics, making me a very happy, and not to mention busy, girl behind the bar.

 

The couple stood at the hostess stand, heads together, pouring over a menu.  After what seemed an interminable time, the hostess stomped over and slapped down the two menus on my bar counter for the two to sit, notifying me they were here for drinks and small plates.  As she whipped around to walk back to her podium I caught the look on her face which only could read, 'Your problem now.'

The couple was interesting to say in the least.  I refer to them as a 'Bob and Susan' couple. The woman, perhaps early thirties had dark, shoulder-length hair that was swept to one side and secured with a barrette.  Her red, sweatered-turtleneck was adorned with a simple yet elegant gold necklace, and her complexion was fair.  She was a silver spoon, country club loving, daddy's girl all grown up.  She clearly held the guy's balls in some sort of death grip seeing as how he was catering to her, waiting for her opinion on everything before making even one decision one way or another.  Some call that chivalry.  To that degree? I call it spineless.

 

He was mid-thirties.  Not a bad looking guy at all, but you could tell he was the computer geek of the bunch-- the "nice" guy.  Side parted hair, glasses, argyle sweater vest. He's the push-over kind of guy who lets her pick out his outfit every morning.  She was arguably the prettiest girl he would ever have a chance with, and he was whipped because of it.
You know those kinds of people you'd rather not have to talk to, but it's your job?  That 
would be them.  I cleared my throat and placed down two bev naps, ready to go through the motions.
 
"Good evening you two.  How is everything tonight?"
 
...Nothing.  I got nothing. I raised my brows at the couple and proceeded. "This is our cocktail menu, and on the back of the food is our wine list in case you two are interested.  Let me know if there is anything I could do for you."  I stepped back and allowed the two for a minute to brainstorm.
 
First check back?  Inconclusive.
Second check back?  Inconclusive.
 

The girl was getting irritated. Raising her voice a few decibels, she began talking in a whirlwind of circles going a mile a minute.
 
"Is that what you wanted? A cocktail? I don't know if I like any of the ones that I've seen. But what about a wine? I think I'll have a wine.  That sounds good to me.  Or maybe I'll just get hot tea. Were you hungry? What were you looking at? Let's get an appetizer.  Oh, you want the ahi tuna tartare?  I've already had tuna today. Mmmmm. No. If you want it you can get it, but I'm not hungry anymore.  I think I'll do the tea. Oh, no, that's right I have tea at home.  There's no point in buying tea while we're out if I just have it at home anyway."
 

Seriously?  It's a fucking drink order, not rocket science.  Are you thirsty, and what are you in the mood for.  Complicated, I know.  I set two waters in front of the two, still deliberating.
So what do I do?  I screw around by my cashwrap for a few minutes, penning out the first few lines to this blog because they are already getting on my nerves.  Sensing that they have gotten quiet, I turn to look over my shoulder.  Ready? No.  False alarm.  They have a tongue down each other's  throats.  Funny, I didn't realize there was a game of tonsil hockey on that evening.  I may or may not have let out an audible "ugh" and frankly I don't care if it was.
I turn back to my work and in a few short, but awkwardly long, minutes they are back to sitting with their hands folded neatly in front of them, menus stacked.  My signal has arrived.
 
"I'm so sorry to do this to you," the woman says with a halfway sneer across her face, "I just realized that we are cooking dinner on Tuesday and we need to go grocery shopping."
 
"On Tuesday?  It's Friday," I retorted almost snorting at the horrible attempt of bullshitting a bullshitter.
 

"Yeah, well with the holidays we need to get it done before the market closes."
Yeahhh...there are three 24-hour groceries that are local, and mind you, it was only 5:30 on a Friday.  The grocery stores were no where near closing time, and even if they were, they would still be there tomorrow and the day after that.
 
"Well?  Happy shopping."  What? Honestly, I had nothing else to say to the couple that could neither be polite nor make sense.  What I wanted to say was something along the lines of 'up yours for taking up the middle two seats at my five-seater bar for absolutely nothing' but I resisted the urge.
 

On the way out of the restaurant, a waitress overheard the couple.
"Did you like her attitude? I didn't like her attitude."
"No, not at all, you're right. I didn't like it either."
 
Spectacular. Glad you tarts could finally agree on something. 

-Malia Etienette


Photo Credit:
Follow the White Rabbit- www.hateandanger.wordpress.com
Nerd Couple- www.imgfave.com
Indecisive- www.calbuzz.com
Ecard- www.dailyedge.ie
Liar- www.playbuzz.com
Quote- www.pinterest.com

Cutting the Cord

Everything that glitters inevitably rusts.  We regrettably toss our favorite sweatpants when the elastic decides to give.  A former lover becomes a friend, or whats even less, a stranger.  Family pets grow old and die.  The homes we love grow too small as our family expands and we leave them, although memory-filled, behind.  There are moments in our lives that often confront us with a decision of manning up, and learning to let things go. 
 

The Valley and I had something I would consider as a toxic relationship.  Like the boyfriend your mother always warned you about.  I always came home frazzled after long, ungratifying and unprosperous hours only to have to return bright and early the next day, wary of the events to come that shift. 

If I said The Valley brought nothing positive into my life, then I would be lying.  I learned that I will not tolerate a lack of respect in or out of the workplace.  I may not be a managerial position, but I am also not your lackey.  I learned that accepting shady offers from the ownership to basically whore yourself out to get ahead in life is not only pitiful, but also the smartest idea to turn down.  I learned that moving on sometimes is the best thing to do even though a given situation may be familiar and comfortable.

 

The last day of working at The Valley, I had a special guest at the bar.  His wife, Katrina, and
 he were very interested in knowing about my life.  Funny, I figured.  I gave them a run down
 of where I'm at in this clusterfuck I call my life.  A bartender working all hours in order to catch up, and eventually get ahead.  To one day, sign back up for school.  Finish the last three classes strong, get that piece of paper and move on.  The gentleman applauded my goals, and reminded me something very important-- something I had forgotten in my years of working in a "yes sir, no m'am" black-hole of a service industry (where dreams go to die) that sucks every hope and ambition you have absolutely bone dry-- That only I am in charge of my own happiness. He  told me that if I wasn't truly, undeniably happy with where I was at, to do something about it, and for the better.  He and his wife paid the $70 tab with $500 and left the rest for me to put towards school.  That was the cushion I needed to finally uproot, re-enroll and march on.

 

 Upon leaving work, I filled out an application elsewhere before heading home.  Determined, and for the first time in a long time, focused, I sat down in front of this very computer and tapped out an email to Wulf.  Leaving out things better left unsaid that would never be understood anyway, like my feelings about him and the practices of the restaurant that I do not agree with,  I finally pulled the trigger after months of wanting to.  This is the email which was sent:

Wulf,

For the past several years you have employed me at the restaurant, I have come to work and done well.  The core staff functioned well as a team, and everyone seemed to be happy.  Life at work seemed to flow.

Since January, there have been changes made to better the overall well-being of The Valley.  I have done my best to power through and accept all adjustments.  There are however some aspects that have manifested over time which I do not see eye-to-eye with.  I could sit here and jot down bullets of my qualms, but at the end of the day it is merely a list, not a 
resolution.  Consequently, I am unhappy in a workplace and my income has suffered as a direct result in turn.

I have been taught that if I do not like a situation, to not sit and complain but actually do something proactive about it.  As it has been said, "only you are in charge of your own happiness."  My goal since joining your staff has been to save up money to return to school.  Since then, I have been running in place, unable to get ahead.  It is imperative that I take the next step to see this through.  Ultimately, I wish to seek employment elsewhere.

I do thank you for your generosity which you have bestowed, the time you have invested in me, and allowing me to help serve your business.  I do hope for your understanding on the matter.  Please consider this my letter of resignation.

xx


It's no surprise to me that I never heard a work back after sending that to the old boss.
Happy trails, Wulf and company.

Shit, or get off the pot.  Whatever it was, I'd reached my breaking point.  I was done. It was time to cut the cord. Torii and Katrina Hunter, this is to you. For not only giving wonderful advice, but following your own as well.  Life is too short to be stressed, to be miserable, to be keeping your head just above water-- Life is too short to be anything but happy, so stand up and be true to yourself. 


--Malia Etienette







Photo Credit:
Moving on- www.diamondindasky.com
Banksy change- www.prince2.ca
Sunshine- www.beingbaileyj.com
Quit- www.zrdavis.com

Nickel and Diming

After sending a carryout through, I left the sanctuary of my bar for the war zone of what I know as the kitchen.
"Kitchen" at The Valley is defined as, "A place you are prone to dodging a constant barrage of foul-sounding Lebanese words, pots, pans, and Mama herself." Ridiculous.

With agility, I wrapped up my order. Hummus here. Pita there. Silverware. Pickles. Pickles, for a pregnant woman with a craving, mind you.  Now, pickles at our restaurant, are like turnips.  Ask and you shall receive.  We don't-- I'm sorry-- we have never charged nor set a price for the item.

I take a few, a "tong-full" if you must, and place it in a carryout container.  Before I could even close the box, Mama swooped in like a bat out of hell. 

Furious, she was spitting out words faster than I could possibly comprehend. "What is this?!"

I blinked at her stupidly. "Uh...pickles?" Not that I had to state the obvious but apparently I did.  They are the pickles you find in a shawarma wrap.  If I can explain this further, they are whole pickles that came out of a can of plenty of other of pickles, which are then sliced into 7 and 8 strips lengthwise. I had put maybe 2 whole pickles in container, absolute maximum.

Mama went bat-shit.  Tried grabbing the container from me.  Tried dumping the pickles back into their prior home.  "This is fucked up man! You charge if you want give free food!  We charge!"

I had no problem with that. Problem solved. "Okay, how much am I charging her?"

"Six dollars, man!"

Are you screwing with me right now?  Six whole dollars for shreds of pickles.  Six dollars is what we charge people who order the olives and turnips appetizer-- which, if you eat where I work, don't order that.  You have no idea whatsoever the kind of container those are kept in, and how they are stored.  Uncovered most of the time for their shelf-life...and by "shelf-life" I mean, we do not throw anything away.

What do I do?  I grab more pickles and throw them in the box.  If I am charging someone six bucks for a measly few pickles, you better bet your ass they will get enough to call it six dollars' worth.
Something told me, maybe it was Mama's reaction, that putting more into the box was the wrong move.  I had added an accelerant to the fire. She screamed and ran. She ran, right to Wulf.  Just my luck.

This had been the second time in a week that Mama had pulled this kind of stunt.  Mama didn't get her way, the alligator tears come out, I get pulled aside and talked to.  Again.  Rinse, cycle, repeat.
 
Princess Serena pulled me aside to talk to me the first instance.  This time, it was the group as a whole.She eyed each and every one of us, little soldiers in her army...little minions, a small force to be reckoned with as without us, the restaurant could not function. 
"You all know how Mama is.  She's older.  She works hard.  She's over-sensitive."
I don't give a damn. Over-sensitive, my ass.  I have to put up with being constantly called out for trivial matters-- things that shouldn't matter.  Thrown under the bus yet again.  I'm tired of it. If Mama is the reason why workers constantly quit, why we can't keep new hires, is unsanitary time after time...don't you think you should reassess her? I didn't learn much in my math classes over the years, but I do understand there being a common denominator, and she is one. Fix it. Do something about it.

What was the solution to the problem?  We will now be charging guests... for everything.  You want another ramekin of ketchup because the first one was only 3/4 full? I'm sorry, there will be a fee for that.  You want more pita?  More lettuce leaves?  Any lettuce leaves because pita already came with it?  Fee with that too.  You'd like a few measly pickles?  We'll charge you 2 dollars for a measly six slices. A few skimpy jalapenos added to that skewer? 3 dollars.  I'm sorry, you would like a refill for the coca-cola you had because it was loaded with ice?  We don't have a refill charge but we will more than happily charge you for an entire second glass.

I hope guests have a problem with this.  I actually hope they make a commotion over it.  Sure, it's a charge here and there, but things add up.  Everything does-- everything but this nonsense.  It just doesn't make sense to irritate people-- regulars-- who have been supporting the restaurant for years upon years over a second ramekin of sauce, a leaf of lettuce, a dollop of hummus.  Who shit in your Wheaties?

Save up your silver, ladies and gentlemen, you are about to be nickel and dimed.

--Malia Etienette

To Be, Or Not To Be Thoroughly Irritated

One hundred. Ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four.


I shook the bill folder and furrowed my brow. Facing the money back around, I counted again.

One hundred. Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four.

(This is the point where I mouth "what the f***").

There was no mistake.  Not only was there no mistake, I had been shorted forty cents.
BIG DEAL, one might think.  Well it is.  If everyone just goes around shorting me twenty cents here and forty cents there, I would owe more money than I should at the end of a shift.  Not only that, but that's worse than working for free which I as a server technically already do due to our hourly checks being taxed out to zeros.  I would be paying money to work.  Oh wait, and then tipping 20% of what I should have made at the end of the night out. I'm sorry, but I'm not having any part of that nonsense.

A bit of what I would call disgruntled, I approached the ladies to see them tucking away all of the change from the twenty I broke down for them into smaller bills.

Biting at the inside of my cheek, I debated what to say as I closed in on them.

"I'm so sorry to do this ladies, but I'm still short forty cents for the tab."

They looked at me like I'd backhanded each across the face.  Yes, I slapped you with a reality check.  You shorted me, and I'd like the rest.  Yes, I did just have the balls to come back over to your table and politely confront you.  No, I did not call you a penny-pinching, Fran Dresher-sounding hag.  I just want my money.

"Oh I'm SO EMBARRASSED !" the first woman feigned.
"Here, this is yours.  Keep it all,"  the second woman chimed in, presenting a crumpled up five dollar bill from her designer purse.

And don't spend it all in one place as well, I suppose.

I felt like Rob Schnieder's bellhop character from Home Alone, holding out an extended white-gloved, finger-rubbing hand.
And the tip, ahem?

Yeah. Goodluck on that one. Go big or go home... just go home.


-Malia Etienette

Cleanliness is Godliness

You can never be too clean-- especially when it comes to the kitchen.
I bet everyone is wondering where I'm going to take this topic of discussion and tie it into working at the restaurant.... keep reading :)



Earlier in the week, I tended bar. Dealt with plenty of carry-out orders since Princess Serena still needs to brush up on our menu. The whole of it.

Mama hauled out of the kitchen doors bearing two bagged meals. Chicken shawarma with garlic sauce on the right-- chicken pot pie with crushed lentil soup in the other.  As I have been chastised before for opening orders at the bar to double check them, I felt the garlic and soup respectively and so I doled them out to their appropriate owners.



No more than five minutes later a call is received-- the woman whom had already hoofed it back to 
work, discovered her shawarma looked an awful lot like a pot pie.  Honestly, I remember how upset I would get when I used to hit up Taco Bell after the bar only to get home with an incorrect order.  This woman had to go back to her job.

Knowing that the last line of defense was actually I to ensure each order's accuracy, I apologized profusely and asked for her to take more time out of her day to head back over and we would replace her meal.  Afterall, shawarma is a quick and painless fix.


Here is where the situation gets sketchy;
The first woman brought back the unwanted pot pie.

I made Mama aware of the mix-up and pressed the matter that a new pot pie be made on the fly for the other customer to take home.  A few minutes later, I pop my head back into the kitchen to see what looks like the same container sitting out on the counter, cooling off and waiting to be resurrected and re-served.

Assuming the worst, I peered into the trash in hopes of finding the original pot pie dumped and discarded. Nothing.

I asked Mama where the new meal was. In a moment's notice, Mama became nothing short of livid, wishing to spit in my face for insulting her so.

"Why, man? Why you say I use the same pot pie? I make it for you new, old one's gone."

I looked at her cross-eyed. Bullshit. I don't need to be a card shark to know you are full of it, and THAT to me is disgusting.  I called her out and ordered another cook to fire a fresh dish, stat.



First of all-- you never know where food has gone or what it has been exposed to once it hits a table, let alone exits the building.
This isn't the White Elephant party where you can re-gift something old and unwanted.
That is just wrong and it crosses so many lines...not to mention health code...ugh.

Mama is the kind of older woman, from Lebanon,  who is stuck in the old country "don't be wasteful" mindset. Throwing away good product is considered sinning, more or less.

So it's Malia 1 Mama 0. It just makes me wonder what kind of unpleasantries I miss around there...
Like the food storage for instance--  uncovered raw poultry dripping into raw red meats and open pans of greens, bloody rags left on the floor of the walk-in fridge, containers of vegetables molded over and sliced off to serve what was good, not to mention things that scuttle in the dark...

I bet it makes YOU think twice about your meal before it comes out next.

One Disgruntled Employee,
Malia Etienette

Photo Credit:
Mr. Clean- http://www.ispot.tv/ad/7t9m/mr-clean-magic-eraser-arm-wrestling
Carry-out- http://www.vintagesignshack.com/carry-out-food-service-magnet.html
Kitty- http://funzypics.funnypicturesutopia.com/board/pins/271/11247
Dirty Secrets- http://www.ecokaren.com/13-dirty-secrets-from-restaurant-industry-experts/
Unsanitary Storage- personally taken

Cashing Out

It really hits a nerve with me when a position of authority is given to someone who is undeserving of such credit... someone who is not experienced nor is willing to learn... someone who is not, nor will ever be, qualified.

I am not griping about this out of jealousy, as I would never want to be stuck in this particular person's shoes.  However I at least know that given the current example, I could set the bar for the standard much more than several notches higher.

Turns out, this gutless wonder was introduced to our owner while on a date with one of Birmingham's most renowned womanizers.  Let's just say she was clearly on the date for the man's money because there isn't much else appealing about him.  Care to know more about the man?  Look for the post "The Great Gatsby".

Serena was offered a hostessing position.  Easy, right? Answer the phone.  Pencil in call ahead requests in a chronological manner.  Wipe fingerprints on the glass doors.  Seat people.  In a rotational method, let the corresponding server know.  Organize menus.  The trickiest part is getting the spelling correctly on all of our daily specials. Wow. Rocket science.

Somewhere along the line, her value as an asset to the team was lost in translation and reassessed by our owner. Why? Like anyone else's guess, because she is pretty and princesses should not have to work hard.  Now, what we refer to as a glorified hostess, Serena is an active floor manager.  To my dismay, she also has the power of creating the schedule so guess whose bar shifts went down... Ding, ding, ding, you got it.

I try.  I try really, really hard to like someone.  My efforts do not always avail.  Sometimes, like with Kat, we bash heads but eventually come around to an understanding.  We even might just become unbelievably good friends.  This girl, I just do not get.  At all.  After being told she was to train as a server to gain a basic knowledge of our menu, to learn our customer service, to actually become physical in our sidework, our in's and out's of the trade....well, she shut her eyes, and raised her brows before opening up again to say, "I wasn't hired to serve."  Just like that, she made "serving" a dirty word... An insult.  A job that is looked down upon as degrading.
 

My point is this-- until Serena knows what we know, has worked as hard as we do, and can honestly say that "she's been there," none of us will ever take her seriously.  She is not part of the team.  This is not a symbiotic relationship.  I am not afraind to call bullshit when I see it.

Picture this.  A patient needs a liver transplant.  The patient preps for the upcoming procedure, takes regimens of pills.  The transplant is completed and the patient must continue taking antibiotics and anti-rejection pills so that the body does not attack the organ, fighting it off as the body would any foreign entity.  If the patient does not put in the work to maintain the acceptance of the organ, the body will reject the liver and the patient will die.  The Valley as a whole, is the body and Serena is the liver.  If she does not put in her fair share, the team won't accept her and the whole kit and caboodle will go out the window.  Simple as that.

It's sad.  To have set roots down in a place.  To spend more time out of every day at work than at my own home.  To gain friendships between staff over the years, and in such a short period of time see everything from morale and ethics to effort go to shit and disintegrate.  People who have invested years into the restaurant have become numb which is the absolute worst... because we're not even angry anymore.  We won't even fight for what can't be fought over because what is the point? We are just mentally cashed out.  We're done.

The worst part is, I am exhausted.  Tomorrow is looking like a 14 hour work day...with the hostess with the mostest.  I haven't stopped grinding my teeth from earlier.  Still frustrated about the evening, I sit and pout and type away my misery... It's easy to say, "Why go back to a job you aren't fulfilled with?"  Because. Beggars can't be choosers. If I had all the answers in this world, I would tell you.  Today, I am sorely out of good reasons and explanations.  I had promised myself this would be the last serving job I would have, and I have tried to adhere to that vow.  What it all comes down to at the end of the day?

A job is a job. A grain of salt is all it is, even if it is salt in the wounds.

-Malia Etienette

Photo Credit:
Attila the Hun- www.motifake.com
The Help- www.magicdvdripper.com
Hate our Boss- www.rottenecards.com

Not My Problem

So it's been a minute...or more like two months.  Since the last post, work has been...well, still changing.  We've learned that the new hostess and head server are the two new faces for management.  As if we couldn't conclude that for ourselves.

Bossy Betty, or Kat as I think I have nicknamed her, has actually moved into my apartment structure and we are now neighbors...
Come to find out, I like her one hell of a lot more now than before.  Plus, it's nice having an ally at work-- especially one that Wulf listens to-- one that I can vent back and forth with, and one that I can happily now call a friend.


With the time that has lapsed, I have come to a realization that fighting everything going on-- the good, the bad and the ugly-- won't get you anywhere.  Sometimes you have to find yourself laying belly up, like a fish waiting to be gutted, and just succumbing to life as we know it.  Taking, and accepting, life on life's terms.  Forcing the issue will not get you nor anyone else ahead, and it certainly won't gain you any friends.  

Now, don't get me wrong, not everything is rainbows and sunshine.  I still have a few qualms with the way the restaurant is now being run, but those will be wrinkled out in time.

For example.... shall we?

Pre-shift meetings.



These are exactly what they sound like.  A meeting held before the shift for the staff to hear what specials are being featured for the day, any out of stock booze or food, and poignant matters.  Like trained monkeys in button-downs, we scribble down what we are told in order to repeat verbatim a hundred times later on.

Princess Serena, the hostess-turned-manager, wanted to make a point.  The new policy is that servers cover the full expense (out-of-pocket) for any beverage or meal that is incorrectly ordered if it is not caught before preparation.  Multiple times, over multiple meetings, Serena has mentioned this policy when bringing to the attention of the entire group who exactly effed up the night before and paid for it. Naming names obviously.  No one needs to know.  We got the memo the first time.  Sure we are all adults and can own up to our mistakes, clearly we have already taken the blow monetarily speaking if we were the ones to err, however we should not have to come into a job knowing we will be singled out and made an example of, day after day.  Who the hell wants to do that?



Not surprisingly, I was even thrown under the bus (by the cook/2nd in line to Wulf) yesterday for a matter that I still stand behind my position firmly.  A guest of mine on Saturday night wanted a chicken kebab however he wished to add jalapenos onto the skewer.  Simple right?  Think again.

I was called into the kitchen and berated that we do nothing special for customers.  This is the meal, take it or leave it (unless of course, you have an allergy, only then are you cleared).  She threw her worn and disfigured hands up in the air at me. 

"I do nothing special."  I  furrowed my brow and looked at her stupidly.
"Nothing special? How hard it is to cut some jalepenos as if they were lemon wheels and stick them on the skewer?  Not rocket science."
"We don't do special orders.  You tell them!" Frustrated, Mama waved my ticket order in my face.
"I'm not asking for a miracle, Mother Theresa!" I wailed, getting pissed off.  "I'll even charge them to add on. What's the problem?"
"Get out. You were told no special orders. It's too hard for me. We don't do.  You tell them.  Not my problem."

That put me over the edge.  Not my problem? What part of "service industry" and "how may I help you" begs to give the response "not my problem" to a guest?!  Exactly my point.
"Not my problem" won't get you satisfied customers, nor will it get people to return and continue supporting the business.  It's a half-assed cop-out.  It's laziness.  It's everything against what basic standards service is about.  Such a lack of passion can be fatal. Shame.
And so I was made an example for arguing indignantly.  Poo poo on you.

Another issue?  We are told-- by Wulf-- to ring in refills on pop.  My problem with that is that the restaurant does not list this policy anywhere in its menu.  Smoothies and juice?  I understand that.  Pop?  Something that costs the restaurant all of a few cents for each glass?  No.
For the regulars that have been eating at the restaurant since day one, no.  Change the policy on them and infuriate them? No.  Nickel and dime every sucker that walks in there, already paying for the "Birmingham" price on our dishes? No.  Until I see it spelled out in the menu so that my guests are aware of this change, I will not abide by the new rule. 



A server approached my table last night.  Asked the gentleman if "he would like another diet coke".
The server went under my account on the computer, rang in "another" soft drink, and brought it out to him.  I was beyond livid.  First of all, I do not appreciate charges to my tables made without my prior knowledge of what is happening.  Second of all, I don't like applying additional charges for drinks when the glass is loaded with ice in the first place. At the end of the day, it's just plain tacky.

As I argued with her about the charge added to my table, she says she stated she would bring him "another," not "a refill".  Would anyone else be offended by this vague, beating around the bush way of saying we are charging you for that next drink if you are still thirsty?

Oh wait.... Not my problem.


So many problems, SO little time. 
-Malia Etienette

Photo Credit:
Fileting seabass- www.academiabarilla.com
Pre shift- www.photos.nola.com
NMP- www.boulderchristina.wordpress.com
Under the bus- www.englishfromfriends.com
No free refills- www.freerefillsamerica.com
99 problems couple- www.bustedcoverage.com

Change

It is said that change is progressive. Change is positive, as long as it is in a forward motion. 
Not all change is necessarily "good" however.  

Take for instance, Kat, one of our newest employees.  With Kat came new suggestions and tips for how to run a restaurant since she was raised in the service industry environment.

Well, there is a phrase that goes something like, "If it ain't broke, don't fix it."
Those are my feelings for her, when it comes to the workplace.

Change #1:  Different containers for our yogurt sauce, ketchup, garlic sauces and barbeque...
Not horrible except I squeezed the container the wrong side facing down (since both the tops and bottoms are identical) and shot myself in the face with the garlic sauce-- reeking of it for the entirety of the day.  Filthy.



Change #2:  The plates the cups of soup are served on will now have a beverage napkin placed on it, which we will refer to as a "soup liner".  For all intensive purposes, it will serve to stop the cup from sliding on the smooth surface of the plate.  It's called a fucking doily. It's not a new invention;  In fact, it's been around since the 17th century, I kid you not.  Why the hell did this just go into effect NOW when I had mentioned it right AFTER I dumped a cup of steaming hot clam chowder on a man's crotch almost two years ago?!  At the time, I was scolded for being wasteful with the napkins.  So the sudden change of heart?  Don't get me started.
 

Change #3:  A marking tray.  When I was told of this, I sat there with a look of "dead behind the eyes".  A what?  Yes, when you remove silverware from a guest, you should take another minute out of your busy night to walk this dish over to them, presenting like you would a dessert tray.  Under a black folded linen lies (you think this would be good, but no) a bevy of both forks and knives. You are to let the guest reach and pick up their own silverware from the plate.

What? Ugh. Gross.  Shouldn't a pump of purell be mandatory before touching? No, you can just hand me a wrapped up linen with utensils, thank you.  In a restaurant where you don't know what bugs are being passed around,  with other guests who are eating with their hands, licking their fingers, picking their teeth, for those that are hacking into their closed fists, sneezing into their palms, uh YEAH, like I'd want their hands all over the community utensil plate.  It is as good as eating the peanuts from the candy dish on the bar. So unsanitary.

Change #4:  If your name is Kat and you are a new employee, you can change the rules of tipping out and decide not to tip out your bartender because you didn't like our policy...  You know, the one that has been in effect since years before you were hired and a part of the waitstaff.  The one that everyone else pays mind to, except  you? Cool beans.  You still owe me; I'll just add that to your tab.
  


Change #5:  It's a free for all.  By all means, if you have not met a table yet (especially my regulars), go up to them and jam your hand in their face to introduce yourself while they are mid-conversation. And then pour the bottle of wine I had corked and chilling for them, ask how their food is tasting, and what else you could possibly get them.  Oh wait... that's my table.  Apparently "being a team" is making your fellow server, or bartender, look as if they are an inadequate worker.  I am four feet away and am capable of serving them myself.  This little stunt makes me appear lazy and gets my tips docked.  Being a team is all chummy and whatnot-- but it sure as hell doesn't pay my bills. 

Honestly, I'm glad we hired someone who not only shows up for shifts, but actually enjoys working.  I just cannot wrap my mind around how much of a Bossy Betty the girl is.  Yes, I know I'm the queen of bitches and moans with this post, but I need a break.  Ask me if I've already confronted her.  Ask me how productive that conversation went... Nada.  What gives?


If there is a disagreement, I will try my best to level with you and see from your perspective.  If anything else, I will try to find a compromise.  I will not however be told how to do my job from a fresh face on the staff working the same position as I.  Must I accept the things I cannot change?  I'm running low on Excedrin-- this is going to be a long weekend.

-Malia Etienette

Photo Credits:
Tea Stained Doily DIY Mel's Monday: www.theoceansidebride.com 
Bar Nuts: www.cooksandeats.com 
Teamwork: www.memeguy.com 
Little Miss Bossy: www.mymumdom.com

Paying it Forward

Hurriedly, a woman rushed through the entry doors. As I offered her service, she pulled aside a seat at the bar, and out poured a hundred words at once- She was a regular customer at The Valley.  She and her family love our food.  She's introduced our restaurant to many of her friends.  She parked a good walk away and needed to use our restroom.  Would it be a problem if?...



Of course not.  Why would I deny anyone that necessity?  We're all only human.
She rambled on that she would leave me a tip, mumbled thank you and hustled off down the long stretch of the hallway towards her salvation.

I get it.  I know, at times, my owner cringes when non-paying customers use our facilities.  He doesn't want the place turning into the stationed port-a-john of the city.  But here's the thing, people aren't going to turn the place into a dump and dash, so relax.  No one wants that awkward walk of shame when they have to ask to use the facility as it is, so it won't turn into a free for all.



She returned with a twenty clutched in her hand, asking for change.  This time around, I denied her.  Why take money for services non-rendered? I simply responded that for the day I need assistance, I would hope the person is just as understanding.

Paying it forward, is what she told me-- that's what I just did.  I know I've mentioned it before but, the way she said it just stuck a chord with me and something resonated.

Last night at work, a regular dining in checked up on me.  Asked how was I was doing.  The whole, not just 'how are you', but 'how are you really doing'? Asked what I would want most in life to be happy and to get ahead.  I told him that it's not like I'm rubbing on any magic genie lamps, but I would more than anything want to get back into school and finish.
 

So what was holding me back?  A lovely little thing called a financial hold.  That's what.  Thanks Education Nazis.  If that's what it took, then he would help.  No questions asked.  No repayment necessary.  Nothing owed.  Nothing creepy.  Only genuine intentions.  He explained how someone helped him out a long time ago, and it was time he repaid that debt.  

Is this Karma?  Is this the cyclical way in which life works?  No, this is him, paying it forward.  Surely I don't want to get too excited, get ahead of myself like I usually do.  But if this is legit, I'll drop everything and break out into my foolish little happy dance... and then get back to the books as soon as possible.  With knowledge comes growth and the ability to make great strides--Then again... when something sounds too good to be true, it usually is.

Steadily, one foot in front of the other, until I can run.

-Malia Etienette

Photo Credits:
90 Sketches in 90 Days: www.larissameek.com 
Free the Pee- A Plea for More Common Sense Customer Service: www.douglaserice.com
Aladdin (Disney Character): en.wikipedia.org

The Camel's Back

Fitting that I work in a Mediterranean restaurant, no? 


This was just it though.  I survived another awkward Valentine's Day (just barely).
Went into work well aware of the fact that Janine would be getting showered-- and I mean, literally showered-- with gifts, roses and those damn edible arrangements.  Flowers then arrived for Stacey. Come on now, at work?  What cheese ball boyfriend does this? The girls do have their own address, right?  As your coworker, I don't care to see the bills you receive, nor do I need a display of affection from your personal life to compare it to the lack in mine.

That kind of shit stings, especially when what you (and by "you" I mean "I") had going on didn't pan out.  I'm just a Bitter Betty sometimes, what can I say?


With that alone, I caught an unexpected adult case of the five-year-old-who-never-learned-to-share...also known as the Jealous Bitch Syndrome.  It's the middle child coming out in me-- although my mother will be the first to tell you and everyone else that as the only daughter, that excuse doesn't count.

So I wasn't in the best mood.  Shoot me.
My boss had been riding my ass all week long, complaining of me being "moody" as it was.  
To be honest,  I had more than just one reason to be moody.  My boss has been considering his generosity toward me to be something I need to repay, if you catch my drift.  What an ugly truth.


He has reminded me, nearly daily, for his "invitation" to arrive, and that he has been patient.
Puke in my mouth.  Really?  Now do you blame me for being moody?  It's harassment... His solution for my piss-pot attitude?  Pull me out from behind the bar while I still have guests sitting there, down to his office in the basement (doesn't sound shady at all, right?), and rip me a new asshole.  Forget asking me what the issue is.  No, instead tear me down for having a problem with him allowing servers to dip their hands into my till while I am out running a lunch delivery.  While everything that is behind the bar is his, as he put it, it is MY responsibility to pay out-of-pocket if my drawer is off the mark at the end of shift.  Forgive me, for being concerned about my financial well-being.  Forgive me for not wanting to have to witness such a showy, dramatic hallmark holiday, and forgive me for not wanting to blow you.

You ask me, why not move on?  Because serving somewhere where you are basically living check to check doesn't allow for you to just up and quit, take time off to look for another opportunity, much less to train and not make what you were making before.  That is at least an entire month's hit-- rent, bills, other unexpected expenses.  This is the world of a server.  Beggars can't be choosers, but I can also only play the game so long.  If I could go back to school right now, I would.  If I could leave where I'm at, you wouldn't have to tell me twice.  But this, for the moment, is about survival.

It's hard to count down the days to a date of departure, when you don't have a set date.
It's hard to carry out a plan you've envisioned but haven't had the necessary resources for.
I guess it's just time to dream bigger, but not just dream, to act. 

For if I don't, this black hole that waiting has been for me might just swallow me whole.




-Malia Etienette

Photo Credit:
"Camel Facts, Pictures and Habitat Information"- www.liveanimalist.com
"Reine Diamonds and Fine Jewelry"- www.facebook.com
"Love: The Ugly Truth"- www.lifescilife.wordpress.com 
"Black Hole"- Vanishin.deviantart.com

"The Customer is Always Right"...Always.

Even when a guest couldn't be any further from being correct on a matter, the fact is-- they are right, whatever the issue may be.  Apologize.  Clarify the problem.  Ask how they would like for it to be solved, or offer a resolution you are willing to follow through with.  It's not that hard.



In my line of work, especially in the service industry, it's called "kissing ass".
Yes m'am.  No m'am. More garlic with that? Absolutely.  Not well done enough? Let me have that thrown back on the grill. Too much dressing on the fattoush? I'll have that remade. 
Yes, sir.  Of course, sir. Anything else, sir? Right away, sir.

That's how I pay my bills.  An unhappy guest means that my tip gets docked.  That doesn't mean that my tip outs at the end of the night are any smaller...which means I'm only losing more money, and that is something a server will  do their very best to avoid.

It was yesterday that I played bartender for the lunch shift. What bartenders do: Prance around. Smile. Make drinks. Appear friendly. Flirt. Giggle.  Twirl their hair. Hell, even wear a pair of these:



YES, yoga pants.  Make mo' money. Holler.

But no, not really. That was the completely glamorized version of bartending. My day is more like running around crazy because carry out orders keep coming in. So it's back and forth from the bar to the kitchen to package orders.  Back out again to greet a new guest. Back in again because it's cold outside and they'd like to start with a soup.  Back out again because that damn phone is ringing yet again and the new hostess hasn't figured out it's her job to pick it up.  The moment you start to walk away you notice that guest finished slamming their third Arnold Palmer and by pushing it forward, they mean to say they'd like some more please.  Before you can turn back for the kitchen you hear the printer spit out a ticket for a server's drinks. And then you're about to break because someone who ordered $80 worth of modified sandwiches for a carryout order didn't tip.  Bastards.

As I am taking a much needed deep breath in, two girls amble in the restaurant and pull up seats at the bar.  One is the owner of the new salon over by the theater, Sweetie Snips*.  I've seen her in here before.  The two are warm and easygoing.  Ordered for lunch is a chicken dish and a beef kebob.
Shortly after their starters, the girls dig into the entrees.

Three seconds mid-chew, the girl on the left scrunched up her nose and began dissecting her meat.
I knew I had a problem.

The issue?  Simple.  The meat was "too fatty and gristly" to chew through.  I, myself, am a meat and potatoes girl.  I could see what her problem was, and I wouldn't have eaten it either.  I apologize and remove the plate from in front of her, and ask if she would care for anything else.  I took the new order and punched it into the computer.  Hustling back to the kitchen, I let "Mama" know what the issue was. 


Wulf, on the other hand, asked what was wrong.  He asked where I had the plate of food-- I informed him that I was busy at the bar, and the dish had been placed in my bus tub but wasn't scraped off.

What did he do?

Turned tyrant. Puffed up his chest and swung out of the kitchen doors. Went behind my bar, pulled out the platter with the barely touched kebob and brought it back around the bar to confront the girl about it. 

"What's wrongs with this?"  Yes. I know I put an S on wrong.  He tends to speak like that.
The girl, flabbergasted to have her meal resurrected from the pile of dirty dishes, repeated herself like an unsure child about to be scolded.
Wulf listened but didn't hear what she had to say.
"No. There's nothings wrongs with this meat.  There's no such things as fats on this steaks," he said as he pinched a piece of meat in front of her face, "because it's a tenderloins cuts." My jaw dropped.
Wide-eyed, I could see the girl start to fume as he turned and walked away from the snubbed guests.


I do not own my own business, but I do know a thing or two about manners and respect and that was anything but.  He started the day off with a crap attitude, taking heat out on the servers and now MY guests? I don't think so.

The girl blinked repeatedly as if to say did that just happen?  Instead, she snapped out of it and chimed, "Hey, I'm sorry, you can go ahead and cancel my order.  I'm not hungry anymore."

I apologized profusely.  At this point there was nothing I could do to amend the situation except to make sure the girls weren't charged for both the tough kebob and the unserved replacement meal.

They were good sports.  I have seen plenty of other people react explosively in regard to less obscene matters and for that, I am grateful. 

As for my boss-- Who's do yous thinks you are?  Yes, Wulf, you.
Rude.

 
(Thank you, Wulf, I'll take this in cash.)

Steaming mad that his inability to properly handle a situation was not only embarrassing, but cost me money, I wanted to shake Wulf to the point of whiplash.  We all know if I said anything against my boss's actions, it would be the equivalent of mocking the judgement of a judge in his own courtroom. Believe it or not, there just may be a right and a wrong way of doing things.  Instead, I picture my mother pointing a finger at me and mumbling that I'm better than that...and maybe something else about being ladylike. So I alternatively count back.  Reflect.

Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
the courage to change the things I can,
and the wisdom to know the difference.


We all have our moments.  I'm just hoping that this one in particular falls into the category of those Wulf would like to take back, or would have done differently had he been blessed with a second chance.  Then again, that almost seems like a silly wish for dreamers, even children.

-Malia Etienette

Photo Credit:
Service Industry Golden Rule- www.slideshare.net
Yoga Pants- www.wheretoget.it
Gristle- www.atheistuniverse.net
Eat It- www.posters.ws
$15 Charge- www.dondalrymple.com
Make A Wish- www.sleekcover.com