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
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