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

Chatty Cathy Can't Keep it In

Have you ever met someone who likes to hear themselves talk?  So long as the other person has a pulse and is willing to listen, they'll keep rambling on-- about anything and everything because let's face it, they are somewhat of a Know-it-All.


She was too dressed up for a Monday.
White top with gold embellishments.  Nails match the shirt.  Shirt matches the jacket. 
Jacket matches the purse.  She had it going on.  Of course, if anyone wants to be someone in Buckingham, you have to have it going on-- or else you're a nobody.
She sat up at the bar, kiddie corner, facing me.  This girl had brought a friend whom she spoke over the entirety of her stay.

After seeing my apron on the counter, our Nosey Nancy jutted into my conversation with my friend,
"Where is it that you work?  I'm over at Jekyll Place."
"Is that so?"  I was almost amused that even being off work, all she wanted to talk about was work. "Right now I'm down the street at The Valley."


"Ooh.  Have you worked with Chantelle?  So glad we got rid of her."
"Yeah, that's nice. I have... every Thursday through Saturday."
Again, some more information poured out of her.
My ears were beginning to get that drowning-out sensation.  You know, that buzzing that creeps up when you're trapped in an airplane next to a passenger who won't shut up about their four fully-grown children and what they found with their metal detector (true story), but something she said sparked and completely resurrected my interest.

Her beady little eyes sparkled and danced for but a moment as she awaited my response. However, I had not been fully paying attention until now, as I caught myself.
"I'm sorry?" I said as I had her repeat herself, "I didn't catch that."
"Malia? Malia Etienette.  Do you know her?"  She leaned forward, perched in her seat, propping her chin in her elbows on the counter.



Stunned that a complete stranger would bring ME up in small talk, I set my fork down and stopped eating. "I do, yes."  I carefully weighed my options with this conversation, "I do work with her."
"That girl is crazy.  Seriously. Every girl that works with you is crazy."
"What makes her crazy?" I wondered. It was weird.  I've never had to refer to myself in the third person, but this made a game out of it.  Nosey Nancy clearly had no idea that Malia and I were the same person.
"She used to date a friend of mine who manages next door, Evan.  He dumped her because it sounded like she was a trainwreck."
Ouch....not.
"Well" I asked, "have you met her?" I already knew the answer but was willing to be entertained.
"Once,"  she copped, "They were fighting. I don't even know about what."

The server where I was eating lunch at poked his head into our verbal match of ping-pong.
"Ooh.  I love gossip.  Who are we talking about?"
My eyes narrowed, "Malia from The Valley," I said with a huge fake smile, my face frozen as if to say you better not say anything. His eyebrows raised at the incredulity as he got back to his sidework.

I continued, "That's actually why I was told they broke up.  They weren't good for eachother.  Oil and water, and to be honest I heard he wasn't a very nice person as it was.  There were mind games, and he'd put her down a lot.  If they weren't arguing, I would say there would be something very wrong because I wouldn't have put up with being treated like that."
"Oh is that so," Nancy sneered.
I looked at her straight in the face, "Yup."

Nancy got in a few more jabs before I finished up and closed out my lunch tab.

She put her wallet back into her own purse and paused for a moment.  Quizzically she looked up at me, "Do you like her?"
I beg your pardon... now you want to ask me? 
"Yes, actually.  She's got her good days and her bad days, but don't we all?"

She began to collect herself as if to leave while I hurried out of my seat.
"I'm Vicki, over at Jekyll Place by the way."
"So nice to meet you too," I smiled as I slung my purse over my shoulder. "I'm Malia."


Her beady eyes, previously full of attitude and gall, suddenly widened as her face drained of color.
I'm almost certain she even pinched a nugget in her panties.

But here is a nugget (of wisdom) for you.

There are certain things you can and cannot say in public-- especially to a stranger.
Just because I work at the same place as the person you are talking about, does that mean I want to hear what you have to say about a definite acquaintance and even possible friend of mine? 
How badly do you want to make yourself look?  Who are you trying to impress? Does slandering someone else's name and reputation make you feel better about yourself?

I censor myself because I do not know who may be reading my articles.There are those who may be able to connect "Buckingham" as the actual city I am referring to. I change names for the protection of personal character as well as the right to privacy. Choose your words with caution.



Like Nosey Nancy, you might not know the identity of the person you are speaking to even in a face-to-face confrontation.  

I'm tired of the drama and the gossip that exists in this litte bubble of Buckingham, I really am.
It's just very coincidental and non-expected that word about myself manages to make it full circle.
Well, Vicky, so does Karma :)

My mother would say, "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all."

-Malia Etienette

Photo Credit:
"You Talk Too Much"- www.ashevillestrength.com
"Mr. Men's childrens books by Roger Hargreaves": www.squidoo.com
"Gossip: Recognizing and Repairing Relationships": www.katykelly42.wordpress.com
"HI My Name Is":  www.tumblr.com
"Fuck Censorship on Spill": www.my.spill.hollywood.com

Playing "I Spy" is NOT Part of My Sidework, M'am

Typically when the phone rings at The Valley, I'm used to hearing carry out orders.
Questions about the menu.  The occasional telemarketer. Do we have call ahead seating?
Is so-and-so's credit card still at the bar from when he may or may not have left it the other night?
Where are the restaurant located in this itsy-bitsy bubble of a downtown?
Is our food kosher? Is it halal-- which I had no idea what the hell that meant the first time I heard it.
No. No one at the slaughterhouse prays over the animals from which we receive our meat. 


A thousand and one questions come pouring in daily.  People always say, no question is a stupid question.  I fairly believed that until I answered a call the other night.

It was about 8 o'clock, middle of rush and every seat inside and outside of the house is filled.
Orders are beginning to back up in a very hot and congested kitchen that is now understaffed and disorderly.

"Thank you for calling The Valley, this is L, how may I help you?"
A hurried and anxious woman spoke up on the other end of the line. "I'm looking for someone at your establishment.  She's about 5'5" with short dark hair and glasses and her son is pretty tall for his age.  He's 15.  Are they in there?"

Hold the phone.  You want me to what?  Look for two people who fit two very vague descriptions.  Do these people come with names? First of all, we are a mediterranean restraurant...most guests have dark hair to begin with.  Second of all, would height really help me to find two people who are already SITTING?  Probably not.



I peered around the booths and tables. Mind you- I'm no longer ten years old with all of the world's time on my hands with my nose jammed deep into a book of Where's Waldo.  No two people sitting together fit the description when I scanned the room, so I returned to the phone.

"No, m'am.  I don't see the two in here.  Have you tried calling their phones?"

"You didn't hear what I said.  The restaurant isn't that big, I don't care if it's busy.  Don't stand there and tell me that they aren't in there still.  That is where they said they would be eating. Put me on hold and go look."


Alright lady.
This is where I draw the line.  I'm busy. 
You're taking me away from my tables. 
You're also snide to top it off.

I handed the phone over to Wulf, who after I explained the call, squinted his beady eyes and cocked his head to the side as if to say "WTF," swiftly hanging the phone up with the woman still on the other end.



Apparently there are such things as stupid questions.
Don't waste my time, and I won't waste yours.

-LM
Photo Credit:
Where's Waldo Archives: www.the305.com
PicArt of phone: www.a1vox.blogspot.com
"I Got This" baby: www.creatememe.com
Ecards:  www.2to5.list25.com

Multitasking is a Must

If you must know, I am sitting in what is considered the food court or commons area of the university I attend, eating a bowl of some kind of orange, cheesy, chalk-full of chemicals and probably-not-good-for-you soup of the day.  Yum, right?



It was either this or two other options that were equally as appetizing.  Makes me want to hit the track and run a mile afterwards just to ensure I don't clog my arteries. and stroke out before class

I've just finished purchasing not one, not two, but EIGHT different texts for two of the three classes I am enrolled for.  I am now again, after this piggy bank breaker, broke. 



What ever happened to keeping it simple?

 

While struggling to haul my horribly unhealthy food choices and three bags of academic literature to a table near an electrical outlet, I receive a call.

Guess who wants me to drop everything and come into work?

Nuh uh, honey.

First day of classes back- last semester to complete. Philosophy, Ethics, and Studio Art.


With the 16 credit hours in-class and one online course, I am also working 40 hours.
It leaves me wondering how this is even possible.  If I can juggle training new employees, hostesses that don't answer the phones, and super high-mainenance (yes, this is another word for needy) tables... I think I might just be able to manage.

Hopefully this semester goes by as quickly as a busy shift.


-LM

Photo Credit:
Piggy Bank Breaker- www.fwallpapers.com
What is Philosophy?- Warren Tang's Blog- www.warren.chinalle.com
Clip from Billy Madison starring Adam Sandler