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
Friday, October 3, 2014
Wednesday, July 2, 2014
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
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
Monday, June 30, 2014
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
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
Saturday, May 24, 2014
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
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
Sunday, May 4, 2014
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
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
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