99 Problems (But Fresh Fish Ain't One)

It was a long and rainy evening.  I was bored off my toes, even though we were starting to pick up.  I had two of my three tables filled, and I walked into the Alley to make an unfortunate discovery: we were 86 fresh fish.  No tilapia, no salmon, no trout, no sole, no grouper, no cod, NO FRESH FISH.

I should explain something here.  I LOVE to sell fresh fish, because I thoroughly enjoy fresh fish.  We have a number of really exquisite preparations for our variety of fresh fish, and my good friend who was our CGM (Captain Grill Man) that day knows how to cook a fine fish.  But some guests just come in and order ridiculous, obscene things.  Like fried salmon.  Who the hell wants fried salmon?  Not only is it nasty tasting, it's nearly impossible to fry a good hunk of salmon properly so that it's both cooked through and not burnt.  So I prepared to inform my guests that I was terribly sorry but they could not ask for preposterous fresh fish flavor-freakshows for their evening meal.

Have you ever been multitasking so hardcore that, in addition to all of the important stuff you're doing, three songs get stuck in your head at the same time?  It's as though your attention is so divided that the division of attention becomes sentient, and like a supercharged comic-book amoeba begins an epic-mitosis such that you fear you may never focus on one thing again.  But you don't care, because it's not hurting your game since you're so awesome.  ...Maybe that's just me.

Anyway, I had three songs stuck in my head at the same time, and the third one was Jay-Z's "99 Problems (But a B**** Ain't One)".  So when someone in the Alley asked me, "Yo, C-Man, can you believe we're out of fresh fish?" (silly newish server, of course I believe it), I couldn't help but respond, "Dude, I've got 99 problems, but fresh fish ain't one."

And it was true.  I had something like 99 problems at that moment.  Fifty were personal life issues, twenty two were professional concerns, eighteen were romantic strife, seven were guests, one was that I was hungry and wasn't getting out of there for another four hours, and one was that one of the other songs stuck in my head was the chicken dance.  Not one of those problems was that we were out of fresh fish, because my good friend, I didn't really care.  I was hungry but I wasn't craving cod.

And he burst into laughter.  First he couldn't believe that I listened to rap music, which I found hilarious.  But more importantly, he thought that would make a fun parody, and I had to agree.  So I began composing a full-length parody as I walked around the restaurant.  I dropped off food, refilled drinks, did my thing, and between trips I'd stop to jot down a few bars.

The result of that, my fun and faithful readers, is right here for your enjoyment (explicit version).  It's a rough recording over the Jay-Z/Linkin Park remix, because it was fun and easy to record and I just don't have time for anything cooler than that.  The lyrics are posted below for your convenience.

NOTE: EXPLICIT LYRICS


99 Problems (But Fresh Fish Ain't One)
Lyrics by Cal-L, 2-21-2012

If you’re havin’ seafood problems I feel bad for you, son.

I’ve got 99 problems but fresh fish ain’t one.

I got the food patrol on bad mood patrol

The whole restaurant’s ticked ‘cause we’re busy till close

Shrimpmongers who say they want me on my toes

I’ve seen it all, stupid, this ain’t my first rodeo

Running food till holes in my zapatos

So I’m celebrating the minute I cash out with dough

F*** shrimpmongers, you can keep your five percent, yo,

If you don’t like to tip, you can go to McDonald’s

You got beef with me, yo, order steak, mofo

I don’t play your games, I don’t give a s*** SO

Fat cats ask for everything one at a time

And pay for it in cash, can’t even leave me a dime, f***ers

I don’t know what you take me as

Or understand the patience it takes to serve your ***

So I’m sorry, we’re out of salmon. Fry your own cod, son

I got 99 problems but fresh fish ain’t one.

I’ve got 99 problems but fresh fish ain’t one.

If you’re havin’ seafood problems I feel bad for you, son.

I’ve got 99 problems but fresh fish ain’t one.

It’s the year 2012 and my nerves are raw

Right behind me, it’s a manager thinks she’s the law

I got two choices, y’all, put the tray down or

Bounce on the pedal, drop the food to my four (top)

I ain’t feelin’ a fight, I’ve been on since lunch

Plus I’ve got a few dollars and some time to munch

So I set the tray down and I look at her hard; I heard:

“Son do you know what I’m stopping you for?”

‘Cause I’m young and I’m hot and my food goes the same –

Do I look like a mind reader? I don’t know your boss games.

Am I gettin’ written up or should I guess some more?

“Well, you’ve got eight biscuits there for a table of four.

Let me see your salads, and please stop by the bar.

Are you carrying a check book on you? I know a lot of you are.”

I ain’t stoppin’ off for nil, all my guests’ drinks are filled.

“Do you mind if I take a look at table five’s bill?”

Well, my guests are cashin’ out and the other table is fine

And don’t worry, I know exactly why my guests are here to dine.

“Well, aren’t you sharp as a pin, you remember to drop napkins, get everything else for them?”

Yeah, I’ve got it all covered, and no thanks to you

So I’ma take this tray out and drop my food.

“We’ll see how smart you are when recertification comes.”

I’ve got 99 problems but fresh fish ain’t one.

I’ve got 99 problems but fresh fish ain’t one.

If you’re havin’ seafood problems I feel bad for you, son.

I’ve got 99 problems but fresh fish ain’t one.

Now, once upon a time not too long ago

I had this guest at the end of the night on the flo’

This is not a guest in the sense that I want him there

But a shrimpmonger, and trust me this dude was done rare

I tried to appease him, get him some bread,

Make it easy ‘cause some fools just love to be sleaze

You know the type, loud as a motor bike

But wouldn’t drop a quarter on the Turnpike

Only thing that’s gonna happen, he send his steak back in

He gonna be yappin all night to the captain

And there I go, tellin the CGM

My guest don’t know what medium well means again

Trying to get his meal comped, complains again

I don’t even care what he’s sayin’ again

Manager tried to stick me with the blame again

Written up because I talked plain again

All because this fool was haranguing him

Tryin’ to play a server like he’s saccharin

But ain’t nothing’ sweet ‘bout how this steak’s grilled, son

I’ve got 99 problems; your fresh fish ain’t one.

 I’ve got 99 problems but fresh fish ain’t one.

If you’re havin’ seafood problems I feel bad for you, son.

I’ve got 99 problems but fresh fish ain’t one.

Let's Play Read the Guest's Mind! (Listening Skills and Why We Need Them)

So it's been a while because I've been too busy with real life to care much about work, or writing about work, but I need a break from reality for the next ten minutes or so. 

When you're dining out, at, say, my table, it's one thing to receive psychic service.  For instance, yesterday a guest ordered a fried shrimp meal and was astonished that my next question wasn't, "Which side would you like with that?" but rather, "With fries?" because that was exactly what he wanted.  He was outright amazed that I knew he wanted a Caesar salad, and wowed even more by the fact that earlier, I had pegged him as a cola dude. 

It's an entirely different thing to expect psychic service.  Do you go to the post office and stare blankly at the postman until he forks over some stamps or an envelope or reaches across the counter to snatch the package you want delivered out of your hands and send it to an address you haven't yet given him?  Do you go to the electronic entertainment store and silently gape at the sales associate until she divines that you walked in hoping to find a copy of Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman season one?  If you answered, "Yes," to either of those questions, you're an intensely screwed up individual and it's probable that you rarely get what you want.  Most people would answer, "No, of course I don't do that."

Then why, prithee, why, would you go a restaurant expecting that kind of magic.  Yes, I'm sometimes able to judge a book by its drink order or attitude, but 1. contrary to popular opinion, I'm not always right, and 2. psychic waiter vibes are like good songs on the radio: sometimes they're right there when you flip the channel, and sometimes you need to sit through some routine ditties until they play your jam.  So get with the program, folks. 

Yesterday I decided to play a game.  I compared what these ridiculous restaurant-goers probably wanted from me with how the conversation would normally have gone.  You can play along!  The first one's easy...

"Hi, I'm Calvin!  How are you?"
"Uh, diet coke." (Didn't have to wait too long for that one.)
"Excellent choice there, sir." Not so excellent listening skills there, sir.
 Note that any normal person, when asked how they are, would probably respond with a qualifying adjective, a description, maybe even a reciprocation of the inquiry.  Imagine this exchange happening in the park while you're out for a walk.  You say, "Hi, how are you?" to a stranger, and they reply, "Diet coke."  Also note that the utter insanity of that scenario does not preclude, in this strange world, the possibility of it occurring.  But it really shouldn't happen anywhere.

Let's try another one.
"Your meal comes with a side and a salad.  What kind of side would you like with your meal?"
"Yes."
Language barrier? Nope. And this was a different guest from the previous example. 
"We have your choice of mashed or baked potato, fries, vegetable, or rice."
"Okay."
"So you'd like fries, then?"
"Caesar salad."  Whoa, skipping ahead there, buddy.  I'm not up to salad yet.  I'm still trying to get your side out of your mind, or at least your foot out of your mouth, because there is an issue at hand that we have not yet addressed and you're talkin' nonsense, partner!
"Okay, Caesar salad, but are the fries okay?"
"Sure."  Score one for Calvin! 

And.... my favorite. 
"Hi, my name is Calvin and I'll be your server today.  What brings you in on this fine afternoon?"
"..." Not even looking up.
"If you like I can get you started with something to drink and an appetizer."
"..."
"We have cola, diet, orange soda, lemonade... we also have some great drinks at the bar..."
"..." Hasn't even opened the menu.
"Do you need a few minutes to decide?"
Oh.  Ohhhh.  You're texting under the table, which I couldn't see from the other side of the table.  So you're not just pointedly ignoring me, you're also being rude.  A considerate person would have asked me for some more time from the get-go, to relieve me of the embarrassment, wasted time, and frustration of having talked at a wall for the past two-and-a-half minutes. 
"I'll be right back."  I began walking away.
"Hold up, man."  I should have kept walking, but I didn't.  "I want a pop."  Oh, I'll give you a pop. 
"What kind would you like?"
"Uh... what do you have?"  Oh, you mean you didn't already know?  Hmm.  Backhand, knuckles, thrown brick...
"Cola, diet, ora--"
"Gimme a diet."
"I'll be right back with that," jerk, "sir."


Well, it's been fun communicating with you, readers, but alas, I must get to work again.


Next time, we converse with a tractor!

On Not Tipping

I had a three-top come in yesterday and I worked really hard, as I always do, to ensure an enjoyable restaurant experience.  They were set on being ornery and surly.  I just kept doing my thing, and they didn't tip me.

Whatever.

I was having a decent night anyway, so I just let it go. Yes, I was somewhat disappointed; it's always unfortunate when people suck at life.  In this country, going out to eat and not tipping at all is stealing.  If you're doing that, you're receiving services and not paying anything in return.  You've paid for the food you ate, sure, but you did not pay to have it prepared, brought to you, negotiated properly from the kitchen, to have your table kept clear of extraneous dishes and your drinks filled, etc.  Effectively, serving becomes slave labor at that point.

When the table of unhappy people departed, I began busing that table and pre-bused my other two tables, who were in the middle of an enjoyable meal.  When I returned, Blaire, one of the bussers, had finished busing my table.  I thanked her and was about to go fetch some drink refills when she stopped me and handed me four dollars.

"It was hiding in the salt and pepper caddy."
"Oh, cool! Thanks!"
"Yeah, I figured I'd give it to you 'cause I found it.  Don't forget to tip out the bussers at the end of the night!"
"I never do."  I smiled and thanked her again and then continued on my merry way.
 I had that same feeling you get when you find money hiding in the couch cushion or under your car seat.  Yay! Money I didn't have before!

In the back of my mind, of course, I was considering what I'd just made.  Their check was $67.00.  They left me $4.00.  That is roughly a 6% tip. 
Six percent, before tipping out the bartenders and the bussers, is not enough to sustain me, people.  The system into which we enter our tip information at the end of the day for tax claim purposes even automatically low-balls an estimation at 10%; if we enter anything under 10% we need a manager's approval to ensure we aren't trying to claim less than we really made.  So to those of you who think ten percent is an excellent tip, please take that into consideration.  Nutshell: it's not.

Servers work very hard - even the bad ones, really - and we don't get compensated enough by the establishment for which we work because they expect you to tip us.  Not tipping a server at all is like saying, "I'm an ungrateful jerk and I want you to work for free and live on the street." 
By the way - we may have a catalog in the back of all the guests who don't tip, or have left less than seven percent for their servers.  So we know who you are, and you probably shouldn't come back. (I'm sure you can read between the lines.  If you can't, watch a movie or two.)
Or maybe we don't.
Or maybe we do...

Points for Commiserating with Your Waiter

This is Calvin to the whole Scarlet Crustacean World: Shrimpmonger alert!  Sound the alarm.  We've got a two-top of raging Shrimpmongers on the lose.  This is a code twelve - they are to be considered frustrating and ignorant, so maintain a safe distance.  Over and out.

Ah, yes, I thought, striding up to my table at the back of the restaurant, here are some happy ladies.  I was being sarcastic with myself - See? I treat everyone equally, myself included - because these ladies, if they can be called such, wore the most disgruntled frowns I think I have ever seen.  It's like they had gone to plastic surgeons, and when asked if they wanted face lifts, they said, 'No you ***hole, I want my face dropped!'  The surgeons undoubtedly figured it was impossible to make their frowns even deeper, and I'd be willing to bet they had to consult at least three or four more before finding someone to physically etch disgust into their faces for them so that they wouldn't have to continue exerting effort on showing their hate for the world; they could do it while sleeping. Such happy guests have I, this shall be a wonderfully simplistic, simply wonderful meal.  I wished I'd had chain mail under my crisp white shirt.
"Hello, ladies.  How are you today?"
"Go get me a strawberry lemonade. She wants an iced tea, no sweetener. And step on it." 
You want me to step on your drinks?  Not a problem.  I'll be right back with the squashed, seafood- and dirt-ridden remains of your glasses and a random mixture of formerly safe liquids for your enjoyment.  "Sure, I'll be right back with your drinks.  Before I head over there, though, allow me to explain some of our newer menu selections."  Oh, what?  You didn't think I was going to just bolt over to get your drinks immediately, did you?  I have things to discuss with you ladies.  These menu items demand descriptions elegant in imagery and eloquent in delivery. 
I ran through the promotions, taking care not to speak too quickly so they could savor every sensational word.  Then I went to get their drinks.

"Here you are, " I said, laying their drinks in front of them.  "Are you ready to o--"
"I want a make-your-meal deal with the salmon and the fried shrimp and the scampi."  She frowned at me (purposely?) as I jotted down her selection. I think I'll call her Frowny. "How big is that salmon?"
"It's the standard half portion.  The same size you'd get if you ordered the lunch salmon, for instance."  I gave her the weight in ounces.
"Whatever that means.  It better be big enough, that's all I can say."  I sincerely doubt that's all you can say. She looked at her friend.  "You go on, now."
"Yeah, um." The friend rubbed her second chin with a meaty hand.  She shall be Chins.  "I guess I'll get me the steak and shrimp.  Make that steak well done.  Very well done, I don't want no pink in my meat."
"All right," I said, and repeated their meal orders back to them to ensure I had written it correctly.  They each ordered a Caesar salad with extra dressing, so I said I'd be back with those in a moment.

While they had been ordering (me around) I had had another party seated at the booth behind theirs, so I went to greet them before fetching the Shrimpmongers' salads.  Three kind young women, probably in their mid-twenties, smiled back as I welcomed them and introduced myself.  I took their drink orders, with which they were ready, and went off to get the salads and the new table's drinks.

"I asked for extra dressing."  Frowny was glaring at me again. 
"I brought you extra dressing; it's right here."  I pointed to the two ramekins of extra dressing I had laid on the table.
"Oh. Well that won't be enough.  Go get me another one." 
Right away, Miss DeVille. "Of course.  And I'll bring some more bread, too."  They had scarfed all the bread on the table while we were talking.  I couldn't be sure I had even seen them put it in their mouths, let alone chew it.
They nodded and ate, Frowny twisting the corners of her mouth down while she chewed her salad and Chins shoveling leaves into her mouth as fast as she could stab them with the fork.  I turned away and stopped over at my new three-top.  "Here are your drinks, ladies."  As I passed the sodas around, I heard the girl closest to me on the left - we'll call her Smiles, for her personality seemed the exact opposite of Frowny - shushing her friend to her left.  The friend, Shana, had been whispering something when I arrived.
"Oh, the diet was for her," Shana said, and passed the drink I'd given her to the third girl, Flirt, across the table.  Flirt looked at me and blinked her big brown eyes a couple of times.
"You forgot my order already?  I thought I was kind of memorable."
"I, uh..." Truthfully, I'd forgotten which of them had ordered which drink because the Shrimpmongers in the booth next to them had completely wrenched my attention away with their claws of doom as soon as I'd jotted the orders down.  "I'm sorry.  It won't happen again."  I widened my eyes and put my right fist against the middle of my chest as a promissory sign.
She laughed.  "No problem.  But we are ready to place our meal order, if your memory's ready for that."
"Oh, no worries," I replied.  "I have a pen and a pad."
I took their relatively simplistic order down - when Smiles wanted to make a substitution, she said she was sorry as if the substitution was going to ruin my day, though I assured her it was no big deal - and then I proceeded back to the alley.  Once there, I retrieved drinks for my third table, salads and bread for the three-top of really nice girls, extra dressing and more bread for the Shrimpmongers, and punched in the three-top's order.
"How ya doin', Cal?" Pam asked me while I was traying up the salads.
"I'm okay, thanks.  Just getting stuff together for my tables.  These Shrim-- this one table has me running around something awful.  You know how it can be."  I stopped myself from saying 'Shrimpmongers' to my manager, simply to avoid that conversation.  It's hard to explain, having coined a term with which to label unsavory, uncaring, selfish guests, that the label is applied retroactively rather than stereotypically.  It's also a conversation I didn't have time for, if I didn't want Frowny DeVille to try to bite my head off and to use the blood for dressing since I didn't bring the second ramekin of Caesar in time.
"Yep.  Well, you'll be all right, I'm sure."
"Thanks.  I'm sure I will."  I smiled brightly and whisked myself over to my tables again.
I performed what we in the waiting business call 'silent service' and simply left the extra dressing and bread on the Shrimpmongers' table as I passed.  I, uh, didn't want to disturb their conversation.  Proceeding to the next booth, I dropped the salads and bread for my three-top and asked if everything was all right so far.
"It really is, Cal, thanks!" 
"Yeah, this is perfect!"
"You're awesome."
Oh, yeah.  I aim to please.  I promised to return with their meal as soon as it was ready.

Minutes later I walked the Shrimpmongers' food to them.  "Here's your make-your-meal, and here's your steak and shrimp.  Is the steak done all right for you?" I looked at Chins expectantly and she dutifully cut into her steak.  She opened her lips to say something but was sharply interrupted by Frowny.
"What is this?!"
"What's... what, ma'am?"  I can't read your mind, lady.  Yes, I'm a psychic waiter, but if you recall, severe Shrimpmonger hate-radiation has negative effects on my psychic waiter powers.
"This."  She pointed at her salmon.
"That appears to be the salmon, ma'am.  You did ask for salmon, fried shrimp, and shrimp scampi, yes?"  She's going to tell me, 'No,' that she didn't ask for that, that she had ordered lobster and I'm such a stupidhead idiotman with my dumbwaiter moronicness (and I will have to explain to her that, even if I was a stupidhead idiotman with moronic tendencies, there was no physical way I could also be a dumbwaiter).  I thought wrong.  That's not what she said.  Instead, she said:
"This ain't no salmon.  This is like a bite of salmon.  This is not supposed to be this small, is it?"
"I'm sorry, ma'am; as I said when you ordered, the portions in the make-your-meal are standard half-portions designated by weight. Would you like to place an order for some more salmon or something?"  I smiled daggers at her.
"No.  This is ridiculous.  If I'm paying sixteen or seventeen dollars I'm gonna get more than just a tiny piece of fish.  I don't want to order anything else, I want you to fix this, right now."

I waved my magic wand and her salmon grew three sizes bigger.  Her heart remained three sizes too small.

Okay, that didn't actually happen.  Instead, I used my most reassuring, calm-inducing voice and said, "I'm sorry you're displeased with your meal; I'll go inform my manager and see what we can do for you."
"No, I don't want you to get a manager.  I want you to fix it, and I want you to do it now.  This is ridiculous," she repeated.  

I bit back the diatribe about hierarchical structure in corporate society, about business protocols, about decorum when dining out, about personal hygiene... I just swallowed all the venomous words I felt compelled to vomit all over her and her meal, and rehashed the situation - "I will be right back after I speak to a manager for you" - before ignoring her commands to stop and striding into the alley to see Pam about the situation. 

"Pam, I need to speak with you for a moment, please."  She was in the middle of helping the A/C tray up food, but she immediately gravitated to a place out of the way of passing servers to hear what was going on.  I briefed her on the Shrimpmonger situation.
"So what do they want?" she asked.
"I have no idea."
"What do you mean, you have no idea?"
"I mean she won't tell me.  She said she wanted me to 'fix' it, but wouldn't say how, and then told me specifically not to involve a manager.  Statements like that send up red flags for me.  Don't you agree?"
"Yeah, definitely."  She pursed her lips and furrowed her brow, as she does almost all the time.  This time she looked thoughtful. Though, I might have misread thoughtful from implosive exasperation.  "Well, I don't know what she expects, but I'm going to go find out." 
"Thanks.  I appreciate it."  Truly, I did.  Pam's a great manager - she gets things done, she works hard, and she cares about her employees.  That, and she's got tons of experience in this business, so she's handled insane people like these before.  Better her than me.

I took this respite from Crazytown to drop the check at my third table who had only wanted appetizers after all, and drop the three-top's meals.
"Hey, ladies!  Miss me?"
"We sure did!" Smiles was smiling at me. 
Shana laughed.  "Well, we really were just hoping to see the food." 
"It's right here.  The seafood alfredo for you..." I passed her dish to her.
"The steak and shrimp for you..." I set the plate in front of Flirt.
Her eyes lit up.  "This looks great!"
"Excellent - just cut into it and make sure it's done right for me, please."  She did so and nodded.
"And... here you go."  I set down the chicken entree for Smiles and asked them if everything looked okay.
"It's perfect, thanks, Calvin," said Smiles.  I had set my hand on the table casually when I asked if the food was all right.  I was about to walk away when I felt a hand come to rest atop mine.  "Hey, Cal," Smiles whispered.
I raised my eyebrows and nodded.  Yeah?
"Are they seriously still complaining?"  She furtively pointed behind her with her thumb, right at the booth where the Shrimpmongers sat.  Funny, I had tuned them out and not even realized, but now that she said something, I could hear Frowny opening her frown enough to issue forth a continuous stream of verbal condemnation.
I turned back to Smiles and nodded again.
"Wow.  That's ridiculous."  I didn't miss the play on Frowny's own words, and I smiled at Smiles.  Shana elbowed Smiles and shushed her, clearly worried that Frowny and Chins would hear them.  Smiles continued anyway.  "Did they even look at the menu?  They're complaining about how freaking small the portions are here.  One, that's crazy; the portions are more than big enough.  And two, the menu tells you exactly what you're gonna get when you order."
I could not have said it better myself.
"And," Flirt cut in, "You explained it to them, anyway.  I heard you."
I'm glad someone was paying attention, I thought.  "Heh, yeah.  It's all right.  But I'm glad your meals are all right.  Let me know if you need anything else, okay?"
"We will," said Flirt.  "But we're good right now, thanks." 

I met Pam in the alley to find out what she had worked out with the Shrimpmongers.
"She wanted a steak."
"Oh.  Well, that's not too crazy.  I mean, she only ordered an entirely different meal originally.  Of course she wanted steak, now."
"No, that's not so bad.  But she wanted it for free.  I'm not charging her for the make-your-meal since she decided she didn't want it, but I'm charging her for the steak.  It's not your fault, Calvin; she just wanted to get a free meal out of us and she's going to do whatever she can."
"So what's the new order?"
"Steak and shrimp.  Steak well done.  Mashed potatoes."
"Oh, so exactly what her friend has."
"Yep."  Pam narrowed her eyes at me.  "It's not your fault.  It'll be all right."
"Uh, Pam?  I'm fine.  Truly.  Amused, a little annoyed, definitely exasperated, but I'm not all broken up over this.  Some people are just..."
I struggled to find an appropriate word - appropriately descriptive and appropriate for the workplace.  Pam saved me the trouble.
"Exactly."
I returned to my tables to bring drink refills and check in.
"Can I bring you ladies anything?"  I directed my attention to Frowny.  "Would you like some more bread while you wait for your new meal?"
"No, I just want my steak."  She looked as sullen as a vampire and as angry as the Hulk.
"I'm sorry; I'll have that out to you as soon as it's ready.  The kitchen wants to ensure that it's done properly and to your liking."
Chins slurped down another huge bite of her steak.  Half her meal was already gone.
Frowny just kept looking down at the table in front of her.  "I've never complained at a restaurant in my life.  This is ridiculous." Not the most inventive motto, but I guess it works.
"I'm sorry," I repeated, "but if there's anything else I can do for you, please let me know."
"I told you what I wanted, and I didn't want you goin' off and gettin' your manager, but..." her voice trailed off, dissolving into a string of obscenity-laced tongue-lashings.  Then she turned her head entirely to her left, away from me and toward the wall.
"If there's anything else you'd like, you just let me know, okay?"
She continued to face the wall. 
"Ma'am?"
She remained turned.
Are you serious, lady?  I haven't encountered immaturity and outright rudeness this thick since I was a teenager and my three younger sisters were on the same monthly cycle.

I shrugged and moved on to the three-top of girls who I knew were having fun despite these women, and with whom I knew I could share a much needed laugh again.
"So, I trust your food continues to taste good, ya?"
"Mmmh," Shana began, downing a bite she had been working on when I approached, "totally!"
"Uh..." said Flirt.  Her voice had a low tone and a hint of hesitation.  She raised her eyebrows and slightly tilted her head, in a subtle motion toward the booth behind them.
I covertly shifted my eyes and saw, in my periphery, that Frowny was actively making fun of Shana's enthusiasm.  Making exaggerated faces.  Waving her hands, mouthing the word "totally" over and over again.
"What are they doing?  What is going on behind me?" Smiles was not looking exceptionally smiley.

"Don't look," Shana said.  I could tell who the voice of reason was in this group, and boy, was I grateful for her. Smiles started to turn around anyway.
"Hey, we should totally say something to them.  They shouldn't be so mean to waiters, or anyone.  And they're offensive to other customers, right?"  Stacy was clearly looking for retribution.  Part of me wanted to see where it would go.  The other part of me still enjoys getting paid.
"C'mon, Stacy, we don't wanna get Cal in trouble," said Flirt.  So Smiles had a name, too.  "Besides, they're just being stupid."
I helped Flirt out and switched gears.  "So, you never answered me earlier - what brings you girls here today?" 
"Well," said Shana, "basically, we were out using gift cards we still had from this winter and we thought we'd get some dinner here 'cause we all love this place."
"Oh, that's awesome!  Glad you decided to come here," I said honestly.
"Hehe, us too."  Flirt blushed.
As all of this was happening in hushed voices, I could hear the conversation the Shrimpmongers were having a few feet away from me, as well.  The crux of it was this: Frowny was still ticked off that her steak wasn't already ready for her, though she had requested it be done well, and Chins had already finished her meal.  Frowny was also bothered by the fact that I wasn't put off when she blatantly ignored me.  Score one for Calvin, killin' 'em with kindness!
I smiled, reminded the three-top that they could let me or another server know if they needed anything, and went back to the alley.  They were really nice to me the whole time they were there, and they get extra points for commiserating with the waiter.  I was all over their table; they never had to ask for drink refills or extra sauce, and though I didn't interrupt them or hover around them while they did their thing, I managed to be in range whenever they needed me - which wasn't often, because they weren't needy, demanding Shrimpmongers.

My manager brought out the new meal for Frowny when it came out.   She told the manager it was fine and waited for me to approach the table again to check on them before telling me she wanted it boxed up right now - she didn't want to waste any more of her time at this place. 

When everything was boxed up, I left the check - which I had ready - on the table for them and returned to the three-top to see if the girls wanted dessert.
"No, I don't think I can fit another bite.  But... I can't believe they're still b****ing about this.  Like, why did you even go out to a restaurant if you're just gonna be in a bad mood the whole time, no matter what they do to please you?"  Smiles -- ahem, Stacy -- really empathized with me.
"I'm glad you all are having fun," I said, changing the subject again.  "Seriously, this table is a breath of fresh air.  You can come sit in my section anytime."
"Haha, we totally will," said Flirt, "but maybe we could sit behind some different people.  Or no people."
"And maybe you'll be a little more subtle about flirting with the waiter, Jamie," muttered Smiles a bit too loudly.
I courteously pretended not to hear that, thanked them again for being awesome, and thanked the restaurant gods that the Shrimpmongers were taking up the check I'd left and getting their money out to leave.


I thanked the restaurant gods too soon.


They weren't getting their money out.  They were pulling the check out of the check binder and scrutinizing it with scientific intensity.  "Calvin!"  Frowny beckoned me.
I mentally hung my head in resignation and walked over to the table.
"What is all this about?"

It took me a full ten minutes to explain the itemized check to her - I had to physically do the math for her on a piece of paper before she'd believe me that the computer was correct in its calculations.  No joke.  And the whole time she complained about how she shouldn't have to be paying for any of it, anyway.

And I did all of that hard work... for free.

A Monday Night Encounter

Because I close on a lot of Monday nights, there is a certain Monday night phenomenon I've noticed.  We get a lot of one-tops on Mondays, compared to other nights.  You could say that a lot of people come to the Crustacean with a case of the Mondays. 

This one particular Monday night, a few months ago, we were especially slow.  I was working Zip, maintaining my tables without a problem and making decent money considering the infrequency of guests.  At roughly 8:15, I brought out the tray of two Big Shrimp meals for my lone teenage two-top and stopped at my newly seated table to greet the gentleman sitting there, alone.

"Hello, sir, welcome to the Scarlet Crustacean.  How are you tonight?"  I stretched my cheesy-waiter-smile across my face.
By the lines near his eyes, the man looked roughly fifty, perhaps a few years older.  He wore an expensive, dark gray business suit and a tie that contrasted well with his fully light gray hair.  I guessed either lawyer or stock-broker; no, I thought, correcting myself, definitely lawyer.  He doesn't look haggard enough for a stockbroker, these days.
Lawyer-Man looked up from the menu and smiled back. "Hi.  I'm excellent, thank you.  How are you?"
He actually paused for a response.
"I'm doing great, thanks.  My name is Calvin; I'll be your server this evening."  I asked him if he was familiar with our promotions and he said he was, so I cut to the chase.  "What can I bring you to drink tonight, sir?  We have some great drinks at the bar - the new Sam Adams is on tap."
"Hmm... I'd like a strawberry daiquiri, please.  And I'm ready to order my meal, as well, if that's all right."  He folded the menu properly and passed it over to me.
"Perfect," I said, "what would you like?"
I took his meal order and went to the bar to pick his drink up.  The table with the teenagers was set, the kids thoroughly enjoying their meals by now, so I waited an extra second to ask him if the drink was to his satisfaction.  Lawyer-Man took a polite sip of his drink, closed his eyes, savoring the flavor, and smiled kindly.  "Yes, Calvin, this is fine."  Before I could walk away, he was talking again.  "So, Calvin, is it usually this... uh... busy on a Monday night?"  His eyes danced around the restaurant to further make his point.
"It varies," I responded.  "Sometimes it's busier, sometimes it's even deader than this.  Sometimes it's just like this.  It's comfortable, though, right?  Coming into a restaurant when it's not busy, I mean."  I was humoring him with the small talk, but I was serious about what I said.  I've always preferred dining out when the restaurants I would visit were quiet.  In most places the service doesn't change all that drastically, but the environment, the atmosphere, is entirely more comfortable.  You're not as pressed for time, there isn't nearly as much ambient noise, and everyone -- the hosts, the servers, the management, even the other guests -- everyone is more relaxed. 
"Oh, of course.  But you'd probably prefer if you had more people here tonight, right?"
What a gentleman!  This guy was not only polite when dining out, but he could fathom what it would be like in my position.  "Yeah, I wouldn't mind if we were a little busier.  The night's not going too badly, though, considering the light traffic.  It's nice, every once in a while, even on this side of the table, to get an easygoing evening."
"Do you like working here?"  He took another sip of his drink and kept his eyes up when he spoke to me.
"I don't dislike it," I cautiously admitted, "though it's not my career."
"Oh?  What is your field of choice, then, if I may ask?"
"I'm in school getting my graduate degree."  I filled him in briefly on my 'field of choice' and then asked him what his profession was, to be polite.  I assumed that's what he wanted me to ask, and I'm in the business of making money.  Some tables want food, some tables want small talk.  This guy seemed to be the latter.
"I'm a lawyer.  Corporate law, mostly, though I've handled some criminal cases."
"Ah, that's cool.  I almost went into law.  You must enjoy it."
"Yeah, certainly.  I've been practicing for well over twenty years now.  And it's still exciting for me."  He grinned. 
In my peripheral vision I caught sight of a couple of half-empty glasses at my other table.  (When you're a server, the glass is always half-empty, until you fill it up.)  The teens were still stuffing their faces full of fish and choking down bread like they might never eat again.  They definitely needed refills.  "Can I bring you anything else while you wait for your meal?" I asked Actual Lawyer-Man.  "I'll have your salad and bread out in just a few minutes."
"No thanks, Calvin.  I'm fine."  He smiled earnestly and reached to his side, retrieving some formal-looking papers stashed on the booth's bench, between him and the wall.

I refilled the drinks I saw my other table emptying and then headed back to the alley to prepare the man's salad and bread.  He'd asked for the light dressing and preferred it on the side.  Not overly complicated, and not annoying at all considering that I didn't have anything better to do that night.  I brought it out shortly thereafter.
"Oh, this looks great, Calvin.  Thank you."
"No problem, sir."
"Call me Jerry.  You're not a client, right?"  He winked, I laughed, and as I started walking away he began eating his salad.
I had barely walked into the alley when I heard my name.  "Hey, Calvin," said one of the managers, beckoning me toward the office.
"What's up, Pam?"  I strolled over to her to find out what she wanted.  Her eyebrows were furrowed in amusement.  I'm still not sure how it's possible that people (myself included) can discern what she's feeling based on her expressions; they all look the same, with the same furrowed eyebrows and the same pursed lips.  Sometimes it's amusement; sometimes it's confusion; sometimes it's impatience; sometimes it's rage.  Only when she's genuinely surprised or happy do her eyebrows move up.
"The gentleman at forty-six.  That's your table, right?"
"...Yes."  I agreed suspiciously.  "Why?"  My eyes narrowed and I felt myself tense with the effort to perceive what she was getting at - whether or not I should be concerned (read: whether or not I was going to be in trouble).
"He's extraordinarily nice, isn't he?  A very nice man.  I stopped over to check on some tables and he was really quite nice," she repeated.
"That he is."  I smiled, thinking back on the evening.  "I've been getting great tables all night.  It's a good Monday, so far."
Pam patted me on the back.  "Great!  Keep up the good work."

I brought Lawyer-Man Jerry's food out to him and laid it on the table.  "Fresh trout, grilled as requested with vegetables and rice.  Here you are, good sir.  Please be careful, the plate may be hot."
Three... two... one.  "Ow!  Oh, yeah, right."  It never fails.
"Everything look okay, sir?"
He stopped futzing with the plate, tore his eyes from the food, and looked back at me.  "Yeah, looks perfect, Calvin.  Thank you."
I nodded and walked off to cash out the teenagers.  They were doing the Too-Much-Too-Fast Leanback.  It's a restaurant-exclusive dance consisting of a single move.  Everyone can do it, but teens are the only ones who seem to have perfected it.

I stopped back at Jerry's table a minute or two later.  "Does your meal taste all right?"
"Mmmh!" he exclaimed, and swallowed the food he'd been chewing, "yeah, it's really good!"
"Glad to hear it," I said.  "Just let me know if you need anything else from the kitchen."
"No, I'm all right for now.  There's a lot of food here!  Want to sit down and help me out?"  He let out a good-natured laugh, knowing that wouldn't really be appropriate.  It wasn't the first time a table had suggested such a thing; I think I'm a pretty likable server.
"Haha, thanks, Jerry, but I don't think so.  Enjoy your food, though!"
"And you enjoy your, uh, waitering."  Always smiling, this guy.
"I will."  And at the moment, I meant it.


A little while later, I asked if he wanted dessert.  He ordered the cheesecake (politely, of course) and I brought it right out.  "Here you go, sir."  As I slid the plate in front of him, I placed his check down on the corner of the table so he could cash out when he was ready. 
"Oh, that dessert does look tasty."
"Agreed.  Hope you like it."
"I'm sure I will."
I took one step, he took one bite, and then: "Yep, definitely good cheesecake."
"Great!"  I smiled my cheesy-waiter-smile.  Again.
"So, on a day like this, when you guys are clearly not busy, do you still get stuck here very late?"
"Nah, it shouldn't be too bad tonight.  I'll probably get out earlier than usual."
"What's earlier than usual?" he asked between bites.
I shrugged, considering the timing and how long it would take me to get my work done.  "Ten-ish."
"Oh, that's not bad at all.  Plenty of time for a young guy like you to enjoy the evening."
"Heh.  Yeah, except for the reading I need to do for class."
He slid down another bite of cheesecake.  "Yeah, well, besides that.  At least you get out at a decent hour, right?  I've still got this--" he lifted a large stack of papers from the bench to the table next to his plate "-- to go through.  I'm only about halfway through it.  On the bright side, I can probably put it off tonight."
"Oh, well that's good, at least."
"Yes, certainly is."  He grinned at me and finished his cheesecake, then slipped his credit card into the check binder.  I walked away and ran it, returning it with the slips he needed to sign.
"Well, Calvin," he said, signing the slips, "thank you very much for a very satisfying meal.  If you ever need a lawyer, let me know.  Here's my card."  He passed me a business card.  "By the way, you're an excellent waiter."  He put his hand out for a handshake.
"Thanks, sir," I replied.  I shook his hand.  "I try."  It's true.  I do.
"It's been a pleasure, Calvin."
The handshake seemed to extend a little longer than I'm used to, but I mentally shrugged, figuring he'd gotten distracted or something.  He smiled again at me before standing up to leave.

I walked into the alley and opened the check binder to look at the credit card slip.  He had left me a generous tip, and more.  Seriously, there was more.  On the itemized copy, he had jotted his name and his personal cell phone number, with the words, "Thanks for a great time, Calvin!" written beneath them.

I puzzled for a minute trying to figure out what had just happened.  Still in the alley, I showed the slip to my friend Leon and asked him what he thought. 
First he keeled over laughing.  The only thing that kept him from falling down on the floor was that we were in the kitchen of a seafood restaurant, and that would be gross.  "Well, clearly, Jerry liked you more than a little," he announced between bouts of laughter. 
"You mean..."
"Yes.  Why else would he have left you his personal cell phone number?"
Wow.  Okay, well, that's a first for me.  I laughed out loud.  I was shocked, amused at myself for being so blind, and found the whole exchange hilarious. I ran through the events aloud.  "The casual conversation, the smiles, the compliments, the clear interest in my vocation, the comments about when I would get out of work, the extended handshake, the phone number, the message..."
"The strawberry daiquiri he ordered when he sat down..."  Leon raised both eyebrows at me.  "Do you not have any gaydar?
"Guess not," I replied.  "I've been given phone numbers before, but not from old lawyer men."
"Oh," said Leon, "are they usually from old men of other occupations?"  He smirked at me.  Damnit, Leon, I know you're sarcastic, too, but really, man.  In the end, there can be only one.
"No.  They're usually hot women.  But I can understand why you wouldn't have guessed that, since it never happens for you."
"That's okay, Cal.  You can have all the experiences with old men giving you their phone numbers.  I don't need it to happen for me."
I rolled my eyes at him.
"So are you gonna call him?" he asked, patting me on the back.
"I'm going to treat that as rhetorical."
"Ah.  Pleading the fifth must be special advice from your special lawyer-friend."
I walked away, chuckling.  Leon was being a sarcastic jerk, but it's my brand of humor, so even on the other end of it I still find it funny.
And I still find it funny.  He brings it up once in a while just to have something to laugh at me about, even though this happened months ago.  I suppose, though, that if I can't take it, I shouldn't dish it.  Waiter pun intended.

Order What You Want, How You Want It

"Welcome to the Scarlet Crustacean! My name is Calvin, I'll be serving you this evening.  What brings you in tonight?"
"Cranberry juice."  The woman was engrossed.  She was about fifty three with white hair, and her eyes were intensely focused.  The menu absorbed all her attention; she clearly had no time for such trivial things as waiters and actual food. 
Her husband interrupted.  "What brings us in?  Well, it's a nice evening to go out to eat, and... there's some kind of holiday coming up, right?  Easter?"  He smiled.  I like this man already.
"Yes, which is why all the other guests dining tonight are in shades of red and pink and heart-shapes are everywhere.  It's going to be a strange Easter, too, considering it's on a Saturday this year."  I smiled back.  "What would you like to drink, sir?"
"I'd like a diet coke, please.  Honey, you want an appetizer?"  He raised his bushy, brown eyebrows above the menu and looked patiently at his wife. 
"Whatever you want."  They always say that, don't they, man?  His eyes totally agreed with me.
"All right," he said, "The calamari appetizer, Calvin.  Thanks."
"No problem, sir," I said, "I'll place your appetizer order and be right back with your drinks."

I set down some coasters and strode over to the galley to get the drinks. Another table had just ordered somewhere between four and a hundred bar drinks, so I picked those up from the bar while I was there.
"Hey, Cal!"  I looked up from the cranberry juice I was pouring to see Sonya the bartender's grinning face.
"Hiya," I responded, "busy at the bar, too, I see."
She cocked an eyebrow at me.  She didn't have to ask me if I was serious.  I was very obviously not; there were at least fifty people at the bar.  "So," she said while she made some frozen concoction, "I read some very interesting material yesterday."
"Really?"  I asked, knowing perfectly well where this was headed.  "Science fiction?"  I widened my eyes and directed my attention to a point a few feet behind her and to her left."
"Haha, no."  Sonya began passing over my drinks.  "A certain blog about a certain local restaurant."  Her subtlety doth amaze the subtlest of beings.  I had been trying to get her to realize that Stan, the manager, was standing right over her shoulder.  For reasons that really don't need to be published, I'd prefer that my managers weren't included in my esteemed audience (though they'd probably get a laugh or two out of this, too, now that I think about it). 
"Yeah, that guy who writes it is pretty funny," I agreed.  "I read some of it, too."  By now I had discerned that Stan wasn't even paying attention, so I stopped working at nonchalance.  I started traying up my drinks.
"Hey, do you think he'll put me in his blog?  What would my name be, because, obviously, he'd have to change it."
"You'll have to ask the author, Sonya."  I smirked at her and started walking back to my tables.  She rolled her eyes.
"Well, you can ask him for me!" she called after me.  "I know you know the guy."

Having dropped their drinks, I asked if the couple was ready to order their meal.
"Yes," the woman answered.  She picked up her glass and began eying it suspiciously.  "But I wanted apple juice."  I took a silent deep breath and looked at the husband.  Dude, please, said the thoughts I projected at him futilely, help me out here.  You know you heard her say she wanted cranberry, and I totally repeated it back to her.
"I thought you said you wanted cranberry, too, dear," he said.   
The man can read minds!  Or maybe I really am a psychic waiter. 
"Well, I want apple.  Bring me an apple juice, waiter."
"I'll get that for you in just a moment, ma'am.  Would you like to order your meal?"
"Yes, thank you, Calvin," the husband said before she could say anything else.  "May I have the steak and shrimp meal, please?  Medium well on the steak, sir, and the standard side is fine."

Dear Restaurant Gods and Food Service Angels: Can this man sit at all of my tables?  That would be awesome.  Thanks!  Love, Cal.

"And for the lovely lady?" I politely inquired.
"Give me the same."
I paused before jotting anything down, as is my habit whenever anyone says they want the same thing the previous person ordered.  "You want everything the same?"
"Yes."
"So, you'd like the steak and shrimp, with your steak medium well, and the standard side.  Correct?"
"Yes, give me the same thing."
"All right, ma'am, thank you very much.  I always ask just to be sure.  I'll have your order in and bring your salads out with some bread in just a few minutes."  I smiled and swept myself away.

A while later, I brought their food to them.
"What is this?" the woman asked as she cut into her steak.  "I wanted my steak medium well.  This is not done enough for me."
I apologized and promised to have the problem resolved shortly. Taking up the dish again, I carted it off to the kitchen.
"Hey, Wheeler.  I need this steak done a little more, please.  Sorry, dude.  Table fifty-eight."  I passed the steak over the counter to the grill man. 
"Yeah, Cal, sure thing.  Fifty-eight, you said?"  He started pulling up previous orders on his screen. 
"Yep."
"This was ordered medium well."
"Yep."
"The steak is medium well."
"Yep."  Gradually, my mental eye-roll had been infiltrating my vocal tone.
"So she ordered her steak medium well and said it wasn't done enough when it came out medium well."
"Yep."  This time, I actually rolled my eyes.  "You know how our guests are."
"Yeah," he said, his annoyance dulled by the simple fact that this was the billionth time this kind of thing has happened, "they order their food and don't say what they want.  They ask for medium well when they want it well done, they ask for it medium rare when they want it medium.  These people must live in tiny cages or something; they have no idea how food is prepared."
"Nah, I think they just like to add words to their preparation styles."  He laughed and nodded.
It's the only conclusion I can come to.  The more words in a preparation, the more exotic it must sound to them.  Medium well has four whole syllables - much more exotic than either 'medium' or 'well' alone.  It's why they ask for their salads with "ranch dressing, dressing on the side, extra onions, no tomatoes, and more croutons than usual."  They know they sound like a higher class of being that way.

I brought their steaks back out.  On my way I stopped at the bar to pick up another round of drinks for my table full of lushes.  
"So, Cal," Sonya said, passing my drinks over the bar.  "Your blogging friend needs more bar terms in his glossary."
My glossary, linked several times in this entry on restaurant-specific terms, is updated all the time to help you, the reader, follow along with all the silly seafood slang we sling at the Scarlet Crustacean.  I don't work at the bar, so naturally I don't have to worry about a lot of that terminology.  If I don't use it, you don't need it to read what I write, right?  However:
"He's open to suggestions.  If they seem apt enough, they'll make the cut.  Or if I have some weird bar experience, it may come up.  But feel free to comment."  That goes for all of you.  *shameless self-promotion*  Feel free to comment and pass this blog on to your friends.
But, Sonya, for you, I will note that this one specific drink I had to cart away on my already-full tray was one of the most gigantic piña coladas you've ever seen.  It's so big it comes with a sidecar, because we know if you order one of these drinks, you're looking to get buzzed.  My table was beyond buzzed, for the record - a situation that worked for me, because at least one of them was sober and driving and the others were all so carefree that I couldn't make them unhappy, even if I tried to be a bad waiter and told them what was really on my mind.

To make a short story even shorter, the steak was (of course) fine this time around - she got it the way she had wanted it, though she didn't order it the way she had wanted it.  Her husband continued to take my side until they finished the meal, and tipped me very well.  Part of me wonders if he generally tips well because he knows what he's subjecting servers to when he takes his wife out to eat.  In the long run, though, it doesn't matter.  Everyone went home happy.

See, dear readers?  Not every problem goes on forever at this place.  Sometimes these things do just end.

On Sitting Too Long

I was supposed to work a lunch shift yesterday but management pulled me into a double.  We had more guests than the suicide hotlines had teenage callers yesterday, which is quite a lot considering it's Valentine's Day weekend.  Unfortunately, I had a table who refused to cash out for three hours and therefore prevented me from making the money I should have made. 

Consider, dear readers, this fact (which, when elucidated, will seem painfully obvious): a restaurant has a very finite capacity.  This capacity is considered, via prioritization by your servers, in the form of tables.  Given that during a busy day, there must be a full staff, and that servers are (and sensibly so) assigned tables, each server may only have a specific number of tables.  For those of you doing the math at home, the end result is this: the longer you stay at a table, the longer it will take before the next party (who takes your place at the same table) cashes out.  Continue this line of logic and you'll note that sitting at a table without cashing out for an extended period of time drains the server of money.  It's like you're taking the server's beating heart and squeezing one of the veins.  You're cutting off my circulation, people.

For the Shrimpmongers out there who can't do the math: DON'T SIT AROUND FOR FOUR WHOLE F***ING HOURS WHEN THE RESTAURANT IS CLEARLY BUSY, YOU HEARTLESS IGNORANT BASTARDS.

I'm a nice guy.  During a slow day, if someone wants to sit, relax, and drink coffee at one of my tables when the other tables I have are clearly not being seated more than once in an hour, that's fine.  I'll cheerfully refill your coffees and bring you bread until you burst, even after your meal is through and you've cashed out.  No, I won't hire a horse and carriage or pull a sleigh to carry your roly poly asses out of my restaurant, but that's just because it's company policy.  If not, I might actually do it, and have a coworker videotape it so we can laugh at you on YouTube forever.  Hell, if we're extremely slow, I might even stop over and join your lazy afternoon conversation, because I might very well be that damn bored.

But seriously, folks.  Be considerate to your servers.  We're people too.  And some of us might actually carry hidden video cameras around just for our own sick, sardonic pleasure.