It began with a triple-seating. Not a bad one, mind you. It was a normal, semi-busy Friday lunch shift for me. I clocked in, greeted my guests, and got them their drinks promptly. One table wanted to order immediately; they were dining on their business lunch, which was also no problem. See, I arrive to work ready to go every time, expecting to be triple-seated. This way, when it doesn't happen (as is the case 60-70% of the time), I can be pleasantly surprised and relaxed. Today it did happen, so I simply went with the flow. You don't fight the flow.
Two two-tops of elderly people and a five-top family later, I was given a table outside my section. Again, if you've gleaned anything from my personality yet, you could guess I was not shaken by this turn of events. What made me pause for a split second as I strolled over to this new three-top was not that it was messing with my Seafood Feng Shui; the disturbance came, rather, from the details I noted, the finer points I perceived with my peripheral vision on the approach.
Oddity #1: The table, meant to accommodate four people, is usually set up with two chairs on opposing sides. The chairs had not been rearranged, but it was capped with an additional chair.
Oddity #2: Of the five chairs, only three were occupied. From the front without any chairs, a woman was seated at each of the two closest chairs on either side, and a third woman sat in the far chair at the back of the table. They kept a chair between them to maintain personal space, like toe spacers for a pedicure.
Oddity #3: The women were all the same size, shape, style, and disposition. I wasn't surprised by the fact that they were decked out in baggy, blingy, bright, contrasting clothes. The first three commonalities aren't all that strange; families or close friends often have some similarities in their physical features. But they all had the same perceived attitude and mood. It seemed, from a distance, as though an invisible mist of haughty displeasure thickened the air around them.
These oddities, especially the third one, piqued my attention and put me on edge. When I approach a table, as I've said before, I'm always cheerful. But what kind of person goes out to eat and begins the dining experience unhappy? That's like kicking off your own dance party and then breaking your own legs with a sledgehammer.
Alas, I needed to serve them anyway. Such is the nature of my job. It was worth trying to brighten the mood, I thought, so I mustered up a genuine smile and waved jovially as I said, "Hi! Welcome to the Scarlet Crustacean! My name is Calvin, I'll be serving you this afternoon. How are you today?"
The three of them glared at me in unison. The mood darkened, impossible as that seemed. I could almost see the gloomy shadow descending upon me, encasing me in their fog of fail. Tough crowd.
The first guest, I'll call her A, responded first. "Water."
I took a mental breath. Shrimpmonger Alert. Humongous Shrimpmongers. They were Shrimpmongous.
The second guest, B, said "I want a water, too. And nah," she looked at A, "you said yo' stomach was botherin' you. Get you a ginger ale or sumfin!" She turned back to me. "She want a ginger ale." A nodded along with her.
"Okay, I can get that," I said. "And for you?" I asked C.
"Get me one of them raspberry iced teas, Calvin," she grunted at me, eyes still fixed on the menu. She must have been looking through the menu, or she would have read that we don't have raspberry iced tea. Perhaps it was just for effect. Don't worry, lady, you look the part, all right. You could play Captain Shrimpmonger in The Shrimpmonger Stomps on the Scarlet Crustacean. It's a B movie. Or it could be.
"We have strawberry - is that all right?" I asked, hoping that it was.
"Yeah, whatever. Fine." She never even looked at me.
"All right. I'll be right back with your drinks, ladies, and then I'll take your lunch orders down." I took two steps towards the kitchen before I heard B start talking at me again.
"Nah, wait, I'm ready to order now. Y'alls ready to order?"
"Nuh-uh," C answered, shaking her head.
"Well I'm gonna order anyway," insisted B. "Gimme a make-your-meal deal, with some shrimp scampi and some o' them fried ones."
"Fried shrimp?"
"Yeah, whatchu think I was talkin' about?"
I thought, Oh, I don't know, fried clam strips, fried popcorn shrimp, fried chicken strips... I'm sorry, my psychic-waiter-powers are blocked by your aura of malcontent. But I said, "Okay, sure. And for your side item?"
"Lemme get a baked potato with some butter and lots of sour cream on the side. And bacon."
"I'm sorry, we don't have bacon for the potatoes. Can I offer you some cheese?" For just three extra dollars you can have an I.V. in your arm just pumping the fat and cholesterol straight into your body.
"Yeah. That."
"Excellent. What kind of salad would you like?"
"Gimme a regular salad but with Caesar dressing, on the side, extra dressing, extra croutons, extra cheese, no onions." By the time she finished describing her salad instructions, I assumed the other guests must be ready to order. I was wrong. I thanked her for her order and proceeded to the alley to get their drinks.
I made it to the alley and let out a sigh. Drake was there and said hello.
"Hey, dude. How are you? Did you just get here?"
"Good," he answered, "and yeah. I just clocked in. How you doin'?" He gave me a high-five.
"I'm all right, man. Except for this three-top of total Shrimpmongers I got. They're driving me nuts and I haven't even taken their orders yet." I put the drinks together on a tray, set up a dessert for my other table, whose dessert order I had taken what felt like hours ago, and moved to the computer to print out the third table's check. "Seriously, Drake, they're Level Three Shrimpmongers."
He looked up from the food window. "Level Three, eh? So they're messy, self-centered, and rude?"
"At the least."
"Wow. That can't be good." Drake trayed up a couple of plates. "So you probably don't have a second to walk this food right now."
"Survey says... no. Sorry, dude."
"That's all right," he said, "Mindy's coming in now and it's hers anyway."
I dropped the dessert and the check and returned to take the order from my three-top of Shrimpmongers. "Here are your drinks, ladies. Are you two ready to order?" I asked A and C.
"Yeah, they ready now," B answered.
"I wanna get a make-your-meal deal, too, with some crab legs and some of that seafood alfredo. And a baked potato with just butter, but extra butter on the side."
"All right, no problem. What kind of sal--"
"And get me one of these Big Shrimp meals, Calvin," interrupted C. She's a Shrimpmonger of the Name-User subtype. The kind of Shrimpmonger who pays attention to frequent-diner tips, such as the one that says using your waiter's name will make him more likely to attend to your requests. But alas, being a Shrimpmonger, these diners missed the fine print that indicates that treating your waiter with disrespect negates the courtesy of using his name. Silly Shrimpmongers.
"Surely," I answered, "A Big Shrimp deal for you." I followed up automatically with, "And what would you like on the side?"
"Baked potato. Sour cream only, extra sour cream." Wait for it. "No butter."
"And for your salads?" I asked A and C.
I won't bore you with the details of the last two salad orders, for as you might expect, there were many. Why these people have such specific preferences for their salads, I don't know. Why they care so deeply about the perfection of the precursors to their meals, I cannot understand. Surely, they didn't go out to a seafood restaurant for the amazing salads... did they?
They each changed their orders twice before settling into something they really wanted for lunch at that moment. This was getting to be too crazy to be real. I thought maybe I was getting Punk'd. Maybe I was on Candid Camera. Perhaps one of my managers was playing a practical joke on me. I have seen nasty, sloppy, ornery people before at this restaurant, but I did not know that there were people at this level of bad diner. It was like serving Jabba the Hutt's neanderthal ancestors while they were in withdrawals from heroin. After noting the mental image that presented and nearly vomiting, I jotted their orders down and slipped away as quickly as possible.
In the alley, I prepared precisely their preposterous salads and dropped them with fresh bread at the table.
"We ain't even got our meals yet and he already treatin' us like dirt?" exclaimed C.
Holdthephone. I'm treating you like dirt? I have officially entered Bizarro World. What the hell. I just brought you some FOOD. Start eating it! Please, occupy your talk-hole with chewing and let me go my merry way! "I'm sorry, is something wrong with your salads?" I asked.
"Yo, you gotta be kidding me. This is all the bread we get? This ain't nothin'."
"I can bring some more right out to you, and continue to bring more as you need; this is just the standard amount we generally bring to tables. I promise I'll have some more out to you right away, if you want."
"You're damn right I want. And bring me some more dressing, while you at it."
I came back with more bread and an extra side of dressing. "Here you go," I said.
"I need another dressing, too." said A. B opened her mouth to say what I thought would be the same thing.
I dropped the other two sides of dressing I brought out based on intuition. Bam. Psychic-waiter-powers trump stupid depressing aura. What now.
They wolfed through their salads like animals. Dressing sprayed from their salad plates and their teeth like there was a Caesar paintball war going on. I wanted to dive into a booth or duck under a table for cover, but I could only keep a safe distance while I looked over my other tables until their meal came out.
I brought their food out to them with extra napkins and another round of bread, having just refilled their drinks in advance. "This needs more of the sauce stuff," A snapped. "You gotta get me more of this, 'cause I'll be done with what you gave me in like a minute."
"I'll be sure to bring that out in a moment," I said.
"And another napkin."
"I brought extra napkins for you right here." I casually gestured to the napkins I had just placed on the table in front of her.
"I see like five or six. We gon' need like eight."
"And I wanna place a take-out order, Calvin."
I took the take out order. It was relatively uncomplicated - which, in this case, is like standing in a valley and saying a mountain isn't big compared to a planet.
"Drake, this table is driving me nuts. Forget level three. These people are Level Six Shrimpmongers. It's ridiculous."
"There's a level SIX?! Holy crap, man. Anything I can do to help?" He didn't have anything in the window because we were fairly slow, so he walked over to where I was retrieving more bread to chat.
"There is now. If there wasn't before, these women created it. They're horrific. Cruel. I swear they're trying to make my job difficult and frustrating."
"Well. At least you can write about it later."
"Hell yes."
I returned to the table. Heaven help me, I returned to the table. Because it's my job. I brought the take-out order and boxes for the rest of their food with me, as well as split checks, which they'd requested earlier.
"Cal, that won't work," said B. "I need a smaller box." A large box would contain their food. It wasn't like I brought them a container in which their food would not fit, but these Level Six Shrimpmongers were out for the perfect experience, and that meant they needed custom-sized take-out boxes.
"And get me another drink to go," demanded C.
I brought out new boxes, a drink to go, and cashed out B and C. A had a problem with her check.
"My ginger ale tasted weird. I don't want to pay for it." The ginger ale still sat in front of her, depleted by a third but therefore still mostly full. I promised to check with a manager for her and return shortly.
So let's tally up, just for fun, what I dealt with from this table so far.
Unenthusiastic greeting
Insistent interruptions
Indecisive menu selections
Ridiculously complex salad orders
Extra everything with their salads, meals, and take-outs
Eight napkins, because six wouldn't do, when they were making:
One hell of a mess on the table
Downsized boxes
General and continuous discontent and rudeness
And a check change that would cut two dollars and change off a forty dollar bill.
I have never wanted to hurt a guest so much. I was nearly shaking with violent indignation. I kept envisioning whipping a spinning backhand fist into A's skull, driving my elbow through B's temple and punching through C's face in a series of swift, graceful, brutal movements. I wanted to use a crab cracker to burst their eyeballs and drain the fluids into their scampi butter. I imagined shoving whole ramekins filled with Caesar dressing down their throats, lodging the ceramic in their esophagi. I wanted to drop their sagging, choking, eyeless bodies into the lobster tank and unbind the lobsters' claws. Of course, I'm not Dexter and they aren't murderers, so none of that would do. Instead, I went into the alley to ask the manager to remove the ginger ale from their check.
My manager complimented me on my composure and professionalism while handling this table -- which she had seen was "somewhat troublesome," -- and commended my perseverance. I'm glad she couldn't see into my brain and know the terrible retribution I craved. Anyway, she made the check alteration for me.
When I returned to bring A her new check, all three of them were gone. There was no way they all happened to go to the restroom at the same time. I left the check on the table, just in case I was wrong, but I wasn't wrong. They were gone.
It was like the miracle you didn't want to happen.
Yes, they were gone, but they had intentionally ditched the check, having used the "nasty" ginger ale as a cover story to get me out of the way. According to one of the hosts, they had left one by one, looking over their shoulders and seeming somewhat shady about the whole thing - it was their clearly self-conscious demeanor that caused her to remember them leaving. So not only had I dealt with the intense, demeaning admonitions of Level Six Shrimpmongers; not only had I not received a tip despite the fact that I'd worked harder on this one table than I had done on any of the previous five tables put together; but they had skipped out on a check, shorting the restaurant money. No, I didn't get in trouble for it because I went through the proper avenues and informed management immediately - there was nothing I could do about it.
I took a deep breath, silently rejoiced that they were gone, and got ready for my next table.
My two other tables had just gotten up to leave, also. It ended with a triple-seating.
Surviving by serving seafood with style.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
The Skeevy Scalloper
This past Sunday I had quite the day. I had a lunch shift at 11:30AM, but I wasn't able to leave until 7PM. We were busy and everyone was rather stressed. I had high-maintenance tables who didn't tip well and sat there talking for WAY too long, all day, such that I barely made any money. To top it all off, I needed to roll 105 sets of silverware before leaving, so by the time I got out of there I desperately needed a nap. The icing on the cake: my last table contained a Skeevy Scalloper.
I dealt with crazy, indecisive old people (which was all right; they called garden salads "garlic salads" and all pasta is macaroni to them, but they were polite, endearing, and soft-hearted, and actually called my manager over to give me some solid waiter-praise, so I didn't mind them all that much). I dealt with a table full of middle-aged women who, in the middle of the afternoon, wanted to eat less to keep their figure but drink more (mixed fruity drinks and mudslides) to forget that they were taking in calories. Remember, it's my job to oblige them and take their money, not to inform them of their counter-intuitive reasoning. I even dealt with this one ridiculous Shrimpmonger whose meal went thusly:
"Hello! My name is Calvin, I'll be your server this afternoon. How are you today?" I'm always pleasant on the approach. I want a pleasant meal for my guests, because it makes MY time more pleasant.
The overweight gentleman in the snazzy faux-leather jacket and the flat-brimmed blue sports cap regarded me with a, "Y'all got that flavored fruity lemonade drink... whatizzit... uh, strawberry lemonade. Gimme one a'those. She want one, too."
I'm doing great, too, thanks! "I'll be right back with your drinks, sir, and then I'll explain a few of our newer menu items." People, I implore you. We do enough of this fast-paced, selfish, time-crunching in our most common communication forms (text, IM, social network sites); when face-to-face with someone, take the time to at least pretend you care how they are doing when they've asked after your well-being. It's more than courtesy. I call it being human.
I swung over to the galley to get their drinks and then began to explain our promotions, the whole time just waiting for him to interrupt me. I wasn't disappointed. He cut me off about half a sentence before I was done.
"Yo, I want the dish wit all the fried stuff, but listen - last time I changed this one thing for scallops because they was out of shrimp, but then they tried ta charge me for that. Man, they was out of it. It ain't my freakin' fault, knowhatibesayin?"
"Yes, I understand entirely. I agree with you, if we were out of an item you wanted, we should have made sure you got an adequate replacement at no additional cost."
"Yeah, well, this time I don't want no fish, I just want more fried shrimp. You got that?"
"Yes, we have that. But sir, please understand that this time there may be an additional charge for the substitution. Is that okay?"
"Yeah, whatever. And with my meal I want a coke..." He paused. "With..." Another pause. He stared at me with indignation, as if to say, "Come on, waiterman, throw me a bone here! I'm trying to figure out what the hell I want!" Finally, he had it, and I could see the yellow light bulb forming above his head. "Uh, lemon."
"No problem, sir," I said with a pageant-winning smile. "And what kind of dressing would you like on your salad?"
"Get me these Thousand Island and ranch, but bring it to me."
This time I paused. Why would I not bring his salad to him? Who else would I be bringing his salad? "I'll have it out with some bread in a minute, sir."
"Yeah, bring it to me." He looked at me like I was a complete idiot. Clearly, that explained the communication issues we were having. Thankfully, his wife (whom he'd silenced by interrupting her up until now) intervened to help translate.
"No, you can't just say, 'Bring it to me,'" she informed him, "you gots to tell him." She turned to me and said in a tone you'd hear in an aside on stage, "He wants the dressing on the side."
So, folks, it appears that the phrase, "Bring it to me," is Shrimpmonger for, "On the side, please."
I won't bore you with the details of how he sent his dish back because the "shrimps wasn't right," how he wouldn't explain what that meant, or why he said the new ones (made exactly the same way) were "like, so much better," but you get the idea. Shrimpmonger: 'nough said.
The Shrimpmonger is quite the beast, and I see them ALL the TIME. The Shrimpmonger doesn't mean to be mean to the waiter, he or she just wants what he or she wants and the waiter inevitably ends up collateral damage. But the Skeevy Scalloper is a sly, sneaky creature who creeps up into your booth and waits, a predator of the friendly waiter. Some servers are put off their game by the Skeevy Scalloper - they don't know how to respond. Some of us, though, are born ready to go toe-to-toe with these jerks. You'll see what I mean shortly.
As I said, my last table contained a sixty-something Skeevy Scalloper, his wife, and her mother. I greeted the three-top in my usual cheerful way and then asked if they would like drinks and/or appetizers. The two ladies asked for Riesling, and the gentleman, who was seated closest to me, said, "Uh, get me a rum and coke. But none of that fruit bulls***, if you know what I mean." I did know what he meant, and placed his bar order to exclude the lime garnish it would normally have had. I thought, at the time, that the cutesy little politically incorrect joke was going to be the end of that. I really need to work on a Skeevy Scalloper Radar.
When I brought their drinks to them, I began explaining the specials but the Scalloper stopped me in my tracks. "We know what we want." The woman beside him looked at me, confusedly, and exclaimed, "Wait, I'm not! Could you explain this meal-for-two deal?"
I took pleasure in saying, "Absolutely!" and proceeding with the rest of my spiel. I described, in delicate detail, our expertly crafted appetizers, elegant entrees, and delectable desserts. I pointed out the menu selections featured in the deal she mentioned, and made a few personal recommendations. She and her mother gave oohs and ahhs at some of the options, and the Scalloper rolled his eyes. "All right," he said, "give us a few more minutes with this freakin' novel of a menu. Is it on the Times Bestseller List? Ha, ha, ha..."
By now I figured out exactly what type of guest he was. I cracked my mental knuckles and got ready to laugh very slightly at all of his stupid jokes along with him. "It is," I said. "I'm still collecting royalties. I wrote it, you see. In fact, if you'd like to take one home with you, it'll be 7.95 in paperback and 28.95 in hardcover."
His two lady companions laughed out loud, and his eyes sparkled mischievously. "Oh, look, we got us a smart waiter!" You have no idea, Mr. Skeevy Scalloper.
I came back a couple of minutes later and they were ready to order. Almost. "You can come to me last," his wife said. "I'll be ready when you do." They always say that. In my experience, that's true a whopping 50% of the time. Still, no skin off my back. I started with the Scalloper.
"I'll have a quarter-pounder with cheese, no pickles, ha, ha, ha." He smirked and shifted in his seat, clearly thinking he was the funniest thing since Jim Carrey put a green mask on and flailed his arms, screaming.
I made a quick note on my pad, and he jumped on the opportunity. "HA! You were going to write that down!"
"Yes, sir, I was making a note to change the ticket to a table for two." I turned my attention to his wife. "It appears the gentleman won't be dining with us tonight, ladies. He appears to prefer McDonald's over our company."
"Oh, ho, ho," he laughed, "you're a quick one." I flashed him a genuine smile and took his companions' orders. They did end up ordering the meal for two, so I jotted down my notes and told them I'd be back in a jiffy with their salads and bread.
"Here you are," I said, placing their salads on the table.
"That was fast," the Scalloper remarked.
"Yeah, I'm kinda speedy," I agreed.
"So, Speedy," his wife piped up, "could you also get me a glass of water?"
"Heh, heh, Speedy," Mr. Scalloper mused under his breath. If he meant to call me Speedy all night, I meant to make his dining experience eventful.
"Actually, dear, my name's not really Speedy," I laughed.
"Yeah," said the Scalloper. "It's Calvin. 'Cause I'm Alvin. Ha, ha, how funny is that?"
My psychic powers told me that he didn't want me to answer that question, so I let it be. Drake would be proud.
The Scalloper picked up his own thread. "But seriously, you are pretty fast. For a white guy. And a waiter, ha, ha, ha."
"Thanks. I think." I gave him a quizzical look, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of an indignant response or, really, any response, and walked into the alley. Margaret was right behind me on my way in.
"Did that guy at table 25 just call you a white guy?" She brushed a few strands of blonde hair from her face and began rolling silverware.
I nodded and confirmed that yes, he did just call me a white guy.
"Did he realize that you're white?"
I admitted he probably did - he's old but his eyesight appears intact.
"Did he not remember that he's white, too? And the other two guests at the table?"
"I don't pretend to understand my guests. I just bring them their food. It's simpler that way."
A short while later, I brought their food to the table.
"... and the Supreme Seafood Dish for the supreme gentleman," I said, placing the Skeevy Scalloper's dish in front of him.
"He doesn't know me very well, does he?" the man said to his wife. "But he does know how to make a tip, ha, ha, ha!"
"You can call it encouragement rather than acknowledgment." I gave them a wry smile.
As I walked away, I caught him with his eyes stuck on the backside of one of my coworkers while he ate, a ravenous grin breaking his face between chews of seafood. I proceeded to the fountain beverages in the alley to rinse with cola the taste of vomit from my mouth.
Later, I came back with their check when their dessert was nearly finished. "I can refill your coffee or get you water when you need, please feel free to take your time - I'm leaving this here for your convenience."
"This is not convenient." The Skeevy Scalloper was looking at me from under heavily disgruntled eyebrows. "Didn't you say this was on the house?"
"No," I said, "but it can be. Let's say it's on your house."
"Ha, ha, get that f***ing thing outta here, know what I'm sayin'? Ha, ha, ha."
I had personalized their check with a smiley face and a large image of the golden arches enclosed in a circle with a line through it. As I looked back at the table, I could see he was amused enough to pass it around. I checked on another of my tables and overheard him behind me saying, "See, he put a smiley face there because he wants a tip, ha, ha, ha." Yes, you bright, intelligent man, of course I do. I don't work here as a hobby.
Finally, I returned to take care of their payment and explained our survey to him.
"You don't want us to fill that out."
"Sir, I would love for you to fill that out, because the company wants you to fill that out, and while I'm dressed in these clothes with this nametag in this building, my soul is leased to the company."
He nearly died laughing. He managed to get a hold of himself long enough to finish signing his credit card slip and leave me a 25% cash tip.
I believe the score is:
Calvin: 1
Skeevy Scallopers: 0
Boo ya.
I dealt with crazy, indecisive old people (which was all right; they called garden salads "garlic salads" and all pasta is macaroni to them, but they were polite, endearing, and soft-hearted, and actually called my manager over to give me some solid waiter-praise, so I didn't mind them all that much). I dealt with a table full of middle-aged women who, in the middle of the afternoon, wanted to eat less to keep their figure but drink more (mixed fruity drinks and mudslides) to forget that they were taking in calories. Remember, it's my job to oblige them and take their money, not to inform them of their counter-intuitive reasoning. I even dealt with this one ridiculous Shrimpmonger whose meal went thusly:
"Hello! My name is Calvin, I'll be your server this afternoon. How are you today?" I'm always pleasant on the approach. I want a pleasant meal for my guests, because it makes MY time more pleasant.
The overweight gentleman in the snazzy faux-leather jacket and the flat-brimmed blue sports cap regarded me with a, "Y'all got that flavored fruity lemonade drink... whatizzit... uh, strawberry lemonade. Gimme one a'those. She want one, too."
I'm doing great, too, thanks! "I'll be right back with your drinks, sir, and then I'll explain a few of our newer menu items." People, I implore you. We do enough of this fast-paced, selfish, time-crunching in our most common communication forms (text, IM, social network sites); when face-to-face with someone, take the time to at least pretend you care how they are doing when they've asked after your well-being. It's more than courtesy. I call it being human.
I swung over to the galley to get their drinks and then began to explain our promotions, the whole time just waiting for him to interrupt me. I wasn't disappointed. He cut me off about half a sentence before I was done.
"Yo, I want the dish wit all the fried stuff, but listen - last time I changed this one thing for scallops because they was out of shrimp, but then they tried ta charge me for that. Man, they was out of it. It ain't my freakin' fault, knowhatibesayin?"
"Yes, I understand entirely. I agree with you, if we were out of an item you wanted, we should have made sure you got an adequate replacement at no additional cost."
"Yeah, well, this time I don't want no fish, I just want more fried shrimp. You got that?"
"Yes, we have that. But sir, please understand that this time there may be an additional charge for the substitution. Is that okay?"
"Yeah, whatever. And with my meal I want a coke..." He paused. "With..." Another pause. He stared at me with indignation, as if to say, "Come on, waiterman, throw me a bone here! I'm trying to figure out what the hell I want!" Finally, he had it, and I could see the yellow light bulb forming above his head. "Uh, lemon."
"No problem, sir," I said with a pageant-winning smile. "And what kind of dressing would you like on your salad?"
"Get me these Thousand Island and ranch, but bring it to me."
This time I paused. Why would I not bring his salad to him? Who else would I be bringing his salad? "I'll have it out with some bread in a minute, sir."
"Yeah, bring it to me." He looked at me like I was a complete idiot. Clearly, that explained the communication issues we were having. Thankfully, his wife (whom he'd silenced by interrupting her up until now) intervened to help translate.
"No, you can't just say, 'Bring it to me,'" she informed him, "you gots to tell him." She turned to me and said in a tone you'd hear in an aside on stage, "He wants the dressing on the side."
So, folks, it appears that the phrase, "Bring it to me," is Shrimpmonger for, "On the side, please."
I won't bore you with the details of how he sent his dish back because the "shrimps wasn't right," how he wouldn't explain what that meant, or why he said the new ones (made exactly the same way) were "like, so much better," but you get the idea. Shrimpmonger: 'nough said.
The Shrimpmonger is quite the beast, and I see them ALL the TIME. The Shrimpmonger doesn't mean to be mean to the waiter, he or she just wants what he or she wants and the waiter inevitably ends up collateral damage. But the Skeevy Scalloper is a sly, sneaky creature who creeps up into your booth and waits, a predator of the friendly waiter. Some servers are put off their game by the Skeevy Scalloper - they don't know how to respond. Some of us, though, are born ready to go toe-to-toe with these jerks. You'll see what I mean shortly.
As I said, my last table contained a sixty-something Skeevy Scalloper, his wife, and her mother. I greeted the three-top in my usual cheerful way and then asked if they would like drinks and/or appetizers. The two ladies asked for Riesling, and the gentleman, who was seated closest to me, said, "Uh, get me a rum and coke. But none of that fruit bulls***, if you know what I mean." I did know what he meant, and placed his bar order to exclude the lime garnish it would normally have had. I thought, at the time, that the cutesy little politically incorrect joke was going to be the end of that. I really need to work on a Skeevy Scalloper Radar.
When I brought their drinks to them, I began explaining the specials but the Scalloper stopped me in my tracks. "We know what we want." The woman beside him looked at me, confusedly, and exclaimed, "Wait, I'm not! Could you explain this meal-for-two deal?"
I took pleasure in saying, "Absolutely!" and proceeding with the rest of my spiel. I described, in delicate detail, our expertly crafted appetizers, elegant entrees, and delectable desserts. I pointed out the menu selections featured in the deal she mentioned, and made a few personal recommendations. She and her mother gave oohs and ahhs at some of the options, and the Scalloper rolled his eyes. "All right," he said, "give us a few more minutes with this freakin' novel of a menu. Is it on the Times Bestseller List? Ha, ha, ha..."
By now I figured out exactly what type of guest he was. I cracked my mental knuckles and got ready to laugh very slightly at all of his stupid jokes along with him. "It is," I said. "I'm still collecting royalties. I wrote it, you see. In fact, if you'd like to take one home with you, it'll be 7.95 in paperback and 28.95 in hardcover."
His two lady companions laughed out loud, and his eyes sparkled mischievously. "Oh, look, we got us a smart waiter!" You have no idea, Mr. Skeevy Scalloper.
I came back a couple of minutes later and they were ready to order. Almost. "You can come to me last," his wife said. "I'll be ready when you do." They always say that. In my experience, that's true a whopping 50% of the time. Still, no skin off my back. I started with the Scalloper.
"I'll have a quarter-pounder with cheese, no pickles, ha, ha, ha." He smirked and shifted in his seat, clearly thinking he was the funniest thing since Jim Carrey put a green mask on and flailed his arms, screaming.
I made a quick note on my pad, and he jumped on the opportunity. "HA! You were going to write that down!"
"Yes, sir, I was making a note to change the ticket to a table for two." I turned my attention to his wife. "It appears the gentleman won't be dining with us tonight, ladies. He appears to prefer McDonald's over our company."
"Oh, ho, ho," he laughed, "you're a quick one." I flashed him a genuine smile and took his companions' orders. They did end up ordering the meal for two, so I jotted down my notes and told them I'd be back in a jiffy with their salads and bread.
"Here you are," I said, placing their salads on the table.
"That was fast," the Scalloper remarked.
"Yeah, I'm kinda speedy," I agreed.
"So, Speedy," his wife piped up, "could you also get me a glass of water?"
"Heh, heh, Speedy," Mr. Scalloper mused under his breath. If he meant to call me Speedy all night, I meant to make his dining experience eventful.
"Actually, dear, my name's not really Speedy," I laughed.
"Yeah," said the Scalloper. "It's Calvin. 'Cause I'm Alvin. Ha, ha, how funny is that?"
My psychic powers told me that he didn't want me to answer that question, so I let it be. Drake would be proud.
The Scalloper picked up his own thread. "But seriously, you are pretty fast. For a white guy. And a waiter, ha, ha, ha."
"Thanks. I think." I gave him a quizzical look, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of an indignant response or, really, any response, and walked into the alley. Margaret was right behind me on my way in.
"Did that guy at table 25 just call you a white guy?" She brushed a few strands of blonde hair from her face and began rolling silverware.
I nodded and confirmed that yes, he did just call me a white guy.
"Did he realize that you're white?"
I admitted he probably did - he's old but his eyesight appears intact.
"Did he not remember that he's white, too? And the other two guests at the table?"
"I don't pretend to understand my guests. I just bring them their food. It's simpler that way."
A short while later, I brought their food to the table.
"... and the Supreme Seafood Dish for the supreme gentleman," I said, placing the Skeevy Scalloper's dish in front of him.
"He doesn't know me very well, does he?" the man said to his wife. "But he does know how to make a tip, ha, ha, ha!"
"You can call it encouragement rather than acknowledgment." I gave them a wry smile.
As I walked away, I caught him with his eyes stuck on the backside of one of my coworkers while he ate, a ravenous grin breaking his face between chews of seafood. I proceeded to the fountain beverages in the alley to rinse with cola the taste of vomit from my mouth.
Later, I came back with their check when their dessert was nearly finished. "I can refill your coffee or get you water when you need, please feel free to take your time - I'm leaving this here for your convenience."
"This is not convenient." The Skeevy Scalloper was looking at me from under heavily disgruntled eyebrows. "Didn't you say this was on the house?"
"No," I said, "but it can be. Let's say it's on your house."
"Ha, ha, get that f***ing thing outta here, know what I'm sayin'? Ha, ha, ha."
I had personalized their check with a smiley face and a large image of the golden arches enclosed in a circle with a line through it. As I looked back at the table, I could see he was amused enough to pass it around. I checked on another of my tables and overheard him behind me saying, "See, he put a smiley face there because he wants a tip, ha, ha, ha." Yes, you bright, intelligent man, of course I do. I don't work here as a hobby.
Finally, I returned to take care of their payment and explained our survey to him.
"You don't want us to fill that out."
"Sir, I would love for you to fill that out, because the company wants you to fill that out, and while I'm dressed in these clothes with this nametag in this building, my soul is leased to the company."
He nearly died laughing. He managed to get a hold of himself long enough to finish signing his credit card slip and leave me a 25% cash tip.
I believe the score is:
Calvin: 1
Skeevy Scallopers: 0
Boo ya.
Interlude: My Buddy Drake
I have a coworker who recently got me hooked on the show Psych. If you haven't seen it, go watch it now. It's hilarious. Anyway, this coworker is an awesome guy - the kind of person you like working with, because he's competent, responsible, and friendly. We'll call him Drake.
Drake works as an Alley Coordinator in the kitchen. Frequently, when I'm in the alley preparing salads or otherwise getting ready to walk food, if the restaurant is not too busy, we'll chat. Or banter. Banter's probably a better word, because he's like the Gus to my Shawn. But I'm not calling him Gus; he's Drake. Except for this one time.
We were talking while I prepped some drinks to go out, and the topic of conversation happened to be alter egos. Suddenly, an anecdote overtook him and he was swept into the winds of narration:
Drake: So, this one time, a camper at this old camp I used to work at had the best name. Darby McFadden. How awesome is that?
Calvin: Uh. It's awesome?
Drake: What? I think it's GREAT!
Calvin: Seriously? I wouldn't name my child Darby, especially with the last name McFadden; I might get arrested for child abuse on the first day of grade school.
Drake: No, not for an actual name. I mean, the kid was pretty cool, but I was talking about a character name. That should totally be my alter ego.
Calvin: Sure! Only to spare the ego part of your alter ego, I'll just call you Darb. It's only one syllable and is closer to your real name. On the other hand... if you rearrange the letters you get 'drab', and you're not a drab guy.
Drake: Aw, thanks dude. But yes, I am.
Calvin: No, you're not. But this argument is. Whaaaat?!
*Cue fistbump*
The people I work with frequently make the workday more fun. Thanks for being awesome, Darb. Er...Drake. =)
Drake works as an Alley Coordinator in the kitchen. Frequently, when I'm in the alley preparing salads or otherwise getting ready to walk food, if the restaurant is not too busy, we'll chat. Or banter. Banter's probably a better word, because he's like the Gus to my Shawn. But I'm not calling him Gus; he's Drake. Except for this one time.
We were talking while I prepped some drinks to go out, and the topic of conversation happened to be alter egos. Suddenly, an anecdote overtook him and he was swept into the winds of narration:
Drake: So, this one time, a camper at this old camp I used to work at had the best name. Darby McFadden. How awesome is that?
Calvin: Uh. It's awesome?
Drake: What? I think it's GREAT!
Calvin: Seriously? I wouldn't name my child Darby, especially with the last name McFadden; I might get arrested for child abuse on the first day of grade school.
Drake: No, not for an actual name. I mean, the kid was pretty cool, but I was talking about a character name. That should totally be my alter ego.
Calvin: Sure! Only to spare the ego part of your alter ego, I'll just call you Darb. It's only one syllable and is closer to your real name. On the other hand... if you rearrange the letters you get 'drab', and you're not a drab guy.
Drake: Aw, thanks dude. But yes, I am.
Calvin: No, you're not. But this argument is. Whaaaat?!
*Cue fistbump*
The people I work with frequently make the workday more fun. Thanks for being awesome, Darb. Er...Drake. =)
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Glossary (RestaurantDictionary.awesome)
The following are terms you may encounter in this blog.
#-top (1-top, 2-top, etc.) - The number of people seated at a given table. Ex: "They just sat a one-top at table 46; there goes any money I was planning to make." Ex: "Calvin, you and Martha can take that twenty-top large party together once they've all arrived." ALSO: the standard capacity of a given table. Ex: "Astrid, you just got a five-top at table 68." "Isn't that a four-top?" "Usually, but they capped it."
86 - Completely out of. None in the store, period. Cannot produce from ingredients unless you can wave your magic wand and make said ingredients appear out of THIN AIR. If a shrimpmonger asks for (demands) something that is eighty-sixed, it is the one moment of pure pleasure a server can eke out by saying, with full legitimate rights, "We don't have that." Which really means, "I don't have to bring you that today, you selfish, heartless jerk."
Alley - The kitchen area where servers prepare food to be walked to their guests. It's also where we make salads, prepare desserts, and get drinks and biscuits.
Alley Coordinator - A member of the staff whose job it is to prepare the food for transit to tables. That is, this guy (or gal) dresses the food with any necessary garnish, like parsley and Parmesan cheese, and then puts the plates on a tray for the servers to carry out. There's probably more to it than that, but it's all it ever looks like they do. All of the A/Cs at my restaurant are fantastic people, which is great because we servers see them more than any other staff member throughout the day. Also, they control the presentation of our food, so we really should appreciate them.
BD - Business-decline. A point in the evening where restaurant traffic has slowed and fewer guests are entering the lobby hoping to be seated.
Busser - A member of the staff whose job it is to clear and clean the tables when guests leave.
Capped - A capped table has an extra chair on the end (for instance, allowing a seven-top at what would normally be a six-top).
Cash out - Restaurant slang for paying your bill. No, you don't have to use cash. If you pay with a credit card, gift card, dish-washing, or licking my filthy seafood-crusted shoes, we still call it 'cashing out'.
Check - Also known as a bill. It's an itemized notification of how much money you owe the restaurant. If it's brought before you ask for it, you may take that as a hint unless I tell you not to.
Dish - The place in the restaurant where dishes are cleaned. Yes, it really is that simple a definition.
Double-seated - An unfortunate event consisting of having two tables in your section seated simultaneously. This means getting drink orders for one table and then going to the next table before you can fill them. It means cutting guests' questions short so you can maintain contact with your other table so they don't go wondering where you've been. It means you're not getting a breath of air for at least twenty minutes.
Drop - To place down on a guest's table. (Usually used with "food" or "check".)
Galley - An inconvenient area between the main dining area and the bar dining area, adjoining the bar, where servers may get fountain beverages or bar drinks for guests.
Pre-bus - The act of clearing unused dishes from a table. This frees up space for new, food-filled dishes during the course of the meal.
Seater - Also called a host. Staff member whose job it is to seat guests at tables when they enter the restaurant.
Sidecar - A shot that rides on the rim of the glass. Some people shoot it before sipping their mixed drinks, others just pour it right in and make the drink stronger. Some people are really weird and pour it into their eyes.
Silent Service - The practice of surreptitiously checking up on tables without disturbing them. I usually just walk around the area where my tables are. If they want me, they'll let me know - otherwise I let them do their thing.
Tip - The monetary gratuity left for wait-staff by dining guests. No, it is not optional; I work extremely hard so you don't have to cook or clean tonight to get a tasty meal, with excellent service, and I don't make any money off my over-taxed hourly wages that are less than half of the federal minimum. So please be considerate of your servers. Thanks! And no, your advice is not a tip, nor is it welcome. You can eat it, along with the extra lemons you want in your tap water.
Tray up - Verb. To place items on a tray for the purpose of serving said items to guests. I don't know why we don't "tray" them "down", considering that we don't usually have to reach up to set them on the tray - rather, we lift the trays up once we've put the items down - but I suppose such a question is akin to asking why we drive on a parkway and park on a driveway. (The answer is because the English language, both proper and colloquial, is majorly effed up. Or is it effed down?)
Triple-seated - A highly unfortunate event consisting of having three tables in your section seated simultaneously. This means you have to bust your butt even harder to get orders written down and punched in or your tables will wonder what the hell you've been up to for all this time. It means you're in deep and not getting a breath for at least a half hour. Possibly more. Good freaking luck.
VIP service partner - Another server whose section is adjacent to yours. Partners are expected to help each other out by introducing themselves to one another's tables and assisting each other with anything their guests need.
Wait - How much time a new guest will need to wait to be seated. Ex: "What's the wait?" "Roughly forty minutes." "Wow, we're pretty busy right now."
Zip - A string of booth tables in the bar area. To this day I do not know why we call it that. If you figure it out, please let me know. I'm also open to amusing etymology suggestions.
#-top (1-top, 2-top, etc.) - The number of people seated at a given table. Ex: "They just sat a one-top at table 46; there goes any money I was planning to make." Ex: "Calvin, you and Martha can take that twenty-top large party together once they've all arrived." ALSO: the standard capacity of a given table. Ex: "Astrid, you just got a five-top at table 68." "Isn't that a four-top?" "Usually, but they capped it."
86 - Completely out of. None in the store, period. Cannot produce from ingredients unless you can wave your magic wand and make said ingredients appear out of THIN AIR. If a shrimpmonger asks for (demands) something that is eighty-sixed, it is the one moment of pure pleasure a server can eke out by saying, with full legitimate rights, "We don't have that." Which really means, "I don't have to bring you that today, you selfish, heartless jerk."
Alley - The kitchen area where servers prepare food to be walked to their guests. It's also where we make salads, prepare desserts, and get drinks and biscuits.
Alley Coordinator - A member of the staff whose job it is to prepare the food for transit to tables. That is, this guy (or gal) dresses the food with any necessary garnish, like parsley and Parmesan cheese, and then puts the plates on a tray for the servers to carry out. There's probably more to it than that, but it's all it ever looks like they do. All of the A/Cs at my restaurant are fantastic people, which is great because we servers see them more than any other staff member throughout the day. Also, they control the presentation of our food, so we really should appreciate them.
BD - Business-decline. A point in the evening where restaurant traffic has slowed and fewer guests are entering the lobby hoping to be seated.
Busser - A member of the staff whose job it is to clear and clean the tables when guests leave.
Capped - A capped table has an extra chair on the end (for instance, allowing a seven-top at what would normally be a six-top).
Cash out - Restaurant slang for paying your bill. No, you don't have to use cash. If you pay with a credit card, gift card, dish-washing, or licking my filthy seafood-crusted shoes, we still call it 'cashing out'.
Check - Also known as a bill. It's an itemized notification of how much money you owe the restaurant. If it's brought before you ask for it, you may take that as a hint unless I tell you not to.
Dish - The place in the restaurant where dishes are cleaned. Yes, it really is that simple a definition.
Double-seated - An unfortunate event consisting of having two tables in your section seated simultaneously. This means getting drink orders for one table and then going to the next table before you can fill them. It means cutting guests' questions short so you can maintain contact with your other table so they don't go wondering where you've been. It means you're not getting a breath of air for at least twenty minutes.
Drop - To place down on a guest's table. (Usually used with "food" or "check".)
Galley - An inconvenient area between the main dining area and the bar dining area, adjoining the bar, where servers may get fountain beverages or bar drinks for guests.
Pre-bus - The act of clearing unused dishes from a table. This frees up space for new, food-filled dishes during the course of the meal.
Seater - Also called a host. Staff member whose job it is to seat guests at tables when they enter the restaurant.
Sidecar - A shot that rides on the rim of the glass. Some people shoot it before sipping their mixed drinks, others just pour it right in and make the drink stronger. Some people are really weird and pour it into their eyes.
Silent Service - The practice of surreptitiously checking up on tables without disturbing them. I usually just walk around the area where my tables are. If they want me, they'll let me know - otherwise I let them do their thing.
Tip - The monetary gratuity left for wait-staff by dining guests. No, it is not optional; I work extremely hard so you don't have to cook or clean tonight to get a tasty meal, with excellent service, and I don't make any money off my over-taxed hourly wages that are less than half of the federal minimum. So please be considerate of your servers. Thanks! And no, your advice is not a tip, nor is it welcome. You can eat it, along with the extra lemons you want in your tap water.
Tray up - Verb. To place items on a tray for the purpose of serving said items to guests. I don't know why we don't "tray" them "down", considering that we don't usually have to reach up to set them on the tray - rather, we lift the trays up once we've put the items down - but I suppose such a question is akin to asking why we drive on a parkway and park on a driveway. (The answer is because the English language, both proper and colloquial, is majorly effed up. Or is it effed down?)
Triple-seated - A highly unfortunate event consisting of having three tables in your section seated simultaneously. This means you have to bust your butt even harder to get orders written down and punched in or your tables will wonder what the hell you've been up to for all this time. It means you're in deep and not getting a breath for at least a half hour. Possibly more. Good freaking luck.
VIP service partner - Another server whose section is adjacent to yours. Partners are expected to help each other out by introducing themselves to one another's tables and assisting each other with anything their guests need.
Wait - How much time a new guest will need to wait to be seated. Ex: "What's the wait?" "Roughly forty minutes." "Wow, we're pretty busy right now."
Zip - A string of booth tables in the bar area. To this day I do not know why we call it that. If you figure it out, please let me know. I'm also open to amusing etymology suggestions.
A Day in the Life (featuring Crazy Loud Lady)
Nothing unusual happened for the first two hours of my shift. It was a regular Friday evening at the Scarlet Crustacean. Actually, it was better than a regular evening; by that point in the night I should have had several ridiculous guest complaints to satisfy and been triple-seated at least once, but my stress barometer still measured low on the scale. Xandra, one of my coworkers who claims to be 4 feet 10 and a quarter inches (but I'm betting doesn't even hit the 4'9" mark), came in with her usual effervescence and gave me a high-five-hello.
"Hey, Cal!"
"Hi! How are you?"
"I'm ready to kick some crustacean butt!" she said, an emphatic grin on her face. If only everyone could manage to walk in with such enthusiasm. But alas, everyone else would have to be on drugs and that would get them fired.
I started to point out that crustaceans don't really have butts, but quickly changed my mind and just smiled as I carried my tray into the main dining area. As I progressed through the galley I passed Jack, another coworker. Jack's a nice young man of about eighteen years who hopes to become a police officer. He can be pretty funny from time to time. Like this time.
As I passed him, I noticed he was personalizing his check. We were recently told that a new policy at the Crustacean involved personalized checks. Every single time we print a check for a guest, we need to add a personalized message to it. This is one of the newfangled policies I don't take issue with, because it has been proven to generally increase tips when guests see that their servers have taken a little extra time in getting to know them or in expressing gratitude for their patronage.
Anyway, Jack was personalizing his check, and out of curiosity I casually read the message he was jotting down.
Thanks for comming in...
I didn't read any further. "Jack. You spelled "coming" wrong. There's only one "m". Just wanted to let you know before you dropped that check."
"You're messing with me," he said. True, sometimes I mess with coworkers in a jovial way. However, I am an English major in graduate school and one of my goals in life is to improve the world's language mechanics.
"I wouldn't mess about this, Jack. You'd be presenting our collective ignorance to our guests, and that doesn't help any of us."
"Ha, ha," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "You're a funny guy, you know that?"
"Aw, thanks buddy," I replied. "And that's a really nice pen." I tend to notice nice pens - another side-effect of being an English major. This one was gold with black trim and looked like it had a nice heft to it.
"Oh, check it out, Cal. It has these cool features and a matching pencil, came with a set I got as a gift for--"
"Awesome. Does the pencil have spellcheck?" I asked.
He laughed and rolled his eyes at me. "You have something on your--" he called to my back. The humor of youth, neh? I continued to my guests.
A new party of two ladies in their late twenties or early thirties had been seated at one of my tables. I welcomed them in the usual manner and then explained our newest specials. One of them kept dancing all over me with her eyes. It was somewhat disconcerting, because I couldn't tell if she was checking me out or if she had an uncontrollable spasm of sight. When I finished and asked them if they had any menu questions for me, she tucked her oak-brown hair behind her ears and loudly proclaimed, "I WANT THIS CHICKEN PASTA WITH THIS DEAL BUT I WANT SHRIMP NOT CHICKEN. I CAN DO THAT, RIGHT?"
I'm serious, she really did speak that loudly to me. At me. Through me, even.
"I'm sorry, but the promotional special you want to have doesn't include the shrimp alfredo or allow for substitutions. We do have a shrimp and scallop alfredo if you'd prefer that. Instead of cajun spices it has tomatoes and garlic." I smiled my best cheesy (alfredo) smile and waited for her to catch up with me. It took a minute.
"CAN I GET THAT ONE WITHOUT THE SCALLOPS, THEN?"
I assured her that the kitchen could hold the scallops for her.
"OKAY AND YOU'LL GET EXTRA SHRIMP IN THERE FOR ME, RIGHT?" she asked. And winked at me.
"I'll do what I can," I said. I won't lie to my guests, because I won't lie to anyone on principle. But I rely on my tips for my wages, and thus I am inclined to dodge questions like a politician at a debate tournament from time to time. Also, I wanted to get out of earshot.
A little while later I was in the alley getting ready to walk this table's food to them when my VIP service partner Martha came over to tell me she had been scared to death by my guests.
"Cal, you have no idea how rude this woman is."
"What woman? At table 94? Brown hair, medium length, wild eyes, loud mouth?"
"How ever did you know?" she responded. "She's either a horrible person or she's crazy. Or both. She just screamed 'BREAD!' across the entire front room at Max the busser."
I have no idea what would make someone think that the bussers are wait staff, so I decided the answer to Martha's question then and there. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure there's something missing up here." I made a wavy motion at the side of my head.
"No, Cal, you don't understand," she continued, "she then yelled at me to come over to her and demanded drink refills. Not even a hint of a request in her voice, she just waited for me to arrive, looked at me, said 'DIET COKE,' and went back to her conversation as if I hadn't just walked across the room to her table."
By this point I had nearly confirmed in my head that the woman was functionally autistic at some level, probably Asperger's, but as I am not a certified psychologist and simply wanted to make some money off this table, I didn't speculate further.
I did, however, plan mentally for more odd behavior. Good thing, too. Some servers would be pretty rattled by this stuff. I mean, she asked me for extra tartar sauce, then waited until I returned with the tartar to ask for more cocktail sauce, then waited until I brought the cocktail to ask for some hot sauce. It went on like this for a full 25 minutes, and I did have other tables.
Later on they asked me to bring their check. I brought it over. "I'll be right back with this," I assured them when the loud lady's friend produced a credit card. Thirty seconds later I returned to their table and explained that they needed to sign the small copy for me, and they could keep the other one. "Thank you for coming in today. I hope to see you again soon!" I smiled, thinking through my teeth that it would be fantastic when I could catch a breath once they were out the door. When I was precisely three steps away, I heard my name shouted at me from across the dining room.
"CALVIN!"
I turned around and approached the table again. "What can I do for you?"
"You're gonna hate us," she said with a demonic grin stretched across her pretty face.
Probably, I thought, but it will never show. I waited for her to continue.
"Is it..." the other woman cut in, "...possible to get this coupon added even though I already paid?"
This is where my honesty comes to bite me in the tuchus. "Yes, but I'll need your credit card back and you should hold on to my pen, because you're going to need to sign the new slip when it's printed. And I don't hate you." I grinned at them again. I'm just mildly irritated. Especially since you had me do all of this for a $32.00 check which will now become a $28.00 check after the coupon, and since most people carry their percentage-tip-calculations over even into single-digit bills, I'll be lucky to get six dollars from you. But I don't hate you, because I can only be saddened by your unfortunate ignorance and I realize you might actually have a medical excuse for it, though I REALLY hope your seemingly normal friend goes beyond my expectations.
I pulled their previous payment, ran the coupon, ran the card again, and brought them the new slips. They left. I silently rejoiced.
My last table was a breath of fresh air, though. It was a family of four. The parents were really, really nice, and their two smiling kids looked to be about four and five years old, a boy and girl. They were adorable.
They had a quiet and satisfying meal as a family and joked with me about the snow outside.
The kids both asked very politely for booster seats, so I brought the boosters over and helped them climb in. I complimented the boy on his awesome Spider Man shirt, and told him about the sweet Superman shirt my sister got me for my birthday (it came with a cape!). When he heard about the cape, he showed me "just how cool this Spider Man shirt really is." The thing had a button that, when pushed, caused comic-esque sound effects to emerge from somewhere on the shirt. I was awed.
Later on they ordered a dessert to share, and the kids got really excited. The girl seemed especially jealous that her brother's Spider Man shirt was getting all the attention, so she stood up and beckoned for me to listen to her. "I had DESSERT!"
"Yes, you did. Did you like it?" I asked, knowing full well that she had just literally licked her plate clean.
"YEAH! And now..." she beckoned me closer so she could whisper (loudly), "...I'm gonna go home and burp!" She had the proudest grin on her face. Her mother gaped in shock and tried to cover the kid's mouth, but it was too late; the girl was on to new thoughts, and I was several steps away trying to cover my own mouth to prevent my laughter from filling the front dining room.
Those kids made my night.
"Hey, Cal!"
"Hi! How are you?"
"I'm ready to kick some crustacean butt!" she said, an emphatic grin on her face. If only everyone could manage to walk in with such enthusiasm. But alas, everyone else would have to be on drugs and that would get them fired.
I started to point out that crustaceans don't really have butts, but quickly changed my mind and just smiled as I carried my tray into the main dining area. As I progressed through the galley I passed Jack, another coworker. Jack's a nice young man of about eighteen years who hopes to become a police officer. He can be pretty funny from time to time. Like this time.
As I passed him, I noticed he was personalizing his check. We were recently told that a new policy at the Crustacean involved personalized checks. Every single time we print a check for a guest, we need to add a personalized message to it. This is one of the newfangled policies I don't take issue with, because it has been proven to generally increase tips when guests see that their servers have taken a little extra time in getting to know them or in expressing gratitude for their patronage.
Anyway, Jack was personalizing his check, and out of curiosity I casually read the message he was jotting down.
Thanks for comming in...
I didn't read any further. "Jack. You spelled "coming" wrong. There's only one "m". Just wanted to let you know before you dropped that check."
"You're messing with me," he said. True, sometimes I mess with coworkers in a jovial way. However, I am an English major in graduate school and one of my goals in life is to improve the world's language mechanics.
"I wouldn't mess about this, Jack. You'd be presenting our collective ignorance to our guests, and that doesn't help any of us."
"Ha, ha," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "You're a funny guy, you know that?"
"Aw, thanks buddy," I replied. "And that's a really nice pen." I tend to notice nice pens - another side-effect of being an English major. This one was gold with black trim and looked like it had a nice heft to it.
"Oh, check it out, Cal. It has these cool features and a matching pencil, came with a set I got as a gift for--"
"Awesome. Does the pencil have spellcheck?" I asked.
He laughed and rolled his eyes at me. "You have something on your--" he called to my back. The humor of youth, neh? I continued to my guests.
A new party of two ladies in their late twenties or early thirties had been seated at one of my tables. I welcomed them in the usual manner and then explained our newest specials. One of them kept dancing all over me with her eyes. It was somewhat disconcerting, because I couldn't tell if she was checking me out or if she had an uncontrollable spasm of sight. When I finished and asked them if they had any menu questions for me, she tucked her oak-brown hair behind her ears and loudly proclaimed, "I WANT THIS CHICKEN PASTA WITH THIS DEAL BUT I WANT SHRIMP NOT CHICKEN. I CAN DO THAT, RIGHT?"
I'm serious, she really did speak that loudly to me. At me. Through me, even.
"I'm sorry, but the promotional special you want to have doesn't include the shrimp alfredo or allow for substitutions. We do have a shrimp and scallop alfredo if you'd prefer that. Instead of cajun spices it has tomatoes and garlic." I smiled my best cheesy (alfredo) smile and waited for her to catch up with me. It took a minute.
"CAN I GET THAT ONE WITHOUT THE SCALLOPS, THEN?"
I assured her that the kitchen could hold the scallops for her.
"OKAY AND YOU'LL GET EXTRA SHRIMP IN THERE FOR ME, RIGHT?" she asked. And winked at me.
"I'll do what I can," I said. I won't lie to my guests, because I won't lie to anyone on principle. But I rely on my tips for my wages, and thus I am inclined to dodge questions like a politician at a debate tournament from time to time. Also, I wanted to get out of earshot.
A little while later I was in the alley getting ready to walk this table's food to them when my VIP service partner Martha came over to tell me she had been scared to death by my guests.
"Cal, you have no idea how rude this woman is."
"What woman? At table 94? Brown hair, medium length, wild eyes, loud mouth?"
"How ever did you know?" she responded. "She's either a horrible person or she's crazy. Or both. She just screamed 'BREAD!' across the entire front room at Max the busser."
I have no idea what would make someone think that the bussers are wait staff, so I decided the answer to Martha's question then and there. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure there's something missing up here." I made a wavy motion at the side of my head.
"No, Cal, you don't understand," she continued, "she then yelled at me to come over to her and demanded drink refills. Not even a hint of a request in her voice, she just waited for me to arrive, looked at me, said 'DIET COKE,' and went back to her conversation as if I hadn't just walked across the room to her table."
By this point I had nearly confirmed in my head that the woman was functionally autistic at some level, probably Asperger's, but as I am not a certified psychologist and simply wanted to make some money off this table, I didn't speculate further.
I did, however, plan mentally for more odd behavior. Good thing, too. Some servers would be pretty rattled by this stuff. I mean, she asked me for extra tartar sauce, then waited until I returned with the tartar to ask for more cocktail sauce, then waited until I brought the cocktail to ask for some hot sauce. It went on like this for a full 25 minutes, and I did have other tables.
Later on they asked me to bring their check. I brought it over. "I'll be right back with this," I assured them when the loud lady's friend produced a credit card. Thirty seconds later I returned to their table and explained that they needed to sign the small copy for me, and they could keep the other one. "Thank you for coming in today. I hope to see you again soon!" I smiled, thinking through my teeth that it would be fantastic when I could catch a breath once they were out the door. When I was precisely three steps away, I heard my name shouted at me from across the dining room.
"CALVIN!"
I turned around and approached the table again. "What can I do for you?"
"You're gonna hate us," she said with a demonic grin stretched across her pretty face.
Probably, I thought, but it will never show. I waited for her to continue.
"Is it..." the other woman cut in, "...possible to get this coupon added even though I already paid?"
This is where my honesty comes to bite me in the tuchus. "Yes, but I'll need your credit card back and you should hold on to my pen, because you're going to need to sign the new slip when it's printed. And I don't hate you." I grinned at them again. I'm just mildly irritated. Especially since you had me do all of this for a $32.00 check which will now become a $28.00 check after the coupon, and since most people carry their percentage-tip-calculations over even into single-digit bills, I'll be lucky to get six dollars from you. But I don't hate you, because I can only be saddened by your unfortunate ignorance and I realize you might actually have a medical excuse for it, though I REALLY hope your seemingly normal friend goes beyond my expectations.
I pulled their previous payment, ran the coupon, ran the card again, and brought them the new slips. They left. I silently rejoiced.
My last table was a breath of fresh air, though. It was a family of four. The parents were really, really nice, and their two smiling kids looked to be about four and five years old, a boy and girl. They were adorable.
They had a quiet and satisfying meal as a family and joked with me about the snow outside.
The kids both asked very politely for booster seats, so I brought the boosters over and helped them climb in. I complimented the boy on his awesome Spider Man shirt, and told him about the sweet Superman shirt my sister got me for my birthday (it came with a cape!). When he heard about the cape, he showed me "just how cool this Spider Man shirt really is." The thing had a button that, when pushed, caused comic-esque sound effects to emerge from somewhere on the shirt. I was awed.
Later on they ordered a dessert to share, and the kids got really excited. The girl seemed especially jealous that her brother's Spider Man shirt was getting all the attention, so she stood up and beckoned for me to listen to her. "I had DESSERT!"
"Yes, you did. Did you like it?" I asked, knowing full well that she had just literally licked her plate clean.
"YEAH! And now..." she beckoned me closer so she could whisper (loudly), "...I'm gonna go home and burp!" She had the proudest grin on her face. Her mother gaped in shock and tried to cover the kid's mouth, but it was too late; the girl was on to new thoughts, and I was several steps away trying to cover my own mouth to prevent my laughter from filling the front dining room.
Those kids made my night.
Introduction/ The Shrimpmonger
I work at a seafood restaurant you'd probably recognize. You've probably even been there to enjoy said seafood. You may even have had me as your server, though that is far less probable. The working life of a server at this place is far less glamorous than it might seem to the naked, hungry eye. This blog will serve to elaborate for you the flavorful humor and tasteless crap we servers encounter on the job.
My name is Calvin (though my guests typically call me Alvin, Al, or Gary, despite my blatantly displayed name tag, which contrasts brilliantly with the stark white oxford shirt the company makes us wear). As a server, my wages depend heavily upon people-pleasing, so I allow my guests to call me anything within reason. I also understand that not everyone can read (-- our nation's literacy problem will grow in your eyes as you follow this blog, to be sure).
My coworkers are mostly amicable, honest, hardworking people who are willing to help each other out, because we're all choking for air at the bottom of this food-ridden sea together. We jab, joke, jest, and sometimes freak out at one another, but it's all in a day's work. When it comes right down to it, solidarity within is vital when we share a common enemy: the horrid Shrimpmonger.
The Shrimpmonger doesn't have to order shrimp to be a Shrimpmonger; it's just that they usually do. The Shrimpmonger is any guest at the restaurant who does not understand or care to exhibit common etiquette for dining out. The Shrimpmonger rarely tips well, if at all, and often seems to work at making servers' lives more difficult. When sports team alliances, local colloquial terminology (pop vs. soda), and all manner of personal relationships may drive us apart, the Shrimpmonger reminds us why we stick together at the Scarlet Crustacean every time. So above all, this blog is dedicated to the Shrimpmonger. Life as a server would be so much better if it weren't for you.
My name is Calvin (though my guests typically call me Alvin, Al, or Gary, despite my blatantly displayed name tag, which contrasts brilliantly with the stark white oxford shirt the company makes us wear). As a server, my wages depend heavily upon people-pleasing, so I allow my guests to call me anything within reason. I also understand that not everyone can read (-- our nation's literacy problem will grow in your eyes as you follow this blog, to be sure).
My coworkers are mostly amicable, honest, hardworking people who are willing to help each other out, because we're all choking for air at the bottom of this food-ridden sea together. We jab, joke, jest, and sometimes freak out at one another, but it's all in a day's work. When it comes right down to it, solidarity within is vital when we share a common enemy: the horrid Shrimpmonger.
The Shrimpmonger doesn't have to order shrimp to be a Shrimpmonger; it's just that they usually do. The Shrimpmonger is any guest at the restaurant who does not understand or care to exhibit common etiquette for dining out. The Shrimpmonger rarely tips well, if at all, and often seems to work at making servers' lives more difficult. When sports team alliances, local colloquial terminology (pop vs. soda), and all manner of personal relationships may drive us apart, the Shrimpmonger reminds us why we stick together at the Scarlet Crustacean every time. So above all, this blog is dedicated to the Shrimpmonger. Life as a server would be so much better if it weren't for you.
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