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.
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