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.
Surviving by serving seafood with style.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Sunday, February 13, 2011
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.
"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.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Whoop Whoop! No Presents for You!
It's Monday. I've got the closing shift, so even though the restaurant is practically empty, I get the next table to come through the doors. A nice, middle-aged couple sits down in a nearby booth and, though they're regulars, they're not quite ready to order.
I bring them their drinks and appetizers. As I'm taking down their meal order, now that they've decided, another group is seated in my section. It's a family of four, and they're one of those unnecessarily unhappy tables. You know, the kind that, when greeted and welcomed and asked how they're doing, respond, "Coffee. Black. And bring me some biscuits." Sounds like somebody's got a case of the Mondays.
I get their order in and check on the nice couple - they're still enjoying their salads.
It's 9:22 PM. We close in barely more than half an hour. I'm standing in the galley, hoping against hope that the doors stay clos-- ah, crap. I envision banging my head against the bar, because actually doing so would result in a headache and I have to close tonight, headache or not. A rather large couple walks through the doors and is led to an open booth in my section. I'm busy taking the meal order for the ornery family, but that's okay because the big man in the plain white t-shirt, black sweatpants, and black baseball cap is entertaining himself.
Another family sits a couple of yards away, in the same dining area as the large couple. Two small children are chasing each other in the middle of the dining room. I refrain from telling them that this isn't Chuck E. Cheese, fearing that the subtlety of such an admonition would be lost on kids so young and adults so stupid. My imaginary self is interrupted; the large man at my table addresses the kids himself, thus: "Yo, you kids don't be listenin' to ya parents. You gotta be. You know I know Santa Claus."
The kids become wide-eyed. The big guy thinks it's because they are in a state of shocked admiration. I don't tell him it's because they've never been this close to a crazy person. But I should.
"I'll tell Santa not to give you anything if ya don't go sit down," he continues. He is loud, obnoxious, and careless of the other guests around him.
I make my way over to his table, if only to prevent him from continuing to corrupt other people's kids. He orders a margarita, decides he hates it, and asks for a soda instead. His wife orders a large appetizer, the salmon, blackened, with two side items, and a salad with extra dressing. She also orders a mudslide. I ask him what he'd like to eat. This gargantuan, obnoxious man asks only for a side salad. "Yeah," he assures me, "that's it, man." I don't allow the shock to register on my face, out of courtesy for him and a desire for his money.
I bring their salads out. It's 9:40. I'm praying they eat their food quickly because I really don't want to be at work forever tonight. I stop short of their table and set the tray down several feet away, unsure of how to proceed given the following scene: the children are at it again, chasing each other around nearby tables. The gentleman at my table has taken to tagging them with one hand as they cruise by his table. When he sees me coming with his food, he shoos them away. Their parents call them over, but they're having too much fun to just listen. So he resorts to the next most logical response.
"WHOOP! WHOOP!" he yells at them, "I'll make you sorry you talk to strangers if you get in the way of my food. And I'll tell Santa to leave you be this year." He notices the limited effect his words are having. "Whoop! Whoop!" he repeats, loudly, like a dog keeping the postman from breaching his territory. I can almost see the marquee across his eyes. <Whoop-Whoop is SUPER EFFECTIVE! Wild Children stop attacking!>
Meanwhile, the nice couple at my first table are looking at the lot of them as though they're insane, and cannot fathom how to continue enjoying their meal together in peace. They hurry up and leave, all the while casting nervous/disdainful glances at the parents of the ragamuffins and at the huge, self-absorbed whack-jobs.
It takes another half-hour before the obnoxious table is even close to finishing their food. Then, they ask if we (the staff) are in a hurry to get out. He is really just reveling in the fact that we have to answer 'no', because the guests are always given our full and fair attention, even after closing time. The glint in his grin says, "Haha, eff you, serverman! I get to stay here and make closing up even harder for you, and there's nothin' you can do about it!"
It figures that my last table would have the Frankenstein's Monster of the DNA of classic Adam Sandler, Al Bundy, Cartman, and Chris Rock, with the IQ of a crab leg. Get thee gone, please, thou unintelligible, classless, tasteless, self-amusing moron.
I just walk back to the alley and roll my eyes, comforted by the fact that soon I will go home and write all about these idiots.
I bring them their drinks and appetizers. As I'm taking down their meal order, now that they've decided, another group is seated in my section. It's a family of four, and they're one of those unnecessarily unhappy tables. You know, the kind that, when greeted and welcomed and asked how they're doing, respond, "Coffee. Black. And bring me some biscuits." Sounds like somebody's got a case of the Mondays.
I get their order in and check on the nice couple - they're still enjoying their salads.
It's 9:22 PM. We close in barely more than half an hour. I'm standing in the galley, hoping against hope that the doors stay clos-- ah, crap. I envision banging my head against the bar, because actually doing so would result in a headache and I have to close tonight, headache or not. A rather large couple walks through the doors and is led to an open booth in my section. I'm busy taking the meal order for the ornery family, but that's okay because the big man in the plain white t-shirt, black sweatpants, and black baseball cap is entertaining himself.
Another family sits a couple of yards away, in the same dining area as the large couple. Two small children are chasing each other in the middle of the dining room. I refrain from telling them that this isn't Chuck E. Cheese, fearing that the subtlety of such an admonition would be lost on kids so young and adults so stupid. My imaginary self is interrupted; the large man at my table addresses the kids himself, thus: "Yo, you kids don't be listenin' to ya parents. You gotta be. You know I know Santa Claus."
The kids become wide-eyed. The big guy thinks it's because they are in a state of shocked admiration. I don't tell him it's because they've never been this close to a crazy person. But I should.
"I'll tell Santa not to give you anything if ya don't go sit down," he continues. He is loud, obnoxious, and careless of the other guests around him.
I make my way over to his table, if only to prevent him from continuing to corrupt other people's kids. He orders a margarita, decides he hates it, and asks for a soda instead. His wife orders a large appetizer, the salmon, blackened, with two side items, and a salad with extra dressing. She also orders a mudslide. I ask him what he'd like to eat. This gargantuan, obnoxious man asks only for a side salad. "Yeah," he assures me, "that's it, man." I don't allow the shock to register on my face, out of courtesy for him and a desire for his money.
I bring their salads out. It's 9:40. I'm praying they eat their food quickly because I really don't want to be at work forever tonight. I stop short of their table and set the tray down several feet away, unsure of how to proceed given the following scene: the children are at it again, chasing each other around nearby tables. The gentleman at my table has taken to tagging them with one hand as they cruise by his table. When he sees me coming with his food, he shoos them away. Their parents call them over, but they're having too much fun to just listen. So he resorts to the next most logical response.
"WHOOP! WHOOP!" he yells at them, "I'll make you sorry you talk to strangers if you get in the way of my food. And I'll tell Santa to leave you be this year." He notices the limited effect his words are having. "Whoop! Whoop!" he repeats, loudly, like a dog keeping the postman from breaching his territory. I can almost see the marquee across his eyes. <Whoop-Whoop is SUPER EFFECTIVE! Wild Children stop attacking!>
Meanwhile, the nice couple at my first table are looking at the lot of them as though they're insane, and cannot fathom how to continue enjoying their meal together in peace. They hurry up and leave, all the while casting nervous/disdainful glances at the parents of the ragamuffins and at the huge, self-absorbed whack-jobs.
It takes another half-hour before the obnoxious table is even close to finishing their food. Then, they ask if we (the staff) are in a hurry to get out. He is really just reveling in the fact that we have to answer 'no', because the guests are always given our full and fair attention, even after closing time. The glint in his grin says, "Haha, eff you, serverman! I get to stay here and make closing up even harder for you, and there's nothin' you can do about it!"
It figures that my last table would have the Frankenstein's Monster of the DNA of classic Adam Sandler, Al Bundy, Cartman, and Chris Rock, with the IQ of a crab leg. Get thee gone, please, thou unintelligible, classless, tasteless, self-amusing moron.
I just walk back to the alley and roll my eyes, comforted by the fact that soon I will go home and write all about these idiots.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
A Word about Stacking Dishes
A guest asked me today, "Does this bother you?" She was pointing at her husband.
I opened my mouth to say, A little, with that annoying habit of asking for sauces and things one at a time, but I'm willing to let it go if he leaves me a good tip, but I realized in time that she probably didn't mean her husband. "Does what bother you?" I asked.
"My husband read somewhere that waiters don't like it if we do this for them." She moved her pointer finger from her husband to the edge of the table, where a small stack of used dishes lay.
Ahhhh. That.
"Not at all," I replied, "at least not here." I can't speak for other restaurants. What I didn't say, and feel the need to elaborate here, is that there are qualifications to this reassurance.
Generally, I don't mind when a guest stacks plates for me. It does three awesome things.
1. It lets me know that the guest has finished using those dishes so I can pre-bus them. It helps me avoid that awkward feeling when I ask a guest, "Are you all set with this dish?" and the guest looks at me like I'm speaking Martian.
2. It clears the table up a little bit for when I bring more food, more drinks, etc., to the table. This way, I have room to place things without having to juggle plates between my tray and the table.
3. Most importantly, it expedites the pre-busing process. I am able to remove the stacked dishes from the table faster, and then clear them faster before sending them to dish.
However, there are occasions when nothing bothers me MORE than a guest stacking dishes for me.
1. Do not stack dishes for me INTO MY HANDS. I am not a party clown. My job is to bring you tasty food so that you don't have to cook it, NOT to entertain you by wildly balancing a high, precarious stack of plates, bowls, forks, knives, and glasses so that you can laugh like animals when the mess comes crashing down on my head.
2. Do not stack dishes for me ONTO MY TRAY. It's all right if you're trying to help and set them up on the table - consolidating there is not a problem, because I can rearrange them onto my tray however I see fit. However, since I am going to have to carry the tray of dishes back to dish, I need to ensure the tray is properly balanced. If you're stacking them all haphazardly onto my tray, I end up with a slightly less troublesome version of problem #1 (see above).
3. Do not stack dishes in a clearly illogical fashion. It's not funny. Seriously. I've had guests arrange their dishes like this, and then laugh when they told me "we helped you!":
Four glasses, set rim to rim. Above the glasses, a large round plate. Above the plate, three more glasses. On top of the glasses, another three large plates, several forks and knives, a few napkins, and who knows what kind of seafood. On top of that mixture, a bowl, and in the bowl, leftover dessert. It was the Leaning Tower of Accident-Waiting-to-Happen.
Often, guests will unwittingly stack dishes in hazardous ways, and genuinely believe they were helping. How can you be so blind, so inexperienced, so utterly short-circuited as to think that putting large plates on top of smaller bowls is HELPFUL and LOGICAL?
So, yes, usually your stacking of the dishes is helpful to me. So long as you follow the simple, common sense-based rules laid out above.
P.S.
Sometimes, for fun, I imagine my guests trying to carry the dishes back for me, the way they've stacked them. It's like watching Looney Toons in my head. Minus the anvil flattening them.
Maybe in the next daydream...
I opened my mouth to say, A little, with that annoying habit of asking for sauces and things one at a time, but I'm willing to let it go if he leaves me a good tip, but I realized in time that she probably didn't mean her husband. "Does what bother you?" I asked.
"My husband read somewhere that waiters don't like it if we do this for them." She moved her pointer finger from her husband to the edge of the table, where a small stack of used dishes lay.
Ahhhh. That.
"Not at all," I replied, "at least not here." I can't speak for other restaurants. What I didn't say, and feel the need to elaborate here, is that there are qualifications to this reassurance.
Generally, I don't mind when a guest stacks plates for me. It does three awesome things.
1. It lets me know that the guest has finished using those dishes so I can pre-bus them. It helps me avoid that awkward feeling when I ask a guest, "Are you all set with this dish?" and the guest looks at me like I'm speaking Martian.
2. It clears the table up a little bit for when I bring more food, more drinks, etc., to the table. This way, I have room to place things without having to juggle plates between my tray and the table.
3. Most importantly, it expedites the pre-busing process. I am able to remove the stacked dishes from the table faster, and then clear them faster before sending them to dish.
However, there are occasions when nothing bothers me MORE than a guest stacking dishes for me.
1. Do not stack dishes for me INTO MY HANDS. I am not a party clown. My job is to bring you tasty food so that you don't have to cook it, NOT to entertain you by wildly balancing a high, precarious stack of plates, bowls, forks, knives, and glasses so that you can laugh like animals when the mess comes crashing down on my head.
2. Do not stack dishes for me ONTO MY TRAY. It's all right if you're trying to help and set them up on the table - consolidating there is not a problem, because I can rearrange them onto my tray however I see fit. However, since I am going to have to carry the tray of dishes back to dish, I need to ensure the tray is properly balanced. If you're stacking them all haphazardly onto my tray, I end up with a slightly less troublesome version of problem #1 (see above).
3. Do not stack dishes in a clearly illogical fashion. It's not funny. Seriously. I've had guests arrange their dishes like this, and then laugh when they told me "we helped you!":
Four glasses, set rim to rim. Above the glasses, a large round plate. Above the plate, three more glasses. On top of the glasses, another three large plates, several forks and knives, a few napkins, and who knows what kind of seafood. On top of that mixture, a bowl, and in the bowl, leftover dessert. It was the Leaning Tower of Accident-Waiting-to-Happen.
Often, guests will unwittingly stack dishes in hazardous ways, and genuinely believe they were helping. How can you be so blind, so inexperienced, so utterly short-circuited as to think that putting large plates on top of smaller bowls is HELPFUL and LOGICAL?
So, yes, usually your stacking of the dishes is helpful to me. So long as you follow the simple, common sense-based rules laid out above.
P.S.
Sometimes, for fun, I imagine my guests trying to carry the dishes back for me, the way they've stacked them. It's like watching Looney Toons in my head. Minus the anvil flattening them.
Maybe in the next daydream...
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