Hairy Situation

     http://www.yingleyangle.com/2010/04/how-to-use-kurt-vonneguts-advice-to.html

Finding hair in your food is really gross.  I can’t argue with that statement.  Nothing will change the fact that finding a strand of someone else’s hair inside of your food is extremely unfortunate—on many levels.

However, being the soul that then has to deal with the repercussions of a “hair in food incident” is worse. 

Last Tuesday, for instance, I was selected (for someone’s own personal amusement, I’m sure) to wait on a party of fourteen employees from a local bank.  Large parties are always a hassle because of food allergies (hello, Mr. Gluten Free), requests for separate checks (“Can we have all the drinks on one bill?”), and people who are so needy that you’re surprised they’re toilet trained. 

It’s usually not a big deal if you mentally prepare yourself for the onslaught of parties, but nothing prepared me for the woman that raised her hand to my face to show me the grey hair she found in her chicken flatbread sandwich. 

“I don’t know what kind of an establishment this is,” she sneered, “but you need to tell whoever is cooking in there that they need to wear a hairnet.” 

What do you do in this kind of a situation? I’ll tell you what, you act just as appalled and disgusted as they are, take the plate in question, and run away before they can begin to argue. 

It’s almost foolproof.  Except for the fact they when I returned to the table, the whole lot of them looked up at me in annoyance and told me that they were “just fine, despite that one mishap, thank you.”

The worst part was the fact that I could pinpoint without doubt which not so hygiene friendly cook that hair belonged to.  I gag a little bit when I think about it, really.  But I was not going to confront the cranky old alcoholic about the hair.  I don’t have a death wish. 

The new (and free) food didn’t really placate the woman, but what else could I have done?  It wasn’t my hair.  I didn’t pluck someone else’s hair and deliberately hide it in a sandwich.  I didn’t even find some kind of sick joy out of the hair.  It’s not exactly the kind of thing that just goes away with free food.  The bankers had it out for me for the rest of the afternoon. 

Lesson learned:  Never argue with the customer.  Always take the plate, run, and void the meal from their bill incase of emergency.  Also, pray that they don’t call to complain the next day. 

Cranberry Juice For Color

There are times when the moment you walk up to a table, you realize that your time is not worth the lousy 10% tip you’re surely in for. 

I worked the Tuesday lunch shift last week, and I knew I was in for it from the beginning of the shift.  Let me tell you, having to polish every piece of silverware in the restaurant is not a good sign for things to come.

Beyond that, after rallying myself to get excited about my table, I set down two water glasses and began my “Welcome, my name is Naomi and I’ll be your server today” spiel, only to be rudely interrupted. 

A manicured finger waved over the water, signaling my attention.  The finger belonged a middle-aged woman with perfect hair and a face full of Botox who gave me one glance before claiming that she doesn’t “do ice. I want no ice, just a splash of cranberry juice—no sugar—for color.”

These kinds of customers make me want to gag a little bit.  Or spit in their food.  Not that I ever would, but sometimes it feels like it would be extremely gratifying. 

   https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj7SzE8xTTjPmZpjUZRemwU8eLFVkdHg9OzZiIEle1EYRbKe1A9iTas5EULR7fmO6s_CEuIymZRcQTR7i8OSaewQgKlU6S3zSNsNow66hB5pHKslnQOxqJBwqfaGLtvp3Fcwky1RnMlmw/s400/poster_spitting.jpg

This woman proved to be one of the most demanding and obnoxious customers I have had to deal with yet.  I dreaded every time I dragged my feet over to the table to check on them. 

First, they wanted to split a sandwich, but it turned out the sandwich was not filling enough, despite the fact that I demonstrated with my hands how large the serving was.  Then the no-ice-woman disliked her coleslaw and felt entitled to having it voided off of her check.

By the time dessert rolled around, I recommended our most popular item and insisted that the two women each order their own slice.  I didn’t need fiasco surrounding the tiny portion size. 

I wasn’t surprised when I picked up the check off of the table.  I knew from the beginning that I wasn’t going to make any money from that table, but it was a little dramatic of them to leave a penny “face down” on top of the few dollars they left.  Really, I did everything in my power to make sure they had a nice meal.  I can’t be blamed for the snootiness of ladies who lunch.

Lesson learned: Here is a lesson for all who read this: do not take a serving job. Ever. 

Hollandaise Me Don't

Hollandaise sauce: do you know what it is?

According to the ever-useful Wikipedia, hollandaise sauce is an emulsion of egg yolk and butter, seasoned with lemon juice, salt, and cayenne pepper. 

Last weekend, we served fresh haddock on a bed of creamed spinach, with a side of hollandaise sauce.  Only I didn’t know what hollandaise sauce was.  That in itself isn’t such a crime—apparently it is mostly consumed in eggs Benedict. 

However, after delivering several meals to customers who waved wildly at the sauce in question, I decided that I had better ask someone what the opaque-looking-cream-sauce-with-the-fish (or white poopy stuff, as one six year old told me) was. 

     See the white poopy stuff for yourself below: 

               http://www.foodsubs.com/Photos/hollandaisesauce.jpg

The problem with asking questions in a restaurant is that everyone is too busy to stop, the cooks get cranky with the wait staff easily, and no one wants to explain things to the newbie. 

After considering all of that, I chose a relatively friendly looking waitress to ask.  She responded.  Yup, she sure did—even told me what the sauce was called.  But the kitchen was so loud and chaotic that I thought she said “holiday sauce.”

Oof . . . how embarrassing.  I spent the next hour and a half telling every single customer I spoke to about the wonderful ‘holiday sauce’ that accompanied the haddock.  

For the most part, it didn’t seem to be bad of a mistake.  I even had a table of over-grown fraternity brothers who looked up at me and barked out an “alright, girl, cool” when I explained what the ‘holiday sauce’ was. 

It wasn’t until I got home that I told my dad (who used to be a cook for a living) about the ‘holiday sauce’ and he hunched forward, trying to contain his laughter (totally at my expense, mind you).  After the gasps for air subsided, he tried his best to gently explain my misunderstanding.  Lord, do I feel misinformed.

Lesson learned:  I think what I learned this week is that sometimes my mistakes aren’t so bad.  One cook certainly thinks my mishaps are cute enough to ask me out. 

Trials and Tribulations

There have recently been several small events at the restaurant that on their own, don’t entirely seem to be that bad.  Though all together, I feel a little miserable.  I know, I know—I have no right to complain. I do have a job, after all.  But that doesn’t mean that I can’t have my moments of slight gloominess.

First, I keep dropping things; namely, bottles of ketchup.  It isn’t really helping me make any friends, as no one likes to step over (or clean) shattered glass bottles and copious amounts of ketchup.  It’s not easy to pick up and the surrounding area always smells funny afterward.

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Furthermore, I work with a bunch of douche bags. I apologize, it’s not very lady-like to call anyone a douche bag, but I don’t believe there is a more appropriate name to refer to these spoiled, entitled, cocky idiots.  When I call to the dish-boy to say that the twenty ounce glass rack is full and a waiter puts on an overly girl voice to mimic my words, I am not a happy girl.  Nor do I like to be referred to as “bro” or “dude.”  And I certainly don’t appreciate it when they fake me out by pretending to trip me as I carry a tray up the steps.  The worst part is that everyone adores this particular band of boys, and thus I have no one at work to properly commiserate with.  I’ll surely be outted if I confide in anyone.

And finally, apparently it’s a crime to make friends with a cook.  I fear that the one person I like seeing at work will no longer recognize our mutual acquaintance, since I’m fairly certain I heard the other cooks say, “oh, look, your girlfriend is here,” before running out the alley door last night.  Sigh.  

Those are just a few quick anecdotes from spring break.  I didn’t even delve into the dropping-spaghetti-on-the-veal story, or how I spent an entire evening listening to waiters tell me how “no way, dude, you’ve got marinara sauce on your boob.” 

Happy break, everyone—I hope you had a better time than I did.  

The Great Fire Incident of 2012

                               http://www.rexfireinc.com/images/restorent-image.jpg

A customer accidentally set a fire in the restaurant last night.  I kid you not, an honest to goodness fire!  The evening started out tamely enough; at least I hadn’t done anything remarkably stupid for any of my coworkers to note.  In fact, the restaurant had been slow by our standards---only 230 reservations.  I had been aimlessly wandering around, looking for something to occupy myself for about an hour before I stumbled upon what I’d like to call “The Great Fire Incident of 2012.” 

A mildly drunk but happy-enough couple was one of my few tables.  They decided that they wanted to sit in the bar, in the stone pit because of the close proximity to the fireplace.  A lot of people favor this table in the winter months because of the immense warmth that radiates.  I didn’t think anything of it when they inquired about the table, so I let them have it without any qualms. 

What I didn’t expect was for the man to find the fire more and more appealing as the evening wore on.  It was innocent at first—he asked about the taxidermy deer head above the mantle, where we got “this superb firewood that burnt so well,” and so on.  I don’t particularly like fire (I lit my hair on fire on my sixteenth birthday cake), so I brushed off his comments as I took their orders and excused myself from the conversation.

But that tipsy nitwit just couldn’t leave the freaking fire alone.  Oh no, he felt compelled to personally tend to it, by poking and prodding and adding firewood himself.  I should have put an end to it, but I thought, “what the heck—the poor sod is getting a kick out of it, maybe he’ll up my tip.” 

My mistake. 

He built up the fire enough that the flames were almost dangerously high, and because the fireplace is an antique that was built with the original building in 1916, there isn’t a gate or anything to really contain the fire with ease. 

He finally left it alone when I brought out he and his date’s meals, but as I asked if there was anything else I could get for them, he dramatically shook out his napkin, and it caught fire!

And this stupid man held on to it in shock.  As if he couldn’t believe that the flames could have possibly made a connection with his cloth napkin. 

I did what anyone in this situation would do—I dumped my water pitcher on his arm.  I couldn’t really find it in me to actually be sorry when he got pissed at me for getting him wet.  I saved him from his own stupidity and a seared hand.  What an idiot.

Lesson learned: drunken people should not sit near fires.  Customers are morons. And finally, I’m underappreciated for the crap I have to put up with at this place. 

Feeling Graceful and Confident . . . Or Not

                                           http://kristicallaway.blogspot.com/2011/08/sir-is-there-supposed-to-be-rodent.html

I feel that given the bizarre happenings that continue to prove to be “real life,” in this post I would share a smattering of this week’s restaurant anecdotes.  Prepare yourself---I’ve been a mess.

1. After pulling an almost all-nighter for an exam Monday night, I was exhausted.  I really shouldn’t have agreed to work, but what is a broke college girl to do?  Needless to say, I spent Tuesday evening carrying food up and down several flights of stairs.  On one such trip, I set down a plate, only to speak in French to the customer.  I’m not sure why it happened---I knew where I was, and that was not France.  But when the customer looked up in disbelief and asked, “New York Strip Steak made medium rare?” I nodded and replied “Oui, bien-sûr,” and walked away with a slap to the forehead.

2. While handing over dirty dishes to a dish-boy last weekend, I witnessed a coworker drop an entire crate of twenty ounce glasses.  That’s forty-nine glasses shattering all over a very small area of the kitchen during a dinner rush.  I stood there for a moment, watching the scene in horror, just like the rest of the cooks, servers, and managers.  Then, I gracefully told the poor soul who dropped them, “If that was me, I’d be crying right now.”  Not so funny part? They did.

3. One rather narrow dining room was recently rearranged to fit more deuces (couples for you non-restaurant folk).  Unfortunately for me, this meant that a few particularly low-hanging lamps were now exposed to areas I had to walk.  It should also be noted that I’m a tall girl.  So when I went to drop off a meal to an enthusiastic looking date, my forehead collided right into a heavy antique light fixture.  I’m still using cover-up to hide the bruise.

Lesson learned: What can I say? There’s almost too many this week to pick.  Let’s go with choose laughter over tears.  No matter how embarrassing you may act, you may as well roll with it.  There’s no sense in crying all night.

It’s also prime blog material. 

Amateur Diners and Wet Work Uniforms

http://motivationalsmartass.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/02/36607020.jpg

Valentine’s Day weekend largely recognized as one of the worst weekends during the year to work in a restaurant. From an outside perspective, the customer’s perspective, one might say “it’s worth it because you make a lot of money, right?” Nope. The money isn’t even worth it, and I now have proof of it all.

Saturday night I begrudgingly made my way to work, only to discover that we had 689 reservations. It’s a big restaurant, but still. Doesn’t that number make you want to gag a little? Every nook and cranny would be packed with uncomfortable looking couples, clasping sweaty hands across much too small tables.

The other servers warned me earlier in the week about the kinds of people that would come to the restaurant this particular weekend. I didn’t believe it—they had to be fabricating horrific stereotypes to scare me (it wouldn’t be the first time). Nevertheless, my coworkers claimed that the majority of people coming would be:

 1. The kind of people that never eat out and feel obligated to take their significant other out for the holiday.

 2. Young couples who aren’t old enough to drink.

 3. Old couples that split one measly meal.

 4. People that tip horribly.

It might---no wait---it definitely comes across like I’m cynical and unfair, but after seven hours of slinging food to less than pleasant people who refuse to unlock hands (so you can put down a plate food), you’d feel this way too.

There were no generous tips on Saturday night.

While that on its own may seem like enough to deal with, I ran into a rude awakening near the end of the evening. I innocently grabbed a tray of glasses and half-eaten cake to carry downstairs to the dish area; but what I didn’t expect was the dish-boy to be joking around the one of the cooks by spraying the heavy-duty spray gun toward his dirty-dancing form around the kitchen. I don’t mean dirty dancing in the movie sense; I mean that cooks are physically unclean and they have a penchant for dancing.

It’s safe to say that I was the one who got soaked. Boy, did that put a damper on the night from hell.

It was a sort of culmination of the evening, if I’m being honest. Getting drenched by a hose in the middle of the kitchen was the perfect way to end what I now deem to be the worst night of the year to waitress.

Lesson learned: If you are a server, leave the Hallmark produced holiday to the professionals. If you’re a customer, always leave a twenty percent tip (you don’t understand the trials of working in a restaurant).

Don't Cry Over Spilled Restaurant Food

          source: http://www.artizhay.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/09/food-on-floor.jpg

Ya know how when you’re sitting in a restaurant, you casually watch servers fly by with those heavy trays loaded to the brim with meals and drinks and condiments?  You probably sit there, resting your chin on your fist as you murmur to your dining companion, “it would suck to drop one of those.” 

Well, take it from me; it really, really sucks to drop one of those. 

In my defense, I had been ordered by a particularly large server (imagine a bro with biceps so big they could crack nuts) to carry a tray he loaded to an upstairs party room.  Seeing the tray in question, I told him with certainty that I should not carry it.

“Nope,” I shook my head. “There is no way I will make it up the stairs with that thing.”  I held up my puny arm as evidence that I was not strong enough to lug the tray anywhere.  But to no avail, this guy barked out a laugh and slapped me on the back as he ushered the tray onto my shoulder.  All I could do was moan as I shuffled out of the pantry. 

In total, there were four dinner plates (with food, obviously), twelve individual side dishes, three steak knives, and two bottles of ketchup precariously being held up by my arm.  If I were to guess, I would say that it weighed thirty pounds. 

As I made my way through several dining rooms and up three different sets of stairs, I could see my final destination.  A tray-jack awaiting my arrival was in sight.  I sighed a breath of relief that my arms hadn’t given out as I traversed the last step up.

But.  I shouldn’t have praised myself so early.  I should have known that the one moment I thought I had played it off cool would be the time that I ruined my carefully strategized reputation. 

That was the moment that I failed to lift my foot quite high enough and I tipped forward, forcing the food off of the tray and on to the floor (and my white button-up shirt, for that matter).  Plates shattered, pasta scattered, and one filet mignon encircled with bacon rolled toward the foot of a customer. 

All I could do was shovel the now useless food onto my tray while trying to maintain composure.  Did I mention that the entire dining room turning around to face me?  They did.  Some laughed while others grimaced; still others clapped.  

Lord, was it painful. 

Luckily for me, as I returned to the kitchen, the one cook who is nice enough to take pity on me already had begun to remake some of the lost meals.  He gave me one of those smiles that say “it-sucks-but-there-is-nothing-you-can-do-now.” 

Because I looked so miserable, he picked up a plate behind the cooking station, pointedly looked at me, and then dropped it.  When everyone booed and cursed and yelled at him, he just shrugged it off.  I hope he knows how much I appreciated that.

Lesson learned: don’t sweat the big stuff.  Also, refuse to carry trays that you know you can’t handle. 

(Not) Knowing Your Drinks

                                                source: http://img4.cookinglight.com/i/2010/08/1008p72-best-light-beers-m.jpg?300:300

I don’t drink.  Contrary to popular college social rituals, I like waking up and remembering what I did the night before.  It doesn’t bother me that most other girls I know spend their Friday nights at the campus frat houses: to each their own. 

However, my low-key social life has not made for an easy transition to waitress-ing.  Especially when there is a fairly popular bar in conjunction with said restaurant. 

Every single time a customer asks what sort of local brews we serve, I have to do that thing where you hold up one finger, silently asking for a moment, and shrink away to ask one of the other waiters. 

It wouldn’t seem SO terrible if it was just this one question, but I couldn’t name five beer brands off the top of my head if you paid me.  The first time I asked a waiter what beers we serve, he told me just to name a few that I knew of, and that the customer would probably just pick one of the brands I listed.  

When I said that I didn’t know any, he said, and I quote:

“What the hell do you do on the weekends?”

Well thank you.  Clearly everything on a college campus revolves around alcohol, and now I’m being ridiculed at work for not knowing about beer.

It should also be noted that this particular low life did not even tell me what kinds of beers I should tell customers we serve.  This self-righteous, table-waiting college dropout just shook his head and went on his way. 

Don’t even get me started mixed drinks, because I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to decipher what is a real drink, and when people are just messing with me.  I mean, who thought it was a good idea to name a drink “Passed Out Naked on the Bathroom Floor”?

Lesson learned: If you’re going to work in a restaurant, it might not be a bad idea to attend a few parties, if only to observe the ever sophisticated cocktails generally served by college students.  Customers don’t think you’re quirky when you tell them that you’re “not the world’s biggest alcohol expert.”  Even if you smile. 

How Not to Take an Order

As a new waitress, I sometimes dread the moment when I am forced to go up to a table and actually take orders.  It’s a deceptively easy task---they speak, I write.  However, I am supposed to inherently know things about the menu in order to effectively take an order.  This is where I most often make a fool of myself.  For instance, the memorable incident that was my serving experience last weekend. 

After a small internal pep talk, I put on my best “fake it ‘till you make it” face and strode over to my table of four.  It began pretty well.  The stuffy professor-types in for a business lunch dictated as I recorded the names and temperatures of their burgers.  So far, so good, right?  If I could have given myself a pat on the shoulder, I would have.  But then, the last man ordered a roast beef sandwich, to which I replied, “How would you like that done, sir?”

He cocked his chubby head to the side and then pointedly asked if that was a trick question.  It was clear that he thought I was an idiot for muttering something so completely inane.  So, I did what any other self-respecting waitress what do: I nodded slowly with an uneasy laugh before hightailing it out of the dining room. 

Really though, is it that hard to believe that roast beef could be requested at medium rare or well done?  It made perfect sense to me.  Every other meat dish required a temperature; so naturally, I assumed the roast beef did too.  This fact did not impress my coworkers, and they’re still probably crippled with laughter somewhere in the dank restaurant.

Lesson learned: always memorize the menu before going to work. 

I’m making flash cards pronto.