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.