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. 

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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: 

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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.