Dine in or Take out

2012-11-07T09:52:00.003-06:00

It must be painfully obvious by now that I'm doing a horrible job keeping this blog going. Mostly this has to do with my wife's illness which is not something I'm going to post about, that's for sure. While I'm no longer in survival mode, and things are looking up, I have a hard time motivating myself to write about my part time job. Maybe that will change in the future, I don't know. Maybe I'm still in a sort of in survival mode lite? I don't know. But I will ask you to take a look at the blog of a friend of mine, it is called My Descent into Maelstrom. I've cajoled him into starting it. Hopefully he'll keep it going. He feels like he can be honest and candid about his experiences dealing with the same illness I've had to deal with, so please give him a read.

Long time wait for a lame post...

2012-05-11T09:08:00.001-05:00

It's been quite a while since last I've posted, but life has a way of doing that (combined with laziness), but until I get my blogging legs back, take a look at this satirical post regarding civil liberties that I stumbled upon...

It's all a dream...

2012-02-14T13:17:00.001-06:00

So I've not historically been a fan of The Office - when I tried to watch it Michael's character drove me crazy - but I am now (I just look past the Michael parts that annoy me and wait for the lines that make me laugh so hard I almost pee). For the last week or so I've been watching The Office on Netflix every chance I can. I am somewhat immersed.

Last night I'm waiting on a table of business men at a sales dinner, and I shit you not, the salesman had a pin on his lapel that said "I love paper." For a moment I thought I was in a really realistic dream. Turns out it was real though. Funny story.

This is how to do it...

2012-02-14T09:49:00.001-06:00

I was not happy. I had just been informed that I would be getting the two top who had reservations for roughly fifteen minutes before closing. On a Monday. When I had only a few other tables. And as if on cue, they arrived not fifteen minutes before closing, but literally at closing. On a Monday.
I had little hope of things going quickly. After all, anyone who knowingly shows up when a restaurant is closing can not expect to be an empathy filled mensch. But being a professional, my only choice was to suck it up, do my best, and hope for the best - even while expecting the worst.
I was however pleasantly surprised when, after putting on my most gracious and i-don't-hate-you-for-making-me-stay-hours-late face, they ordered quickly. Even more quickly the kitchen cooked up their appetizer and I delivered it to the table.
"It looks delicious," they said.
Ten minutes later it still looked delicious as they had not yet begun to eat it. Which, while annoying at that late hour, was baffling at any hour. This appetizer, as with most food at most restaurants, was best when eaten hot. In fact it was designed to be eaten hot. And yet there it sat, the beautifully battered prawn becoming a soggy mess as it soaked up the delicious sauce it was served in. I began to wonder if they were waiting for their salads to begin eating - which isn't to farfetched, because some people expect apps and salads to appear together, although I'm not sure why.
After another five minutes of watching the prawns become sauce laden, I decided to just bring out their salads. Normally I would never bring the salads before the apps were finished but I did because I wasn't sure what the deal was and because both the kitchen staff (who were as unhappy about the situation as I was) and I wanted them to eat and get the hell out. So I brought the salads.
I got to the table with the salads and saw the prawns were still totally and utterly untouched.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm brought the salads, but I'm really not sure if you want them now. I can bring them back to the kitchen."
"No problem," they replied courteously. "We'll take them now."
So I gave them their salads and retreated to the kitchen. The busser came in about five minutes later and told me they were done with the salads already. Huh? I walked out and saw they had indeed scarfed down the salads and yet still had left the prawns untouched. I walked back to the kitchen.
"I guess you can fire table five," I said. The entrees were done before I even got the sentence out of my mouth.
I brought out the entrees and tried to ignore the still untouched prawns. I walked back to the kitchen puzzling over why the ordered the prawns and praying for them to eat quick, although to be fair, they had not dawdled at all, aside from not eating their appetizer.
I checked in on them, asked if they were enjoying their food, was relieved to see they finally started eating some of their prawns. They ate and talked and finally finished. Mercifully they wanted no desserts. All in all they were a pleasant and relatively easy to please if confusing table, and if it hadn't been an hour since the restaurant closed, I wouldn't have had any complaints about them whatsoever.
So the moment of truth - what would the tip be? I was hoping for average or slightly above, because if they were going to leave a shitty tip I was going to have a hard time not letting all of the air out of their tires. It's hard to tell with people who deliberately come in late - they can be either self-centered douches who don't care that some plebeians had to stay late so they could eat, or they can be generally nice people who for some reason or another really could only come at the worst time ever. I opened the book and my draw dropped.
The busser saw my face and said, "Shit, did they stiff you?"
"No they left a 40% tip."

Wisdom...

2012-02-06T14:50:00.002-06:00

From the TV show, The Wire:

"A life, Jimmy. You know what that is? It's the shit that happens while you're waiting for moments that never come."

Finally a post...

2011-12-22T09:56:00.004-06:00

Well it has certainly been a long time between posts. I don't want to bore you with the details as to why it has been so long, but here is the short-hand version: 1) At Thanksgiving, my family and I moved - not to another town, just to another house. In the midst of moving, my wife got sick and could do little. Being a holiday, I had not even bothered to ask any friends to help. So it became me and my 3 sons (two teenagers and one elementary age) doing all the moving. If you know anything about teenage boys, you know that even the most contentious start losing their ability to focus after a few hours, so you can imagine how fun the move was. And if you know anything about 5th grade boys, you know he is old enough to almost be helpful, and young enough to mostly get in the way. Then, I had to clean the old place by myself because my wife was still sick. Cleaning is not something I am good at (all the attention to detail eludes me, in fact when I was a Marine the weekly barracks inspections regularly caused me agida because I simply could not seem to see all the little things that needed to be cleaned...) so it was hard, especially since I had literally one day to do it. That's all behind me, now we are just trying to get the new place to feel like a home instead of a cardboard box warehouse. 2) There is no two, I'm just recovering from one.

Hopefully, things will get back to my version of normal and I will get back to regular postings. I've still got some things to say to Sous Gal, don't think I've forgotten about you :) Seriously, I enjoyed your post and wanted to reply and still will!

Kitchen Issues

2011-11-22T07:27:00.000-06:00

I do not as a rule complain our kitchen. They are generally professional about their jobs and don't freak out over stupid things. Generally that is. And when there are freak outs, it is generally the head chef who freaks out - the other chefs/cooks are pretty chilled. I can understand freaking out at servers or the kitchen staff, even if it isn't warranted - that is what crusty head chef's do. What I can't stand is indignant outbursts because a customer asks for something a little different. For example, the other night Dolly had a table with an eight-year-old girl. The girl's parents politely asked if, even though we had no pasta dishes on the menu, if it might be at all possible for the girl to get some butter noodles. Keep in mind we have no children's menu. Dolly, assuming that since this was in fact a restaurant she was working in, and since boiling noodles is a feat many have succeeded at, and since there was virtually no one in the restaurant, that the chef might be amenable. When Dolly asked the chef, she was treated to a ten minute harangue about how it would take ten minutes to find the noodles downstairs in dry storage, how it take another ten to boil water and another ten to get them cooked. How, the chef asked, could he or his currently bored-to-death kitchen staff be expected to do that? How dare the customers politely ask for something so crazy?! I took a lot of will power for me not to chime in with the obvious observation that the noodles could have been found and the water already almost boiling by the time the chef was done with his tantrum. I also wanted to point out that we are in the business of making people happy, and if you can do so without major disruption, than you should. How this guy's attitude (and it is his general attitude, not just an isolated reaction) can be tolerated by the higher ups amazes me. I think he can get away with this kind of attitude regarding customers because the restaurant is part of the software company and thus is immune to the typical stresses of making a profit that normal restaurants face. Luckily, the rest of the kitchen crew does not act the same way - the second-in-command is always willing to do what he can to make customers happy.

More reconsideration...

2011-11-04T14:38:00.000-05:00

So Dolly has gone up in my esteem, but one of our bussers, let's call him Junior, has gone down. He seemed cool, but is a douche. Not personality wise, but busser wise (although personality wise he's no great shakes either). He won't do anything unless forced to, and even then does a half-assed job. The worst thing is I've heard him say to other bussers he isn't going out to clean a table yet because if he waits long enough he knows the server will do most of it. Fucker. I try to lower his tip out, but the problem is usually there is more than one busser working, so if I tip out less because of Junior, I'm also screwing another busser or possibly two who have been doing a fine job. If it continues I will have to talk to management because I'll be damned if I'm giving 10% of my tips to a lazy shit. Ah, the drama of interpersonal relationships tinged by money...

Reconsidering first impressions...

2011-11-03T13:08:00.000-05:00

You may remember my thoughts about one of my coworkers - Dolly. I was not kind. I found her abrasive, immature, and someone who shirks work. To be honest, I wasn't thrilled about working with her. Of course, I have had to work with her. And it hasn't been awful. Yes, she is still abrasive. Still immature. She does not go out of her way to get her side-work done, nor does she take any initiative to work on anything else. She is very good with her customers though. And she can be fun to be around. I think too, she has a good heart. Beneath her over-the-top, put-on vulgarity and crassness, she is a caring person. She wants people to be happy. She's good at her job.
So my feelings about her are not nearly as negative as they were when I first started. Still, I'm glad I only have to deal with her in small doses!

Overheard...

2011-10-27T08:17:00.000-05:00

A conversation overheard last night...

"I finally convinced my wife to try anal sex."
Uncomfortable silence as the rest of the table looked at him.
He continued, "Sure it hurt a little, but if she uses a smaller dildo next time I'm sure that I will be okay."

Some giggles and some silence followed. It would seem neither I nor the people at his table were sure if this was a joke or not...either way it was still funny.

It is supposed to be burnt...

2011-10-25T10:11:00.006-05:00

One of the serving blogs I read mentioned "Joke Guy" in one of its posts. I wish I remembered which one because I'd shoot a link to it, but I don't. The reason I bring it up is because the other night, I unfortunately had to wait on "Joke Guy." For those who don't know, "Joke Guy" is the non-funniest guy at the table who thinks he is funny. And he isn't joking with his dinner mates, oh no, he has to regale the table with his wit by joking with the server. And it is never funny. And it is always a guy. Seriously, I have yet to have a female fill this role. Here are examples of some of the jokes offered up by Joke Guy:

Me: Is there anything I can bring you right away?
Him: How about three quarters of a million dollars! (guffaw! guffaw!)

Me: Since it is your anniversary, you do get a complimentary dessert.
Him: You mean it says nice things about me?
Me in my imagination: Clearly the dessert would be the only one saying nice things.

Me: Complimentary as in free.
Him: Well, since it is our 27th anniversary, does that mean we get twenty seven free desserts?
Me in my imagination: Sir, it is apparent your slicing wit is equalled only by your intellect. I salute you - by stabbing you with this tiny little fork I carry in my apron pocket.

I am not lying, these are direct quotes.

I found the only thing worse than Joke Guy, is Joke Guy accompanied by "Bitchy Wife." In this case, Bitchy Wife wasn't all that bad to wait on, until dessert. They both got a dessert (one being free and all), with BW getting our creme brulee. I should explain that our brulees come with a kind of praline cookie stuck in the middle; it pokes out like a shark fin and is pushed into the melted sugar top after it is torched. The sugar hardens up and keeps the cookie in place (usually). I'm not sure why this cookie is stuck there, but I just serve the stuff - the execution is up to the chef. Anyway, after eating half, BW tells me that the other half of the brulee tastes burnt. I struggle to keep myself from pointing out that the name of the dish literally translates to "burnt cream." I also try to wrap my head around how the other half could taste different - as if two separate brulees were combined and the cookie marked some type of demilitarized zone between the two warring sides. I did ask her if she would like a new one. She said she couldn't possibly eat any more now, but could take half a brulee with her.
I relayed this information to the kitchen, who were just as perpelexed by the complaint about the one side tasting burnt, but also said they weren't making a half a brulee for her to take home. No shit, I wanted to say, but you might could offer some solution? I asked the manager how I should proceed - but the manager on duty (not Julie, but rather Melanie the head server who also is an assistant manager) didn't seem to want to deal with or get involved with the issue. I returned to the table and told them the kitchen couldn't make half a brulee, sorry she didn't like it, here is the check, and scurried away. Strangely, they tipped me about 16% with is about 10% more than I expected.
Not my finest hour, but what the hell...management and kitchen punted it to me and I certainly had no power to actually solve the situation.
No surprise, the restaurant got an email complaining. At least it was a private email and not posted somewhere public. Bitchy Wife was apparently not pleased with my solution. Also, it turns out she also didn't like her entree (not that she mentioned it to me), her husband didn't like the sides on his entree (again, this was suffered in silence at the time), and I didn't clear her dishes at each course and left her empty wine glass. The idea that dishes didn't get cleared is far fetched in that it was a slow night and if I had missed it our terribly-bored busser, who was bordeline harassing my two tables because of his boredom, would not have. And the bitch never finished her wine so I wasn't going to take the glass unless asked to.
Moral of the story -- what's worse than Joke Guy? Joke Guy who has driven his wife into becoming Bitchy Wife. I guess if I had to listen to his cringe inducing routine I'd be a bitch too.

It's hard sometimes...

2011-10-14T09:40:00.003-05:00

I'm beginning to realize that one of the hardest things about working at El Restaurante is the clientele. At the previous restaurants I've worked, the clientele has been a fairly common mixed bag. There were artists, farmers, realtors, teachers, students, electric company workers, travelers staying at the hotel next door. You know, regular people. Some better off than others, no doubt, but still a mix of all kinds.

Not so at El Restaurante. The thing about El Restaurante is that because it is owned by and attached to a large software company, about half to three fourths of the regulars are executives in the company. Executives. Suits. Not the idiosyncratic software coders, or the technical writers, or the warehouse worker - no these are the stodgy executives whose job is to manage the rank and file, or deal with the finances, or do any of that crap that I don't know how people do every day no matter how much money they make. Many times these executives are at the restaurant on business meetings, which adds another layer of pompous douche baggery to the proceedings. Most of the customers are decidedly unfun, often condescending (more so than typical restaurant customers) and basically bores.

The general feeling of being looked down upon - again more so than in normal restaurants - is hard to handle. It makes me wonder how long I'll last at El Restaurante, espeically since the rumored gobs of money I was supposed to make is slow to show itself; so far I make moderately good money and occasionally good. Decent, but not stunning. This is supposed to change with the holidays approaching, but who knows.

On the positive side of things, rarely is one confronted with boisterously obnoxious customers, or crude buffoons, so maybe this is worth thinking about...I don't know, sometimes obnoxious is a whole lot easier to deal with than stuck up.

Will the real douche please stand up...

2011-10-13T07:37:00.001-05:00

From Yahoo News...

After serving a customer chips, guacamole, and a pork taco, Seattle bartender Victoria Liss was left with a less-than-generous tip. On the receipt for $28.98 the customer wrote in $0 for tip and added a message that's created an avalanche of outraged responses across social media. On the receipt the customer wrote, "P.S. You could stand to loose (sic) a few pounds." An insulted Victoria uploaded a photo of the receipt to her Facebook page and even named the customer in question (he paid with a credit card). Hundreds of people are rallying around her, calling the rude tipster the "worst customer ever" and a "soulless, miserable person." Some of the many men named Andrew Meyer on Facebook have even received scathing messages and phone calls. When liberal sex advice columnist Dan Savage caught wind of the incident, he scolded the wrong Andrew Meyer on his blog. In a case of mistaken identity, he called out an Andrew Meyer who he said worked at Microsoft. (Microsoft has since announced that it doesn't have an employee by that name.) In an interview, Liss apologized to all the "sweet Andrew Meyers of the world" who have been mistaken for the customer. The real Andrew Meyer has yet to come forward.

Under Cover Waitress: We Are The 99 Percent

2011-10-11T18:40:00.000-05:00

Under Cover Waitress: We Are The 99 Percent:
This post over at Under Cover Waitress Blog is definitely worth a read. Please take a look...

Ya had to be a big shot, didn't ya?

2011-10-07T07:23:00.002-05:00

Before I can even clock in, Julie (the manager), is at my elbow.
"You're first table tonight is the one that sent us that email."
"Email?"
I'm confused, mostly because I've just walked in, haven't even finished buttoning up my uniform shirt, don't even know what tables I have or don't have.
"The email at the hostess stand. Didn't you see it?"
"I just got here."
"Well come on, I'll show you."
We walk out to the hostess stand and I read the email. In essence, it says while the writer has heard good things about the restaurant, he has read some bad reviews online and hopes when he comes and eats it will be a positive experience.
"So make sure you let the kitchen know when the guy sits. Make sure you are super attentive."
"Luckily extraordinary attentiveness is a super power I acquired when bit by a radioactive spider while eating in the cafeteria at a nuclear plant," I say.
Julie does not laugh.
"Okay, I'll make sure they have a good night."
Half an hour late for his reservation, "the emailer" and his companion show up. I dutifully warn the kitchen. Julie chats with them, talks about new wines that have been added, about how she hopes they will have an enjoyable time. Everything goes fine for them. They want for nothing - a small army of little helpers ensures this. Julie has the bussers on high alert, whisking plates away and filling waters like a cadre of restaurant ninjas. It seems like before I can even order drinks Julie is delivering them to the table. Apps and entrees arrive in perfect form. Everything is going great.
While I'm in the kitchen waiting for the finishing touches to be put on the dessert, Hannah walks in.
"I know that guy," she says.
"Mister email?"
"Yeah, he's been in here before. I waited on him like a month ago. And I know I waited on him at least once before that too. I never forget a comb over."
It's true, he has a hilarious comb over. Julie comes in as she is talking.
I say, "Julie, email guy has eaten here before."
"What? That's not what it sounded like in his email. Did he have a problem?"
"No," Hannah says. "He was perfectly happy both times."
"So he just wanted people fawning all over him tonight?" I say.
"Asshole," says the line cook who is finishing up the dessert.
"Guess that's one way to feel like a big shot," says Julie.

Weddings

2011-10-04T09:29:00.001-05:00

One of the servers at El Restaurante, Hannah, is going to be married soon. She's in full-fledged, knee-deep planning stages. And while she repeatedly says she doesn't want to be the girl who always talks about her upcoming wedding, she is kind of sort of turning into exactly that. Listening to the minutia involved with planning a wedding can be grating. It is especially tough when she says she can't understand why people spend so much on this or that, then explains how she is going to do exactly that. I try to cut her slack - it is her first wedding and people are allowed to enjoy such things. Besides, most adults spend most of their time at work, so other than her fiance, who is she going to babble on to?

I have resisted the temptation to tell her the story of my first wedding. However you, gentle reader, will receive no such reprieve. Therefore, without further ado, my first wedding:

Back near the dawn of time, after I graduated high school (1985), I enlisted in the Marines. In fact, I enlisted while still in high school under the delayed entry program. This was a different time of course, before 911 and our current state of Endless War. I'm not entirely sure why I joined - I had limited financial options regarding college, limited opportunities for a job, but this is all tangental to the wedding story. As I said, I joined while still in high school, so two months after graduation I found myself at Parris Island, South Carolina wondering just what the hell I'd gotten myself into. Before leaving for boot camp, my high-school girlfriend and I got engaged. During boot camp, as is often the case, I found myself unengaged. Boot camp ended, months went by, and I had returned home for Christmas leave.
Vicki, my ex-fiance, called me up and we met. I couldn't have not met with her. I was still totally and regretfully in love with her. She needed but to ask and I dropped everything to see her.
"I'm sorry," was the first thing she said to me. "I'm sorry about breaking up with you. I let my parents pressure me. And you were gone. And..."
"It's okay," I said. And it really was. I just wanted her back. I think now how silly I was -- barely eighteen (in fact I turned eighteen in boot camp) -- the last thing I should have been doing was worrying about fiances or girl friends or anything along those lines.
"I want to get married. Let's get married while you are home on leave and I can go back with you."
This is exactly what I had fantasized would happen. Seriously, who hasn't dreamt of meeting with an ex who explains how wrong she was and wants nothing more than to be with you forever? I couldn't say yes to her fast enough.
Both my parents and her's were skeptical, but what could they do except wish us luck? Rushed preparations were made - we would have the wedding at my sister's house, and Vicki's parents were arranging for a reception dinner at a local restaurant. We got the license and the blood tests done in record time, and more quickly than seemed possible, we were ready to wed.
The time had arrived. My best man and I (who incidentally would be the best man at my second wedding) milled about at my sister's house. Our friends and family arrived in staggered batches. I chatted with the bridesmaids to pass the time. As the hour of our wedding arrived, I got into position, as did the bridesmaids, my best man and the preacher. We waited for the maid of honor to come in and give the signal to begin.
And we waited. All of us. We the wedding party corralled at the front of the room. The guests in their seats staring expectantly. The bridesmaids whinnied like nervous horses. After about ten minutes that seemed like twenty, the maid of honor walked up the stairs and sidled up next to me.
"She's not here," she said.
"Shit. Can't be on time once? When will she be here?"
"She won't be. She's not coming."
When they talk about something making you feel like you've been punched in the gut, they mean it. That's what I felt like. I felt like that guy in the old black and white film who gets hit in the stomach with a cannon ball. I grabbed my best man's arm and told him the news, then without another word, pushed my way through friends and family and out the door. My best man frantically followed, but I sped out of the driveway before he could catch up.
I spent the next hour or so driving around our small town going to every and any place I thought Vicki could be. Needless to say I didn't find her. Eventually I went back to my sister's house. My best man was waiting there for me. Everyone else had gone to the reception. Since it had been paid for what else was there to do? My best man and I went to the reception as well. Awkward looks and even more awkward conversations awaited me there. As I remember, I had the chicken and it wasn't too bad. Vicki's father slipped $100 to my brother and told him to take me somewhere and get me drunk. Which he did.
Towards the end of the night I remember discussing with my best man the idea of taking off to Mexico. As I remember we didn't because we were pretty sure I could be extradited for desertion.

Epilogue - Some weeks later, after I had returned to my duty station, Vicki showed up. She tearfully told me that she drove cross-country to see me because she loved me and was sorry and was just scared and that's why she didn't show for the wedding. Could I forgive her? Could I take her back?
She stayed and we married. We ended up living together for about a month before she returned home and we split up for good (well almost for good, but that's another post for another time).

--

A long night...

2011-10-03T08:19:00.001-05:00

Whenever a couple that is celebrating their 25th anniversary shows up an hour-an-half late for their reservation and announces it is because they spent too much time "trying out the jacuzzi" in their hotel room - (wink, wink, nod, nod) - you know it might be the start of a long night (not that they should feel bad about their continuing amorous intentions, but please don't announce it). If the guy announcing this has Einstein hair and a huge waxed mustache, get ready to hook up the horses cuz you're goin' for a sleigh ride.

Your long night will probably include the following: the couple shouting across the room to the busser and asking him for bread, then when he brings bread saying they wanted butter; talking to same said busser like they are best friends, and telling him it is not their 25th anniversary, it's actually their 450th as they are vampires; filling their wine glasses to within a quarter of an inch of the top and then the lady promptly spilling hers; after their second bottle of wine, stumbling into and bracing against other tables while trying to reach the restroom.

And of course, the coup de grace: the always entertaining rejecting of the credit card followed by the awkward explaining of this fact to the lovely couple.

But at least the second card went through.

---

I like help, but only if I need it...

2011-09-30T13:56:00.000-05:00

Last Monday was pretty busy for a Monday. Only Dolly and I were scheduled, so it didn't take much to keep us busy. I had a very high-maintenance ten top and a three top. Dolly had a six, a three, and a couple of twos. I know for most restaurants this isn't a busy night, but El Restaurante makes its money from fewer tables spending lots of money. I do mean lots. And invariably all of the tables show up within a half an hour of each other, so for two servers it can make for a busy time.

Because I am still new, Julie (the manager) was very much into keeping an eye on how things were going for me and helping when she could. Which is nice in concept, but as practiced by Julie "helping out when she could" meant getting in the way, confusing me, confusing the kitchen, and basically being a well-intentioned pain in the ass.
It was hard to get mad at her because she was trying to be helpful. Perhaps part of her apprehension was becasue one of the women at my ten top was a very well-known customer. She was well know as someone who had to have everything tweaked and changed.
Blondie, the tweaker, started off by asking if we had risotto, because even though it wasn't on the menu she remembered it being on the menu some months ago and wondered if she could have it now. I dutifully asked the kitchen, who were very used to Blondie and had mentally prepared themselves when they heard she was coming.
"Risotto?" the chef asked and then laughed. "Tell her sure, if she wants to wait and hour an a half while I cook it!" He laughed again and as I turned to leave said, "Wait, no don't say that. She'll end up waiting an hour for me to cook it. Just tell her no, we have no risotto."
So I returned and broke the bad news. Undeterred, Blondie went ahead and ordered the house salad on which she subbed Stravecchio cheese for Parmesan, added bacon, added another type of greens, and subbed Caesar dressing (which had to be on the side). For her entree, she had salmon with an equally long list of changes. I will say, however, she wasn't bitchy at all, just a bit high maintenance. And when one person at a table of ten is like this, not only does it slow down taking orders for the whole table, it also encourages the rest of the otherwise placidly agreeable diners to become picky as well.
Anyway, I made it out with three pages of highly detailed orders and began punching them into the computer. Since I've been using this particular MICROS system for all of two weeks, I'm still a little slow finding the right button. This is where Julie first started helping.
"The entree button is right there," she said, pointing to the screen.
"Oh yeah, it just takes me a minute," I said.
"And then for special order you have to press 'see server'."
"I know..."
"Then type in exactly what you need. See right there."
"I see, but..."
"Then for added things, touch 'food prep.' But bacon you'll have to open food because it isn't there and it has and up charge, then..."
Just so you know, it is monumentally hard to accurately type in a bunch of special orders when a very helpful manager is trying to help. But I did.
"Are you sure the want the prawns as appetizers and not the first course?" Julie asked as she watched me punch it in.
"What? Yes? I guess? I mean they didn't say otherwise," I replied. "I'll check."
Because Julie had my head swirling in confusion with her constant helping, I was momentarily unsure. I walked outside to confirm this with the table, but stopped myself, turned around and went back to the MICROS terminal. Luckily Julie wasn't around so I got my orders finished, double checked them, and went out to start the three top that was still waiting for me.
Julie's helping didn't stop with the ordering however. As my table was getting through their first course, I went into the kitchen to have them fire the entrees.
"What do you mean? We fired that table like ten minutes ago," the line cook told me.
"How? I was just go through with my other table, plus they were eating kind of slow so I was giving them some more time."
"I don't know dude, but it's fired."
Just then Julie walks in and overhears us.
"Oh, I fired it for you. I knew you'd be with your other table for a while, so I figured I'd help."
"Okay, well thanks."
"No problem! I'm happy to help!"

I wish I was just as happy to receive it.

Just for fun

2011-09-30T06:41:00.001-05:00

I saw this picture and couldn't help myself - had to repost it...

The 10 Worst Restaurant Names, Part 2 | Zagat

2011-09-22T14:25:00.000-05:00

The 10 Worst Restaurant Names, Part 2 | Zagat:
Yup, these are some bad names folks - although Big Dick's Halfway Inn is more funny than bad. My vote for the worst goes to "The Money Shot." I'd not want to eat anything from that place - especially say a cream based soup...

On My Own

2011-09-20T22:34:00.003-05:00

Well, it's about time. After some delay - due to fault of my own - my five days of training is over. The last day is the worst - you do everything while your trainer watches and simply lends a hand, basically shadows you. So you do all the work you would normally do while getting none of the tips. The waiter training me on my last night, a guy named Alex, was pretty sheepish about it.
"It sucks for you," he said.
He looked away as he said it.
"It's okay, really," I replied.
"Everyone has to do it. And it sucks. I'm sorry."
I try to assure him it is cool, but I can tell he is not psyched about it. Some people would be. Some would love the fact the they were getting money to do nothing other than watch someone else work.

I sense Dolly, one of the female servers I mentioned early, is like this. I say this because Dolly made sure that my last night training would be one in which I had to bust my ass. Dolly is a study in immaturity and selfishness. On a certain level I like her - she is funny, very gruff (almost raw), foul-mouthed and abrasive in a way that can be fun if you are out drinking. But not fun for a coworker. As a coworker, I like her not at all.
Dolly came in as I was reviewing the specials in the kitchen before my last training shift.
"How's it going?" I asked her as she pushed by me to look at the next week's schedule.
"Fine, except I want to kill this bitch Melissa who is going to start training next week."
"Do you know her?"
"No, but the fucking bitch is going to take my hours. I mean we needed you here, but now we don't need any more servers. Shit I'm not going to get any hours."
Alex listened to her but did his best not to respond. He tried a couple jokes which I think was his way to try and distract her, but she sputtered on a bit about the lack of hours and the new bitch starting soon. This became her theme for a while. At the time I figured she had a point. It sucks for everyone if too many people are trying for too few hours. My understanding of her feelings was short lived however.
Alex and I had just been seated two tables - one a two top and one a four top - literally within minutes of each other. While I was trying to get them both started, remember all the shit I was forgetting and trying not to look like an idiot, Alex went to find out why we got double sat.
"Dolly is leaving," Alex told me as he caught up with me in the kitchen.
"What? Why?"
"She convinced Julie to let her go. We only have two more tables on the books and Dolly said it was a waste of her time. So Julie let cut her."
Julie is the restaurant manager.
"Ok," I said. "I can handle being double sat. It'll be fine once I get them going."
"Yeah, but they are sitting us two more right now. A three and a two top."
So on my last night of training, I had four tables all at once. While it wasn't the busiest I'd been in my serving career, it was pretty hectic. Spending the whole night weeded is not fun. But at least I made decent tips.
Which, of course, I handed over to Alex.

Bada Bing

2011-09-09T13:10:00.000-05:00

Night two of server training is in the books. What an interesting night it was. Once again I was following Melanie, the Head Server who is doing the bulk of my training. She was scheduled for only one table - a thirteen top of executives from an import/export company. Attentive readers might notice a correlation between "import/export" and the title of the post, "Bada Bing." One might think I'm trying to suggest some kind of mafia connection. This is exactly what I'm trying to suggest because I'm about 90% convinced these guys were mobsters. Seriously. Very nice, polite and generous mobsters, but I think mobsters just the same.

We have a dining room in the back and this was reserved for the party. They sat themselves in the large cushy chairs and sprawled out in territorial body language displays. They laughed and talked loudly with each other as they got themselves situated, but quieted down to listen as Mel began her intro spiel. Mel finished her intro then asked about drinks.

"Nothing from the bar, sweetheart. Where's your wine list?," said the man who seemed to be the host.
He had short-cropped brown hair and sunglasses resting on top of his head. And although this is Madison, Wisconsin, he had a Jersey accent. Or perhaps Long Island. I swear to God he, and I as found out most of the others, had these accents. Not thick, but definitely there. I'm originally from the Northeast and have worked in a Long Island Deli, so I know these accents.

"I want a couple of nice reds," he said. "Any ideas?"

As I said before, Mel is a serving machine. She knows every one of the hundred or so wines we have and she led him through the list, pointing out various wines she thought he might like. Sunglasses guy settled on three bottles of wine, two of which were $50 and one was $80. Mel and I sensed this was going to be a good night.

As Mel presented the wines, I stood in the back trying not to feel useless.

"None for me," said one of the guys as Mel went to fill his glass.

The black-haired man sitting across from him chimed in, "Maybe he just wants a Shirley Temple?"

The rest of the table laughed.

One of the others, a guy in his mid forties who walked with a cane said, "This guy probably doesn't even know what a Shirley Temple is."
"I'm over thirty," said the Shirley Temple guy in a gravely voice. "I know what a Shirley Temple is."
"I bet you do - it's all you drink."
Laughter all around.
So they ordered. And boy did they order. Sunglasses, the putative host, ordered four appetizers, then ordered three of the shrimp entrees as appetizers. Along with that, four or five guys ordered salads and one guy ordered a soup.
Throughout the night, since much of my job was to observe Mel, I stood at the edge of the group and spent most of my time observing the guests...

"So this guy," says one who is sitting at the end of the table and pointing to the guy next to him, "I'm over his house and I ask for some water. He's got this pitcher full of rocks with water in it. I'm like, I don't want rocks - I want water. Why the hell would I want rock water?"
As he talks his hands fly around - visual punctuation.
The guy who is talking, the guy at the end of the table, is talking about the person sitting next to him - the smallest one in the group stature wise. And apparently prestige wise.
The little guy says, "I don't put the rocks in it. Angie does. She gets these special Japanese rocks. It's supposed to make the water taste good or something."
He is looking down and becoming smaller in his chair.
"And not only rocks in the water, but his house is a fucking furnace."
"The a/c is set at seventy-seven."
"I know, but that's pretty hot. I mean come on, seventy-seven is pretty warm."
Someone else adds, "You should of seen him when we were in China. It's ninety degrees and humid as a jungle and this guy is shivering in a sweatshirt!"
Again the table laughs and this poor guy seems to grow even tinier.
The guy at the end continues, "So it's like an oven and I'm trying sleep and I'm sweating my ass off. I finally fall asleep and I wake up and his dog's sleeping between my legs. I'm mean, I like his dog, it's a Portuguese Water Dog, the same as mine, a very nice breed, but I'm already soaked with sweat and I got this dog with his head in my crotch smiling up at me and I'm afraid to make a move or else he might spook!"
The table is laughing loudly, some of them have pushed away from the table and are bent over laughing. As the laughter subsides, I slide up to remove some plates, and the little guy they are laughing at asks me how long until the entrees come. He needs to use the restroom but he doesn't want to be gone when we serve the entrees. I assure him he has plenty of time.
The guy sitting at the end, the guy who was just ribbing him about his oven of a house, says, "Go ahead, we wouldn't think of eating without you. But don't take too long - I'm hungry! I don't want them to make my steak turn to rubber 'cuz you're not here to eat."
"He said I had plenty of time." The little guy nods his head towards me. He seems tentative now and moves back towards his chair.
"It's alright, go! I was just kidding!"
So he leaves. They are all chuckling.
"Why are you always messin' with the guy? Geez give him a break." says Sunglasses.
"He's fine. It'll toughen him up."

After eating an enormous amount of food - so enormous the kitchen checked with us to make sure we put the order in right and joined us in our incredulous admiration of their eating ability when plates came back mostly clean - the party is ready for dessert. Mel is making her way around, explaining how even the ice cream is made in house, and she begins taking orders. When she asks ball-buster guy if he'd like dessert, he says no, just a spoon. He's going to eat part of whatever the little guy orders. I have to look down because I'm trying not to smile. It's mean, I know, and I feel bad for the guy being teased, but it is still kind of funny.

So most of them get a dessert, about half of them get triple espressos. With his cheesecake in front of him, this one guy with kind of crazy eyes asks, "Do you guys have a pastry chef?
"Yes we do," says Mel.
"I was just wondering if the cheesecake was made here."
Before Mel can answer, Sunglasses guy interrupts and says, "They make the ice cream by hand and you think they are gonna buy SISCO cheesecakes? Why are you gonna ask something like that?" He turns to Mel, "Don't listen to him. The desserts are great."
Crazy eyes says, "No it's great. I was just wondering because I have a brother-in-law who is a pastry chef in New York and he says the Cheesecake factory gets all their cheesecakes from SISCO."
Mel says, "Really? Maybe they have SISCO specially make them? We make all of our stuff though."
"Well, whatever. I was just wondering..."
Sunglasses says, "It's fine sweetheart, really the whole dinner has been great."
We start cleaning the extra plates as they finish up and Sunglasses continues to Crazy Eyes, "I can't believe you'd ask that. Everything is made by hand but all of the sudden they decide to have SISCO sell them cheesecakes."
"I was just wondering, you know because my brother-in-law..."
"I know, I know - he's a pastry chef."

Dessert finished, Mel drops the check, which comes to almost $1500. She starts to put it in front of Sunglasses, when he stops her, points to the little guy, and says to give it to him. Mel begins to hand the check to the little guy and his eyes begin to bug out.
Sunglasses laughs and says, "I'm just kidding. I'll take the check."
He pays it and more quickly than I thought, they leave. Mel checks out the tip -- almost exactly 20%.*

These fuckin' guys. I love 'em!

*because I was training and being paid at a higher rate, I don't share the tip, but Mel is so sweet she slipped me $25

First Night

2011-09-08T13:48:00.006-05:00

So my fist night is in the books. Let me tell you it was a bit overwhelming. I’ve worked at two other restaurants and neither made me feel quite so overwhelmed. Perhaps it was the fact that I’d already worked eight hours at my day job - who knows? But once service started, I settled down a bit. Luckily all I did was follow and watch. This made my first day less stressful, but I felt like an idiot standing around.

First, the staff: The Head Chef, henceforth known as HC, is a pretty chilled guy. He was pleasant when I was introduced, and when he met with the servers to discuss the specials and what not, he joked around easily, teased people who teased right back. It was pretty clear everybody liked him pretty well, so that was a good sign.

I worked with three other servers – on a typical night only three servers work. I thought this was odd since the restaurant is big enough to hold about the same number of people as my previous place, and we would generally start the night with no fewer than five servers. I’m guessing it will become clear why once I understand the place, but my feeling now is that there is not a huge volume of customers, rather many of the tables are company execs doing business dinners so the tables don’t turn. In fact, the server I followed last night had only a four top and a six top (the six top was part of a larger special dinner for twenty or so guests - they had pre-ordered so all the servers had to do was get drinks and put out food). With just those two tables, she walked with $100 in tips. A hundred bucks on a slow Wednesday - I think I can handle that!

The Head Server, Melanie, was my mentor for the evening. I liked the fact that she was in her mid-fifties, thus I was not the oldest server. She has worked at El Restaurante for more than ten years, and as you might expect has an encyclopedic knowledge of the every aspect of the place. This helped to overwhelm me, since she told me everything there was to know. I mean everything. She talked without seeming to take a breath for at least forty-five minutes. She seems like a really hard worker who has her shit together, but she needs to breathe once in a while.

The other two servers, Hannah and Dolly, seem pretty cool. I think I clicked pretty well with them right off – luckily sarcasm is something they enjoy. Obviously I’ll get to know more about them as I work with them.

So tonight is night two of my four-night stretch - a stretch that is going to stretch me. Teaching all day and working six hours at night is already wearing me out after one day, so we’ll see how I slog through tonight and beyond….wish me luck.

Tipping the cleaning staff?

2011-09-07T10:04:00.004-05:00

Ok, being a server, and a person who relies on tips, this question in the advice column got me thinking....it's from Dear Prudence at Slate Magazine: "Q. Tipping: I am 66 and have stayed in many hotels and motels over the years. Recently I was staying at a Comfort Inn along with some other family for a wedding. One of the family members was my adult daughter, who, as we were all checking out, asked to change a $20 at the front desk. I asked her why and she said to leave in the room for the housekeeper. I saw that she left a $5. Have I been a complete cheapskate all these years? I have never heard of leaving a tip in a motel (or a hotel for that matter) for the person who cleans the room."

The answer was that this person was an unintentional cheapskate! Is it really the norm to tip housekeepers? I am not exactly an extensive traveler, but I have stayed in my fair share of hotels/motels, yet aside from a trip to Vegas where my travel buddy informed me that everyone gets tipped, I have never tipped housekeepers. Perhaps tipping is done more commonly when you stay at ritzy hotels/motels (which I have rarely done)?? Have I been an unintentional cheapskate as well? However, if this is the case, where does tipping end? We all know that servers get tipped because they do not as a rule get paid minimum wage, and the system is set up so that the restaurant owner actually forces the guest to pay part of the server's salary (this kind of goes along with Manuel's write up over at Well Done Filet). So while I'm sure housekeepers work hard and can use tips, aren't there a slew of low-paying, labor-intensive jobs that could start demanding tips? I don't eat out if I can't tip appropriately, does this mean I shouldn't stay at a hotel if I can't add on $3-$5 a night to my bill, because honestly, that amount of money could make or break my ability to travel. And while going out to eat is mostly optional, sometimes travel and staying at hotels isn't.

Well, what do you all think (and is this policy the same in countries other than the US)?

It is official...

2011-09-01T11:50:00.000-05:00

After a rigorous background check and drug test, I am officially an employee of El Restaurante. What I didn't realize is that since the restaurant is owned by the large software company, I am really an employee of same said large software company. Because of that, I get all the perks regular employees of the software company get. For instance, I get free use of the Fitness Center. This place is not just some treadmills in a cinder block room - it is sweet - and it includes tennis and racquetball courts. Also, I get a huge discount at a local golf course (they have a deal with the software company). Sadly, I don't golf, but in my day job plenty of my coworkers do, so I'm guessing I can parlay this discount into something useful. I also get employee discounts in the store they have on the companies campus. Probably this is all standard stuff for corporate world employees, but for me it is awesome. Obviously I've never worked a restaurant that had anything like these perks, and my day job as a teacher has nothing even close. Perhaps being able to shoot baskets in the gym after school counts as a perk? Anyway, it's kind of an odd feeling. Next week I start my first shifts - I have to do five training shifts, which sucks because I get paid minimum wage and don't get tips until I'm done with the training shifts. I can't wait to get started -- stay tuned!