Ever since I got sick last month, I have just been dragging ass. Just can't seem to get on top of things again. I haven't been working nearly as much as usual either--I've been taking more days off than I should, because I'm just worn out. Luckily, most of the days I've worked, people haven't completely sucked.
With, of course, a few notable expections.
The first is from way, way back (you know, two weeks!). I was a second cut, and had gotten a table of six right before the cut, so was still out and about on the floor. I noticed a table of two had been sitting for a while, and as I was going over to greet them (since I couldn't find the closer they belonged to) another two got sat. I didn't want to just walk away from them, so I greeted them too. They seemed nice enough; normal, even. Friendly, kinda jokey. They ordered a couple of beers, and I went and rang them in.
Unfortunately, we were out of Blue Moon, so I went and told them that, and they were fine. Again, they were smiling and joking. The bartender ended running the beer to them and talking to them for a few minutes. By this time, I'd transferred the two tables I'd greeted to the closers, one to each. These guys' server, I'll just call her Rachael, was taking their order as I closed out my six top. I went about my business of finishing up my table and my sidework.
Forty-five minutes later, my six had finally left. I cleared off the table and went back to move it back in to place, move the chairs, sweep the floor, etc. I hadn't talked to those two guys since taking their drink order, but Rachael had, and quite a bit. She'd taken their order, brought their food, checked back with them, chatted with them for a while. Since I didn't have any tables, I was just bopping around, doing my thing. It took me about five minutes to get the table back in place and the floor clean. This whole time, I was not more than five feet from the two guys and their beers.
After getting the floor clean, I walked a whole three feet over to get silverware, and heard someone behind me yell "EXCUSE ME!" I turned and saw the beer guys glaring at me. I stepped back over and asked what I could do for them. The one who was the most good-natured seeming said "We'd called for you four times, I guess you couldn't hear us." His tone of voice was strange--it was joking, but bitchy at the same time. But he was sort of smiling. So I smiled at him and said "I think you're messing with me!" After all, I had been five feet away from them, and it wasn't like I was involved in my thoughts, I was thinking nothing. There's no way they said anything and I didn't hear it.
"NO, we called for you four times! I guess you can't hear! We need two more beers!"
I tried not to visibly recoil, and just politely said, "Okay, I'll get your server, Rachael, and let her know right away."
"Well how were WE supposed you know you're not our waitress? Nobody told us! How are we supposed to know?"
A million things rushed through my mind. The first one was "maybe because I haven't even looked at you in almost an hour?" and was closely followed by "are you serious?"
I bit my tongue and just said "sorry, we'll get your beers" and walked away.
One of my least favorite people was working that night, the one who never talked to me and acted like she thought she was going to catch fat from me. But she overheard this and asked me, before we were even out of earshot of the guys, "HOW did you just bite your tongue?"
Writing it out, it doesn't seem as bad as it was. Feels very anticlimactic, actually.
A few days later, I was having a pretty awesome night. I had a great station--well, most people don't like it, but I do. I had two booths and three two-seaters, which I love. I don't tend to get good tips off of big tables, I prefer lots of little ones. So I was happy. One of my last tables of the night was a table of two. They seemed nice enough; had two identical salads, and then told me they wanted to buy a pint of the dressing. We get that occasionally, though I can't imagine why. It's basically sugar.
Anyway. I know that some places sell a lot of their dressing, like Olive Garden, and some have bottles they sell it in. We're not one of them. We get the request often enough that we have a button on the computer for it, but we give it to them in styrofome (phome? hmm.) containers. Because we are your average cheap chain restaurant, people.
So I pour out two half-pint containers. I think about just setting them on the table, but if one of those popped open they'd have a big fat sticky mess in their car. So put the two containers in a box, and I take it out to their table with a bag to put it in.
"Here you go folks, we've got a pint of dressing in two separate containers," I open the box to show them, "and they're labeled and dated for you." I close to box and set it on the table.
They stare at each other and then the woman sneers at me. "Don't you have a bottle to put this in?"
I blinked at her. "I'm sorry, no."
"It comes to us in two gallon jugs, and we don't have anything else to put it in. Will this still be okay?"
They don't answer, just look down at keep eating. Oooookay. I slightly lost my temper and just walked away--if they can't be bothered to speak to me, then it's their fault. As I walked away, I heard the woman go, "Ugh! Who would want THIS?"
Seriously? It's the same goddamn sticky stuff. Were they expecting a cut-crystal glass decanter to go with their $4 dressing?