This woman ordered a salad tonight with no bacon. She also didn't want the usual dressing, but didn't know what kind she actually did want. She sort of guessed at the dressing part, which concerned me a little, but it comes on the side so I figured she'd know right away.
After she and her yakkity-yakking friends got their salads with extra dressing, I stopped by. "How is everything? Do you all have--"
"Everything is great!" No Bacon flips her hand at me and goes right back to her conversation. Alright then. Whatever. I kept walking by, and they kept ignoring me. Finally, No Bacon had her salad set to the side, and her friends had put down their utensils.
I asked if No Bacon was done eating, and she wrinkled her nose at me. "Well, I asked for no bacon." she pushed the plate away with one fingertip, as if the very plate were loathsome. "And I don't think that dressing was right either!"
"Oh, I'm sorry about that." I wasn't sure what to say since she was staring at me, and she'd also not bothered to say anything in the last thirty minutes about it.
"Well, I used to be able to order it with no bacon!" she just kept looking at me. After confirming I had rung it in correctly, I sent the manager to talk to her before I said something unfortunate like "Yeah, you used to be able to order it with no bacon, but I just don't like your face."
Monday, November 30, 2009
Quite a satisfactory weekend.
All my coworkers were moaning this weekend about how slow it was--except for a couple of hours Saturday night where we all got killed--but I was quite happy with my last three shifts. I did better than usual percentage wise despite the slower business, and my two closing shifts I was out of there two minutes after close (Saturday) and ten after (Sunday). Saturday was actually one of my top ten nights money-wise at this restaurant.
That really surprised me, considering the sangria bitches, another table of snotty twats who stiffed me, and yet another table of obnoxious college kids who left ten percent. I also didn't have a table in the last hour we were open, so I triple-counted my tips because I thought it couldn't possibly be right.
I hope tonight and tomorrow are decent; I've only got half my rent money .....
That really surprised me, considering the sangria bitches, another table of snotty twats who stiffed me, and yet another table of obnoxious college kids who left ten percent. I also didn't have a table in the last hour we were open, so I triple-counted my tips because I thought it couldn't possibly be right.
I hope tonight and tomorrow are decent; I've only got half my rent money .....
Get free stuff, srsly. (Not sponsored.)
Just wanted to share some fun something-for-nothing sites I know ... see my post here.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
If you have a budget, pay attention to what you're ordering.
I had a section tonight of three six-seater booths, and they were full of larger parties most of the night. The first three were all sharing meals to some degree or another, which just pisses me right off. After my third round of tables, I had a family with four kids. They looked nice enough, and the kids were all over ten, so I wasn't dreading it too much. But as soon as I approached, I knew I was screwed. They all pulled that "I don't know what I want, get his order!" crap, but none of them actually knew what they wanted and so I wasted five minutes being directed to person after unprepared person. When they did finally figure it out, half of them were mumblers, and their table was right under a speaker, and they got pissy when I couldn't hear them.
Then we had to sing the Evil Corporate Birthday Song to another table, so of course the mother runs up to us as we're going to the other table to tell me this. Luckily for me, the birthday girl didn't want a song, just a dessert. But then I bring her dessert, and everyone else wants something too even though they just told me they didn't. But of course, only one of them knows what they want, so it's a repeat of ordering their dinner.
Finally I get their dessert order, and deliver it along with their check--and make sure to offer them a gift card since they cut me off the first time. They then sit there being a pain in the ass for about another half an hour. Their checkbook moves around, but never has anything in it, even after I see the woman pull out her wallet and fiddle around with it. I had to go to the bathroom, and they showed no signs of being ready, so I went. I come out and they're still as they were. So I talked to one of my coworkers for about thirty seconds, and then I look up and the woman is standing and glaring across the bar at me.
Right away, I trot around the bar, get her card and run it. She takes another five minutes looking at the ticket, shuffling the three pieces of paper around, looking at her check line by line. Their bill was $72, and she left me $7. I think from all her frowning and squinting and stalling that she didn't expect their bill to be so much. Because two kids' meals, three appetizers, four adult entrees, two milkshakes, two sundaes, and a chocolate cake slice should be, what, $5?
Then we had to sing the Evil Corporate Birthday Song to another table, so of course the mother runs up to us as we're going to the other table to tell me this. Luckily for me, the birthday girl didn't want a song, just a dessert. But then I bring her dessert, and everyone else wants something too even though they just told me they didn't. But of course, only one of them knows what they want, so it's a repeat of ordering their dinner.
Finally I get their dessert order, and deliver it along with their check--and make sure to offer them a gift card since they cut me off the first time. They then sit there being a pain in the ass for about another half an hour. Their checkbook moves around, but never has anything in it, even after I see the woman pull out her wallet and fiddle around with it. I had to go to the bathroom, and they showed no signs of being ready, so I went. I come out and they're still as they were. So I talked to one of my coworkers for about thirty seconds, and then I look up and the woman is standing and glaring across the bar at me.
Right away, I trot around the bar, get her card and run it. She takes another five minutes looking at the ticket, shuffling the three pieces of paper around, looking at her check line by line. Their bill was $72, and she left me $7. I think from all her frowning and squinting and stalling that she didn't expect their bill to be so much. Because two kids' meals, three appetizers, four adult entrees, two milkshakes, two sundaes, and a chocolate cake slice should be, what, $5?
Again with this shit?
What is it with people and their impatience? I had a table tonight of two women; one of them I recognized, and I already knew my tip was going to suck--she's just a cheap bitch. She and her friend had an appetizer, and two burgers, and two high-end margaritas. Then they switched to a sangria drink. They each had one, and then at the end of the meal, Bitch's friend asked for another and their check. I rang the drink in immediately--no stops--and dropped the check off right after since they'd asked for it.
This was the middle of the dinner rush; we'd been on a wait for an hour, and the lobby was still packed. The bar didn't have any empty seats; the place was so noisy you couldn't even hear in the music. We were rockin' and there's no way anyone couldn't notice it.
As the bartender was finishing up Bitch's Friend's sangria, another server came up to me. Apparently, the two hags had stopped her and told her "Fuck the drink, it's taking too goddamn long." I already had the drink in my hand at that point, so I went to talk to them--after reaching over the computer to run a detail report and check the timing. They said they needed to leave and just wanted it taken off. If they were thinking I'd leave the drink anyway, they were so wrong. I took it with me and modified their check. They left me three dollars in quarters on their fifty dollar check.
The time their mixed wine drink took, in a packed Saturday night restaurant with a bartender getting buried? Five fucking minutes.
This was the middle of the dinner rush; we'd been on a wait for an hour, and the lobby was still packed. The bar didn't have any empty seats; the place was so noisy you couldn't even hear in the music. We were rockin' and there's no way anyone couldn't notice it.
As the bartender was finishing up Bitch's Friend's sangria, another server came up to me. Apparently, the two hags had stopped her and told her "Fuck the drink, it's taking too goddamn long." I already had the drink in my hand at that point, so I went to talk to them--after reaching over the computer to run a detail report and check the timing. They said they needed to leave and just wanted it taken off. If they were thinking I'd leave the drink anyway, they were so wrong. I took it with me and modified their check. They left me three dollars in quarters on their fifty dollar check.
The time their mixed wine drink took, in a packed Saturday night restaurant with a bartender getting buried? Five fucking minutes.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Amazing.
You can provide the same level of service to everyone and still get tips that range from zero to thirty percent. The only explanation? Cheap bitches.
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile
Advice to customers: Don't be a nasty fucker.
Look, we're all human. We all belch and fart and use the restroom. We all sweat and sneeze and grow weird hairs and lumps and stuff. That's fine.
But if you need to blow your nose, go to the bathroom. And if for whatever reason you can't or don't want to, at least think of your server when determining what to do with that tattered snotrag. Don't just leave the slimy thing on the table--and don't throw it under the table, either. Would you do that at a friend's house? No? Then why is it okay in a restaurant? At least jam your tissue in your cup before you leave so your server doesn't have to touch it!
If you have a bunch of random crap in your purse to throw out, do it at home. Your table is not a landfill. Got one spare receipt? Sure, leave it on the table. No big deal. But we do not need your sucked on cough drops, your chewed on pen caps, your unused-but-unwrapped tampons or your empty Skoal can. Seriously people, just use your trash can at home.
And the issue that sparked this post: we are not a fucking nail salon. I have no desire to clean up your clipped-off nails. Don't leave your cheap plastic French tips all over the seat of your booth. Do you have any idea what sort of germs live under your nails? Gross.
But if you need to blow your nose, go to the bathroom. And if for whatever reason you can't or don't want to, at least think of your server when determining what to do with that tattered snotrag. Don't just leave the slimy thing on the table--and don't throw it under the table, either. Would you do that at a friend's house? No? Then why is it okay in a restaurant? At least jam your tissue in your cup before you leave so your server doesn't have to touch it!
If you have a bunch of random crap in your purse to throw out, do it at home. Your table is not a landfill. Got one spare receipt? Sure, leave it on the table. No big deal. But we do not need your sucked on cough drops, your chewed on pen caps, your unused-but-unwrapped tampons or your empty Skoal can. Seriously people, just use your trash can at home.
And the issue that sparked this post: we are not a fucking nail salon. I have no desire to clean up your clipped-off nails. Don't leave your cheap plastic French tips all over the seat of your booth. Do you have any idea what sort of germs live under your nails? Gross.
I wonder what your quick is.
One of my first tables tonight was an older couple. They seemed pleasant enough, although the husband acted like he was making a big splurge by ordering the microbrew for $1 more. Then they both ordered a half-price appetizer. Whatever.
When I went to ring their drinks in, I thought I hit the "send" button, but I guess I missed it. It only took me about two minutes to realize that and get their drinks to them, but I still apologized to them for the delay and said it was my fault. They seemed fine.
Their food came; I checked on them, especially since the wife had a permanently disgusted look on her face--was hard to tell if something was wrong or if she was just a bitch. They were eating slowly, and I had four other tables, but they were all low-maintenance. I just kept making laps around in between running other servers' food and drinks.
Suddenly on one of my laps, the guy sticks his credit card in my face and says, "Are you short-handed tonight?"
"No, I don't think so." I was confused by the non-sequitor but just smiled.
"Well. It seems a little slow tonight."
"Oh, well I'm sorry about that." I said it sincerely but firmly--I was not about to fawn all over him or get the manager involved. Before I closed out their check, I ran a detailed report. Their drinks had been rung in 36 minutes before I was running their credit card, and their food 33 minutes later. I greeted them immediately after they sat down, but of course there was the two minute delay on their drinks. Let's round up and say that from the time they sat down to the time I ran their card, 40 minutes had elapsed.
Forty freaking minutes. From sitting to paying. On a Friday night. That's a little slow? Really? Fuck you, you impatient old fuck. Go to Village Inn for their microwaved old people special next time.
When I went to ring their drinks in, I thought I hit the "send" button, but I guess I missed it. It only took me about two minutes to realize that and get their drinks to them, but I still apologized to them for the delay and said it was my fault. They seemed fine.
Their food came; I checked on them, especially since the wife had a permanently disgusted look on her face--was hard to tell if something was wrong or if she was just a bitch. They were eating slowly, and I had four other tables, but they were all low-maintenance. I just kept making laps around in between running other servers' food and drinks.
Suddenly on one of my laps, the guy sticks his credit card in my face and says, "Are you short-handed tonight?"
"No, I don't think so." I was confused by the non-sequitor but just smiled.
"Well. It seems a little slow tonight."
"Oh, well I'm sorry about that." I said it sincerely but firmly--I was not about to fawn all over him or get the manager involved. Before I closed out their check, I ran a detailed report. Their drinks had been rung in 36 minutes before I was running their credit card, and their food 33 minutes later. I greeted them immediately after they sat down, but of course there was the two minute delay on their drinks. Let's round up and say that from the time they sat down to the time I ran their card, 40 minutes had elapsed.
Forty freaking minutes. From sitting to paying. On a Friday night. That's a little slow? Really? Fuck you, you impatient old fuck. Go to Village Inn for their microwaved old people special next time.
Serious car envy.
(A sponsored post.)
I've gone through a lot of cars in the last few years--it's getting rather frustrating, actually. My current car is a special beauty, but despite that I just can't help lusting after other vehicles. My mom used to have a BMW, and I've always sort of wanted one of those. Hers was a little two-door sporty red things with black leather interior--I actually still remember how it smelled, now that I'm thinking about it.
Of course, I did grow up in the People's Republic of Boulder, which means that hybrids appeal to my eco-hippie side. That's why I'd love to have a sporty red little bmw x6 hybrid: it appeals to both my hippie urges and my desire to be better than others (I'm kidding. But seriously). Of course, hybrids are pretty high-maintance, at least compared to regular cars. And BMWs aren't a piece of cake either--when my mom had hers there were only two official BMW dealers in the state to get parts from.
As much as I'd like to have a Beamer, or any car that's from this century, I can't read. All I can do is wiki cars, look at dealership websites, and yearn. Sigh.
I've gone through a lot of cars in the last few years--it's getting rather frustrating, actually. My current car is a special beauty, but despite that I just can't help lusting after other vehicles. My mom used to have a BMW, and I've always sort of wanted one of those. Hers was a little two-door sporty red things with black leather interior--I actually still remember how it smelled, now that I'm thinking about it.
Of course, I did grow up in the People's Republic of Boulder, which means that hybrids appeal to my eco-hippie side. That's why I'd love to have a sporty red little bmw x6 hybrid: it appeals to both my hippie urges and my desire to be better than others (I'm kidding. But seriously). Of course, hybrids are pretty high-maintance, at least compared to regular cars. And BMWs aren't a piece of cake either--when my mom had hers there were only two official BMW dealers in the state to get parts from.
As much as I'd like to have a Beamer, or any car that's from this century, I can't read. All I can do is wiki cars, look at dealership websites, and yearn. Sigh.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Here we fucking go again.
Friday through Monday were decent nights--an oasis in the shittiness of my job, so to speak. But people just have to piss me off, don't they?
My very first table were total assholes. The wife demanded something not on the menu; the husband seemed to think he needed to reiterate to me that she couldn't eat much. Fine, whatever. I was annoyed, but not angry yet. They commented on me having waiting on them before and being a good waitress--I knew right then my tip was going to be shit.
When they finished their dinner, I asked about dessert. The man already had his credit card out, and his Old Fucker Discount Card. I told him I'd be right back; got the manager to do the discount for the cheapskates--their total bill was six goddamn dollars--and went back, still trying to be as polite and professional as I could.
"There's a new copy of your receipt, and your cards," I said, reaching across the table for the last of their plates. I was still speaking when the man grabbed something from the seat next to him and started flapping it in my face.
"Guess what," he said, way too fucking impressed with himself. "look what you forgot!" he continued shaking in my face the table flyer that says if I don't offer them a gift card, they get a free dessert. My first response was to deny it--I always do the same spiel when I deliver the check--and then I realized I hadn't actually delivered the check until I'd brought the credit card, and I hadn't been given a chance to finish speaking. I was so put-off by his self-congratulatory smirking and the fact that he was mockingly shaking the thing two inches from my face that I don't know how well I controlled my facial expression.
I got them their fucking dessert, and when I brought it to them his wife sort of simpered, "Don't worry, he left you a good tip!" Right, because that $3 (their "good tip", seriously) would make up for me getting in trouble with the manager and getting written up? Luckily Bitter Divorced Man was our MOD tonight, and he didn't seem to give a damn. Of course, I might go in to a write-up on Friday, who knows.
I'm still just floored that the old bastard was shaking the thing in my face like that. What manners, huh?
My last table sucked just as much. I didn't have a great feeling about them from the beginning, but I made certain I went above and beyond for them exactly because of that. My feeling was based largely on her appearance--they were both Hispanic, but she was seriously hoochie-mama'd out with the fake gold bling, the trashy clothes, the ridiculously long fake eyelashes, and a big scrolly tattoo across her cleavage.
They seemed nice; they even joked with me a little bit, and seemed genuinly concerned when I smacked my head on a lamp while cleaning. But for $3 on $55, they can go fuck themselves.
I have two days off now, which is good. Maybe by Friday my unusual equillibrium will have returned.
My very first table were total assholes. The wife demanded something not on the menu; the husband seemed to think he needed to reiterate to me that she couldn't eat much. Fine, whatever. I was annoyed, but not angry yet. They commented on me having waiting on them before and being a good waitress--I knew right then my tip was going to be shit.
When they finished their dinner, I asked about dessert. The man already had his credit card out, and his Old Fucker Discount Card. I told him I'd be right back; got the manager to do the discount for the cheapskates--their total bill was six goddamn dollars--and went back, still trying to be as polite and professional as I could.
"There's a new copy of your receipt, and your cards," I said, reaching across the table for the last of their plates. I was still speaking when the man grabbed something from the seat next to him and started flapping it in my face.
"Guess what," he said, way too fucking impressed with himself. "look what you forgot!" he continued shaking in my face the table flyer that says if I don't offer them a gift card, they get a free dessert. My first response was to deny it--I always do the same spiel when I deliver the check--and then I realized I hadn't actually delivered the check until I'd brought the credit card, and I hadn't been given a chance to finish speaking. I was so put-off by his self-congratulatory smirking and the fact that he was mockingly shaking the thing two inches from my face that I don't know how well I controlled my facial expression.
I got them their fucking dessert, and when I brought it to them his wife sort of simpered, "Don't worry, he left you a good tip!" Right, because that $3 (their "good tip", seriously) would make up for me getting in trouble with the manager and getting written up? Luckily Bitter Divorced Man was our MOD tonight, and he didn't seem to give a damn. Of course, I might go in to a write-up on Friday, who knows.
I'm still just floored that the old bastard was shaking the thing in my face like that. What manners, huh?
My last table sucked just as much. I didn't have a great feeling about them from the beginning, but I made certain I went above and beyond for them exactly because of that. My feeling was based largely on her appearance--they were both Hispanic, but she was seriously hoochie-mama'd out with the fake gold bling, the trashy clothes, the ridiculously long fake eyelashes, and a big scrolly tattoo across her cleavage.
They seemed nice; they even joked with me a little bit, and seemed genuinly concerned when I smacked my head on a lamp while cleaning. But for $3 on $55, they can go fuck themselves.
I have two days off now, which is good. Maybe by Friday my unusual equillibrium will have returned.
Hiring redux.
So Mister Fantastic was fired; Perpetua is moving out of state; Preggers is being induced this morning and taking off and undetermined about of time; and another woman was pregnant and quit. Yet again, the managers had the chance to give everyone the shifts they need, to make everyone happy. They hired one new guy, who's awesome and everyone already loves. And supposedly they're going to promote Pennsyltucky to serving.
With everyone begging for shifts, Flirty Priest coming back for December, all us college kids out of school for a month plus, and Preggers eventually coming back, this would have been perfect. Everyone would've gotten the shifts they need over the holidays, and everyone would've been happy.
But of course, when handing in my checkout last night, I see two new hire packets on the managers' desk. Goddammit.
With everyone begging for shifts, Flirty Priest coming back for December, all us college kids out of school for a month plus, and Preggers eventually coming back, this would have been perfect. Everyone would've gotten the shifts they need over the holidays, and everyone would've been happy.
But of course, when handing in my checkout last night, I see two new hire packets on the managers' desk. Goddammit.
Avocados are out of season: the world will now end.
Every summer, we have a salad on our menu that people just go freaking berserk over. I think it's disgusting--I'm not a fan of avocado. But it's our biggest seller during the summer months. Those nasty avocados are expensive, though, as is the different lettuce we use for the salad, so every September it gets yanked from the menu.And Jesus Christ do people get upset. If I got that upset over a damned salad, I'd have to seriously re-evaluate my life. They bitch and piss and moan about it and stare expectantly at me, as if I'll flee across the parking lot to the grocery store and purchase all the missing ingredients so that the cooks can whip up this really rather average salad for them.
I had a table of four on Saturday, and three of them were nice and friendly. One was a forty-ish woman who immediately got all melodramatic. "Oh! You don't have that salad anymore with the avocados! (stare)"
"No, sorry! It's a seasonal item."
"Oh, but that's the entire reason I came here! (stare) It's just so good, I was really looking forward to it! (stare)"
"I'm sorry, ma'am, but we don't have that lettuce, or the avocados, to make it anymore."
"Well! (sniff) I just don't know then, there's nothing else I want! (stare)"
"Should I give you a few more minutes to decide, then?"
So five minutes later she finally puts her menu down, and what do you think she tries to order? The lunch special. I very politely informed her that's only available until three, and showed her where is says that in BIG BOLD LETTERS.
"Well! That doesn't leave much to choose from then does it!" At this point the other three people at the table are rolling their eyes. I'm biting my tongue, because it's just such a ridiculous statement. There are literally 50 other things on the menu to chose from (yes, I've counted!)--and that's not including all the variations (such as steak, or chicken, or combination fajitas). That's just straight different freaking items on the menu.
She ended up ordering the most popular regular salad we have, muttering through the entire meal, and leaving me less than five percent on her food and her son's.
What a hag.
If you're going to leave a 73 cent tip ....
You might not want to leave behind your touchscreen phone. Ha!
Monday, November 23, 2009
Cheap.
Bitch, don't even pretend you don't have a tea bag in your purse. I know exactly what that "Oh, I'll just have hot water with lemon and honey!" shit means.
I know that for the price of hot tea in our restaurant you can buy a whole box of Lemon Honey Chamomile Tension Tamer Liquid Thunder Orgasmic Herbal Delight at the store. You know what the solution is, if you don't want to pay for it here?
Stay at home.
I know that for the price of hot tea in our restaurant you can buy a whole box of Lemon Honey Chamomile Tension Tamer Liquid Thunder Orgasmic Herbal Delight at the store. You know what the solution is, if you don't want to pay for it here?
Stay at home.
That comes with a winning lottery ticket too, right?
Yesterday this guy orders a $9 salad. As I'm picking up the menus, he says, "And that comes with a [$7 alcoholic drink], right?"
I just sort of blinked at him and said no. "Well, I thought I saw it!" he says, reaching for a menu. I let him look at it; he finally shoves it back at me all huffy and muttering that he "saw that".
Right, because all the pictures in the menu? They're exactly what you get. Your margarita comes with a Sam Adams, too.
Dumbass.
I just sort of blinked at him and said no. "Well, I thought I saw it!" he says, reaching for a menu. I let him look at it; he finally shoves it back at me all huffy and muttering that he "saw that".
Right, because all the pictures in the menu? They're exactly what you get. Your margarita comes with a Sam Adams, too.
Dumbass.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Old-school.
The past two nights at work have really been great. Good money, nice customers, managers not flipping out, fun with coworkers. Also, not caring really seems to work for me. When I put all my focus on my tables, and really try to be cheerful and friendly, it seems like I get bitch-slapped with the ten percent tip.
The last two nights, I've just sort of drifted along. I've gotten people their stuff, I've smiled and chatted when a subject presented itself. But I've not been too solicitous, and have had a weird sort of nonchalant attitude. When I look back over the last two nights, the memory seems to be all glossy and smooth, nothing sticking out. It's an odd emotional state--almost a nothingness, really. When I got pulled over last night for speeding, I wasn't even phased. (I didn't get a ticket--luckily the nice cop believed me when I said that my speedometer must be off. Which reminds me I need to call my dad and have him look at that.)
I hope I can maintain that attitude for a while, since it seems to be really working for me. I've made bank the last two nights.
The last two nights, I've just sort of drifted along. I've gotten people their stuff, I've smiled and chatted when a subject presented itself. But I've not been too solicitous, and have had a weird sort of nonchalant attitude. When I look back over the last two nights, the memory seems to be all glossy and smooth, nothing sticking out. It's an odd emotional state--almost a nothingness, really. When I got pulled over last night for speeding, I wasn't even phased. (I didn't get a ticket--luckily the nice cop believed me when I said that my speedometer must be off. Which reminds me I need to call my dad and have him look at that.)
I hope I can maintain that attitude for a while, since it seems to be really working for me. I've made bank the last two nights.
And the light finally dawns.
Chicken Little doesn't usually work Friday nights; in fact, she usually doesn't work nights at all. Maybe two or three times a month she'll work an evening shift. One of the privileges of rank, I suppose. But this week, Pot Smoking Manager is on vacation, so we had CL last night.
When I walked in at five thirty, the place was a madhouse. Every table was full; the lobby was full; the expo line was overflowing with food; everyone was panicking. Except CL, oddly, who was apparently on her meds so she was just going with the flow. A few minutes after I got there, CL looked around the restaurant, the looked at me and said, "Maybe we shouldn't schedule people at 5:30 anymore. This is crazy! I'll have to look in to that."
Now, somebody's been saying that for a few months now. Who was it? I can't quite remember. Oh, that's right--it was me.
When I walked in at five thirty, the place was a madhouse. Every table was full; the lobby was full; the expo line was overflowing with food; everyone was panicking. Except CL, oddly, who was apparently on her meds so she was just going with the flow. A few minutes after I got there, CL looked around the restaurant, the looked at me and said, "Maybe we shouldn't schedule people at 5:30 anymore. This is crazy! I'll have to look in to that."
Now, somebody's been saying that for a few months now. Who was it? I can't quite remember. Oh, that's right--it was me.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Grand high priestesses of garbage.
Tuesday wasn't a terribly remarkable night; got out of there at forty minutes past close because we had a small push at the end, but overall it was an average night. Except.
We have three booths in our restaurant that can fit six people, seven with a chair at the end, and all three of those booths were in my station on Tuesday. After the main dinner rush, I had a table of five cocktailing women at table 3, and then at table 2 next door I got soccer moms and their crotch-spawn. The kids were making a huge mess, which is to be expected, and the moms weren't ringing them in, also to be expected. One of the mothers was also the kind of woman who notices your name and uses it--incessantly. "SlightlyCranky, can you get us some more napkins? Thank you, SC. Oh, SC, we need some more water. And can you bring one for little Brandon, SC?" etc. I hate it when people do that--coming from strangers it's condescending, and I also think it's rude. Just because I'm bringing you drink refills doesn't mean we're on a first-name basis.
Anyway, by the time they leave, there's a four-foot radius of debris around the end of the table where they had plopped the baby. There were broken cranyons and torn napkins, chunks of broccoli and fries, and got knows what else under the table. The baby had been fingerpainting with his applesauce; the little girls had been playing with the sugars; there were empty kids' cups rolling across the table, through splatters of ketchup, and mashed potatoes were smeared across the seats.. You know the type of scene.
The crowning glory, though, was actually in the next booth. There, I found a booster seat. In the booster seat was an empty fruit snack package, a torn M&Ms wrapper that had been half-assedly twisted around a melted candy bar of some kind, and a chocolate muffin with a bite missing. In the booster seat, at the clean table next to them. WTF?
We have three booths in our restaurant that can fit six people, seven with a chair at the end, and all three of those booths were in my station on Tuesday. After the main dinner rush, I had a table of five cocktailing women at table 3, and then at table 2 next door I got soccer moms and their crotch-spawn. The kids were making a huge mess, which is to be expected, and the moms weren't ringing them in, also to be expected. One of the mothers was also the kind of woman who notices your name and uses it--incessantly. "SlightlyCranky, can you get us some more napkins? Thank you, SC. Oh, SC, we need some more water. And can you bring one for little Brandon, SC?" etc. I hate it when people do that--coming from strangers it's condescending, and I also think it's rude. Just because I'm bringing you drink refills doesn't mean we're on a first-name basis.
Anyway, by the time they leave, there's a four-foot radius of debris around the end of the table where they had plopped the baby. There were broken cranyons and torn napkins, chunks of broccoli and fries, and got knows what else under the table. The baby had been fingerpainting with his applesauce; the little girls had been playing with the sugars; there were empty kids' cups rolling across the table, through splatters of ketchup, and mashed potatoes were smeared across the seats.. You know the type of scene.
The crowning glory, though, was actually in the next booth. There, I found a booster seat. In the booster seat was an empty fruit snack package, a torn M&Ms wrapper that had been half-assedly twisted around a melted candy bar of some kind, and a chocolate muffin with a bite missing. In the booster seat, at the clean table next to them. WTF?
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
From a first cut to a close.
This will be my fifth close in a row: two I was scheduled for, three I've picked up. I hope tonight's is worth it, since the last two nights were absolutely not.
See this? It's called a MENU.
"He'll have a cup of soup and a half a ham sandwich."
Then he'd better go somewhere else because a) we don't serve half sandwiches at six at night b) we don't have cups of soup and c) we don't have ham sandwiches at all.
Maybe if any of the three people at the table had even opened their menus, they might have known that
Then he'd better go somewhere else because a) we don't serve half sandwiches at six at night b) we don't have cups of soup and c) we don't have ham sandwiches at all.
Maybe if any of the three people at the table had even opened their menus, they might have known that
Trust is for suckers.
About a month ago, we had a ridiculously hellish night at the restaurant. The next day, I was written up over something that happened that night, and some other people were reprimanded and had shifts taken away and such. A week later, me and four other people who felt totally screwed by that night were talking to Lapdog about what happened that night.
One of the bartenders said she thought it was ridiculous that CL wouldn't help us--she's been known to storm around saying "I am NOT clearing tables when we have this many people on the floor!" Bartender also said that it's uncomfortable for customers when they can hear managers screaming in the kitchen. Andrea, who had her Sunday shift taken away, said she thought it was ridiculous and unfair, and I don't remember what else. Lapdog almost redeemed himself for a lot of his shitty behavior, talking to us about what's happened lately to be stressing them all out, basically seeming like he was just right there with us.
This was a month ago, and yesterday Chicken Little fucking flipped out at Andrea about something unrelated--and then told her that Lapdog had told her everything we all said that night, and totally went off on her about it! CL has been stewing over the things Andrea said--which she twisted around until it became "I know you said I'm a bitch!"--and instead of dealing with it like a normal person, she just restrained it all in and blew up at her. On the floor, in front of coworkers and customers.
My coworkers all feel really betrayed by Lapdog though, and are really angry. I am, a bit, because his entire attitude was of commiseration. We had no reason to think he was going to go report back to CL about everything. On the other hand, he's worked for her for about eight years--so I wasn't about to tell him what I really think about her. I was very careful about what I said, actually; it's just habit after some of the back-stabbing incidents I've dealt with in the past.
But god only knows what she thinks I said. All I remember saying is that morale is really low and I think we all feel beaten down, and I said I didn't remember CL freaking out so much when I worked there before--which Lapdog agreed with, and said it was because of some of the changes since our company was sold last year have put a lot more pressure on her. But who knows, she could think I said she's a hysterical idiot, and she could explode on me at any time. I almost want to do something to piss her off the next time I work with her, just to get the eruption over with.
One of the bartenders said she thought it was ridiculous that CL wouldn't help us--she's been known to storm around saying "I am NOT clearing tables when we have this many people on the floor!" Bartender also said that it's uncomfortable for customers when they can hear managers screaming in the kitchen. Andrea, who had her Sunday shift taken away, said she thought it was ridiculous and unfair, and I don't remember what else. Lapdog almost redeemed himself for a lot of his shitty behavior, talking to us about what's happened lately to be stressing them all out, basically seeming like he was just right there with us.
This was a month ago, and yesterday Chicken Little fucking flipped out at Andrea about something unrelated--and then told her that Lapdog had told her everything we all said that night, and totally went off on her about it! CL has been stewing over the things Andrea said--which she twisted around until it became "I know you said I'm a bitch!"--and instead of dealing with it like a normal person, she just restrained it all in and blew up at her. On the floor, in front of coworkers and customers.
My coworkers all feel really betrayed by Lapdog though, and are really angry. I am, a bit, because his entire attitude was of commiseration. We had no reason to think he was going to go report back to CL about everything. On the other hand, he's worked for her for about eight years--so I wasn't about to tell him what I really think about her. I was very careful about what I said, actually; it's just habit after some of the back-stabbing incidents I've dealt with in the past.
But god only knows what she thinks I said. All I remember saying is that morale is really low and I think we all feel beaten down, and I said I didn't remember CL freaking out so much when I worked there before--which Lapdog agreed with, and said it was because of some of the changes since our company was sold last year have put a lot more pressure on her. But who knows, she could think I said she's a hysterical idiot, and she could explode on me at any time. I almost want to do something to piss her off the next time I work with her, just to get the eruption over with.
Oooh, shiny.
(Brought to you by the Gold Coins Gain.)
I've never really known much about gold and how much it's worth--except for that one embarrassing time when I had to take all my jewelry to a pawn shop to pay my rent, and that's hardly a reliable market reference. I have some gold jewelry, and it's sure pretty and all, buy I never thought of it before as in investment strategy. I've certainly never sat down and thought, "Hey! I want to buy gold coin!" The only thing that springs to mind when I hear "gold bullion" is pirate movies.
Apparently, though, there's quite an investment market in gold. People buy gold bullion as part of a "precious metals IRA" retirement fund, which never would've occurred to me. I know theoretically that there's a certain amount of gold in Fort Knox for every dollar in circulation, but I thought that was just a sort of archaic method. I didn't realize that people actually buy bullion for investment purposes. Similarly, I know people collect coins, but I didn't know you could just purchase gold bullion coins like a 24K American buffalo coin--not necessarily for collecting, but because gold value has apparently been steadily increasing.
I guess you learn something new every day.
I've never really known much about gold and how much it's worth--except for that one embarrassing time when I had to take all my jewelry to a pawn shop to pay my rent, and that's hardly a reliable market reference. I have some gold jewelry, and it's sure pretty and all, buy I never thought of it before as in investment strategy. I've certainly never sat down and thought, "Hey! I want to buy gold coin!" The only thing that springs to mind when I hear "gold bullion" is pirate movies.
Apparently, though, there's quite an investment market in gold. People buy gold bullion as part of a "precious metals IRA" retirement fund, which never would've occurred to me. I know theoretically that there's a certain amount of gold in Fort Knox for every dollar in circulation, but I thought that was just a sort of archaic method. I didn't realize that people actually buy bullion for investment purposes. Similarly, I know people collect coins, but I didn't know you could just purchase gold bullion coins like a 24K American buffalo coin--not necessarily for collecting, but because gold value has apparently been steadily increasing.
I guess you learn something new every day.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Just wanted to say thank you ...
To all the people who read my blog. I love writing it, and if I didn't have a space to vent I might've gone totally postal by now.
There needs to be a restaurant equivalent of "going postal".
There needs to be a restaurant equivalent of "going postal".
The firing of Mister Fantastic.
I was planning on adding Mister Fantastic to my "roll call" entry, but I didn't get around to it--basically because or debating what to refer to him as. Lately, I've taken to thinking of him as "Mister Fantastic" because of the fact that he referred to himself--repeatedly--as "fagtastic". Which he is not, at all, hence the sarcastic moniker.
Well, I can't remember what I was going to write about that he did, but now it doesn't matter because he's been fired. Apparently he made a huge number of mistakes last Wednesday, had two customer complaints within an hour, and some other drama-laden thing. The managers had been trying to ease him out anyway, because he really was a terrible server; he always sounded bored and/or annoyed when talking to tables, couldn't handle more than one table at ones, and I suspect came in to work drunk quite often. He was fired at the end of Wednesday night because of having too many guest complaints--which now has everybody on edge, because who doesn't have a bad night and get complaints?
Granted, there was a lot more going on with him. But what's worrisome is that he also had some sort of grumpy altercation with Chicken Little, which is why they started cutting his shifts and trying to push him into leaving. A friend of mine also had a tiff with her, relating to something completely fucking ridiculous, and she's now having her shifts slowly restricted. And I'm pretty sure I'm on her shit list too (that'll be my next post), so I'm concerned.
Well, I can't remember what I was going to write about that he did, but now it doesn't matter because he's been fired. Apparently he made a huge number of mistakes last Wednesday, had two customer complaints within an hour, and some other drama-laden thing. The managers had been trying to ease him out anyway, because he really was a terrible server; he always sounded bored and/or annoyed when talking to tables, couldn't handle more than one table at ones, and I suspect came in to work drunk quite often. He was fired at the end of Wednesday night because of having too many guest complaints--which now has everybody on edge, because who doesn't have a bad night and get complaints?
Granted, there was a lot more going on with him. But what's worrisome is that he also had some sort of grumpy altercation with Chicken Little, which is why they started cutting his shifts and trying to push him into leaving. A friend of mine also had a tiff with her, relating to something completely fucking ridiculous, and she's now having her shifts slowly restricted. And I'm pretty sure I'm on her shit list too (that'll be my next post), so I'm concerned.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Go home, Lapdog!
This night is just going to be great! I'm so tired of dealing with bitchy managers.
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Saturday, November 14, 2009
And the night ends on a low note.
A table of regulars came in, and I got their drinks and order without incident. They got their food, I checked back, they told me things were great. I wandered by a couple more times, and they didn't acknowledge me. They weren't even half done, so I ducked in to the bathroom.
When I came out, the guy's demeanor had entirely changed. Suddenly he was abrupt and seemed pissed. They asked for their bill and have me their card; when I brought it back and wished them a good night the guy just said "yeah" sarcastically. They then left me two dollars on forty.
And I have zero idea why. Why won't people freaking speak up when there's a problem? I can't fix what I don't know is wrong. Is that so hard to understand?
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This must be what hell is like.
Something is wrong with the satellite music tonight. For the last hour or two, it's been looping the same five songs endlessly. It even cuts out in the same places.
Right now it's a Cranberries song. Next will be Gavin Degraw. Then the "you had a bad day song", followed by Pink. Then "One headlight" will start and cut out.
Shoot me.
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Quelle surprise!
I went in last night to a full section, as usual for Friday night. One of the tables had drinks, but also still had menus; when I finally figured out who had taken it, she refused to give my own table to me, because they'd been there for a while and were just being slow to order. Whatever. My three other tables emptied out at the same time while I was talking to her, and while I was greeting them the bitches ordered, so I let it go--I would have enough to keep me busy for a while.
My two booths were sat, but not my empty table, and I soon found out why. We had an eight in the lobby, and it was going to be straddling my section and somebody else's. Luckily for me, she didn't want it--otherwise I'd've been down to a two table section. I didn't really want to take them--historically, big tables do not treat me well. But 10% of something is better than nothing, so I went at it. I didn't have high hopes; a bunch of them had already gotten drinks at the bar and paid for them there, and they wouldn't shut up so I could get their order.
Other than that, though, they were friendly, polite, and very low-maintenance. They didn't take the bait on any of my upsells, and only one person ordered a second drink, but it was okay. They left me twenty percent, which made me happy.
I also ended up closing last night, because one of the closers was panicking about her husband being sick. Didn't make much extra money off it--maybe $15, because just not many tables came in--but I can live with it. I was only there until fifteen minutes after we locked the door, so overall it was a decent night.
Still need to have a serious talk with the managers about this 5:30 crap though ...
My two booths were sat, but not my empty table, and I soon found out why. We had an eight in the lobby, and it was going to be straddling my section and somebody else's. Luckily for me, she didn't want it--otherwise I'd've been down to a two table section. I didn't really want to take them--historically, big tables do not treat me well. But 10% of something is better than nothing, so I went at it. I didn't have high hopes; a bunch of them had already gotten drinks at the bar and paid for them there, and they wouldn't shut up so I could get their order.
Other than that, though, they were friendly, polite, and very low-maintenance. They didn't take the bait on any of my upsells, and only one person ordered a second drink, but it was okay. They left me twenty percent, which made me happy.
I also ended up closing last night, because one of the closers was panicking about her husband being sick. Didn't make much extra money off it--maybe $15, because just not many tables came in--but I can live with it. I was only there until fifteen minutes after we locked the door, so overall it was a decent night.
Still need to have a serious talk with the managers about this 5:30 crap though ...
Friday, November 13, 2009
Advice to customers: This is a restaurant, not a strip club.
It amazes me the way that people will sexually harass their servers sometimes. I'm not talking about occasional flirting--I'm talking about outright hitting on them, or just being crude.
When I was about twenty and waiting tables at a family restaurant, I had a table in the bar one night. Nothing unusual about that. The table next to them was my dad and a bunch of his friends, and I was glad they were there a few minutes after greeting my new table. A big, burly, bushy-bearded man about my dad's age put his arm around me and held me against his chair and proceeded to ask me to come to his house after work to "watch a movie". I said no, and he kept pushing. He wouldn't let go until I pointed out my dad was sitting four feet away. Even then he said, "I'm not doing anything wrong!" but he didn't finally let go.
More recently, I had a party of about eight on our patio. It was one of the guys' birthday, and they asked me if we sing for birthdays. I laughed and told them, "Only if you sing with me, I only do solos in the shower."
The birthday creep spent the rest of the meal telling me how I'd given him quite a picture, and how he just kept thinking about me in the shower. When I brought his cheesecake for dessert he really went in to overdrive, saying things like now I was really torturing him, blah blah blah. Made my skin crawl. And nobody at the table even tried to shut him up--even though he was harassing me in front of two children, who heard every word.
My point is this: Your server is there to bring your food. He or she is not there for your sexual gratification; restaurants are not meat markets. If you want to pick up chicks, go to a bar. If you want to oogle and harass women who feel they can't turn you down for fear of losing their jobs .... well, then you're a douchebag, but at least go to a strip club where the women can summon the bouncers to toss you out on your scumbag ass.
Fellow servers, feel free to share your stories.
When I was about twenty and waiting tables at a family restaurant, I had a table in the bar one night. Nothing unusual about that. The table next to them was my dad and a bunch of his friends, and I was glad they were there a few minutes after greeting my new table. A big, burly, bushy-bearded man about my dad's age put his arm around me and held me against his chair and proceeded to ask me to come to his house after work to "watch a movie". I said no, and he kept pushing. He wouldn't let go until I pointed out my dad was sitting four feet away. Even then he said, "I'm not doing anything wrong!" but he didn't finally let go.
More recently, I had a party of about eight on our patio. It was one of the guys' birthday, and they asked me if we sing for birthdays. I laughed and told them, "Only if you sing with me, I only do solos in the shower."
The birthday creep spent the rest of the meal telling me how I'd given him quite a picture, and how he just kept thinking about me in the shower. When I brought his cheesecake for dessert he really went in to overdrive, saying things like now I was really torturing him, blah blah blah. Made my skin crawl. And nobody at the table even tried to shut him up--even though he was harassing me in front of two children, who heard every word.
My point is this: Your server is there to bring your food. He or she is not there for your sexual gratification; restaurants are not meat markets. If you want to pick up chicks, go to a bar. If you want to oogle and harass women who feel they can't turn you down for fear of losing their jobs .... well, then you're a douchebag, but at least go to a strip club where the women can summon the bouncers to toss you out on your scumbag ass.
Fellow servers, feel free to share your stories.
This is why there's a sterotype.
A couple of weeks ago, on one of the nights that was just terrible for me, other people were having an equally bad time. One of the closers had a table that was occupying three six-seater booths. It was a little girl's birthday, so they had a big group and were having a good time. The kids were darting back and forth everywhere, the adults weren't really paying attention to them. All the employees got together to sing for the little girl, who just loved it. All sixteen people were loud, yelling back and forth between tables, and generally being a pain in the ass.
When they left after a couple of hours, there was stuff smeared all over the tables, appetizer plates everywhere, gift wrap on the floor and under the tables, confetti tossed around, and generally just a huge mess.
Notice what's not there? Yep, not a red cent for a tip. This is why there's a stereotype about yuppies, or Hispanic people, or rednecks, or old people, or any other group. Not because it's always true, but because some people reinforce it.
When they left after a couple of hours, there was stuff smeared all over the tables, appetizer plates everywhere, gift wrap on the floor and under the tables, confetti tossed around, and generally just a huge mess.
Notice what's not there? Yep, not a red cent for a tip. This is why there's a stereotype about yuppies, or Hispanic people, or rednecks, or old people, or any other group. Not because it's always true, but because some people reinforce it.
Selling out.
So I've mentioned before that I might do a few paid blog entries here, and that time has come. If it offends anybody, sorry--but if I can make $10 by writing a few words, I'm going to go for it. I'll make sure each sponsored post is sandwiched in between two regular, relevant ones--this is still going to be 99% work bitchery!
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Why I hate football.
(This was actually posted a day late, was about Monday night football.)
I was cut an hour ago, maybe more. I still have two tables, sitting watching the game and preventing me from cleaning under three of my tables (because of the arrangement of the booths versus tables). I want to scream at both of them that we're not a sports bar and maybe they should leave. But of course I won't.
I was cut an hour ago, maybe more. I still have two tables, sitting watching the game and preventing me from cleaning under three of my tables (because of the arrangement of the booths versus tables). I want to scream at both of them that we're not a sports bar and maybe they should leave. But of course I won't.
Fucking football.
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Clairification: When I wrote that, my other three tables had just left. The last two hadn't paid, and I hadn't had enough tables that night to justify dumping two of them off. So I did the rest of my sidework and I ate while I waited for them to leave. I just wrote at work on my phone while angry and didn't fully explain.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Advice to customers: Get the hell out of the way.
One of my last tables tonight was four people who seemed nice and friendly enough--even though they wouldn't shut up for me to take their order. One of the guys had his legs stretched out into the aisle for everybody to trip over. When I brought their drinks, he had shifted so he was facing mostly forward, but still had his legs stretched out as far as he could get them. That meant, of course, that I had to stand farther from the table and stretch to set down their drinks.
Legman had ordered a drink that comes with a martini glass and the metal shaker. I set the martini glass down and reached back up on to the tray for the shaker so I could pour his first glass. While I was pouring it, he went and set his menu down--across the silverware and taking up as much spare as it could. There was nowhere at the edge of the table for me to set down the metal shaker, so I tried to very carefully stretch over his legs, and the first foot of occupied table, to set down the shaker--while still holding three drinks on a tray on my other hand.
Yeah. Didn't work. None of the four people tried to take the shaker I was obviously struggling with, and when I set it down it was uneven ... and thus the table became a lake of pomegranate booze. And when I tried to catch it, the drinks on the trays started wobble, and one totally fell over.
Legman's jeans got splattered in raspberry tea, but nobody else got splashed, luckily. Of course all the drinks had to be replaced, the menus that were doused in drink had to be thrown away, and basically it was a huge freaking mess. And it wouldn't have happened if my table hadn't been oblivious to how difficult they were making my job.
Luckily for me, they were cool people--I got my best tip of the night from them, actually. But too many times I've had similar situations where people got all offended. It's similar to when I'm walking by tables and somebody gestures widely and knocks food out of my hands. People just need to be a little more aware of their surroundings.
Legman had ordered a drink that comes with a martini glass and the metal shaker. I set the martini glass down and reached back up on to the tray for the shaker so I could pour his first glass. While I was pouring it, he went and set his menu down--across the silverware and taking up as much spare as it could. There was nowhere at the edge of the table for me to set down the metal shaker, so I tried to very carefully stretch over his legs, and the first foot of occupied table, to set down the shaker--while still holding three drinks on a tray on my other hand.
Yeah. Didn't work. None of the four people tried to take the shaker I was obviously struggling with, and when I set it down it was uneven ... and thus the table became a lake of pomegranate booze. And when I tried to catch it, the drinks on the trays started wobble, and one totally fell over.
Legman's jeans got splattered in raspberry tea, but nobody else got splashed, luckily. Of course all the drinks had to be replaced, the menus that were doused in drink had to be thrown away, and basically it was a huge freaking mess. And it wouldn't have happened if my table hadn't been oblivious to how difficult they were making my job.
Luckily for me, they were cool people--I got my best tip of the night from them, actually. But too many times I've had similar situations where people got all offended. It's similar to when I'm walking by tables and somebody gestures widely and knocks food out of my hands. People just need to be a little more aware of their surroundings.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
The night of non-suck.
Last night was actually quite decent overall. I didn't run into any of the problems from the night before with my tables being occupied forever, people being cheap fucks, etc. I was also out of there twenty minutes after closing, thanks to nobody coming in during out last half hour. I made good money, and that erases all the things I was going to bitch about.
Well, almost all.
We had someone call and say they'd have 12 people at 6, and they did not want to wait, and by the way we have a birthday! So at 5:30, the manager pulls together my two tables and one of Perpetua's. The tables sit there, empty, for the next forty minutes, and then finally a couple of people show up. Since I was stealing one of Perpetua's tables for this, I let her take one of my booths when it was sat next. Two minutes later, my table tells me they'll only have eight, so they don't need that extra table. And then only seven showed up.
They were a pain in the ass to wait on, mostly because they wouldn't shut the fuck up and read their menus--the man whose 65th birthday it was and his wife told me they weren't having anything the first time I tried to take their order, just because they hadn't read their menus yet but didn't want to say so. After another ten minutes I finally got their order; then started the "oh, can I have a water?" crap from each person who'd ordered a beer. Naturally they couldn't ask at once or respond when I asked if anyone else wanted water--they had to wait until I came back with a single water for the one person who answered.
At the end of their meal, they wanted the whole dessert-and-singing routine. Lapdog had just cut the floor--and for some reason had flip-flopped me and Perpetua into opposite stations. I had gotten the table's dessert ready, but when I looked out to the table two of them had gone to the bathroom. But I'd gotten another table in my new section, so I figured that was fine. I set the dessert on the counter and headed out to greet the new table.
And there was another new one right next to it. And as I was walking up, the host was seating another table in my section. By the time I'd scooted around getting those three drinks orders and sending them to the bar, I had two more new tables. Suddenly I had five new tables, a table waiting for me to waste my breath singing to them, and another table waiting on refills. I was ready to tear my fucking hair out.
Somehow I got it all juggled, even though two of my new tables had to be complicated--"how much is a hurricane? how much is a double hurricane? how much is a mudslide? how much is this, that, and the gross national product of Bolivia?" and then "what's that new beer taste like? can I try it? no, just bring it to me, it'll be fine. no, I'd better taste it first."
After dessert was served, another little piece of my soul was sacrificed to the Corporate Birthday Song gods, and all drinks were delivered, I started taking food orders on my five tables. That went fairly quickly; nothing too complicated. All of these tables were right next to the birthday table, so it's not like I had vanished, but out of the corner of my eye I saw someone from the birthday table go to the bar with their ticket book. It was the bitchiest bitch at the tabe, naturally, so of course I only got 10%. This is why I fucking hate big parties.
Once everything had calmed down, I went to have a little chat with the hosts--Dumb and the new guy, Pennsyltucky. Dumb was off doing something, so I started with Pennsyltucky. I told him very nicely that seating somebody five tables in a row was very difficult, and for some people would've caused a total meltdown. I suggested that next time he ask people to wait just a minute or two, to space it out a bit. His response? "I only sat three of them, she must have done the other two."
"This is why you two need to communicate," I was saying as Dumb walked up. I then had the exact same conversation with her--and got the same response. "I only sat two of them, I didn't know he'd sat three!" Because I know it's very difficult to notice that every table around you is full and holding menus when you seat someone in the only empty table left in that section!
It worked out alright, I was able to handle it and everybody was happy, but the sheer stupid factor just amazed me. I guess it shouldn't, after all this time, but I suppose I'm just an optimist and like to think that people can do their jobs properly.
Well, almost all.
We had someone call and say they'd have 12 people at 6, and they did not want to wait, and by the way we have a birthday! So at 5:30, the manager pulls together my two tables and one of Perpetua's. The tables sit there, empty, for the next forty minutes, and then finally a couple of people show up. Since I was stealing one of Perpetua's tables for this, I let her take one of my booths when it was sat next. Two minutes later, my table tells me they'll only have eight, so they don't need that extra table. And then only seven showed up.
They were a pain in the ass to wait on, mostly because they wouldn't shut the fuck up and read their menus--the man whose 65th birthday it was and his wife told me they weren't having anything the first time I tried to take their order, just because they hadn't read their menus yet but didn't want to say so. After another ten minutes I finally got their order; then started the "oh, can I have a water?" crap from each person who'd ordered a beer. Naturally they couldn't ask at once or respond when I asked if anyone else wanted water--they had to wait until I came back with a single water for the one person who answered.
At the end of their meal, they wanted the whole dessert-and-singing routine. Lapdog had just cut the floor--and for some reason had flip-flopped me and Perpetua into opposite stations. I had gotten the table's dessert ready, but when I looked out to the table two of them had gone to the bathroom. But I'd gotten another table in my new section, so I figured that was fine. I set the dessert on the counter and headed out to greet the new table.
And there was another new one right next to it. And as I was walking up, the host was seating another table in my section. By the time I'd scooted around getting those three drinks orders and sending them to the bar, I had two more new tables. Suddenly I had five new tables, a table waiting for me to waste my breath singing to them, and another table waiting on refills. I was ready to tear my fucking hair out.
Somehow I got it all juggled, even though two of my new tables had to be complicated--"how much is a hurricane? how much is a double hurricane? how much is a mudslide? how much is this, that, and the gross national product of Bolivia?" and then "what's that new beer taste like? can I try it? no, just bring it to me, it'll be fine. no, I'd better taste it first."
After dessert was served, another little piece of my soul was sacrificed to the Corporate Birthday Song gods, and all drinks were delivered, I started taking food orders on my five tables. That went fairly quickly; nothing too complicated. All of these tables were right next to the birthday table, so it's not like I had vanished, but out of the corner of my eye I saw someone from the birthday table go to the bar with their ticket book. It was the bitchiest bitch at the tabe, naturally, so of course I only got 10%. This is why I fucking hate big parties.
Once everything had calmed down, I went to have a little chat with the hosts--Dumb and the new guy, Pennsyltucky. Dumb was off doing something, so I started with Pennsyltucky. I told him very nicely that seating somebody five tables in a row was very difficult, and for some people would've caused a total meltdown. I suggested that next time he ask people to wait just a minute or two, to space it out a bit. His response? "I only sat three of them, she must have done the other two."
"This is why you two need to communicate," I was saying as Dumb walked up. I then had the exact same conversation with her--and got the same response. "I only sat two of them, I didn't know he'd sat three!" Because I know it's very difficult to notice that every table around you is full and holding menus when you seat someone in the only empty table left in that section!
It worked out alright, I was able to handle it and everybody was happy, but the sheer stupid factor just amazed me. I guess it shouldn't, after all this time, but I suppose I'm just an optimist and like to think that people can do their jobs properly.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Bullshit.
Friday night second cut, and after tipping the bartender I'll be leaving with a whole $36. Not because my tables were bad to me, except one I'll write about later. It's because the stupid fucking manager scheduled me to come in at 5:30, so my station was full, and those people didn't leave for an hour or better, so I only had 9 tables total tonight. I've talked to them about this, but they just fucking persist in doing it. I'm about ready to tell them to just take me off Friday nights. It's not worth it.
Especially since I'm still here and it's 11 o'clock.
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile
ETA: Waiter Extrordinaire pointed out that works out to $4/table; I forgot to mention I have five tables that gave me the "Oh, we're just going to share an appetizer!" bullshit. So my percentage was great, it was just the total sucked balls.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Appropriate workplace conversations.
So one day a while ago, I'm standing ringing in an order in the kitchen. Offspring's "Pretty Fly For A White Guy" was on, and Bitter Divorced Man was singing. That was hilarious in and of itself--because he was singing the "give it to me baby, uh-huh" part. So I had to mock him.
"Do all the girls say you're pretty fly for a white guy, BDM?"
He smirked and said "No, they all say 'unzip your fly, white guy.'"
Sometimes, I love my bosses.
"Do all the girls say you're pretty fly for a white guy, BDM?"
He smirked and said "No, they all say 'unzip your fly, white guy.'"
Sometimes, I love my bosses.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Bye-bye, Perpetua!
Her husband is taking a job in another state, so come the end of the month, she's gone. Hopefully, that will mean I get my Monday night closes back!
I interrupt my usual bitching ....
... to tell you to join Swagbucks! You can get Swagbucks for all sorts of stuff, including using their toolbar to search. And then those Swagbucks can be used to buy things. Real things. Sweeeeeeet.
Roll call
For a while, I had a "Cast of Characters" widget on my sidebar, but it was too clunky. But I want people to know who I'm talking about, I'm replacing it with a link to this post, which will be redundant for the time being.
GM/Chicken Little: Our GM, who regularly thinks the sky is falling. Possibly needs medication. (As of Christmas time has mellowed out a lot!)
Lapdog: Named after a "House" quote about "because I'm a very high-strung little lapdog!" Possibly needs medication.
Bitter Divorced Man: Manager who's sometimes a riot, and other times won't speak to anyone the entire shift. Possibly needs medication.
Pot Smoking Manager: Almost too laid-back for his own good. Possibly self-medicates.
Accent Girl: Thinks she's quirky and hilarious, really just plain weird. Especially the way her accent changes in the middle of sentences. She claims not to realize she's doing it, and yet it never happens when she's really involved in what she's saying.
Brainless: Super fun to work with. After three months of serving still doesn't know what the house margarita is called. See tag "unsurprising ineptitude".
California Girl: Grew up in middle America, but seems like a surfer. Probably the best server in the place. Often calls me at three in the morning when she's had a few beers.
Dallas: Supposedly bisexual young mother who's obsessed with others' procreation. I don't think she likes me much. She also called out within her first two weeks of work--to bail her boyfriend out of jail.
Dumb: Hostess who just doesn't pay attention to the world around her.
Dumber/Brainless II: Hostess who apparently squeezed her brains cells out along with her son at the age of 16.
Flirty Priest: Cuter than a basket of kittens, foul-mouthed and foul-minded, flirts with everyone with tits .... and is attending a Christian college to be become a minister.
Idiot Expo: Started out as a cook but couldn't hack it; was moved to expo and sucks at that too. Apparently can't read, because every order that has mods is missing something--extra plates, three sides of ranch, whatever. After a month, I'm losing hope for improvement.
Judge Judy: Anyone who does anything differently than her is "a fucking idiot." Acts like she's so much better than everyone around her, and yet expects ridiculous amounts of sympathy for her personal problems. Ice on the counter pisses her off, and she sweeps it on to the floor; when I pointed out someone could slip, her response was "You should be wearing non-slip shoes."
The Vomit-Worthys: Married couple. She never misses a chance to call someone out about something and is always on the warpath about some little, insignificant thing she thinks the rest of us should be doing. Her husband is a nice enough guy--slightly creepy, though, as he gives backrubs to the other waitresses when his wife isn't around. When she is around, though, they earn their moniker--I think I know more about their sex life than my own.
Pennsyltucky: New host who grew up in this state, yet has affected such a banjo-twanging accent that I can't understand what he's saying most of the time. He's 19 and thinks he's got the world by the balls. Fun enough to work with, and better than Dumb or Dumber, but he didn't doesn't pay any attention to little details of his job like seating rotation.
Perpetua: Most of the time I just want to staple things to her head. Always has something to say. About everything. Twice. Has now moved out of state.
Preggers: Not actually pregnant anymore; a nice girl whose real name is just a couple letters off of mine, and it causes a lot of confusion.
Wannabe: Hostess who does productions with the local theater company and thinks she's going to make it big someday (despite, uh, sucking). Has all sorts of dramatic headshot pictures she shows people, is always talking about her plays, and dresses like a pirate. Most annoyingly, she likes to walk up to people and sing--quite throatily--random lines of songs. We're talking walking up to me and singing, "Hey sister, soul sister" in this weird vibrating projecting voice, then walking away. She also does this random little Michael Jackson-style "hoo-hoo" thing all the time. Mildly annoying, but I was learning to live with it until it turned out she's a two-faced squealer who rats people out to Chicken Little!
Wideeyes: Has constantly bugged-out eyes she accentuates with tons of eye makeup, making her look perpetually shocked. Whines constantly about everything, shoves people out of her way when she wants to get to the computer, and basically acts like we should all bow down to her. Oh yeah, and she screws up non-stop.
GM/Chicken Little: Our GM, who regularly thinks the sky is falling. Possibly needs medication. (As of Christmas time has mellowed out a lot!)
Lapdog: Named after a "House" quote about "because I'm a very high-strung little lapdog!" Possibly needs medication.
Bitter Divorced Man: Manager who's sometimes a riot, and other times won't speak to anyone the entire shift. Possibly needs medication.
Pot Smoking Manager: Almost too laid-back for his own good. Possibly self-medicates.
Accent Girl: Thinks she's quirky and hilarious, really just plain weird. Especially the way her accent changes in the middle of sentences. She claims not to realize she's doing it, and yet it never happens when she's really involved in what she's saying.
Brainless: Super fun to work with. After three months of serving still doesn't know what the house margarita is called. See tag "unsurprising ineptitude".
California Girl: Grew up in middle America, but seems like a surfer. Probably the best server in the place. Often calls me at three in the morning when she's had a few beers.
Dallas: Supposedly bisexual young mother who's obsessed with others' procreation. I don't think she likes me much. She also called out within her first two weeks of work--to bail her boyfriend out of jail.
Dumb: Hostess who just doesn't pay attention to the world around her.
Dumber/Brainless II: Hostess who apparently squeezed her brains cells out along with her son at the age of 16.
Flirty Priest: Cuter than a basket of kittens, foul-mouthed and foul-minded, flirts with everyone with tits .... and is attending a Christian college to be become a minister.
Idiot Expo: Started out as a cook but couldn't hack it; was moved to expo and sucks at that too. Apparently can't read, because every order that has mods is missing something--extra plates, three sides of ranch, whatever. After a month, I'm losing hope for improvement.
Judge Judy: Anyone who does anything differently than her is "a fucking idiot." Acts like she's so much better than everyone around her, and yet expects ridiculous amounts of sympathy for her personal problems. Ice on the counter pisses her off, and she sweeps it on to the floor; when I pointed out someone could slip, her response was "You should be wearing non-slip shoes."
The Vomit-Worthys: Married couple. She never misses a chance to call someone out about something and is always on the warpath about some little, insignificant thing she thinks the rest of us should be doing. Her husband is a nice enough guy--slightly creepy, though, as he gives backrubs to the other waitresses when his wife isn't around. When she is around, though, they earn their moniker--I think I know more about their sex life than my own.
Pennsyltucky: New host who grew up in this state, yet has affected such a banjo-twanging accent that I can't understand what he's saying most of the time. He's 19 and thinks he's got the world by the balls. Fun enough to work with, and better than Dumb or Dumber, but he didn't doesn't pay any attention to little details of his job like seating rotation.
Perpetua: Most of the time I just want to staple things to her head. Always has something to say. About everything. Twice. Has now moved out of state.
Preggers: Not actually pregnant anymore; a nice girl whose real name is just a couple letters off of mine, and it causes a lot of confusion.
Wannabe: Hostess who does productions with the local theater company and thinks she's going to make it big someday (despite, uh, sucking). Has all sorts of dramatic headshot pictures she shows people, is always talking about her plays, and dresses like a pirate. Most annoyingly, she likes to walk up to people and sing--quite throatily--random lines of songs. We're talking walking up to me and singing, "Hey sister, soul sister" in this weird vibrating projecting voice, then walking away. She also does this random little Michael Jackson-style "hoo-hoo" thing all the time. Mildly annoying, but I was learning to live with it until it turned out she's a two-faced squealer who rats people out to Chicken Little!
Wideeyes: Has constantly bugged-out eyes she accentuates with tons of eye makeup, making her look perpetually shocked. Whines constantly about everything, shoves people out of her way when she wants to get to the computer, and basically acts like we should all bow down to her. Oh yeah, and she screws up non-stop.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Top 100 things that a guest should try to avoid doing
Teleburst at So You Want To Be A Waiter is posting a series of things a guest shouldn't do, in response to a NYT article about things servers shouldn't do. Some are hilarious, and some are an example of the daily drudgery of waiting.
Numbers 1-25
Numbers 26-50
Numbers 51-75
Numbers 1-25
Numbers 26-50
Numbers 51-75
Happy Halloween!
Last year, I was the only person at work who wasn't dressed up, or at least in seasonal colors. This year, I actually did dress up--although I almost didn't, until I remembered that I'd bought a clearance costume last year! The official name of it is "Malice In Wonderland", but after I put it on I realized it looked a lot like a maid outfit. So I put on red lipstick, dark purple eyeshadow, and really heavy black mascara. I did my hair in sort of poofy layers with a headband I happened to have that matches the tights, and I wore a pair of earrings that are sparkly and heart-shaped with a skull and crossbone pattern. I thought it came together rather well, actually! At work my regular apron covered the goofy little white flappy thing--but I spent the entire night worrying about bending over, because the bottom several inches of the skirt are lacey trim, and I didn't think anybody wanted to see my checkered ass.My coworkers all loved it, but I think I had some people tonight who didn't appreciate my costume--I can't figure any other reason they'd stiff me. They looked at me weird the entire time they were there--or rather didn't look at me, as if I offended their eyes. Maybe they thought I was showing too much boob? I don't know. But they left me a dollar on $40. Then I had teenagers that left me 20 cents on $23--bastards. I got four tips tonight that were less than ten percent--and my last table came in fifteen minutes before close, after we hadn't had anybody in an hour and a half. Grr! Oh well. Income-wise, tonight's shift was a bit of a letdown, but at least I had fun.
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