Monday, May 30, 2011
Oh joy, I'm sick again.
I should have known it was coming, since I really needed money. Missed the last three days, and won't be able to go in tonight.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Oh look, it's a small messy human.
When babies like that look at me, or grab my apron, or basically do something that demands attention, I'll give it. Otherwise, I treat them like a grabby piece of furniture, carefully setting things out of their reach and being sure not to hold things over their squishy little heads. Mom and dad got perfect service, quick and efficient and friendly. They said their food was delicious. And yet they left me a big fat nothing, and I suspect it's because I didn't fawn over their youngest crotchspawn. I did say she had adorable little shoes, isn't that enough?
Ignore that last post ..
If anyone's reading on a blog feed that emails posts to you, you probably got a really random post that was just a strange picture. I was trying to send a picture of a receipt from my phone, but my phone is freaking the fuck out and instead it posted a totally random photo a friend sent me. This is exactly why I didn't want a touch-screen phone in the first place, because when the screen starts to go out everything gets fucked up!
Anyway, disregard the random picture if you saw it!
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Goddamn hippies.
They rolled in around twenty minutes to close, plenty of time to drink their beer, eat their munchies, and GTFO. But of course, they chilled out for half an hour past close. Now, usually I'd just think they didn't realize we were closed, or whatever.
But it was carpet-cleaning night, which meant that at about ten minutes to close, a crew of guys started dragging in hoses and equipment. They they moved all the booths and tables, stacking them up on top of each other … and still this couple sat. At 12:25 the cleaning crew finally started running their vacuums at ear-splitting volume, and five minutes after that the couple finally left.
Personally, I'd be very uncomfortable sitting in a restaurant that was being disassembled around me! I'd feel like I was in the way and out of place, like I didn't belong and needed to get out.
Of course, I don't go into restaurants late at night after hot-boxing my car.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
The little things that make my job bearable.
(Sorry about the gap in posts. I try to post every day I work, but I haven't been feeling well the last few days. Always happens this time of year, I get horrid allergy-triggered sinus headaches.)
Last night wasn't anything special in terms of cash flow. Actually, it was pretty disappointing. But it still ranks as one of my best days lately.
First, it was a very smooth shift. I didn't have to put up with Dolly, Tiffany, Snitch, or any of the other pains in the ass who make me want to bitch-slap them every time they open their mouths. We didn't have anyone working who tries to skip out on sidework. We didn't have anyone lazy and uncooperative. That in itself is very rare to have on a shift. The closing crew was Cat-Eyes, Cali Girl, Pot Smoking Manager, and me – perfect.
Second, none of my customers were complete bastards. Again, very rare. I don't remember anyone who made me angry or even irritated. I got decent tips, my lack of income was simply because it was soooo fucking slow.
Third, my favorite customers came in – the guys who left me the condom balloon. They're a damn riot, and I absolutely love when I have time to sit and talk to them. I'd consider them friends now; maybe not share-all-my-secrets friends, but the kind of friends I could call if my car needed a jump or something. So I got to laugh and chat with them for the better part of the night.
And lastly, we were out the door by 12:15! Fuck yes!
Last night wasn't anything special in terms of cash flow. Actually, it was pretty disappointing. But it still ranks as one of my best days lately.
First, it was a very smooth shift. I didn't have to put up with Dolly, Tiffany, Snitch, or any of the other pains in the ass who make me want to bitch-slap them every time they open their mouths. We didn't have anyone working who tries to skip out on sidework. We didn't have anyone lazy and uncooperative. That in itself is very rare to have on a shift. The closing crew was Cat-Eyes, Cali Girl, Pot Smoking Manager, and me – perfect.
Second, none of my customers were complete bastards. Again, very rare. I don't remember anyone who made me angry or even irritated. I got decent tips, my lack of income was simply because it was soooo fucking slow.
Third, my favorite customers came in – the guys who left me the condom balloon. They're a damn riot, and I absolutely love when I have time to sit and talk to them. I'd consider them friends now; maybe not share-all-my-secrets friends, but the kind of friends I could call if my car needed a jump or something. So I got to laugh and chat with them for the better part of the night.
And lastly, we were out the door by 12:15! Fuck yes!
Saturday, May 21, 2011
What were you expecting, a blowjob?
I went into work tonight full of hope and the expectation that I might have some good customers and make some money. And one of my earliest tables seemed like a good prospect: two nice-looking guys my age, smiling and polite. One had a beer, another a soda. They both ordered steaks, one with some modifications, the other regular. Their food came out in good time, I checked immediately to see if their steaks were cooked correctly. They were never out of drinks; I dropped their check promptly and took their payment immediately. We didn't talk much, as they were pretty engrossed in their conversation, but it was textbook smooth dining experience. They were in and out in about 30 minutes, during the dinner rush.
When I picked up their credit slip, I saw I'd been gifted a 10% tip and a note that said “service wasn't great, sorry.”
Fuck you.
When I picked up their credit slip, I saw I'd been gifted a 10% tip and a note that said “service wasn't great, sorry.”
Fuck you.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Perfect dining time.
Tonight I saw Pot Smoking Manager come back in to the kitchen carrying three plates, trailing Cathy, the Bug, and Tiffany in his wake. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but he was pissed.
As he came in to the kitchen, he literally threw the plates down on the counter. “The more I think about it the more fucking pissed I get!” I bolted at that point, PSM is scary when he's mad, because you don't expect it from him!
Turns out that Tiffany got it in her head that it was okay to order food. She said she asked “a bunch” of servers and they all told her it was okay. I'm guessing the ones she asked were the Bug and Cathy, because they ordered food too. They were just sitting at a table in the middle of the restaurant, chowing down.
It was seven o'clock. We hadn't even done first cuts yet, and the kitchen still had a full screen. Idiots.
As he came in to the kitchen, he literally threw the plates down on the counter. “The more I think about it the more fucking pissed I get!” I bolted at that point, PSM is scary when he's mad, because you don't expect it from him!
Turns out that Tiffany got it in her head that it was okay to order food. She said she asked “a bunch” of servers and they all told her it was okay. I'm guessing the ones she asked were the Bug and Cathy, because they ordered food too. They were just sitting at a table in the middle of the restaurant, chowing down.
It was seven o'clock. We hadn't even done first cuts yet, and the kitchen still had a full screen. Idiots.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Guest post: A Day in the Life of a Banquet Manager
Today's quest post comes from The Banquet Manager. If you'd like to join the guest post queue, please email me at slightlycranky at hotmail.com.
The corporate group was not supposed to arrive until late Sunday night so they weren’t expected to want access to any of the meeting rooms until early Monday morning. I knew better, so I scheduled my houseman supervisor and 2 other housemen to be there until 11pm “just in case”.
Well what do you think happened?
Of course 6 “meeting planners” for a 70 person group arrived around 8:30pm Sunday and wanted to inspect the rooms (1 general session and 5 breakout rooms). One person was the main contact, 2 people where there for the F&B, 2 for the sleeping rooms and the last was here just to supervise the transportation.
Just another day in paradise!
All the meeting rooms & a/v were fully setup as per the BEO and spotless in condition. All should be fine, right? WRONG!
We set the room crescent rounds of 6 people each facing the long wall (since there were 2 screens & 2 projectors) but they wanted it facing the short wall. Also, they wanted a stage with a panel seating for 6 people in between the screens. My supervisor told them that this would make the room too long for 12 tables with the front tables around 16 ft from the screen and the rear tables too far back.
But what do we know I guess? So my staff changed the setup to accommodate their wishes and got ready for Monday.
Guess what happened? The last row of tables complained all morning that they were too far from the screen and couldn’t see the bottom information. So during their lunch break, we removed some tables, made the others crescents of 7 people each and tightened them up closer to the screen. As a matter of fact, this setup is exactly what I recommended to the sales manager and group contact during the pre-con meeting the week before!
But again, what do we know!
The other screw-ups:
The kitchen didn’t schedule 2 people for the carving and pasta stations for their Tuesday night dinner so I needed to scramble to get extra waiters in to handle this. I charged it off to the kitchen of course.
Our purchasing manager never ordered the 3 kosher meals for Monday’s lunch. So guess who made a mad dash out to the store around 10:30am that day?
The usual problem with a few sleeping rooms not being the type that was requested (Jr suite vs. dbl). This drove their rooms planner bonkers!
We had the same starch and veggies for Thursday and Friday’s lunch. As usual, the kitchen couldn’t keep it straight for 5 days in a row!
A few late deliveries, some a/v problems, banquet checks having to be redone a thousand times, a thousand and one time changes, and a couple of dirty bathrooms rounded out the week.
But guess what? Banquets ROCKED!
Well I kind of cheated. I learned from the past that you need to take extra precautions when you have a group that is looking for an excuse to get a discount. This makes the meeting planners look good when they can get the clients bill reduced. How else can they justify their existence?
I brought all my waiters in a little early the entire week, had extra housemen on to refresh the rooms and I was on top of the kitchen all week.
I refuse to fail…
P.S. I priced-out the extra labor cost I incurred to make sure the group went off as planned and gave a copy to the Dir of Sales, Dir of F&B, and the GM. If Sales wants to book events like this then all involved must know that it costs extra and this takes away from our bottom line. I’ll try to get it charged back to Sales but I know it won’t happen.
Other than that, I’m very happy with my staff. They did all that was expected of them and more. Another day in paradise.
I guess my job is safe for another day…
The corporate group was not supposed to arrive until late Sunday night so they weren’t expected to want access to any of the meeting rooms until early Monday morning. I knew better, so I scheduled my houseman supervisor and 2 other housemen to be there until 11pm “just in case”.
Well what do you think happened?
Of course 6 “meeting planners” for a 70 person group arrived around 8:30pm Sunday and wanted to inspect the rooms (1 general session and 5 breakout rooms). One person was the main contact, 2 people where there for the F&B, 2 for the sleeping rooms and the last was here just to supervise the transportation.
Just another day in paradise!
All the meeting rooms & a/v were fully setup as per the BEO and spotless in condition. All should be fine, right? WRONG!
We set the room crescent rounds of 6 people each facing the long wall (since there were 2 screens & 2 projectors) but they wanted it facing the short wall. Also, they wanted a stage with a panel seating for 6 people in between the screens. My supervisor told them that this would make the room too long for 12 tables with the front tables around 16 ft from the screen and the rear tables too far back.
But what do we know I guess? So my staff changed the setup to accommodate their wishes and got ready for Monday.
Guess what happened? The last row of tables complained all morning that they were too far from the screen and couldn’t see the bottom information. So during their lunch break, we removed some tables, made the others crescents of 7 people each and tightened them up closer to the screen. As a matter of fact, this setup is exactly what I recommended to the sales manager and group contact during the pre-con meeting the week before!
But again, what do we know!
The other screw-ups:
The kitchen didn’t schedule 2 people for the carving and pasta stations for their Tuesday night dinner so I needed to scramble to get extra waiters in to handle this. I charged it off to the kitchen of course.
Our purchasing manager never ordered the 3 kosher meals for Monday’s lunch. So guess who made a mad dash out to the store around 10:30am that day?
The usual problem with a few sleeping rooms not being the type that was requested (Jr suite vs. dbl). This drove their rooms planner bonkers!
We had the same starch and veggies for Thursday and Friday’s lunch. As usual, the kitchen couldn’t keep it straight for 5 days in a row!
A few late deliveries, some a/v problems, banquet checks having to be redone a thousand times, a thousand and one time changes, and a couple of dirty bathrooms rounded out the week.
But guess what? Banquets ROCKED!
Well I kind of cheated. I learned from the past that you need to take extra precautions when you have a group that is looking for an excuse to get a discount. This makes the meeting planners look good when they can get the clients bill reduced. How else can they justify their existence?
I brought all my waiters in a little early the entire week, had extra housemen on to refresh the rooms and I was on top of the kitchen all week.
I refuse to fail…
P.S. I priced-out the extra labor cost I incurred to make sure the group went off as planned and gave a copy to the Dir of Sales, Dir of F&B, and the GM. If Sales wants to book events like this then all involved must know that it costs extra and this takes away from our bottom line. I’ll try to get it charged back to Sales but I know it won’t happen.
Other than that, I’m very happy with my staff. They did all that was expected of them and more. Another day in paradise.
I guess my job is safe for another day…
Monday, May 16, 2011
Diagram situation.
All restaurants have a crazy web of relationships, but lately mine is getting on my nerves. I've tried to organize this in to some logical order, but it just doesn't work!
To start with, we have five sets of siblings now: Cali Girl and her sister, Accent Girl and Fud, Kate and Ally, Barbie and the Bug, Snitch and Madison. So of course there are built-in alliances and problems right there.
Barbie, Bug, and Cathy all used to work together at another restaurant, as did the Lawyer and Fringe. Judge Judy, the Lawyer, and I all worked at the same restaurant in high school. Snitch used to work for CL's sister. Barbie is engaged to Native's oldest brother, and Wannabe is infatuated with her youngest brother.
Tiffany used to work at the bar frequented by most of the staff; the other bartender there tried to date-rape my friend S (who used to work with me), and possibly slipped Anna a roofie at one point. People still go there, though, because he stays open way past close just for my coworkers.
Cali Girl's sister lives with Wannabe and one of the other stupid little host girls (who used to date Pennsyltucky), and they're always fighting about things with the house. And even customer's aren't safe: CG's sister is dating the nephew of a couple of regular customers, and Wannabe is off-and-on dating another one, and I have a raging crush on another, and the Lawyer has her eyes on another. Oh yeah, and my crush's best friend was always trying to get into the pants of both Wide-Eyes and Brainless, and my crush originally had the hots for Pixy until he found out she was engaged. And one of the bar regulars was obsessed with S, and his friend is regularly banging Wide-Eyes, who's not allowed in the restaurant anymore because CL was going to get a restraining order against her. And one of Wide-Eyes' good friends still works with us.
The Lawyer slept with one of the dishwashers and they're always flirting, but she's also sleeping with Anna's loser brother on a regular basis. He used to live with S, and he's possibly Dallas' second baby daddy. The Lawyer's also best friends with Benedict Manager.
The woman I think is our best expo is dating one of the cooks; and then there's the Vomit-Worthys, although I don't think Mrs. Vomit-Worthy has worked a shift since popping out their kid in November, so right now there are no problems there.
Chrissy is moving in to a house with Kelly, who's dating Nick. Nick and Chrissy are also friends, but Chrissy sided with Kelly when Kelly and Nick were breaking up every other week because of different things. One of those things came about largely because a girl who used to work with us exaggerated a situation involving another bitch who still works with us; that girl is living with a former manager who was transferred to another store and used to date my old roommate (who also worked with us) and slept off a few drunks on my floor. And my old roommate is friends with Kelly.
Chrissy was dating one of the cooks, Mitch, but then they broke up and they're not speaking (then they are, then they're not, then they are …..). And Chrissy thinks (or thought? I try not to mention it anymore!) that my friend L (Hi L!) is nuts because L is friends with Mitch, and I let it slip that L had noticed that Mitch had defriended Chrissy on Facebook, so Chrissy thought L was a crazy stalker, and then Cali Girl went and told L that, and for all I know told Chrissy she'd told her. And at one point Cali Girl got drunk and told Kelly she wouldn't trust Chrissy and Nick to hang out together, so Chrissy and Cali Girl were on the ropes for a while.
And quitting doesn't get you out of the drama, either. I think I'm on CL's permanent danger list because I'm good friends with L, and the Lawyer is probably on the same list because she's friends with Anna, and Mistress J is probably there too because she's friends with a girl who got fired for an absolutely insane reason I haven't even written about. And Work Wife too, because she's seriously involved with one of the cooks who quit with very little notice.
Dolly, Benedict Manager, Snitch, Wannabe, Miss Entitled, and Stan (one of the cooks) are all little snitches for CL; Mistress J is in tight with Lapdog. Cat-Eyes adores HotPants and is kind of one of his favorites; I think Nick is too. And I'm on Pot Smoking Manager's top ten list, along with Cali Girl, Chrissy, and a couple of others. So of course whenever there's any managerial tension it trickles down to us.
But the absolute crowning glory of this whole diagram situation is this: HotPants, who's got several kids with his long-term girlfriend, is sleeping with Chicken Little's sister.
To start with, we have five sets of siblings now: Cali Girl and her sister, Accent Girl and Fud, Kate and Ally, Barbie and the Bug, Snitch and Madison. So of course there are built-in alliances and problems right there.
Barbie, Bug, and Cathy all used to work together at another restaurant, as did the Lawyer and Fringe. Judge Judy, the Lawyer, and I all worked at the same restaurant in high school. Snitch used to work for CL's sister. Barbie is engaged to Native's oldest brother, and Wannabe is infatuated with her youngest brother.
Tiffany used to work at the bar frequented by most of the staff; the other bartender there tried to date-rape my friend S (who used to work with me), and possibly slipped Anna a roofie at one point. People still go there, though, because he stays open way past close just for my coworkers.
Cali Girl's sister lives with Wannabe and one of the other stupid little host girls (who used to date Pennsyltucky), and they're always fighting about things with the house. And even customer's aren't safe: CG's sister is dating the nephew of a couple of regular customers, and Wannabe is off-and-on dating another one, and I have a raging crush on another, and the Lawyer has her eyes on another. Oh yeah, and my crush's best friend was always trying to get into the pants of both Wide-Eyes and Brainless, and my crush originally had the hots for Pixy until he found out she was engaged. And one of the bar regulars was obsessed with S, and his friend is regularly banging Wide-Eyes, who's not allowed in the restaurant anymore because CL was going to get a restraining order against her. And one of Wide-Eyes' good friends still works with us.
The Lawyer slept with one of the dishwashers and they're always flirting, but she's also sleeping with Anna's loser brother on a regular basis. He used to live with S, and he's possibly Dallas' second baby daddy. The Lawyer's also best friends with Benedict Manager.
The woman I think is our best expo is dating one of the cooks; and then there's the Vomit-Worthys, although I don't think Mrs. Vomit-Worthy has worked a shift since popping out their kid in November, so right now there are no problems there.
Chrissy is moving in to a house with Kelly, who's dating Nick. Nick and Chrissy are also friends, but Chrissy sided with Kelly when Kelly and Nick were breaking up every other week because of different things. One of those things came about largely because a girl who used to work with us exaggerated a situation involving another bitch who still works with us; that girl is living with a former manager who was transferred to another store and used to date my old roommate (who also worked with us) and slept off a few drunks on my floor. And my old roommate is friends with Kelly.
Chrissy was dating one of the cooks, Mitch, but then they broke up and they're not speaking (then they are, then they're not, then they are …..). And Chrissy thinks (or thought? I try not to mention it anymore!) that my friend L (Hi L!) is nuts because L is friends with Mitch, and I let it slip that L had noticed that Mitch had defriended Chrissy on Facebook, so Chrissy thought L was a crazy stalker, and then Cali Girl went and told L that, and for all I know told Chrissy she'd told her. And at one point Cali Girl got drunk and told Kelly she wouldn't trust Chrissy and Nick to hang out together, so Chrissy and Cali Girl were on the ropes for a while.
And quitting doesn't get you out of the drama, either. I think I'm on CL's permanent danger list because I'm good friends with L, and the Lawyer is probably on the same list because she's friends with Anna, and Mistress J is probably there too because she's friends with a girl who got fired for an absolutely insane reason I haven't even written about. And Work Wife too, because she's seriously involved with one of the cooks who quit with very little notice.
Dolly, Benedict Manager, Snitch, Wannabe, Miss Entitled, and Stan (one of the cooks) are all little snitches for CL; Mistress J is in tight with Lapdog. Cat-Eyes adores HotPants and is kind of one of his favorites; I think Nick is too. And I'm on Pot Smoking Manager's top ten list, along with Cali Girl, Chrissy, and a couple of others. So of course whenever there's any managerial tension it trickles down to us.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Barbie and the Bug.
 |
| Yep, that's her haircut. |
I actually really liked Barbie at first. She seemed like a hard worker, like she wasn't going to get involved with all the drama, and definitely like she wasn't going to fall for CL's fake-friendly bullshit. Then I slowly noticed that she never has anything positive to say, and every time she's scheduled to close it's nothing but a whine-fest. She didn't start out looking like Barbie, either. Originally she had long loose blonde hair that was layered. Then she got this terrible haircut, all one length with blunt ends except for her bangs. Her bangs start at almost the middle of her head and cover her entire forehead, side to side and down to her eyebrows in a thick fringe. She also got a lot of different colored brown and blonde highlights, which are so precise they look terribly fake. Even she says it's a Barbie haircut.
Her sister, the Bug, started three months after Barbie, and I actually really like her (we bonded over trashy paranormal books). But she's very tall, extremely thin, and often rude, pushing herself in between people and in front to get her drinks or drop off dishes. I call her the Bug because, well, that's what she looks like: a stick insect. Not even because of her size, but because of her makeup. Her face is very small and triangular, and she unfortunately wears makeup that makes it look moreso. Every day she works, she's got on thick black eyeliner, mascara so dense it looks like she has one thick eyelash, and two shades of heavy, sparkly eyeshadow. She puts one on the inside of her eyelid, the other on the outside, and smears both all the way up to her eyebrows and out past the corner of her eyes. This makes her eyes look really small, while drawing all the attention to the top of her face. And then she's usually got her hair piled up on top of her head, too, so basically she looks like she's all eyes and hair.Now, I try not to judge people on their appearance. She can't help that her face is shaped the way it is, just like I can't help having an oval face. But it's like people with mullet haircuts: her awful makeup is a choice. And it drives me absolutely bonkers. I want to shake Native and tell her she's not an Indian, and I want to shake the Bug and tell her that having sparkly black eyes is not attractive!
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Been a while since I've heard that one.
One of our less offensive FNGs, Cathy, came up to me tonight looking confused. “Do we have cheesecake bites two for $1.50?”
I frowned. “No, they're a dollar each.”
“That's what I thought, but this guy says we do. I told him no.”
I shook my head. “No, if one is a dollar then two is two dollars. He's a liar.”
She agreed with me and went about her business. The guy did order one, and they are small even for a dollar – I could fit the whole thing in my mouth at once. Wow, that didn't sound very good, did it? A few minutes later she came and told me that he was still bitching about it, that he'd been there for lunch and he could show her the receipt.
“I told him I could get the manager,” she said, “but he just kept saying he had his receipt and he could show me.” We agreed that probably meant he was just trying to bully her into it; she didn't do it. If we did it, there'd be a “2 cheesecake bite” button that rang up for $1.50. Of course it's possible that some jackass working the lunch shift did it for him, but it's more likely that he was just a liar. I'm not sure if Cathy ever got the manager or not, but when the table left she came into the kitchen disgusted.
“That guy just handed me a dollar and said “just so you know, the customer is always right.””
In unison, we said “FUCK THAT.”
I frowned. “No, they're a dollar each.”
“That's what I thought, but this guy says we do. I told him no.”
I shook my head. “No, if one is a dollar then two is two dollars. He's a liar.”
She agreed with me and went about her business. The guy did order one, and they are small even for a dollar – I could fit the whole thing in my mouth at once. Wow, that didn't sound very good, did it? A few minutes later she came and told me that he was still bitching about it, that he'd been there for lunch and he could show her the receipt.
“I told him I could get the manager,” she said, “but he just kept saying he had his receipt and he could show me.” We agreed that probably meant he was just trying to bully her into it; she didn't do it. If we did it, there'd be a “2 cheesecake bite” button that rang up for $1.50. Of course it's possible that some jackass working the lunch shift did it for him, but it's more likely that he was just a liar. I'm not sure if Cathy ever got the manager or not, but when the table left she came into the kitchen disgusted.
“That guy just handed me a dollar and said “just so you know, the customer is always right.””
In unison, we said “FUCK THAT.”
Friday, May 13, 2011
Geriatics Inc.
Out of my first six tables, one has had members under the age of 70. Who knew Friday the 13th was a big night out for the old folks!
Connected by MOTOBLUR™ on T-Mobile
Connected by MOTOBLUR™ on T-Mobile
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Oh yeah. Mother's Day.
It was a bitch. I worked 14 hours straight without a break -- and not because it was busy. It was no busier than an average Sunday, but we naturally had twice the number of people on the floor as usual. And since HotPants and Lapdog were the opening/mid managers, nobody could sit down, EVER. I got there at 11:30 and finally got to sit down for more than 30 seconds at 9.
I foolishly swapped my Saturday night shift for a Sunday lunch, thinking with the holiday I'd make much better money. HA! Not only was it not busy, people were fucking douchehounds. 10% all goddamn day. Guess that's better than one of the other girls, who got stiffed about five times during lunch. During dinner I started to do better, got a fistful of $10 tips, one $20, generally twenty percent.
At the end of the day, I walked with $153 (that's after tipping out the night bartender, shit I just realized I didn't tip the day ones, and buying two meals). Not bad for a regular Sunday with a break, but for Mother's Day, working open to close? Fucking pathetic. (I miss my first restaurant, that had a big buffet on Mother's Day and Easter. $500 days there. Too bad it closed.)
After last year's fun folks (though that day started out AWESOME) and this year's, I'm putting a reminder in my phone calendar to request the day off next year.
I foolishly swapped my Saturday night shift for a Sunday lunch, thinking with the holiday I'd make much better money. HA! Not only was it not busy, people were fucking douchehounds. 10% all goddamn day. Guess that's better than one of the other girls, who got stiffed about five times during lunch. During dinner I started to do better, got a fistful of $10 tips, one $20, generally twenty percent.
At the end of the day, I walked with $153 (that's after tipping out the night bartender, shit I just realized I didn't tip the day ones, and buying two meals). Not bad for a regular Sunday with a break, but for Mother's Day, working open to close? Fucking pathetic. (I miss my first restaurant, that had a big buffet on Mother's Day and Easter. $500 days there. Too bad it closed.)
After last year's fun folks (though that day started out AWESOME) and this year's, I'm putting a reminder in my phone calendar to request the day off next year.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Quit trying to show off how much you don't know.
I had a customer order “jack and coke short, more jack than coke.” Right away I knew I wasn't getting a decent tip, of course. So I rang his drink in as a double, but Dolly whipped out a tall glass.
“Wait, I need that a short, please.”
Dolly froze, bottle lifted, and stared at me with huge wide eyes. “I can't do that.”
“What?”
“It's against the law, doubles aren't supposed to be short! They have to be in a tall glass. It's illegal.”
And this is a woman who claims she was a GM for TGIFriday's (and made $150,000 a year – yeah fucking right), and thinks she's the best bartender we have.
“Wait, I need that a short, please.”
Dolly froze, bottle lifted, and stared at me with huge wide eyes. “I can't do that.”
“What?”
“It's against the law, doubles aren't supposed to be short! They have to be in a tall glass. It's illegal.”
And this is a woman who claims she was a GM for TGIFriday's (and made $150,000 a year – yeah fucking right), and thinks she's the best bartender we have.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Guestpost: W!T!H!
Today's guest post comes from Malachi. If you'd like to join my guest post queue, please email me at slightlycranky at hotmail.com.
Tonight was the first time that I’ve been truly stretched, backed into a corner by my circumstances of the shift, where I had to hold it together so tightly that when we finally locked the doors I sat down and squeezed my fists tightly trying to make them relax. Tonight was the stuff of nightmares. Tonight I was terrified that I would drop a ball too big to be ignored, something that would make the bartenders with years and years of experience look at me, shake their heads, and show me to the door. Maybe I would never know what it’s like to bartend on the weekends ever again.
It started when Teeth, the closing cocktail server, got drunk off shots she purchased for “some regulars”. I couldn’t tell until she staggered up to service well with a full bottle of Amstel in her hand, taking a swig and flashing a completely hammered smile. Sometime around 10:15 she hit a wall. Later I saw her wander off to the employee bathroom, and then disappear, apron rolled up tucked under her arm.
Peach wanders back in from pool league and was hanging out with the endcap of the bar where the most people were. Cocktails here, beers here. She realizes that Teeth is drunk and has completely disappeared, I thought she was cut and had gone home, we both realize that there are a lot of people coming in the door.
Pouring a beer, the Budweiser taps out on one side of the bar. WOOSH WOOSH WOOSH sputtersputtersputter sphtht! It’s out, and my shirt is soaking. I run to the other side to pour…then the Bud Light on that side goes out….back to the other side with pitchers and glasses of foam. I’m frustrated, but it’s just a small inconvenience.
Inconveniences get larger: I’ve apparently inherited seven or eight cocktails tables: the smallest is 4, the biggest two are 7 apiece. People need change, people are ordering shots. I have a front cocktail table now.
Oh my God, the shots. I’m whipping up 8 Creamsicles in one shaker, then 5 Royal Flushes, 6 Cherry Bombs, bambambam!!! Gary is up to his elbows in never ending dishes and glassware and I can’t find any strainers, and does her peacing out mean I have to clean up cocktail and the pool section TOO!? My hands are shaking as I try and get out of shot weeds but rounds and rounds of orders are pouring in.
The number of people swarming the bar is increasing. I’m trying to wait on them, mindful of the trays of drinks I need to swoop out to apparently *my* new section: the entire fucking pool hall.
Gary shows no initiative to help me, instead chatting up a few cute girls at the end of the bar. Old perv, this is about to get out of control. I don’t have bar tickets from service to organize and prioritize what goes out to customers. I try and thumbtack “tickets” in my heads bulletin board. I’ve dropped one, I don’t know which one it was.
Prices were changed on vodka my two days off. I misquoted the price but I can’t remember if I was high or low. They hand me a 20 for 12 dollars and tell me to keep the change. I’ll deal with that later. Someone sets a 20 down for 15 but I can’t find it.
More pitchers, every beer has tapped out on one side or the other so I’m running in giant circles. I almost slip in a puddle of beer foam that somehow wound up on the floor and pirouette, stopped mid twirl because Gary accidentally stepped on my right foot. I have eight beers in a bear hug and I’m trying to pop all of them but I can’t remember where I put my bottle opener and I attempt to twist off a non-twist. Ouch. We don’t have cold pinot grigio. The same bitch who blew through the white zin has called the cold pinot grigio…then all of it (“just put some ice in there”), and is working on the riesling. We don’t have anymore.
A birthday party wanders in, then another. Shot cups are flying everywhere and I can’t find the Pucker Schnapps. Dammit. Triple sec goes low, runs out, where’s the grenadine? Some big tippers wander back in from a few hours of barhopping so they bump up to my priority list. I slosh all over the credit card slips and receipts in my hand going out to tables. I reprint them.
My stalker is sitting at the bar, apparently about to hit the wall after a shot of tequila that was unnecessary. The place is buzzing, a local bar on this side of town had major drama when a chick overdosed on something nasty in the bathroom, it was a scene. People are talking about the meth junkie. About pool.
Two rednecks built like Mac trucks are toe to toe and I CANNOT SEE THE BOUNCER! Fuck me running! Q saunters over, an imposing figure and separates them and I breath a sigh of relief for a minute. One of them keeps running his mouth. The pint glass in my shaker isn’t sealed so I’m covered in something that smells like grenadine and peppermint. Fuck. He won’t shut up, even as Q walks away: “Hey! You! SHUT UP!” I’m shaking as I realize that he could do serious damage to my face but I glare and he backs off.
Gary’s on to a new round of chicks, refusing to help me or understand that the bar now has an additional 70 people to take care of scattered across the pool hall, and then in the front cocktail section, 6 more.
I’m keeping the DD for some drunk chicks’s water glass full and he’s tipping me a dollar every trip I make, every shot I pour and cocktail I whip up. I think he’s this ugly middle aged woman’s son dragged out with a newly minted license to cart Mommy around, because she’s drunker than usual. Some ghetto white boy is wiggling his eyebrows at me and licking his lips and keeps calling me by the wrong name.
I ignore one asshole, then another, the clockwork gears in my head ticktickticking as shots are strained. I have four stacks of cash in my left hand between fingers, tightly clasped, and two credit cards in my right and six tabs that all need to be updated and closed and if I stop I gouge myself 60 bucks, cash. My tables, for a second, are good. Back to the bar, cocktail tray tucked under one arm. Gary is zooming around one end of the bar, I have the other. I’m shaking my hips to a sexy Shakira song, the adrenaline pounding in my ears and then stop when I realize my stalker is drooling and it’s not a pretty way.
Ice is low, very low, almost…too low. I don’t have time to swirl through the tables on the right side of the central bar, then the left, then into the kitchen to the ice machine, then back. Every bottle I need is running low, first the vodka, then the rum. I pull out a new Goose bottle and almost shatter it. I stare into a shaker of AppleSauce shots, wondering if I put everything in. I can’t remember. I taste it gingerly, almost gagging on the Goldschlager. I try to guess again in a huge shaker of cherry bomb shots, trying to guess myself right. I think I’m right because I deliver shots and pick up empty cups later and everyone’s a little nicer.
An impromptu Zumba class is happening at the endcap, someone’s belly dancing, a fringe skirt of metal petals draped around her hips. I push myself harder, picking up two bottles between three fingers in one hand, two bottles in the other, all upside down and I pray that the silver pourers are looped in tightly. 1…2….3….4.
My sobriety ring is gone. Sentimentally priceless black onyx, it could be anywhere. I don’t have time to look for it, but I start freaking out. Who paid with 20, who paid with ten? Why does the same guy have three open tabs? Old acquaintances from Before are chatting me up, and I’m about to smack one asshole for being obnoxious. You’re sixth in line buddy, I see you, be with you when I’m done with these shots, shut up or you’re at the back of the line: I think. What I say is smiley and slang in simple words his inbred brain should comprehend.
Crown. Crown. Crown. Each bottle has run low, we blew through the case we opened yesterday, unheard of. Dammit. The last bottle in my hand runs empty at exactly the count of four. Whew. I toss the bottle over right arm from my left hand and hope it landed in the trash can. I don’t hear it shatter in the can.
I find my ring by the sink. More shots. Jagerbombs, chilled tequila, lemon drops. Gary trips over the corner of a bar mat. What the hell is a Screaming Nazi? It’s all the German cordials: Goldschlager, Jager, Rumple. I almost gag on the smell of Goldschlager as it spills on my hand, alcohol and cinnamon.
It’s been ten minutes since I’ve seen Gary and he’s 10 feet away. I see what’s in front of me. Nah, I don’t drink, but thank you very much. Hey come back and see me. The specials are on the board in front of you, motherfucker. No, we don’t have a shot list. No, we don’t have bubblegum vodka. Who the hell has bubblegum vodka in this town!? I crane my neck with my good ear to hear to some guy who sounds Australian, looks douchebaggish, is from West Virginia, educated (miseducated?) in my state. Blahblahblah, no, I don’t have time to tell you my life story, but I’ll nutshell it so I don’t sound like an asshole.
DingDing….last call. Men in blue will be walking into the bar in 20 minutes exactly, let’s get everyone out.
And I’m sitting. Breathing. Shaking.
I did it. I proved myself, to myself.
Tonight was the first time that I’ve been truly stretched, backed into a corner by my circumstances of the shift, where I had to hold it together so tightly that when we finally locked the doors I sat down and squeezed my fists tightly trying to make them relax. Tonight was the stuff of nightmares. Tonight I was terrified that I would drop a ball too big to be ignored, something that would make the bartenders with years and years of experience look at me, shake their heads, and show me to the door. Maybe I would never know what it’s like to bartend on the weekends ever again.
It started when Teeth, the closing cocktail server, got drunk off shots she purchased for “some regulars”. I couldn’t tell until she staggered up to service well with a full bottle of Amstel in her hand, taking a swig and flashing a completely hammered smile. Sometime around 10:15 she hit a wall. Later I saw her wander off to the employee bathroom, and then disappear, apron rolled up tucked under her arm.
Peach wanders back in from pool league and was hanging out with the endcap of the bar where the most people were. Cocktails here, beers here. She realizes that Teeth is drunk and has completely disappeared, I thought she was cut and had gone home, we both realize that there are a lot of people coming in the door.
Pouring a beer, the Budweiser taps out on one side of the bar. WOOSH WOOSH WOOSH sputtersputtersputter sphtht! It’s out, and my shirt is soaking. I run to the other side to pour…then the Bud Light on that side goes out….back to the other side with pitchers and glasses of foam. I’m frustrated, but it’s just a small inconvenience.
Inconveniences get larger: I’ve apparently inherited seven or eight cocktails tables: the smallest is 4, the biggest two are 7 apiece. People need change, people are ordering shots. I have a front cocktail table now.
Oh my God, the shots. I’m whipping up 8 Creamsicles in one shaker, then 5 Royal Flushes, 6 Cherry Bombs, bambambam!!! Gary is up to his elbows in never ending dishes and glassware and I can’t find any strainers, and does her peacing out mean I have to clean up cocktail and the pool section TOO!? My hands are shaking as I try and get out of shot weeds but rounds and rounds of orders are pouring in.
The number of people swarming the bar is increasing. I’m trying to wait on them, mindful of the trays of drinks I need to swoop out to apparently *my* new section: the entire fucking pool hall.
Gary shows no initiative to help me, instead chatting up a few cute girls at the end of the bar. Old perv, this is about to get out of control. I don’t have bar tickets from service to organize and prioritize what goes out to customers. I try and thumbtack “tickets” in my heads bulletin board. I’ve dropped one, I don’t know which one it was.
Prices were changed on vodka my two days off. I misquoted the price but I can’t remember if I was high or low. They hand me a 20 for 12 dollars and tell me to keep the change. I’ll deal with that later. Someone sets a 20 down for 15 but I can’t find it.
More pitchers, every beer has tapped out on one side or the other so I’m running in giant circles. I almost slip in a puddle of beer foam that somehow wound up on the floor and pirouette, stopped mid twirl because Gary accidentally stepped on my right foot. I have eight beers in a bear hug and I’m trying to pop all of them but I can’t remember where I put my bottle opener and I attempt to twist off a non-twist. Ouch. We don’t have cold pinot grigio. The same bitch who blew through the white zin has called the cold pinot grigio…then all of it (“just put some ice in there”), and is working on the riesling. We don’t have anymore.
A birthday party wanders in, then another. Shot cups are flying everywhere and I can’t find the Pucker Schnapps. Dammit. Triple sec goes low, runs out, where’s the grenadine? Some big tippers wander back in from a few hours of barhopping so they bump up to my priority list. I slosh all over the credit card slips and receipts in my hand going out to tables. I reprint them.
My stalker is sitting at the bar, apparently about to hit the wall after a shot of tequila that was unnecessary. The place is buzzing, a local bar on this side of town had major drama when a chick overdosed on something nasty in the bathroom, it was a scene. People are talking about the meth junkie. About pool.
Two rednecks built like Mac trucks are toe to toe and I CANNOT SEE THE BOUNCER! Fuck me running! Q saunters over, an imposing figure and separates them and I breath a sigh of relief for a minute. One of them keeps running his mouth. The pint glass in my shaker isn’t sealed so I’m covered in something that smells like grenadine and peppermint. Fuck. He won’t shut up, even as Q walks away: “Hey! You! SHUT UP!” I’m shaking as I realize that he could do serious damage to my face but I glare and he backs off.
Gary’s on to a new round of chicks, refusing to help me or understand that the bar now has an additional 70 people to take care of scattered across the pool hall, and then in the front cocktail section, 6 more.
I’m keeping the DD for some drunk chicks’s water glass full and he’s tipping me a dollar every trip I make, every shot I pour and cocktail I whip up. I think he’s this ugly middle aged woman’s son dragged out with a newly minted license to cart Mommy around, because she’s drunker than usual. Some ghetto white boy is wiggling his eyebrows at me and licking his lips and keeps calling me by the wrong name.
I ignore one asshole, then another, the clockwork gears in my head ticktickticking as shots are strained. I have four stacks of cash in my left hand between fingers, tightly clasped, and two credit cards in my right and six tabs that all need to be updated and closed and if I stop I gouge myself 60 bucks, cash. My tables, for a second, are good. Back to the bar, cocktail tray tucked under one arm. Gary is zooming around one end of the bar, I have the other. I’m shaking my hips to a sexy Shakira song, the adrenaline pounding in my ears and then stop when I realize my stalker is drooling and it’s not a pretty way.
Ice is low, very low, almost…too low. I don’t have time to swirl through the tables on the right side of the central bar, then the left, then into the kitchen to the ice machine, then back. Every bottle I need is running low, first the vodka, then the rum. I pull out a new Goose bottle and almost shatter it. I stare into a shaker of AppleSauce shots, wondering if I put everything in. I can’t remember. I taste it gingerly, almost gagging on the Goldschlager. I try to guess again in a huge shaker of cherry bomb shots, trying to guess myself right. I think I’m right because I deliver shots and pick up empty cups later and everyone’s a little nicer.
An impromptu Zumba class is happening at the endcap, someone’s belly dancing, a fringe skirt of metal petals draped around her hips. I push myself harder, picking up two bottles between three fingers in one hand, two bottles in the other, all upside down and I pray that the silver pourers are looped in tightly. 1…2….3….4.
My sobriety ring is gone. Sentimentally priceless black onyx, it could be anywhere. I don’t have time to look for it, but I start freaking out. Who paid with 20, who paid with ten? Why does the same guy have three open tabs? Old acquaintances from Before are chatting me up, and I’m about to smack one asshole for being obnoxious. You’re sixth in line buddy, I see you, be with you when I’m done with these shots, shut up or you’re at the back of the line: I think. What I say is smiley and slang in simple words his inbred brain should comprehend.
Crown. Crown. Crown. Each bottle has run low, we blew through the case we opened yesterday, unheard of. Dammit. The last bottle in my hand runs empty at exactly the count of four. Whew. I toss the bottle over right arm from my left hand and hope it landed in the trash can. I don’t hear it shatter in the can.
I find my ring by the sink. More shots. Jagerbombs, chilled tequila, lemon drops. Gary trips over the corner of a bar mat. What the hell is a Screaming Nazi? It’s all the German cordials: Goldschlager, Jager, Rumple. I almost gag on the smell of Goldschlager as it spills on my hand, alcohol and cinnamon.
It’s been ten minutes since I’ve seen Gary and he’s 10 feet away. I see what’s in front of me. Nah, I don’t drink, but thank you very much. Hey come back and see me. The specials are on the board in front of you, motherfucker. No, we don’t have a shot list. No, we don’t have bubblegum vodka. Who the hell has bubblegum vodka in this town!? I crane my neck with my good ear to hear to some guy who sounds Australian, looks douchebaggish, is from West Virginia, educated (miseducated?) in my state. Blahblahblah, no, I don’t have time to tell you my life story, but I’ll nutshell it so I don’t sound like an asshole.
DingDing….last call. Men in blue will be walking into the bar in 20 minutes exactly, let’s get everyone out.
And I’m sitting. Breathing. Shaking.
I did it. I proved myself, to myself.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Oh, for fuck's sake.
 |
| Yeah, kind of like this. |
Luckily for me, I didn't have to wait on them. Instead I had nice mix of families and couples. Except for two of them. Two women came in and had a grand old time chatting over wine and salads and desserts. After two hours they left ….and left me $4 on $38 for my time. Inconsiderate wenches.
But the ones who really pissed me off were a couple who seemed so nice. They were the nicest people I waited on all night, actually. He asked for a drink recommendation; she took about five minutes to decide on a mojito, and kept laughing and apologizing. They ended up switching drinks, which was kind of funny. Their food came out in good time; the only 'problem' was that either they didn't ask for mustard when their food was dropped off or somebody forgot it, because while I was ringing in another order the lady came over and asked for mustard. She was very pleasant about it, and I know they hadn't been waiting long – their food was delivered as I took another order, I took two plates to another table, and was entering the order when she came over.
They gulped down the rest of their food and asked for the bill, then sat for a few more minutes. I didn't bug them because they had money carefully folded up and tucked under the edge of an appetizer plate; I just kept passing by and smiling in case they needed anything. When they left, I was very displeased to find $38.50 left on the table. Their bill was $38.38. Fuck you, dickheads. You had to wait maybe three minutes for your fucking mustard, which you asked somebody else for, and that warrants a 12 cent 'tip'? I hope you get a one cent raise the next time you're up for a review, you cheapasses.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Sick of the midget sections.
I am seriously fucking sick of the teeny tiny sections. Four tables, okay, I can handle that. I'd rather have five or six, but I can live with four. It's a decent size. If I get one table of campers, I still have three others to rotate. But three fucking tables? Really? It's insulting to a server of my experience. Strangely enough, I don't go to work to not make money.
I had one of those sections tonight. On a Thursday night with a full lobby and a wait list, it is absolutely fucking ridiculous for every server in the place to be wandering around bored.
My first table was Salmon Guy. FML. Once he and his son finally left, I got sat with two old ladies who really just made me want to stab them. For one thing, they would not speak the fuck up. I was standing directly under a speaker, so consequently I couldn't hear half of what they were saying. One of them kept going on and on and on and on about ladybugs and some thing about the spots on their backs being spirits or some shit – my fault for having ladybug buttons on my shirt, I guess.
They sat for two hours, sharing an entree (awesome), sipping wine, and talking to me about ladybugs every time I walked by. After two hours of this shit, they finally left. Oh wait, no their didn't. They inched around the restaurant looking at all the pictures on the wall. I hate it when people do that, because I feel like I can't clean their table or pick up their book until they're out of the door. In this case, I'm glad I did wait, because if they'd still been in the building I might have lost my job.
Their bill for their two hour stay came to $20.15. The original tip written in was three dollars. Then that was scratched out, and two dollars was written in it's place. Two dollars, for two hours taking up my 1/3 of my tables. A six-seater booth, to be precise. During the entire dinner rush. The entire time we had a wait, their weird old asses were taking up my table. And for this I got two bucks.
But wait! I also got a note on the top of the receipt saying, “Nice to meet you ladybug lady!” and next to that a little sketched ladybug. Fuck you. It was not nice to meet you, because you cost me money with your camping bullshit.
That table was basically cursed. I just realized that my third table there also camped out, but at least it was after cut, when I had a six table section, and I got a decent tip.
Meanwhile I had white trash, teenagers, teenage white trash with their baby, a woman who was pissed her daughter's daiquiris were $6 each, hillbillies who ate their bites of steak off their knives, and another table that was angry their food wasn't half-priced (It wasn't on the half-priced menu, you dumb bitches, so don't fucking argue with me). I think you can imagine how well they tipped me.
I was just plain angry tonight because of all this. At one point I dropped a stack of to-go boxes, and instead of picking them up I stomped the shit out of them. Felt good!
I had one of those sections tonight. On a Thursday night with a full lobby and a wait list, it is absolutely fucking ridiculous for every server in the place to be wandering around bored.
My first table was Salmon Guy. FML. Once he and his son finally left, I got sat with two old ladies who really just made me want to stab them. For one thing, they would not speak the fuck up. I was standing directly under a speaker, so consequently I couldn't hear half of what they were saying. One of them kept going on and on and on and on about ladybugs and some thing about the spots on their backs being spirits or some shit – my fault for having ladybug buttons on my shirt, I guess.
They sat for two hours, sharing an entree (awesome), sipping wine, and talking to me about ladybugs every time I walked by. After two hours of this shit, they finally left. Oh wait, no their didn't. They inched around the restaurant looking at all the pictures on the wall. I hate it when people do that, because I feel like I can't clean their table or pick up their book until they're out of the door. In this case, I'm glad I did wait, because if they'd still been in the building I might have lost my job.
Their bill for their two hour stay came to $20.15. The original tip written in was three dollars. Then that was scratched out, and two dollars was written in it's place. Two dollars, for two hours taking up my 1/3 of my tables. A six-seater booth, to be precise. During the entire dinner rush. The entire time we had a wait, their weird old asses were taking up my table. And for this I got two bucks.
But wait! I also got a note on the top of the receipt saying, “Nice to meet you ladybug lady!” and next to that a little sketched ladybug. Fuck you. It was not nice to meet you, because you cost me money with your camping bullshit.
That table was basically cursed. I just realized that my third table there also camped out, but at least it was after cut, when I had a six table section, and I got a decent tip.
Meanwhile I had white trash, teenagers, teenage white trash with their baby, a woman who was pissed her daughter's daiquiris were $6 each, hillbillies who ate their bites of steak off their knives, and another table that was angry their food wasn't half-priced (It wasn't on the half-priced menu, you dumb bitches, so don't fucking argue with me). I think you can imagine how well they tipped me.
I was just plain angry tonight because of all this. At one point I dropped a stack of to-go boxes, and instead of picking them up I stomped the shit out of them. Felt good!
Thursday, May 5, 2011
I am not fucking Santa Claus.
An old lady at my table today was going on and on about the “atmosphere” in our restaurant. I'm assuming she was talking about the thin veneer of civility emanating from all the cookie-cutter-uniformed employees trying desperately not to hurl themselves out of a window just for some variety in our lives. “And you're part of that,” she said. “You're so happy and jolly!”
Oh, shut up. Like that's a compliment? I'm not Saint Fucking Nick. I might have a bowlful of jelly, but I am not jolly. Shut up and get out of here. Don't even bother to leave me the ten percent tip, k?
Oh, shut up. Like that's a compliment? I'm not Saint Fucking Nick. I might have a bowlful of jelly, but I am not jolly. Shut up and get out of here. Don't even bother to leave me the ten percent tip, k?
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
We don't serve those here.
Right after I got to work today, somebody brought a salad back to the kitchen in a panic. There was a huge live spider in it! Fucking disgusting. Of course, it happens sometimes with produce; although this is only the second time in my ten years serving I've seen it. Lapdog took took the salad and and looked at it for a long time. I thought he was going to go absolutely nuclear about it. Instead, he looked across the line at one of the cooks and said seriously, “Paul, I think you need to go to the doctor and get checked out.” Long pause. “This looks kinda crab-like.”
Monday, May 2, 2011
I'm a guest blogger!
Check out today's Sock Puppet Army post for a totally depressing, curse-filled diatribe about how I hate my job.
Or just read my archives.
Or just read my archives.
Guest post: You don't have to be healthy to be a prick.
Today's guest post comes from DMT. If you'd like to join the guest post queue, please email me at slightlycranky at hotmail.com.
An old woman came up to the till with a danish and demanded "This, a
glass of water and a knife" I was taken aback by the way she barked at
me but I put on a big smile, the sooner I served her the sooner I wouldn't
have to deal with her rudeness. I told her "I'll have your glass of water in
a second, the knives are in the cutlery tray just to your left". I fetched a glass
and went to the ice bucket and she screamed "No Ice!!!!" in a you idiot tone
across the counter at me "What ever way you like it miss" I hope you like it
in your face because if you bark another order at me so help me... (I really
wish I said that.)
I took her payment and as I did I noticed she had very bad tremors in her hands.
Realizing she had Parkinson's, I decided to forget about the way she spoke to me
and bring her items to her table. But as I was leaving her table she shouted "AND A
KNIFE ?!?!?!!?!!!" in an exasperated and outraged voice. "Sure" I said through gritted
teeth and got her knife (I had some really violent thoughts involving the knife as I
was doing so). Before I was out of earshot and able to breath a sigh of relief, she
spilled her change purse and just commanded me to pick it up. Not so much as a
please, thank you, or kiss my ass. I just pushed the incident aside and got back to
work I had a string of pleasant customers I could have a chat with and low and behold
who should darken my doorstep again? This time she demanded a packet of biscuits
that open them which I did. As I was handing her receipt and change she said "dont
bother" I said "pardon?" and by way of an answer she flicked the receipt into my face!
If anyone deserved to be exasperated it was me. I would have liked to throttle her
but then again why bother? God saved me the bother and he's doing it constantly
I know I'm a spiteful evil bastard but I need some retribution even if its just a bad
joke at her expense.
An old woman came up to the till with a danish and demanded "This, a
glass of water and a knife" I was taken aback by the way she barked at
me but I put on a big smile, the sooner I served her the sooner I wouldn't
have to deal with her rudeness. I told her "I'll have your glass of water in
a second, the knives are in the cutlery tray just to your left". I fetched a glass
and went to the ice bucket and she screamed "No Ice!!!!" in a you idiot tone
across the counter at me "What ever way you like it miss" I hope you like it
in your face because if you bark another order at me so help me... (I really
wish I said that.)
I took her payment and as I did I noticed she had very bad tremors in her hands.
Realizing she had Parkinson's, I decided to forget about the way she spoke to me
and bring her items to her table. But as I was leaving her table she shouted "AND A
KNIFE ?!?!?!!?!!!" in an exasperated and outraged voice. "Sure" I said through gritted
teeth and got her knife (I had some really violent thoughts involving the knife as I
was doing so). Before I was out of earshot and able to breath a sigh of relief, she
spilled her change purse and just commanded me to pick it up. Not so much as a
please, thank you, or kiss my ass. I just pushed the incident aside and got back to
work I had a string of pleasant customers I could have a chat with and low and behold
who should darken my doorstep again? This time she demanded a packet of biscuits
that open them which I did. As I was handing her receipt and change she said "dont
bother" I said "pardon?" and by way of an answer she flicked the receipt into my face!
If anyone deserved to be exasperated it was me. I would have liked to throttle her
but then again why bother? God saved me the bother and he's doing it constantly
I know I'm a spiteful evil bastard but I need some retribution even if its just a bad
joke at her expense.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
That little something extra.
There are a couple of guys who come in every week for drinks, and I almost always wait on them. When time permits I sit and chat with them, and I'd kind of consider them friends. Last week when they came in, they accidentally left me the plastic-y cover off a condom wrapper, so I looked down at the table and saw “MAGNUM LARGE” staring up at me.
Naturally, I had to give them shit when they came in again tonight. And just as naturally, they had to up the ante. It took me a few minutes to get to cleaning their table after they left, and as I was stacking things up I found something …. squishy. It was on a plate, under a napkin, and I'd picked it up and looked at it before I realized what it was: a condom balloon!
I kept it by the computer all night, it made me laugh so hard. Tried to get Lapdog to let me hang it from the ceiling in the manager's office for HotPants in the morning, but he wouldn't go for it. Buzzkill.
Naturally, I had to give them shit when they came in again tonight. And just as naturally, they had to up the ante. It took me a few minutes to get to cleaning their table after they left, and as I was stacking things up I found something …. squishy. It was on a plate, under a napkin, and I'd picked it up and looked at it before I realized what it was: a condom balloon!
I kept it by the computer all night, it made me laugh so hard. Tried to get Lapdog to let me hang it from the ceiling in the manager's office for HotPants in the morning, but he wouldn't go for it. Buzzkill.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)