The things I do for food quality.

One of our cooks, I'll call him Floyd, is sometimes a perfectly pleasant man, and other times he gets a raging fucking attitude. Tonight was one of those nights. Somehow we ended up with an extra order of boneless wings, which then sat in the window for close to an hour. In that time we got busy, and because Floyd was pissed he tried to send out the old wings to a customer.

The Auctioneer was on expo, and he surprised me by refusing to send them. After five minutes of arguing about it, Floyd still wouldn't drop new wings, and Auctioneer still wouldn't send them out. PSM finally rolled into the kitchen and tried to take the middle ground … but re-saucing them. They were still fucking nasty, and I knew we'd have pissed off customers if they went out. They were already on fifteen minutes, but when PSM pushed them across the window to Auctioneer, he and I looked at each other and actually had a moment of mutual understanding and disgust.

I finished washing my hands, then picked up the plate of wings in question. Checking to make sure that Floyd wasn't watching, I gave one an experimental poke. Hard as a rock. It wasn't even my table, and I was pissed. For fuck's sake, in the time Floyd had spent arguing and being a jackass, he could have made new wings! And for PSM to try to pretty up those nasty dried up pieces of crap? Ridiculous. I started for the edge of the kitchen, and right before I made it to the door ….. oh, whoops. Wings everywhere. Bleu cheese on my jeans and the wall. What a shame.

Floyd wasn't happy, but it was an accident, right? What's he going to say. The customer was fine – and his server got a fat tip – because I made sure to go out to the table smeared with hot sauce and dressing to profusely apologize for my butterfingers.

Mexican Munchkin Bomb

Yesterday I was absolutely thrilled to have a table of eight. With four kids. And I'm sorry to engage in stereotyping, but they were Mexican so add that all together and I was sure I was getting screwed. They were very friendly, happy people, and they ran up an absolutely enormous bill. Lots and lots and lots of alcohol. Their bill was $260 bucks, and only $60 of that was food!

Of course that was over the course of three hours. Three hours during which they took up half of my section, ordering more and more drinks. Three hours during which the four children were absolutely unsupervised. They were crossing the restaurant, hollering back and forth, running in front of servers, trying to get into the kitchen, and one little girl of about three thought it was hilarious to block the aisle and just grin at me. Through all of this the adults were clustered at one end of the table, laughing and talking, completely oblivious.

Other tables were muttering and giving them dirty looks, and of course taking their irritation out on their servers. Especially me, since naturally it's my fault I got sat with them, right? Basically it was an absolutely shit night – my other tables were unhappy and tipping poorly because of it, and the cause of the unhappiness stayed for three fucking hours and left me a little under ten percent. I guess I should be grateful for that ten percent. And I wasn't too irritated about it, I was fairly philosophical about things evening out.

When I really got pissed off was tonight. You see, they came back …. with a friend of theirs, George, who's one of our cooks. Four of them plus the littlest child sat at the bar for an hour – by which I mean the adults sat and the little girl wandered around unsupervised, even going outside at one point – and tipped the two bartenders $40. Each.

Then they moved out to the patio when more of them arrived, and spent another two hours …. and tipped their server $80. $160 in tips they spent tonight. Motherfucking fucker. Why couldn't George have been with them last night?

Valium. Please. I'm begging you.

I was closing out a ticket tonight, and CL was sitting at the bar doing nothing, like she likes to do. In a perfectly pleasant tone of voice, she chided me, “You have a lot of dirty tables, young lady!”

Despite being irritated at her patronizing me (she's younger than my mother, she should just shitcan the 'young lady' crap), I held my tongue. I looked around. “32 just left, I'm working on 28.”

“What about 31, I bussed that ten minutes ago!”

No, she didn't. She stacked the plates up and walked away. “Isn't that clean?” I peered over and could see that some genius had stood the dessert menu up in front of the salt shaker that signifies a dirty table. “Oh.”

“You'd better get on that, I don't know why you have so many dirty tables.” She said, still fucking sitting in one place.

“Have you seen me standing around doing nothing?” I said it in my best stressed-out, planitive tone of voice, because despite only having two tables I was getting my ass run off – by other peoples' tables!

“Well! I'm sure there are other things to do!” she huffed. I just said I'd take care of them and walked away. When she cut the floor, though, she gathered everyone in the back and began to drag us all across the coals about the “sassiness toward the managers” and how she doesn't have to be nice, and she is DONE with this “sassiness”. I knew I'd triggered it, and I knew if I didn't say something it would fester like a mental boil and would be only be lanced when she found some way to shaft me. So a few minutes later, I apologized and said I didn't intend to sound that way.

“That was just the last straw!” she burst out. “I'm so tired of this! I'm 41, I have two kids, a mortgage, and I run a four-million-dollar-a-year business! I'm not here for this teenage gossipy bullshit! People think I'm sleeping with two employees, a carful of servers went to (amusement park) and spent the whole time bitching about me, and I'm just done! I'm done with it!”

I didn't even know what to say. People wouldn't think she was sleeping with employees if she didn't brag about sleeping around, obviously flirt with anything under 30 with a penis, and then bring up the rumors where everyone can hear her. The car of employees bitching has zero to do with me (although I know who it was and can't believe two of them trusted the third). And for somebody “not here for this teenage bullshit,” she's the biggest goddamn gossip in the place! Perfect example: L's Arch-Nemesis told CL in confidence that her brother has a drug problem and so she needed to make some changes to her schedule. CL helped her with the schedule …. and then went and told Dolly the whole thing! And Dolly told fucking everyone, and everyone naturally repeated it.

But she's not here for this teenage gossipy bullshit.

Is there such a thing as a Ketamine pump?

I mean, if there's an insulin pump, surely something could be created for a tranquilizer. I suppose secretly attaching it to CL would be impossible, though. She's just been on a freaking rampage lately. Tonight I was having some nasal issues, namely my goddamn nose was oozing blood. It was a slow night; I had two tables. One had full drinks and was waiting for their food, and the other was waiting for her friend. I ducked into the bathroom to check on my issue, which seemed to have settled down, then came back out. The second table's friend had arrived, so I went to get her drink order. As I stood there talking to her, I felt a crack and a dribble in my nose. I think they saw the momentary panic in my face, because they gave me a weird look.

As soon as I could, I scurried away and back in to the bathroom. It took a couple of minutes before I felt like I could go out on to the floor again. But I knew someone was waiting for an iced tea, and that I had two open tables and could have gotten sat, so I was paying attention – not even one song finished while I was in the bathroom.

When I came out, the first thing I saw was CL kneeling down to tie her shoe … and ranting. “There are dirty tables all over the place, there's no ice, we're out of silverware,” she stood up and started flailing her arms around, “there's food that needs running, and you've been in the bathroom for the last seven minutes!” she pointed at me and glared.

Honestly, I just gaped at her. Five minutes, ten minutes … these are normal increments to toss out. But seven? She's timing bathroom breaks now? Or thinks she is anyway, since had I been in there for seven minutes I'm pretty sure my customer would've been bitching about her missing iced tea. I said my nose had been bleeding and I went to try to do some of the things she was panicking about (the one dirty table, the ice that I could hear someone scooping as she started ranting, the silverware that hadn't come out of the dishwasher yet, and the one plate that had already been run).

Oh, you're a fucking wit.

Since my restaurant can't be bothered to print little things like salad dressings, soups of the day, beer on tap, beers in bottle, brands of liquor, or even sides on the menu, the most constant question I'm asked is … well, for a list of any of those. It's the bane of the newer servers, since that's hundreds of things to remember. I don't know all the bottled beers by heart, largely because they change all the time without us fucking being told (I just found out we got Coors in bottle four fucking months ago, I've been telling people no that whole time), but I've got the rest of it down.

I list the salad dressings and sides umpteen times per day, and it never fails. Somebody always thinks they have to be fucking funny.

Customer: “What are your sides?”
Me: “Mashed potato, french fries, herb potatoes, white rice, rife pilaf, cole slaw, broccoli, mixed vegetables, corn, beans, apple sauce, or for an small extra charge soup, salad, onion rings, or baked potato.”
Customer, with a smirk: “What was the fifth one you said?”

I believe it was “fuck you.”

This isn't your courtroom.

The Lawyer seems bound and fucking determined to get on everybody's bad side. Ever since she found out that she did, in fact, pass the bar exam, she's been a massive pain in the ass. Now, I can understand – if I had a ticket out of this place that I was just waiting to cash in, I'd be irritable too. But the thing is that passing on the bar exam (on her third attempt) does not make her better than anybody else, which is what she seems to think.

There was a perfect example of this tonight. She was the only bartender, and she was seriously sucking a hind tit. I am not exaggerating in the slightest when I say that it took fifteen fucking minutes to get two draft beers. I checked the computer. It was ridiculous. PSM comped them for my pissed off table, thankfully. And The Lawyer was busy, I know that; but still? Fifteen minutes to pour a beer? Are you fucking kidding me?

That was bad enough. What was worse was when she finished making a shake. I happened to be ringing in an order, and she asked me what time it was.

“Five after seven,” I answered, wondering why she wanted to know.
The Lawyer consulted the drink slip in front of her, then said at top volume, “I need Cat-Eyes to the bar for a seven minute drink time.”

I about choked. After taking fifteen minutes to pour a goddamn beer, she was going to get on somebody else's ass about a “seven minute drink time”? When that seven minutes was entirely because she's fucking slow? Christ on a popsicle stick.

Not a babysitter.

Summer is here, and of course that means that fucking crotchspawn are everywhere. Or maybe it's just that parents are more likely to keep the little bastards out later, so it seems like there are more of them.

I was cleaning up my section last night, and there was a quite cute little girl there with her mom and grandma. She was probably three, chubby and big-eyed with super curly blonde hair. I was sweeping up crayons and ripped-up napkins left on the floor by a bunch of teenagers when I saw her crawl over the back of their booth and start staring at me. I waved – I didn't have to clean up after them, they weren't my table, so I wasn't irritated with their presence. The little girl giggled, then clambered down and came over to investigate the sweeper. Her mom called her and she ran back to the table laughing. I went to do something else and when I came back, the little girl saw me and came running full-tilt at me laughing. I scooped her up and tossed her into the air, figuring if her mother wasn't paying any attention she wouldn't mind me playing with her.

I sat the girl down by their table again and went back to filling sugar packets or some shit; the little girl kept climbing back and forth between the booths, roughly following me. When I got to my last table I had to clean, I was on the opposite side from before, and she climbed into that booth. The other one was empty; this one had some dishes on it.

“What's that?” she pointed at something.
“That's trash,” I said patiently.
“What's that?”
“That's sugar.” I turned to check the ketchup bottle on my table, and when I turned back the little girl had picked up a glass and was about to drink out of it. I think I let out a little yelp as I snatched it away as gently as I could – because it was a fucking half-full pint of beer! Meanwhile, her mother and grandmother were chatting away, totally ignoring her.

But of course, if the kid had chugged down some backwashy Fat Tire, I'm sure they would have sued the restaurant.

The kitchen is soundproof. Right?

I walked in the side door at work today, and I immediately knew it was going to be a shitty shift. From down the hall and around the corner, I could hear CL yelling. Nothing distinct, but it only took a few more steps, until I was in the dining room itself, before I could clearly hear her.

“I thought we scheduled so this shit wouldn't happen!” I heard her yelling in a panic. “Twenty minute ticket times do not fucking work for me!”

Our kitchen doesn't have doors. Two steps out of the entrance and you're at the first bar stool; two more and you're at a table. I can only hope a customer heard and will write in a complaint.

Even more work for no pay? Awesome!

(I normally don't post on my days off because I try to forget that fucking hellhole exists, but I'm trying to make up for being a blogging slacker lately!)

As part of corporate's never-ending quest to sell more alcohol (love that markup), they're all hot under the collar to keep the bartenders nailed down behind the bar. Their theory is that if somebody walks in and doesn't see a bartender behind the bar at that exact fucking moment, then bar business will be negatively impacted. Now my opinion of the general public is pretty low, but even I think most people can process the fact that the bartender might have something else to do rather than stand there waiting for them.

But since in this corporate fantasy, the presence of a bartender behind the bar every moment of the night will have some magical increasing effect upon alcohol sales. So they've decreed that once the “to go specialist” goes home …. now the servers are responsible for answering the phone, taking orders, packing them up, running them out to the cars, and collecting payment. And since most people don't tip on to go orders, that means that the nights I close I get to do a shitload more work for … what's that? No pay? Fucking fabulous.

Quite possibly the dumbest question I've ever heard.

A gentlemen informed me tonight that he had a question, then held up his open menu to a picture of our of our steaks. I started preparing to go through the explanation of what, exactly, the stringy mess on top of the steak is … but no, I was wrong. Instead he pointed to the list of sides underneath the steak.

“What's the difference between the rice and beans and the corn?”

facepalm forever

Well that was a goddamn waste of my time.

(Wrote this a few days ago and forgot to post it.)

I went to work for two hours today, from four to six. Then I was sent home, because they'd assigned me the bloody patio. On an overcast, windy day. So I had two tables out there, three inside I managed to sneak before the other servers arrived, and that was it. Luckily CL was in a good mood, and PSM was too, because at six when I hadn't had a table in an hour they let me go home. So I took my $25 and left. For two hours' time, and probably only an hour of work, that's not bad. But overall, for a Saturday? Fucking ridiculous.

Where the fuck did our business go? Week before last, I cleared $400. Last week, $230. This week, with two shifts to go, I have made $167. What in bloody blue blazes is going on? I probably won't hit even $300 again this week! Where the hell did all our customers go!

(Yes, I did just say “bloody blue blazes.” I don't know. I picked it up in a book somewhere. I could've said what in the name of Jesus H. bloody motherfucking Christ on a broken pogo stick but I didn't want to offend anyone. HA!)

Oh, you're in a hurry, are you?

My first table tonight was three younger people. Perfectly nice, if a lite abrupt. They chowed down and I gave them their ticket, informing them that I'd be their cashier. Then while they were fumbling with their wallets I stepped over to the table next to them to ask a question. Seconds later the first three filed by me, and one of them had a receipt and cash in his hand.

“Have a good night,” he said pleasantly as he walked by.
“Thank you! But actually you pay me.”
He looked down at the money in his hand and then at me. “But we're in a hurry.”

I don't remember what I said, but he didn't ask for a manager so it couldn't have been what I was thinking: “Oh, you're in a hurry? Well, then, why don't you just go right to the host stand and try to pay them with your hundred dollar bill. Maybe a cash register will magically appear just for you!” Freaking idiots.

HotPants is kind of an asshole.

But at least tonight he was being a hilarious asshole. He wrote up a sheet of goals for us – some silly, like guess his cologne, and some serious, like sell five top-shelf margaritas. I won two prizes, so I acquired new pens and a glow-stick necklace. Other people got containers of slime or keychains. I think he just went to the dollar store and bought a bag of crap.

One of those items of crap was an airhorn. He honked it once just to test it, and when he saw how much it startled people, he started acting like a five year-old. He started honking it when he saw the cooks do something wrong; he threatened to do it the next time he saw someone pour water (don't know if he ever did), and at one point he jumped around the corner in the kitchen and blasted a bunch of people standing there talking.

After that, people started watching him carefully and covering their ears when he came up behind them. So he quit it for a while … before deciding to get creative. I happened to be standing there the first time he tried this out. “Chrissy, I need to talk to you outside.” he told the bartender with a very serious expression. He wouldn't tell her what about, just said he had to show her something. I followed because I'm nosy that way.

So they walked out the side door, and as soon as Chrissy was outside, HotPants spun around and freaking blasted the airhorn in her face! I thought she was going to punch him for a second, but she finally started laughing. She didn't even warn anyone else, so he got a few more people that way too.

Then he started another tactic. Knowing I'd already seen the trick, he tried to get me to go outside.

“No, I don't think so.”
“Come on, I have to tell you something.” he started walking away, then turned around to see if I was following him. I wasn't.
“I'll go with you if you give me the airhorn.”
His face twitched, his hand going to his pocket. “I don't have it.”
“I don't believe you.”
“Come on, I really need you to come outside.” he started to walk away again.
“Okay, if you keep your hands up in the air the whole time.”
He obligingly put his hands up and started heading out. Wondering what the joke was this time, I followed. Just as he pushed the door open I stopped.
“Wait a minute. Who's hiding around the corner with the horn?”
”Dammit!”

Ha! Try to fool me, will ya!

More corporate idiocy.

Who the bloody fuck comes up with these stupid fucking policies? I've written before about the stupidity of our switching glasses, although I can't find the entry right now. Basically we switched from plastic tumblers to glasses which a) hold more ice b) don't hold a chill so go through more ice leading to more refills c) shatter all over the motherfucking place when dropped d) come out of the dishwasher so hot we have to use ice to chill them and them put in new ice for the drinks and e) are freaking heavy and a general pain in the ass. So they use about 25% more ice; we got an ice bucket 25% smaller so we have to make more trips; the racks for them hold 25% fewer glasses so we're switching those out more often; and we have to slice lemons on demand now instead of pre-slicing them. Oh yes, and we now have to mix chocolate milk instead of getting it prepared from the bar. And Lapdog randomly decided that beer glasses need to be hand-washed by the bartender so there's another kink in the routine we've had since the fucking place opened.

The latest little wrinkle in the beverage service is that we're no longer allowed to use iced tea pitchers to do refills. Instead, we have to get a brand-new glass every time somebody wants more tea. Considering how fast people suck the stuff down, and how quickly it gets watery between the shitty glasses and the nature of tea, this is a giant pain in the ass. Add in all the above irritations related to drinks and I'm (probably unduly) pissed off. Seriously, I've never been to a restaurant that didn't use water and tea pitchers for refills! It's been that way since the fucking chain started, why is it suddenly not cool?

We don't know, because – and this is the best part to me – they didn't bother to give us a goddamn reason for it. I asked CL, and she said she had no idea, and her boss had no idea. It just came down from the corporate office and WE MUST OBEY.

Endless repetition.

I get so freaking sick of feeling like I'm living in the same shitty shift over and over. Tonight I waited on a table of three that always have sour expressions, always act like I'm causing a problem by speaking to them, and always answer that their food is “Okay.” Actually, only one of them ever answers when I inquire how their food is, the man, who sneers at me when I ask if I can do something to make it better and always says, “No, it's okay.” They don't speak to each other during the meal, preferring to scowl in opposite directions. Then they leave two dollars, no matter their tab or service.

At least by now I know not to waste any extra time on them. Asshats.

Latest insane gossip.

Someone reliable told me yesterday that CL's been trying to get in to the pants of one of the new male servers, sending him suggestive text messages and such. If it's true, I really hope he has the sense to save the messages and go to her boss. That or thievery is probably the only thing that will get her fired. And if it's true, she deserves to get fired. I find the idea of her committing such blatant sexual harassment hilarious considering she used to freak out about servers hugging each other.

More on politeness.

How many times do you set an item down for a guest, and they completely ignore you? Seriously! If your mouth is full, or if you're listening to someone else, at least make eye contact and nod. Something. But probably every third person I deliver something to is stricken mute at that moment. I usually walk away from the table muttering under my breath, ”You're welcome!”. Oh god, and especially when they're not even my customers! If I'm waiting on them it irks me less, because I suppose they think their tip is a thanks. But when I end up running meals, or condiments, or what-the-fuck-ever, to tables that aren't mine, and they ignore me? It makes my blood boil! I am a stranger to these people, with no relationship beyond fetching their requested item and no compensation for it, and they can't even fucking acknowledge my existence? Bitches!

I think on my glorious last day (HAHAHAHAHA like I'll ever escape) I'm going to forego muttering. I'll just stand there until they look at me and then said, very slowly, “yoooooou'rrrrreeee welllllllcooooommmmmmmme.” and walk off. That's before the grand finale when I jump up on the bar and start swearing profusely, of course.

Politeness negated.

(I know, I'm a bad, bad blogger. Been taking a lot of days off to deal with this moving bullshit, though.)

I think we can all agree that there is an epidemic of rude fuckers who can't bother to say please and thank you anymore. So usually when somebody actually takes those few extra seconds to be polite, I'm thankful. Tonight, though, someone demonstrated how you can say the right words but still come off as a twat: by interrupting.

For example, I brought their food and set it down with my usual smile. “Is there anything else I ca--”
“Ranch please!” she chirped.
When I brought it back, I set it down and started to say “here you go.” I got halfway through the first word when she cut me off with her thank-you. Same thing with dessert, boxes, check, etc.

Now I've absolutely had ruder people. She's pretty low on the bitch scale. But I almost think it's worse when somebody is mouthing the polite words, implying they're aware of common courtesy, while interrupting and therefore ignoring its rules.

Blatant favoritism.

(I'm all moved, but can't even describe the chaos leftover from said event. It's going to take me for-fucking-ever to get my life back in order, so I'm sorry if posting is irregular or my response to comments continues to suck.)

For whatever stupid reason, HotPants will now be doing the schedule instead of Lapdog, who's had responsibility for it for oh, the last ten years. I had a feeling it was going to be a fucking disaster, and I even tried to express that to CL. But I didn't want to say the real reason I was concerned – because I'm pretty sure he doesn't like me – so I just said sometimes I thought he had a hard time keeping people straight. She blew me off, naturally.

But, sure enough, when HotPants posted last week's schedule, it was completely fucked up. I was lucky, he'd only taken my Thursday and Friday second cut shifts and replaced them with a Tuesday first cut. I say 'only' but I was raging fucking pissed at first. Take my two money-making shifts and put me on a shitty kid's night first cut, when I'm not even supposed to be available on Tuesdays? Fuck you, fucker!

Then I looked at the rest of the schedule. Ooooohhhh boy. Fud went from eight shifts over five days to three shifts in two days. Mistress J, probably the most senior server we have, was taken completely off her Tuesday night and her Thursday double, and given a Friday first instead of her usual close. Kate had one first cut Monday shift. Her sister Ally had double first-cut shifts on Tuesday and nothing else. Me, Mistress J, Kate, and three other people were all taken off our regular Thursday night shifts—I don't know who the fuck he had working. Work Wife's days were right, but her closes were taken away and she was given first cuts. Those were just the most extreme examples, everything was totally jacked.

And who got all those shifts the rest of us didn't? HotPants' favorites. Cat-Eyes had two to-go shifts and five closing nights. The Bug had four closes and three other shifts. Eager Beaver, who's been here less than a month, had three closes and four other shifts. Another FNG had five fucking closing shifts. I was so freaking pissed off, but I knew a hail of shit was going to rain down on HotPants for this blatant fuckery, so I decided that a very polite email would stand out in the crowd a lot more. I very carefully, politely, please-and-thank-you'd my way through asking for my regular schedule back, and then I waited.

Sure enough, this week my schedule was back to normal! Not everybody's was, and I think it's because HotPants was being a little passive-aggressive. When I thanked him for giving me my regular schedule again, he said, “Sure, all I needed was an email. At least yours was NICE!”

And strangely, since then, he's been talking and joking with me a little more. Score one for me.