Curt is still allergic to shellfish

Well Hannah tells me I have to post on my blog. I think it's so I'll stop talking at her to tell her the silliness that have been my nights at work. She even went so far as to lend me her laptop so I can post while they watch tv. Riding high on my sugar rush thanks to her homemade gluten free cheesecake I feel invigorated and especially chatty.
I am now out of training at the french joint in the heart of Buckhead. The vests are turning out to not be the worst thing ever. The lack of pockets on my apron however is a real pain in the ass. The vest has plenty of pockets but since I am not built like barbie I have an abundance of room in the chestular area and not so much in the waist area. Any necessary things I may put in my inside vest pockets like washcloths, crumpled splenda packets, wine keys, cough drops and a watch well these just make me look like I have a small lumpy dog wrapped around my waist. The waist looks stuffed full while my chest fits like nothing has since I was a 13 year old flat chested girl. The uniform is the biggest cock block I've ever seen. Better than a grandmother for zapping your self esteem. The only other really weird part is having to carry a pager for the kitchen to reach you. I usually tuck this into the waist of my pants so I don't confuse it for the vibration of my cellphone. This usually works out well until the hostess gets happy with the buzzer while you're at a table. I nearly dropped a bottle of wine on my table this afternoon when it started to buzz as I bent over at the waist.
I have had some awesomely weird tables in my many lunch shifts these past two weeks. The best one being my first table Sunday. I was folding napkins when the hostess seats a middle aged man with a puffy gray David Hasslehoff mullet. He was with a very trim, very made up brunette. The doop (the paper that tells me their name, how many reservations they've made before, when they sat etc.) said they were a recommendation from a local hotel concierge. Awesome, so that means they're too lazy or think they're too busy to make an actual choice on restaurants and blindly go where someone tells them to. This bugs me, who is so important they don't have time to be adventurous, this friggin' guy. I glance at the top of the doop, the last name is french, ok no big deal. I greet them and welcome them, give them the whole deal about how our water is filtered a whole song and dance basically asking them in they want sparkling or flat water. After some debate they and by they I mean he told me what they wanted. I turned and told the new server assistant what they wanted while I went to go do something in the back. As I came out the s.a. told me I'd told him the wrong kind, they wanted flat water not sparkling. Oops, well it's just water, no big deal. OH BOY was I ever wrong. When I went over to let them know the specials, he literally puts his hand up in a stop motion while I'm talking and interrupts me. He points to the water glass in front of him and says "You brought me sparkling, I OBVIOUSLY asked for flat. If you can't understand my accent because I'm french tell me now"...The brunette accompanying him looked pained. My mouth nearly fell open, I understand you're a dick. Prick is the same in Swahili, Vietnamese, English or French. A dick is a dick no matter what language, a dick with a stupid haircut is especially annoying. If you're this picky about your water this is going to be a VERY painful table. I smile and tell him it was a simple mistake, one that I will not repeat. I manage to tell them the specials even they they're not listening. The inspection of each others cuticles was far too engrossing. Did I mention they were sitting side by side at a four top table? Yeah, I hate that. If you're going to be that couple that insists on sitting in a 4 top booth, don't be so lovely that you need to sit next to one another and whisper,it's wierd. You're adults, not 4 year olds no one cares what you have to say it's ok to sit across from one another. You're not exactly communicating confidential nuclear secrets here. So he orders the hanger steak, but it's not that easy no, of course not. Mister frenchyhoff wants it Black and Blue. "Do you know what that is?" "Yes sir I am familiar with that temperature." WHY would you want your HANGER steak Pittsburgh? You're an idiot. "Good, because you didn't understand me before, blue is VERY rare, cold and rare. Do you understand?" Diiiiiiiiiiick. I nod and smile and write "temp-D bag" on the slip of paper in my book.Not only B&B he wants the sauce on the side, of course. His lady friend orders the salmon. It's too early on a Sunday to play your psychic friend ma'am I need to know which salmon? I ask her what temp she'd like her salmon and she just stares at me. I know this means she has no idea what this means, I think she's probably only eaten her salmon smoked or from a can. I kindly tell her salmon usually comes medium rare or even medium, and would she like that? Then I get the idea to talk her into the Salmon and eggs, to just avoid this whole fiasco, after 3 recooks the night before I didn't want to make the managers run anymore redcards. Salmon and eggs is smoked and always good I tell her. "Oh fantastic, sauce on the side please". Sauce on the side is health conscious I understand but it's really annoying and the cooks hate it. So after their entrees come out I do a check back. I had mentally prepared for the fussing I was sure to hear. Frenchyhoff complained that his steak was dry and asked me if they cooked it in the sauce and then cooked it off. What sauce, the Bearnaise sauce? I think not. I smile and since I was tired of listening to his lispy french bullshit I tell him that the sauce and the steak are cooked entirely separate. I didn't mention that a hanger steak is known as the butcher steak for a reason as it's not fatty and if you PITTSBURGH it, it's going to be dry. It's not a ribeye or a NY strip, there's not enough fat to make that great. Needless to say when I saw the 13% tip I wasn't really upset.
For every super nightmare table you get there's always one table you thank god for. The one that saves your average for the night and bring you to your minimum for the night. "Dear Lord, please let me make at least X amount tonight. Thank you for this job and your hair sure looks nice today". I'd just gotten rid of a table of very nice black ladies who were a pleasure to serve, but verbal tippers and bitched about the price. Our place isn't exactly cheap... So my last table is a party of 3, possibly 4. One man asks me for a Dewars and water, the other man asks me for a high gravity beer. I recommend a delirium Tremens a nice ale and nicer at $9 a bottle. Then their friend rolls in and informs me he wants wine but he doesn't know much about it. If I'd known what I found out by the end of the meal I would have pointed him to another bottle of wine and not a safe tasting $32 bottle of wine. He then proceeded to tell me he wanted west coast oysters, big salty oysters. Well...if you're looking for salty oysters East coast are generally saltier and firmer albeit it smaller. No, I want BIG big oysters. I laughed and let him know I'll pick a good one for him, how many would you like? He wanted a dozen for himself, and his friends could split a dozen. Awesome, with the apps and the wine and the drinks their bill was $100 before their entrees. They were in a great mood and a really easy table. I waited on them and finished my side work while joking around with them and the final bill was $200 dollars. As I pick up the signed check they ask me if I had a tongue ring. Why yes, yes I do. Then one guy asks me laughing if I wanted to ride in a Bentley. I laughed and said I'd ridden in one before and although they're nice I didn't really like them. I completely thought they were just being silly. After the wine man (who drank 3/4 of a bottle himself)left his credit card I dashed out to give it to him. They were getting into their car from the valet...a Bentley. They left me $50 and ended my night on a very happy note. They definitely made up for the verbal tippers and I made my minimum for the night.

The inspiration was WHAT now?!

So my first little test drive went well. I got there early, parked in the MOST expensive place possible only to find out that the parking garage right next to it was 10 dollars cheaper. Shit. I walk in there are 2 servers, a manager and a hostess dressed to pick up a date. WHY do hostesses get license to look like total prostitutes yet I have to wear ugly non slip shoes and the most unflattering attire known to man? Moving on, the manager tells me I was just in time for dinner. Naturally I assume she's speaking of dinner service. I mean, I did come here for the evening shift, what else would there be tea and scones with the queen? I was really thinking she was off a few notches. Imagine my surprise when I find out no, she actually means supper. I was lead through the cleanest kitchen I have ever seen in my life, through a maze of purple hallways to a break room. The room held a plasma tv, a buffet style steam table full of food, a salad bar and a coke fountain. I was floored, a restaurant that actually FEEDS its servers, for free?! No more ordering food, gobbling it down in free moments between double seatings hoping the bugs and or other servers don't polish it off before you get to it? Wow..maybe this is server heaven. On the wall behind this apparition was a calendar with what was being served for the rest of the month. Perhaps my yogurt was laced with something because surely I was hallucinating.
The weird part...no aprons. Now, a server apron is Davey Jone's locker full of all kinds of useful crap. I knew one server who carried a pocket knife and a little leather hobbit bag full of change. Other carry cigarettes, a cell phone, pictures of loved ones, condoms, lipgloss,etc. You know, the essentials. Without this you have to carry everything in your pockets. Women's dress pants aren't exactly designed for saddle packs of junk. I'm not sure how I feel about this no apron thing, that's a server's security item, that and a padded book.
The restaurant only runs with 2 servers on a Tuesday evening which is both good and bad. Good because it means there are only 2 to split all the tables, bad because well...only 2 servers can handle all the tables. The restaurant is still new, that's obvious when I saw the patio table tops were starting to come unglued from the heat and was told they didn't anticipate that kind of heat. Well....the Georgia summer heat is basically like dancing on the surface of the sun wearing sandals made of butter. So, this was their first summer, noobs.
The servers enlightened me that the design of the restaurant was inspired by a screen saver and a particular female orifice. The large football shaped hole in the wall backlit by a blue light in the private dining room already clued me in. I am familiar with this shape and being a female with a particularly dirty mind this amused me through my interview in that room. The designer was male, go figure.
The last funny thing was the schedule. One man I saw in there training last week when I interviewed was there training this week. He was scheduled for 6 training shifts this week to my...3. Great, they hired a man who is pants on head retarded. Either I am that good, or they REALLY need me on the floor. For my ego's sake I'm going with I'm just that damn good.
Overall the management seems super cool, the feeling is relaxed but I'm worried about the amount of business this place does. We'll see how the french joint is, much like every other server I know, I go where the money is. Did I mention they work TRIPLE shifts at this joint? I know, I shuddered too.

Do you remember the time, when we fell in love?

So, I've moved back home to Atlanta. I stopped posting the last few months at the Bier Markt because wwell...it just got to be too silly to even post. Being yelled at for not bringing people drinks in the middle of the dance floor at 1:55. Excuse me drunk ass, last call is in 5 minutes and I'm not fighting these assholes to drink you your shitty vodka soda for no tips.
So, now that I am home and have been out of the serving game for an ENTIRE MONTH I'm starting to go through server withdrawal. I had two interviews at fine dining joints in Buckhead. Now, I have to say it's nice to have someone look at your resume and say you're qualified. I'm so old hat at server interviews I can make anything sound polished, my answers are now on auto pilot. Why do I have no wine knowledge? You can't say "Well because I've managed to never learn about wine because I just don't give a damn. I know what I like and don't give a rat's ass out this vintage or that. I can tell you how to get cheap red wine out of sand colored carpet while not legal to drive." That answer won't pass any interview, albeit truthful. Instead you say something like "Well, that's an excellent question. You see in Canada the beer market is quite small, the available beers are controlled by a liquor board. If you want something new you're forced to go to a restaurant that specializes in imports. Instead of wine I learned how to describe the complexity of beer, the flavor profile, where it came from, the history of the brewery. Just like beer, I can learn about wine quickly." Sounds good right? Total bullshit, but it sounds good. That is all that truly matters in serving, look good, sound good and make it through your shift.
I've been hired at two restaurants I just have to choose one. This isn't the time to be picky, but it kind of is. I have that old familiar feeling that every new serving job brings, the hopefulness that THIS place will be the hospitality utopia. The place where your schedule is the perfect blend of doubles and days off, where no one messes with you,it's slam packed every night, everyone knows their job and the managers aren't homicidal monkeys in pants. One place is a celebrity chef restaurant with fusion cuisine and a very very polished post modern dining room. I have to say, it looks enchanting. The other place is a corporate owned french restaurant, the reviews are not so great for it and although the interior is enchanting the servers have to wear vests. I for one think vests are the epitome of homosexuality and I've avoided them at all costs. We'll see how these turn out, I'm broke and I need a job. It's not a family restaurant so that's a start.

We have been overrun

So tonight I was spared the torture of the slam packed bar. I actually lucked out and was put in the diningroom. No easy task for a feamle have I mentioned how knuckle dragging cromagnon man my AGM is? Excessively so he told me today to stop standing with my arms crossed and try looking more coy and less intimidating. Uh...seriously? Why don't you just pee on my leg and show me who is boss.

Moving on my section was overrun by eastern europeans. If you've ever seen Americans abroad they drink bud, well apparently Czechs do it too. Come all the way to Canada and drink pilsner urquell awesome. They started off as 6 and turned into like 14. Grat time!! Speaking of which agm is such a pinhead he has been ranting about grat and how if it's not a reservation we can't grat them. Yeah.right. He wants the hostesses to tell them, us to tell them and the reso coordinator to tell them. Even though our menu says 8 or more means grat he'll the website says it too. Needless to say when it came time to bill them I went to another manager for the grat. This was after one party member paid 89 dollars worth of the bill and slipped me a five spot and a smile. Thanks your five bucks won't cover the tip out on it.

shut up and pay me

So last night I closed as per usual. I wasn't in the best of moods when I got there but through the decimation of a bag of gummi bears I felt better. Nooo please don't eat me, *gobble* that's enough outta you gummi bear. See doesn't reading that make you feel better? I knew it.

Anyway after everyone had been cut and it was just me a very respectable looking couple came in. I fought the crowd and got to the table to take their order. Two white wines, so I put the order in and went to get them a menu. I was gone no joke 2 minutes and this bleached blonde over perfumed woman said "Our drinks? Where are they?". I was more than a little shocked, and not at the two toned lipstick and liner spackled on her lips. I just smiled and told her the bartenders were busy. They ordered a dessert and were a fairly low maintenance table. They were more interested in sitting super close to one another and some inappropriate touching. A the guy was nearly totally gray and much older than the woman and...Bulgarian. I figured once I heard him speak I wasn't getting a very good tip. Sorry, I know that's awful but in my experience Bulgarians are a stingy bunch. Sooo, easy table that is until I got the server premonition that something was up. It starts as a little hair raise on the back of the neck and you just know someone is going to dine and dash. It's that sort of knowing you get just before you vomit on your shoes like "OH NO! I gotta stop this". I wasn't sure who it was until I saw the couple putting on their jackets and turning to leave. Like had gotten up and everything. I friggin rushed over there and said "DO you need your check?". The Rumpelstiltskin sized man looked shocked and said "Oh...we forgot to pay our bill".. Yeah...you think, jackass? I was.not.amused. I knew that if I walked away they were out, and the fat security guard that was on last night was too interested in his chicken wings to pay attention. "Yeah, you did forget, give me your credit card and I'll take care of it for you" smile GONE! If I could shoot venom from my eyes I would. So I cashed them out and they tipped me 5%..a dollar. Better than my having to pay for that stupid bill. Fuckers.

Totally knew that it was a test, you passed

So today listening to the CBC news (which is like an ultra polite ultra socially conscious vanilla version of NPR) I heard a very important server secret given to the world. The power of touch. How a gentle and brief touch to your guest will equate more money for you in the end. We all know at least one middle aged server who I a little bit too interested we'll say in guests. Yo hey I know I am wildly funny and my eyes are like pools of liquid sex and you can't get enough of me but seriously can you take a step back when you're talking to me? You're in my bubble and um, yeah I can smell your breath.

Anyway what this touch thing means is if you gently touch someone even in passing it will encourage them to feel comfortable. They say booze increases satisfaction with a meal by as much as 25% well believe me the touch of a pretty girl does too. We southern girls are taught this early on. You cam persuade easily with a smile and a touch. How do other servers do this?o usually touch someone on the shoulder when I am about to barge into their story to do my call backs. If I am prebussing I tend to touch an arm our when I give the bill. A sincere thank you coupled with a hand on the arm seems like you are super awesome and caring. Really you are thinking of the speed of your turn and burn. So next tome touchy feely is the way to go made better by bulging muscles and good hair.So I am planning on proofing this for typos tomorrow as again my iPhone thinks it's smarter than me.

2 weeks? I'll take 3 days

My AGM is gone for a week. You know it's a bad sign when the managers, both of them and 3 servers stand out on the patio and watch him leave. Actually watch him leave isn't exactly the right word. We watched to make sure he didn't go next door only to reappear a few hours later to ruin what was left of our nights by being a complete bag of (insert unpleasant images here). When we saw him veer off towards the parking lot we all let out a whoop of glee. It's rare that our managers admit dislike for him but now both our floor managers have been servers under him and they know. They know about the nightmares, the PTSD servers experience after a rare day in which the AGM is the acting floor manager. Also, why is that every GM/AGM thinks they're doing the restaurant a huge service by acting as the host? Don't you know you're making the hostesses nervous and slowing us down by offering your helpful hints? How about you go run some food since you're making the designated food runner do maintenance and repairs on the front of the house because you're too cheap to hire a real handy man. Yeah while you're at it, here take these dishes with you.
Oh I know every boss is a bit of a jerk but literally every time he opens his condescending mouth to say something pricky you can literally hear teeth gnashing. Like the collective "ooopa" when someone breaks glasses in a restaurant, but with teeth grinding. Everyone regardless of who it is turns away from him muttering "What a jackass". I'll bet his mother does too.

Why does it sound like we're in a submarine?

Good Thursday? It's the start of patio season and I'd like to address the issue of camping. squatting. table renting. riding the glorified lawn chair. God love Torontonians (Torontonites?) they can drink some beer at 12 on a Thursday. Good lord were those some cheap ass bankers. A section FULL of Prada bags, designer sunglasses, veneered teeth, blackberries, and not a smart (Or personable) patio-er in the bunch. If you plan on sitting on a patio all day that's fine, in fact it's encouraged. If you plan on smoking like a freight train, griping about how you don't get laid, informing everyone at the table how you shit gold and you and only you invented not only fire, but also the condom, the English language, post it notes, and the internet please, do close out your bill or don't ask to speak to a manager at the mere MENTION of giving you your bill actually you know what, don't sit in my section. I love love love working outside, I really do. Nothing makes me happier than the sun on my face. One thing I love more than working outside is getting to sleep in my car on my break between splits. I commute 45 minutes to work everyday and the idea of working 13 hours without a true break makes my brain dribble out my ears but it does happen. If you're going to keep me waiting on you please, tip me more than 10% on your business AMEX. Please, yes your English accents are charming but your Prada bag, Gucci sunglasses and that huge rock on your finger tells me you know how to spend money. I've never been talented in the ways of encouraging people to get the hell out. If you have tips on it please, let me know.
I suppose I should explain the title. As I was walking through (more than elbowing my way and pushing little 100 pound girls aside) the bar I got to the server station and realized that horrible clanging and pinging was coming from the sound system. I swear it sounded like we were on the Kursk. I said "What the hell is that god awful noise, I'm expecting us to spring a leak soon" I was informed we were in fact listening to pink floyd. I may be shot for saying this but I really think they're overrated just like I feel the same way about Radiohead. So aside from loving my stoner co workers I love love love our cooks. Not only do they defend me when the closers get their panties in a wad about cutlery they also do just about anything I ask. Including hugging me when I look pissy, and throwing food at me while making some awesomely dirty jokes. If you've not experienced the server brand of sexual harassment you're missing out.

Can you smell what Environment Canada is cooking?

Excuse the recent plague of spelling errors in my posts, many of them have been from my phone which is surprisingly stupid despite it's misnomer and "smart phone". Moving on the Iphone in conjunction with Yahoo! tells me the forecast of Toronto next week features sunny skies and highs of 13 degrees Celsius which may or may not be greek to many readers. To me this translates to 55 degrees possibly 65 degrees based on the inaccuracy of environment Canada and....PATIO SEASON!!!! I'm currently scheduled for 2 12-5 straight through doubles next week. While officially illegal by Ontario labor board standards I've not heard a single server in Toronto complaining about these shifts. It means 12-14 hours on continuous serving time in the sun! For Canadians the chance to make some vitamin D and be paid for it is like mana from heaven.
In Atlanta working on the patio meant mosquitoes, sweating, 2 months of enjoyable work and potential heat stroke not to mention the possibility of the legendary pop up storms. These storms could and would blow the shingles off a house as well as all the cutlery off a patio table in a matter of minutes. Here in Canada patio season means $$ and the promise of constant business. Last year I was downtown for busker fest. The busker fest is a sort of street fair in which talented street artists from all over the world come to Toronto to show their talents and (if I'm not mistaken) all their profits go to charity. I walked around last year in awe of the sheer amount of bodies on the streets. I saw the amount of people at restaurants near the site of the festival and marveled at their business. This year I'm working at one of these destinations. I am both excited at the prospect of making money and dreading the stupidly long shifts. The idea of DYING to get in the back to gobble down whatever leftovers you managed to bring with you after last night's drunken cooking escapades or whatever remnants you can salvage of the lunch you ordered 3 hours ago is not really pee down your leg exciting. Sure, you can order food but the guarantee of 10 minutes to each lunch is a myth, much like the female organism or a tax return. The only thing more cut throat than a server near rent time is a hostess with a wait for the patio.

YAY SUMMER!

I thought I told you to get rid of that

Pardon me, as a heads up I've been to see my bartender friend already so I'm not legal to drive. Today as I got to work my manager saw my server book. This is the most prized possession, the bible to servers. It's where we keep our pads of paper, our money, pictures of loved ones that we're not seeing on that 5-4 am shift, and our lives. My life caught the attention of our AGM and was told I needed to get rid of it. I nearly cried, really. This book means so much to me, I've had it for 5 years. Pictures of everyone lives in it and it's truly sentimental to me in a way that few things are. Sure it's frayed around the edges, there's a big florida gators sticker on it, and it has a few obscene stickers inside but no one notices that. That is to say but the man that calls himself a "real fucker to work for". Later on in the night after seeing me he says "I thought I told you to get rid of that". This book is my kryptonite, my source of power. No matter how many times you call me buddy or try to be nice to me you make me get rid of it let's face it, I'll set your car on fire.

A filet? A sirloin?

I'm freee! It's 4 am and I've been at home and pants free since 2. I had the best thing ever, a server and their sibling in my section tonight. This translates to free $$! It was a good night, I shared a section with my faaavorite person to work with and didn't have to start until 7 pm. I was out by 1, God answered my prayers for not only a full service dining section but also a slow night. I made decent money and have only one more night to my week, I may ask to close. Shocking isn't it? I had a few chuckles moments tonight. One being from last night actually, and as I'm not posting from my Iphone hopefully there are fewer typos.
Last night I had a table of 20, and after an entire night of waving their hands in the air, flagging me down, pointing to an unmarked glass and saying "What was this? I'll have another one" (yeah....like I remember) one (sober) woman asked me my name. After informing her she went on to tell the group "call her by her name or don't call her at all. Hey girl, hey waitress or even excuse me is rude". My jaw hit the floor, literally such a display of humanity and respect is rare. Rad, really cool. I was happy to serve them and quite a bit quicker I might add, that is until one middle aged gentleman after one too many old speckled hens starts inspecting a wooden pillar too closely then asks for a cab home. You sir have been overserved..oops let me steer you away from prying eyes like security or managers while I discreetly call you a cab.
Then tonight, after describing the chef's cut an 8 ounce bacon wrapped filet mignon I had this conversation:
"What kind of filet is it?"
"beef sir"
"Yeah I know that but what kind of filet is it?"
"I..uh..I'm not sure what you're asking me sir"
"what kind of filet is it? A sirloin?"
"Um, no sir, it's a filet mignon, a beef tenderloin"
"Oh, no I don't want that, I'll take the filet burger"
Literally the same thing, then asked me for no onions. I asked if he had an allergy or simply a preference against them. "No, onions are very smelly and I don't like them they make my eyes water, plus I don't like caramel so, no onions". Caramel and caramelized are two different things. So, he got onions and he raved about the burger. Awesome, I'm smiling because you just tickled me to no end.

Here is the work environment

So last night I worked with two people who are usually my favorite people to work with usually. Last night was different one left after 3 hours because she was too tired to work then sat at the bar and drank with the manager for an hour. The other cut and run cause she had cramps this didn't really bug me until I realized silverware had not been done. I hate silverware I always always stab myself it's true I'm not compable with knives. Then I find out that another girl had asked them both to let her close and said no and made me close instead. Ooh sneaky! I'm not really mad but this led to what one muscle bound drunken beef head guest kept calling my look of anger. I wasn't angry, that's just my face there you testosterone driven muscle burp. This guy had the need to telle over and over he worked in a restaurant awesome so you know I'm just humpring you until last call right? Then proceeds to ask my life story which by the way now I just lie about, a lot. Some days there was a fire and I had friends here some days I'm on a visa travelling the world someday it was just a whim. Fact is I am not going to tell a stranger especially not one wearing more cologne than I am my life story. Then he and his look alike friend proceed to tell me to take off my apron and dance with them. Sir I can see your nipples through your shirt do I look like I'm interested in dancing with you? I've seen you trying to pick up that girl who is obviously not interested in you just the drinks you keep buying her. Your dancing did not impress het nor will it impress me. Needless to say I was happy to just do my closing side work and avoid the drunks. Hopefully tonight I'll be in the diningroom. I dread Friday nights.

Can you smell 15%

So when your check comes and you see a gratuity added to it do not be alarmed. We're not trying to pull the wool over your eyes orcheat you out of money. Truth be told we lose money that way. Most places charge a 15% grat after tip outs which range from 4 to 7% we are walking with less than 10%. Soooo if you feel you can spare it an extra 5% is greatly appreciated especially when you break glass and sit there for 8 hours and have a tab of 1100 dollars.

Ode to a double

I was supposed to work this morning. Instead I am laying in bed listening to the trash men and thinking how much money I'm missing out on. I'm too lazy to even get my laptop so this is coming from my iPhone. The newest waste of money I need to work but laziness gets the best of all of us from time to time. Rest assured I'll close tonight and be told all about the recent drama, what I missed by not going out tuesday and how much my coworkers hate their jobs. You thought I'd have a lazy day didn't you? WRONG!

silence of the irish

I survived another St. Patrick's day. March 17th is the busiest bar day of the year. Contrary to popular belief no one makes money, no one other than the house that is. A line up around the block at 6 pm, a house full of drunks and the highlight of my night other than another server giving me a found 10  bucks for having a shittiest night was telling people to "get the fuck down"! Excuse me sir, with the reindeer  boxers (in march no less) Oh? Can you not hear me? I'll push you from across the table. Yeah, you, get down. Oh? Can you still not hear me over your off key singing that I can't hear over the roar of the crowd and the pounding of my head? That sound in my head yeah that's the imminent sign of a stroke. Fuck being nice I'm going to push you off the bench and say "GET DOWN". Hi! You're being treated like my dog, actually worse than her. Happy st. patty's day.

Name that band

       Excuse me ma'am, while I see you are "shaking your money maker" on the dance floor I hate to intrude but stop it. You see "Sweet home Alabama" is important to my people and while I understand it is a great song with heavy political commentary (p.s. they're making fun of Canadians favorite Neil Young) it is not one to grind your spandex clad behind on the nearest man to. Now that being said if you can please step to the right and let me pass as I do have a tray full of precariously positioned top heavy beer glasses we can talk. Now I'll let you listen to the song, and enjoy it more if you can name at least one of the band members I'll even take a last name, hell there were two with the same last name. Easier yet, can you shed some light on your Alabama knowledge? What does the term "in Birmingham they love the governor, we all did what we could do" refer to? You don't know? Oh, sit down and stop spilling your drink and tip your server she's tired of looking at you smeared mascara and all. THANKS!

The hospitality plague

 So after recovering from last night's emotional turmoil thanks so being called off I'm feeling human. I got that celebrated phone call today from my favorite little indy manager asking me if I wanted to have a sunny day off. Apparently word spread fast among the manager ranks that I nearly lost my shit last night. For those who've served with me in the past I did not in fact freak out just so you know. I'll admit I was one hot headed server once upon a time, never with guests because they pay my bills. Other servers and managers were fair game.
     In an effort to maintain my sanity and others respect I now just clench my jaw and deal with whatever bullshit I'm handed. When it explodes in my face as a 5'10" bleach blonde grenade of  self righteous attitude my composure waivers.  So another server (that I just love) saw me teary last night and asked me if I wanted to talk, I took her up on that offer today. She's also new and has similar problems with ole blonde fuzz head. So, after calming down we've decided all the new people will just work very hard to counter act the shitty attitudes of the seasoned servers. Kill them with kindness is such bullshit, in a restaurant you kill them with work. Be there to restock, go over and above what the old servers are too lazy or too good to do. You want the good shifts and sections? Stop being such a stark raving bitch with a sense of entitlement. No one wants to listen to your mouth and no one gives a shit about your personal problems. Wake up sweetie, this job isn't that hard, you make it so. Service isn't rocket science, it's a test of endurance and patience. If you can put up with bullshit and still laugh at yourself you'll survive. If you can't and you flip out on the new people well...you're liable to end up with a serious drinking problem. It's just a job.

I'm in server hell

 Here are the highlights of my 12 hour shift:
an hour and a half of fire alarm hell
No tables for the first 3 hours
Cancelled reservations
Being sat while I was on lunchbreak
Being triple sat while I had a 12 top and no one mentioning that I'd been "uncut"
Finally, being harassed (again) by another server
Oh, and getting teary eyed and nearly crying. Fuck I hate that.
 Oh the highlight of last night other than a server getting her hands thrown up on was a wonderful comment from a girl who'd been making out with a guy on the dancefloor for 3 minutes (I watched, and was elbowing my way through the crowd when I heard it) she pulls away and says "my name is Christine, if I give you my number will you call me?"
Wow. Just, are you serious? Ok A, don't make out in restaurants it's unsanitary and rude, secondly what are you? 17?

Sticker shock

 Last night was my second night on the floor. I was in what was supposed to be a fairly chill section...it turned into union station with booze. At one point I had 2 ten tops and a 20 top rolling at once. The 20 was for d/a (drinks and apps) so that should've been easy. Until...they wanted separate checks. No freakin way. They were all over the place a logistical nightmare for who ordered what, that just wasn't going to happen. So one guy went to the manager and we had to accommodate him. So as the party winds down I hand the bill over, 386 dollars and some change. I circle the grat on the check and walk away. From the POS I see the jaws drop, that's my queue to make myself scarce I'm not dealing with that shit. 5 minutes later I come back to collect the bill and face the firing squad. One angry asian lady and some stuffy white dude harass me about how they didn't order all these drinks. Duh, your 18 other friends did if you were able to drink 300 dollars worth of booze and stand up still you're my and all my coworkers hero, you should be studied. The best was the conversation..or demands..
"Who ordered all the drinks?!" the asian lady
"I'm not sure ma'am I'm just the server"
"Well what were their names"
"I'm sorry ma'am I just take the drink orders"
"What did they look like"
"I'm sorry ma'am I don't remember"
Nevermind that I have another 24 people I'm dealing with right now, or that my feet feel like their going to fall off you and your bill are my top priority...yeah. Now I suppose people don't understand that I really do.not.care. who ordered what, my bottom line is no complaints, and money. This was just insane.

 Then came the female server's dread table. 4 mid twenties women wearing too much makeup all with princess attitudes. That section smelled like a perfume counter blew up. They were an ok table, they camped but I was busy so I didn't mind. Then I came with the bill, and sticker shock all over the place. One girl came up and accused me of getting the price wrong on her salad, then when I said no I hadn't, that's the price she proceeded to call me a thief and a liar. The price is listed on the menu for all salads, 18 dollars. Granted she got it without protein so it should've been less but if you leave cheese off a pizza does that make it less? No.  She then asked for the manager, then of course made me look like an idiot and a liar...of course since I'm new and she's the customer she's right. Fucking awesome. Needless to say she got a salad for 8 bucks and I got 1.50 on 40. I remember now why I hate people.

An ode to bodily functions

Alright so it's 3:45 and rather than sleeping, or I don't know studying for my food test at work tomorrow I've decided to regale you with the oh so perplexing stories of loss of bodily functions that do happen in restaurants a lot more often than you'd imagine.

 So let's rewind back about 5 years ago when I was working at a family restaurant which had kids eat free nights. Ugh, side note all servers hate those nights the blissfully slow nights turn into the romper room of horrors when someone says free food. Snot nosed screaming kids literally appear out of the wall paper. I didn't work Kids eat free because I had "school", I didn't work them mainly because they sucked. School sometimes is true, but for a lot of servers school is a half assed attempt to transcend our service/hospitality addiction through education. Most, but not all servers will fail at least one class or semester due to too many doubles, parties, drama or serious financial strain. Ok so this "school" night I happened to be sitting out on the porch of my boyfriend's  house drinking beer and chain smoking it was summer after all. I get a phone call from a coworker of mine, I answer the phone and it's obvious she's still at work. I can hear the cussing from the mexican dishwashers in the background.
"Oh my god you will never believe what happened tonight here at work"
"Um, if this is about the new girl and that cook with the chin strap I already know."
"What? No, but tell me about that later, no this is better, tonight is the definitive moment for TBDJ"

 (TBDJ was our code for a certain manager who no one liked. The big dumb jew to be exact, hey no one said servers are politically correct...or decent human beings).

She proceeds to recount to me how the restaurant was on a wait, the hostesses were very stressed because a cocktail server come to the front and started harassing them about putting a high chair at a high top table and now the parents are mad because the kid hit his head on the underside of the table(well, duh!). While this is going on, with 10 people milling around the open air lobby no one notices the small child defecating on the vinyl bench in front of them. That is until TBDJ happens to walk by, now normally you can set spoiled meat in front of her and she cannot smell it, tonight though she noticed this aroma. After threatening the hostesses and the server (and making things worse in the process) she notices the little present on the bench. Apparently all the other servers noticed it as they walked by to see what the fuss was with the hostesses but as is the case with dog mess, if you don't acknowledge it you don't have to fix the situation. The whole the smeller is the feller scenario. Apparently TBDJ went to all the buss boys and told them to clean it up and they laughed in her face. They may fix that toilet in the bathroom that won't stop flushing, they may hose throw up off the sidewalk, and yes, they even clean up unidentified goop that once resembled chocolate cake and ketchup but they draw the line at excrement. You can't buy someone's dignity for 7 dollars an hour. So in a huff she stomps to the front (after 20 minutes of this sitting in the lobby), grabs the bench and proceeds to drag it through the restaurant and the kitchen out the back door and hose it off in the back parking lot all the while cussing and gagging.

 For all you amorous couples who decide to play around with exhibitionism and PDA, you're not getting away with it. Your servers know, and yes, they are laughing at you. When you decide to get frisky under the table, we are aware as we see every possible angle of that table, it is our business and no, I do not believe that is your blackberry in his lap you are working on. When a lesbian couple decided to take it to the bathroom on Sunday afternoon while I worked at a sports bar about 3 years ago I was amused and slightly annoyed as a fight broke out at their table in their absence. I soon discovered the fight was because one woman was there with her boyfriend who was blissfully unaware that his girlfriend had been inspecting the body of her girlfriend next to her all while he watched the steelers game. So, as I stomp to the bathroom to tell these women to break it up I found out they're not alone in there. I see two pairs of feet in the handicap stall facing each other and one pair of little dora the explorer mary janes blissfully kicking the toilet bowl humming while waiting for nature to take its course. Awesome, one child is in for a scary surprise if I don't take some action. So I get my managers, who are both male to come and deal with the situation. Now if you tell a man "hey, there are two chicks in the bathroom gettin' it on I need you to come rectify this situation" they're usually all over it with the hopes of seeing some free porn. This particular day though they'd developed a sense of decency and didn't want to enter into the ladies room. So rather than knock on the stall door they reach for the nearest device...a mop. Yes, they knocked on the door with a mop handle from the door of the bathroom to get their attention and let them know that there were children around and to get a room...and not one in a public bathroom. If this wasn't funny enough the look on their faces when the women came out and they were not silicone enhanced rail thin blondes, but overweight dowdy women made that mess all worth it. If you're going to serve, you've got to be able to laugh at anyone and everyone.

 Finally I think of the downside of working in bars, the times someone hucks on the floor. I was proud to say after serving for 9 years I'd never had someone throw up. That all changed this Christmas season. I was waiting on a party of 30, alone, a christmas party hosted by some douchebag in a sweater vest, a tie, and overly gelled and spiked hair. Honestly, if you dressed an over stuffed bratwurst up in izod and introduced him to dep, that's what this dweeb looked like. The party was mostly 20 somethings all drinking, which is usually a great thing. That is until someone says they're going to have a chugging contest...with Guiness. Now said dweeb had already had 2 guiness when he gets this brilliant idea and proceeds to chug 3 more then disappear as the entrees come out.  20 minutes  and a bet with the bartender later he stumbles back to his party. I'm standing in the kitchen door way with my manager when dweeb's coworker comes up and informs us that his boss had filled not one but two SINKS with vomit, but not to worry he'd cleaned it all up and just to hit it with some disinfectant. It should be noted that this night 30 police officers were in the bar having drinks and witnessed this whole debacle. Let's face is altruism is rare, in a restaurant it's damn near extinct. For this man to clean up after his boss well, they could've not tipped me and made my might because that's grounds for me to quit. After spending many minutes laughing hysterically with the bartender and the other servers I make my way back up to check on the party and overhear the dweeb telling his friends he's "redecorated the bathroom, 2 sinks at a time" and laughing. I'm not saying Typoid Mary was onto something, but I understand the whole infection through food thing after dealing with this idiot. Two months later I'm in a local home decorating store returning a pillow or something when who should walk up but the puker himself. I instantly recognized him and the dark shadow over his face let me know he remembered me, and as he hurried to make the exchange all while hiding his face I wore a very self satisfied smirk. Yes, I was your server, yes, I remember you and no I did not forget what you did.

Hockey? What is that?

First of all let me start this blog off by saying, congratulations Canada for your Olympic wins. Now let me break down my experience with this gold winning hockey game. I've been in training for nearly 2 weeks at the new restaurant in Toronto. While nerve wracking I'm happy it's over. Sunday was my first shift on my own. This is an annoying time for anyone, especially someone who's been through the hospitality machine like I have. I don't really need training I just need to be shown the side duties and the menu. I'm not a monkey I'm a professional. I walk into a packed restaurant. Our maximum capacity is roughly 400. 400 sweaty drunk maple leaf clad bodies are cram packed into the bar only. I swear I heard crickets in the main dining room. I get the pleasure of sharing a section in the midst of the pandemonium. Now sharing a section is not my favorite concept as it means I have to deal with cash and carry. If you're not familiar cash and carry means basically I have to actually pay attention to what someone wants and remember what they look like, bring them their utterly forgettable drink and make change for them there. It's been my goal in life to never look at faces because lets face it most people are genetic dead ends and it pains me to look too closely at them.  While I adore the girl I'm supposed to be sharing a section with I am shit for remembering table number, not to mention table number for tables that do not really exist. What was that ghost table again? After about 10 minutes the resident bitch on wheels comes up to be and proceeds to berate me about ringing in drinks and instructs me to only bus tables. Now, this chaps my ass because I am convinced I am older than she is, and well, she's as tall as I am and I hate not being the tallest chick. Keep in mind this whole time the sacred server station is being crowded by screaming drunks yelling about goals and bad calls. I concede and make a mental note to make as many stupid faces as possible because judging by her "Don't give me that look" comment, she does not appreciate them. I spend my afternoon elbowing men,avoiding screamers, picking up glasses, telling people "No I can't take your order" and hiding in the kitchen. Thank god I had the presence of mind to head for the alley in overtime so I missed the winning goal. Winning or losing I wasn't going to be in that human cattle call when the game ended.             

Post game- our shared section looks like an alley after a night of taking out pent up aggression through beer bottle baseball. After sweeping up bottles, stacking plates frantically and resetting tables I'm informed I have a table in the dining room. I've been dealing with drunks far too early in the day to actually be calm and centered, it's only 6 or so at this time.

My first table appears to be a son, his wife and his older parents. After greeting them and informing them of the features I am annoyed to find out I literally can not hear them over the ringing in my ears. One thing I hate is having to ask what someone said at a table, or lean in close. It's not my style to touch or lean in, I am a big fan of the bubble. I'm in mine and you stay in yours. Since I don't think my boss would like them writing me notes with their orders or sign language I'm forced to get up close and personal with father time. Things quickly turn from slightly irritating to embarrassing when the bartenders casually let me know that the two beers I ordered we're out of only after tearing their attention from the hockey highlights from the game they just watched. Awesome, make me look like I'm incompetent because no one wrote a 76 list. After a few tense smiles and uncomfortable rushed choices the table is running smoothly.

2nd table is a scenario I've recently started to encounter and quickly learning that I love. It's an older couple, and a middle aged gay man trying oh so hard to hang on to his youth. The one thing worse than a cougar is the gay version. I take their drink orders, the husband informs me he wants a keiths (a not so impressive Canadian domestic). I can tell  by looking at him I could offer him liquid gold and he's still want his carbonated hops water. After some pitiful attempts at persuasion his wife gives up and looks at the wine list. Since it is my first night on the floor and I'm trying to be on point I let her know that our wine list is a little dodgy so she might want to pick two. In truth, the list is more of a suggestion as we are not known for our wines and well...no one really knows what we have. She and her man child pick a dry Riesling and a Pinot Grigio. Done, good, ok I hate french wine service, I'm pretty rusty it's been years since I've done it but I'm down for it, hey it's money. I grab a bottle of Trius from the wine cooler and start my service. It's only after I cracked the bottle (an oh so classy twist top) that I feel the blood drain from my face as I remember I didn't present the bottle to her. FUCK! The last thing I need is a complaint on my first night. That means not only do I have a complaint next to my name with my jackass GM I have to buy this stupid bottle of shitty wine. I turn and pleasantly say "Oh here is your Dry Riesling". Then the man child says "That's not what we ordered, we wanted a Huff, she clearly said so". Actually you walking poster boy for plastic surgery that is NOT what she said, she said the dry one and pointed to Trius. I smile and she decides to taste it.
"it's crisp" she says after tasting it.
" If you don't like it just say so, they'll take it back, just say so". SHUT UP you little shit! No one will take it back I'll be forced to pay for it and quite frankly I've been screamed at, I stink like beer and I'm pretty sure there's a cocktail straw in the back of my shirt. If I'm going down I'm taking you, and your white snake skin shoes with me. Thank GOD she decided to drink it. I managed to wrack up a 183 dollar bill off of them and made a 15% tip. Not bad, I'll take it.
All in all my first night on the floor was much more intense than it needed to be, I was made fun of in french (Which I speak) by a middle aged french Canadian woman who informed me that if she couldn't stand the smell of a beer she couldn't drink it and quite frankly that swill (a very well liked german dunkel) was going to make her throw up. I forgot to fire a second course, opened the wrong bottle of wine and stabbed myself with my wine key. I didn't fall and for me that's an accomplishment.