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.
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