The Mathematician's mom Suzanne is a truck driver. This fact often elicits a blend of shock and awe from people. It's tough work but she's been at it for over 30 years, since before power steering and commonplace automatic transmissions in rigs, meaning she's nothing short of a badass.
I, on the other hand, hate driving. I dislike it so intensely, I've taken to telling people I don't know how to drive so they'll never expect me to take the wheel. Whenever I do happen to be stuck behind the wheel, as I was while running an errand for a PR client yesterday afternoon, I think of Suzanne. I think of her especially when I'm stuck in traffic and wonder, "How does she tolerate this? This endless waiting to get from point 'A' to point 'B'?"
Last night as I waited for my last table to finish their dinner, then finish their coffee, then put their credit cards in the check presenter, then sign their charge slips, I realized: waitressing is the exact same thing. Endlessly waiting for someone else to finish doing something else. All this waiting, something I've done since I've been old enough to work essentially, as I wait for my 'real career' to take off.
Perhaps I've finally figured out why they call it "waiting"?
Showing posts with label waitressing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label waitressing. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Saturday, November 07, 2009
100 Things Restaurant Staffers Should Never Do
Hello, friends, it's been a while! I've missed you so, and happy to be back from my six month hiatus.
Anyone catch this post on a NYT blog about Small Businesses? I find it so irritating. First of all, there are many points in here that I consider "Waitressing 101" and total common sense. Any server worth their salt should know them and if you're interviewing potential staffers who don't, it's indicative of a problem with management. For example, pointers #1, 12, and 13:
#1. Do not let anyone enter the restaurant without a warm greeting.
Other rules seemed simply silly to me, such this #23:
#23. If someone likes a wine, steam the label off the bottle and give it to the guest with the bill. It has the year, the vintner, the importer, etc.
When they are kind and sweet and generous, I love to take care of guests in my restaurant. I really do. And I'd happily supply a label for you from a wine bottle if only I could figure out how to do it. But I've tried this mystical "steaming the wine label off the bottle technique" and been left with a fistful of soggy paper pulp, a ruined label, a disappointed guest, and typically in the weeds because I've wasted so much time. Why not print business cards with space to write wine information on the back, then dole those out to guests instead?
Other rules, such as #43 confused me:
#43. Never mention what your favorite dessert is. It’s irrelevant.
Anyone catch this post on a NYT blog about Small Businesses? I find it so irritating. First of all, there are many points in here that I consider "Waitressing 101" and total common sense. Any server worth their salt should know them and if you're interviewing potential staffers who don't, it's indicative of a problem with management. For example, pointers #1, 12, and 13:
#1. Do not let anyone enter the restaurant without a warm greeting.
#12. Do not touch the rim of a water glass. Or any other glass.
#13. Handle wine glasses by their stems and silverware by the handles.Other rules seemed simply silly to me, such this #23:
#23. If someone likes a wine, steam the label off the bottle and give it to the guest with the bill. It has the year, the vintner, the importer, etc.
When they are kind and sweet and generous, I love to take care of guests in my restaurant. I really do. And I'd happily supply a label for you from a wine bottle if only I could figure out how to do it. But I've tried this mystical "steaming the wine label off the bottle technique" and been left with a fistful of soggy paper pulp, a ruined label, a disappointed guest, and typically in the weeds because I've wasted so much time. Why not print business cards with space to write wine information on the back, then dole those out to guests instead?
Other rules, such as #43 confused me:
#43. Never mention what your favorite dessert is. It’s irrelevant.
I mean, the question I am most frequently asked by my guests is "what do you recommend."
And many rules made me want to gouge my eyes out, such as #40 and #41:
#40. Never say, "Good choice,” implying that other choices are bad.
#41. Saying, 'No problem' is a problem. It has a tone of insincerity or sarcasm. “My pleasure” or “You’re welcome” will do."
Yech. I find it so interesting when owners/managers set guidelines for acceptable vocabulary in their establishments. No profanity is one thing, but saying "no problem"? Come on.
I'd rather eat at Toro any day.
Thursday, April 02, 2009
No more corn at Toro...
...was an April Fool's joke.
Thanks for all who expressed concern for my plight!
Thanks for all who expressed concern for my plight!
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
No Corn for the Weary
As we all know, it's cause for major, major crisis when we run out of the corn at Toro. You can read about my past painful experiences with this here and here.
In fact, while I was filling in as a manager at Toro, I had to make an emergency corn run to Stop & Shop at 8:30 p.m. on a Saturday night, just to avoid such a disaster. I called the Mathematician from South Bay Center to have him help calculate how much corn to buy. My shopping cart was half full of corn and nothing else, causing other shoppers to gawk and even talk about me loudly in Spanish in the check out line.
For Toro waitstaff, running out of corn is pretty much the worst thing ever. 4 out of 5 tables bitch about it, and some guests even get up and walk out, even after waiting half an hour for a table. And while I love and respect our chef and think he has done some amazing things for the restaurant since he came on board in November, I'm not so sure about his latest menu change:
"As of tomorrow, we're only going to be serving the corn seasonally at Toro, in a move to exclusively support local farmers," Jamie told us at pre-meal."
"But...but...but...people freak out if they can't have the corn!" Juan said.
"They can still have the corn," Jamie said, "just seasonally. In late July, August, and September. It's something I feel really strongly about, and Ken and I think it's going to be really great." He was visibly annoyed, so we all just nodded: yes, chef.
I don't know about the other servers, but I am mentally preparing for riots. Big, hunger-induced, angry riots.
In fact, while I was filling in as a manager at Toro, I had to make an emergency corn run to Stop & Shop at 8:30 p.m. on a Saturday night, just to avoid such a disaster. I called the Mathematician from South Bay Center to have him help calculate how much corn to buy. My shopping cart was half full of corn and nothing else, causing other shoppers to gawk and even talk about me loudly in Spanish in the check out line.
For Toro waitstaff, running out of corn is pretty much the worst thing ever. 4 out of 5 tables bitch about it, and some guests even get up and walk out, even after waiting half an hour for a table. And while I love and respect our chef and think he has done some amazing things for the restaurant since he came on board in November, I'm not so sure about his latest menu change:
"As of tomorrow, we're only going to be serving the corn seasonally at Toro, in a move to exclusively support local farmers," Jamie told us at pre-meal."
"But...but...but...people freak out if they can't have the corn!" Juan said.
"They can still have the corn," Jamie said, "just seasonally. In late July, August, and September. It's something I feel really strongly about, and Ken and I think it's going to be really great." He was visibly annoyed, so we all just nodded: yes, chef.
I don't know about the other servers, but I am mentally preparing for riots. Big, hunger-induced, angry riots.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
hate + love: a waitress's tale
PART I: HATE
"Ma'am? Excuse me. Uh, ma'am?"
Surely the mid- to late-thirtysomethings at Table 52 aren't beckoning ME. I look over my shoulder - perhaps there's an older woman standing behind me with whom they'd like to speak? The guy with salt-n-pepper hair gives a little wave. Oh. They DID mean me.
"Um, yeah?" I say.
"Is it okay if we write on this menu?"
No! I think, It is clearly NOT okay if you write on the menu. Do you see little check marks next to each tapas item? Did I supply you with a pen and pencil? Would you walk into No. 9 Park or even the Butcher Shop and start scribbling all over their menu? What kind of animal are you?
"Sure," I say instead, since he has already started sullying it up with red ink. "Of course. Go right ahead."
I head to the service bar to collect their mojitos.
"Dude, Table 52 called me ma'am," I lament to the barback.
"They didn't mean it, Kitty. They didn't mean it," he consoles me.
"I don't care. I now hate them."
PART II: LOVE
"Here are your mojitos," I say, careful to conceal my contempt as I hand them their drinks. "Did you have any questions? Are you ready to order?"
"Hey," the salt-n-pepper guy says, "You look just like that woman in Vicky Cristina Barcelona. Know who I'm talking about?" he says. His companions, two men with accents and a pretty brunette woman, nod and murmur "Yes...she does...mmm-hmmm."
"You mean the blonde chick?" I say. "Scarlett Johannson?"
"Yes! Scarlett Johannson," he says.
"That's a pretty hefty compliment," I say, "She's pretty hot. She's also one of my favorite actresses."
"Yup, you look just like her," he says. Then, to his friends: "You know, she's the most beautiful woman in the world according to this magazine I just read." They nod and murmur "Yes...Scarlett Johannson is the most beautiful woman in the world and our waitress looks exactly like her...mmm-hmmm."
And just like that I love them.
"Ma'am? Excuse me. Uh, ma'am?"
Surely the mid- to late-thirtysomethings at Table 52 aren't beckoning ME. I look over my shoulder - perhaps there's an older woman standing behind me with whom they'd like to speak? The guy with salt-n-pepper hair gives a little wave. Oh. They DID mean me.
"Um, yeah?" I say.
"Is it okay if we write on this menu?"
No! I think, It is clearly NOT okay if you write on the menu. Do you see little check marks next to each tapas item? Did I supply you with a pen and pencil? Would you walk into No. 9 Park or even the Butcher Shop and start scribbling all over their menu? What kind of animal are you?
"Sure," I say instead, since he has already started sullying it up with red ink. "Of course. Go right ahead."
I head to the service bar to collect their mojitos.
"Dude, Table 52 called me ma'am," I lament to the barback.
"They didn't mean it, Kitty. They didn't mean it," he consoles me.
"I don't care. I now hate them."
PART II: LOVE
"Here are your mojitos," I say, careful to conceal my contempt as I hand them their drinks. "Did you have any questions? Are you ready to order?"
"Hey," the salt-n-pepper guy says, "You look just like that woman in Vicky Cristina Barcelona. Know who I'm talking about?" he says. His companions, two men with accents and a pretty brunette woman, nod and murmur "Yes...she does...mmm-hmmm."
"You mean the blonde chick?" I say. "Scarlett Johannson?"
"Yes! Scarlett Johannson," he says.
"That's a pretty hefty compliment," I say, "She's pretty hot. She's also one of my favorite actresses."
"Yup, you look just like her," he says. Then, to his friends: "You know, she's the most beautiful woman in the world according to this magazine I just read." They nod and murmur "Yes...Scarlett Johannson is the most beautiful woman in the world and our waitress looks exactly like her...mmm-hmmm."
And just like that I love them.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Ask the management
As we all know, I work part-time as a waitress. In a few short days, I'll also be filling in as a manager.
"Oh, really? Moving into management, huh? Good for you!" people keep telling me, encouragingly.
"No, no, no," I rush to explain. "I'm just filling in for the real managers while they are away in Spain for a week, doing research and development. They're my friends, I'm really just doing this as a favor."
Fact is, moving into management is the last thing I want to do. I don't mind filling in, especially because the managers at Toro work so hard, do such an amazing job, and totally deserve this working vacation. But managing sucks.
First of all, there are all of these little things that you have to take care of starting before service begins at 4 p.m.-ish and continuing well after all of the customers have gone home at midnight or 1 a.m., like making sure the bar has the bank and the IPod by 4:30, dimming the un-labeled lights to the right level lest the restauarant look like an operating room ("Is that the back bar I'm dimming? Or the back hallway? Who knows?"), and making sure the hosts have enough menus and that they all contain the correct, spell-checked, properly priced information. I could write press releases and marketing copy for days, but somehow formatting those menus is beyond me.
Fortunately, all of these rote happen-every-day-type tasks can be easily accounted for - I'm making a list for myself. Plus, if the manager forgets to handle any of these items, the staff is pretty swift to remind you, and it usually sounds something like this:
"Kitty, where are my menus??? It's 5:05! They're still not done yet?" or,
"Hey, manager! Do you have a bank for me tonight? Or am I just going to give the drinks away?"
Then, in addition to handling all of these hateful little tasks, there is all of this other stuff that someone in a management position has to deal with, the problems that come up during service, the seemingly unsolvable things that you have to somehow find a way to fix. Everyone comes to you with them since you are in charge - kitchen, bar, back-waiters, servers. It sounds something like this:
"Kitty, we only have 25 napkins left for the rest of the night and I don't have enough roll-ups to set the dining room," or
"Kitty, we're almost out of bread" at 9 o'clock p.m. when the restaurant is full.
And I haven't even crossed the angry customer bridge yet, where I have to smooth over some awful situation with a pissed-off guest.
"I'm scared," I told one of the managers. "I hope that doesn't happen to me while you're away."
"Oh, it will," she said. "Trust me. And get ready for what people will say to you. I heard someone refer to the general manager as 'that little girl' once."
"No way! I mean, she's short, but that's so...rude. Ugh, I can only imagine what people will say to me. People already treat me like I'm a stupid blonde as a waitress."
"I know. It sucks. But hey, maybe you'll get some good material out of it for your blog!"
Yes, maybe I will. Hopefully it's nothing too good.
"Oh, really? Moving into management, huh? Good for you!" people keep telling me, encouragingly.
"No, no, no," I rush to explain. "I'm just filling in for the real managers while they are away in Spain for a week, doing research and development. They're my friends, I'm really just doing this as a favor."
Fact is, moving into management is the last thing I want to do. I don't mind filling in, especially because the managers at Toro work so hard, do such an amazing job, and totally deserve this working vacation. But managing sucks.
First of all, there are all of these little things that you have to take care of starting before service begins at 4 p.m.-ish and continuing well after all of the customers have gone home at midnight or 1 a.m., like making sure the bar has the bank and the IPod by 4:30, dimming the un-labeled lights to the right level lest the restauarant look like an operating room ("Is that the back bar I'm dimming? Or the back hallway? Who knows?"), and making sure the hosts have enough menus and that they all contain the correct, spell-checked, properly priced information. I could write press releases and marketing copy for days, but somehow formatting those menus is beyond me.
Fortunately, all of these rote happen-every-day-type tasks can be easily accounted for - I'm making a list for myself. Plus, if the manager forgets to handle any of these items, the staff is pretty swift to remind you, and it usually sounds something like this:
"Kitty, where are my menus??? It's 5:05! They're still not done yet?" or,
"Hey, manager! Do you have a bank for me tonight? Or am I just going to give the drinks away?"
Then, in addition to handling all of these hateful little tasks, there is all of this other stuff that someone in a management position has to deal with, the problems that come up during service, the seemingly unsolvable things that you have to somehow find a way to fix. Everyone comes to you with them since you are in charge - kitchen, bar, back-waiters, servers. It sounds something like this:
"Kitty, we only have 25 napkins left for the rest of the night and I don't have enough roll-ups to set the dining room," or
"Kitty, we're almost out of bread" at 9 o'clock p.m. when the restaurant is full.
And I haven't even crossed the angry customer bridge yet, where I have to smooth over some awful situation with a pissed-off guest.
"I'm scared," I told one of the managers. "I hope that doesn't happen to me while you're away."
"Oh, it will," she said. "Trust me. And get ready for what people will say to you. I heard someone refer to the general manager as 'that little girl' once."
"No way! I mean, she's short, but that's so...rude. Ugh, I can only imagine what people will say to me. People already treat me like I'm a stupid blonde as a waitress."
"I know. It sucks. But hey, maybe you'll get some good material out of it for your blog!"
Yes, maybe I will. Hopefully it's nothing too good.
Monday, November 03, 2008
"ridiculously perky"
Last night one of my tables referred to me as "ridiculously perky" behind my back to one of my managers. In a disparaging, condescending sort of way.
Thing is, I was trying to be super friendly to this table because they appeared to be a miserable couple having a miserable time not enjoying each other's miserable company. I mean, I can show you curt/rude/or catty if that's what you're looking for in a waitress. Just ask my co-workers. In fact, I should have. Instead I wasted my time/energy trying to romance two people who just wanted to be left alone to their own lame devices.
I knew there was something about them that I didn't like. Guess it was the fact that they didn't like me.
Thing is, I was trying to be super friendly to this table because they appeared to be a miserable couple having a miserable time not enjoying each other's miserable company. I mean, I can show you curt/rude/or catty if that's what you're looking for in a waitress. Just ask my co-workers. In fact, I should have. Instead I wasted my time/energy trying to romance two people who just wanted to be left alone to their own lame devices.
I knew there was something about them that I didn't like. Guess it was the fact that they didn't like me.
Sunday, November 02, 2008
Iceland has food (but Toro does not)
Disaster struck at Toro tonight. The corn was 86'd (among other items.) All hell nearly broke loose.
"So, you mean to tell me you're out of Brussels sprouts, bacalao, AND the corn??? You're killing me here!!!" I overheard one guest remark to his waitress.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait," the man at Table 31 said to me in proper, slightly accented English after I rattled off the list of 86's. "You just listed about seven items. Is there anything you DO have on the menu???" If you've ever been to Toro, or any tapas restaurant for that matter, you know -- the menu is comprised of at least like 30 dishes. "Yes, yes, there are some things we DO still have on the menu," I said.
I found Table 31's reaction dramatic, but I tried to remain patient and diplomatic. Running out of a dish is a disappointment that just can't be fixed for a guest, even if you are a super waitress. Culturally, we've been facing a lot of disappointment lately, and I can relate.
Running out of food tonight also reminded me of a podcast I listened to today detailing the economic crisis that currently has Iceland under seige, and the rather dramatic (misconceived) notion that Iceland is actually running out of food. "Tonight, Toro is like Iceland," I told my manager.
Table 31 managed to navigate the menu and had a satisfying dinner. They were very nice in the end, and despite their initial shock, remained patient and polite throughout all the disappointments of their dinner. Later, as I was sliding their table's credit card to cash them out, I realized: the accent, the name on the card, the bank...these people were from Iceland.
I know how bad it feels to be living through the American economic downturn, and all I've heard about the Icelandic crisis is that it's far, far worse.
I wish I could have saved them at least one order of the corn.
"So, you mean to tell me you're out of Brussels sprouts, bacalao, AND the corn??? You're killing me here!!!" I overheard one guest remark to his waitress.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait," the man at Table 31 said to me in proper, slightly accented English after I rattled off the list of 86's. "You just listed about seven items. Is there anything you DO have on the menu???" If you've ever been to Toro, or any tapas restaurant for that matter, you know -- the menu is comprised of at least like 30 dishes. "Yes, yes, there are some things we DO still have on the menu," I said.
I found Table 31's reaction dramatic, but I tried to remain patient and diplomatic. Running out of a dish is a disappointment that just can't be fixed for a guest, even if you are a super waitress. Culturally, we've been facing a lot of disappointment lately, and I can relate.
Running out of food tonight also reminded me of a podcast I listened to today detailing the economic crisis that currently has Iceland under seige, and the rather dramatic (misconceived) notion that Iceland is actually running out of food. "Tonight, Toro is like Iceland," I told my manager.
Table 31 managed to navigate the menu and had a satisfying dinner. They were very nice in the end, and despite their initial shock, remained patient and polite throughout all the disappointments of their dinner. Later, as I was sliding their table's credit card to cash them out, I realized: the accent, the name on the card, the bank...these people were from Iceland.
I know how bad it feels to be living through the American economic downturn, and all I've heard about the Icelandic crisis is that it's far, far worse.
I wish I could have saved them at least one order of the corn.
Friday, October 31, 2008
older man candy
"Hands!" the sous chef Mike says as he drops a dish into the window. This is how the kitchen staff informs us they've got a hot plate of food ready.
"Table?" I say.
"Table 13, Bar. Thanks, Kitty."
I squeeze between guests who are packed two-deep at the bar. It's difficult to discern bar seat numbers when it's busy like this, so I count each bar patron's head until I reach the number 13, two older gentleman in suits, talking intently over glasses of red wine.
"Skirt steak?" I say, hesitantly, hoping I've made it to the right spot. The dark haired gentleman on the right gives a slight nod, but I'm not certain he's nodding at me, so I repeat myself as I begin to lower the dish onto the bar between them. "This is the skirt steak, medium rare?"
"Yes," the dark-haired man says gruffly as though I am a bother. Then he turns around, we lock eyes, and he smiles. "Yes, thank you very much."
"You're very welcome," I say, and turn to leave. He stares at me as I walk away.
Yeesh, I think, that guy is totally old enough to be my father. But then, this is a trend I've noticed since I cut my hair short and started curling it 1950's style with rollers. This hair-do is like older man candy.
Maybe it's because the hair-do reminds these gents of the girls they chased in their youth? Or of the way their first wives looked when they fell in love? In any event, for any of you girls out there looking to snag an older man, I'd highly recommend copying my current 'do, designed to imitate this inimitable lady right here.
"Table?" I say.
"Table 13, Bar. Thanks, Kitty."
I squeeze between guests who are packed two-deep at the bar. It's difficult to discern bar seat numbers when it's busy like this, so I count each bar patron's head until I reach the number 13, two older gentleman in suits, talking intently over glasses of red wine.
"Skirt steak?" I say, hesitantly, hoping I've made it to the right spot. The dark haired gentleman on the right gives a slight nod, but I'm not certain he's nodding at me, so I repeat myself as I begin to lower the dish onto the bar between them. "This is the skirt steak, medium rare?"
"Yes," the dark-haired man says gruffly as though I am a bother. Then he turns around, we lock eyes, and he smiles. "Yes, thank you very much."
"You're very welcome," I say, and turn to leave. He stares at me as I walk away.
Yeesh, I think, that guy is totally old enough to be my father. But then, this is a trend I've noticed since I cut my hair short and started curling it 1950's style with rollers. This hair-do is like older man candy.
Maybe it's because the hair-do reminds these gents of the girls they chased in their youth? Or of the way their first wives looked when they fell in love? In any event, for any of you girls out there looking to snag an older man, I'd highly recommend copying my current 'do, designed to imitate this inimitable lady right here.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
there I am...
...in the changing photo box, right after the pic of Tom Hanks!
Click here for the full story. Waitstaff everywhere, raise a glass!
Click here for the full story. Waitstaff everywhere, raise a glass!
"Hi ladies, how are you tonight?"
"Hi ladies, how are you this evening," I say as I approach table 46 on a VERY busy Thursday evening. The guest with their back to me turns around to face me and, OOPS! It's a dude.
"Umm...hi...there," I mumble. I'm mortified, but I press on with my speech, as though nothing happened. "Can I bring you a drink to get started?" It's pretty loud in here tonight, maybe they didn't hear me?
In my own defense, the dude's hair is longer than mine. And he is wearing a headband.
"Umm...hi...there," I mumble. I'm mortified, but I press on with my speech, as though nothing happened. "Can I bring you a drink to get started?" It's pretty loud in here tonight, maybe they didn't hear me?
In my own defense, the dude's hair is longer than mine. And he is wearing a headband.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Barbie
I'm closing tonight. Closing totally blows. Within minutes all of my fellow waitrons punch out, pack up all their things, and leave me here to waste away as the last two tables of the night linger on into Toro oblivion.
Table 45 just sat down and has been too busy making googley eyes at each other to notice me. Guess I should stop pouting at least try to take their order. When I approach the table, the girl has excused herself; the guy is sitting alone.
"I can come back in a minute if you like," I say.
"No, bring us two shots of Patron. With Rose's," he says.
Blech. That sounds so gross. I'm so preoccupied by the thought that I walk away without confirming whether he wants those chilled. He must...I think. The only thing more terrible-sounding than a shot of Patron with Rose's is a WARM shot of Patron with Rose's. But the bartender will be pissed at me if I'm wrong and she has to make the foul concoctions twice, so I return to the table to confirm.
"You want those shots chilled, right?" I say.
"No. Not chilled. Just Patron and Rose's lime juice. Not chilled."
Ewwww. When I approach the service bar to pick up the shots my bartender informs me that we do not, in fact, carry Rose's. Duh. I head back to Table 45 to let him know these will be coming with fresh lime & simple syrup instead.
"That's fine, he says," waving a dismissive hand in the air. "Patron, lime & whatever. Not chilled."
"Okay," I say.
"Thanks, Brb..." he says, mumbling something under his breath - did he just call me Barbie? I'm still too preoccupied by the disgustingness of his drink order to know for sure what has transpired.
I deliver the shots. By now the girl is back at the table.
"Thanks, Barbie," he says when I drop them off. Again. He mumbled it AGAIN, and I swear he just called me Barbie. I decide to ignore it.
I approach the table a few minutes later to see if they're ready to order food yet. They 'haven't even looked!' but are ready for cocktails:
"Hennessy and Diet Coke, please," the guy says. "Wait, do you guys have Hennessy? If not, Remy will do."
Hennessy of Remy? With DIET? Really? "Sure," I say, looking at him suspiciously. Who is this guy? I wonder, What planet is he from? Where is it okay to order Hennessy with ANYTHING, much less Diet COKE? "No problem."
"Thanks, Barbie," he says. This time I heard it -- I definitely heard it. He called me Barbie. I can't tell if he's laughing at me or with me and I have no idea how to respond.
By the time Table 45 is ready to order, I have decided that this guy is a total chode and I am in no mood to deal with it. He keeps ordering MTV drinks (maybe next he'll ask for Alize or Hypnotique?) and surreptitiously calling me Barbie. The aggressive shot-ordering indicates to me that he's desperate to get this girl in the sack; we'll see about that.
His date asks me what dishes I recommend, and I extol the virtues of the messiest, most garlicky items we have: I launch into a litany about the the pan con tomate, toasted bread rubbed with raw garlic and tomato, extol the virtues of the gambas al ajillo, the garlic shrimp, and tell how they haven't lived 'til they've tried the maiz asado con alioli y queso cotija, known to most as simply "the corn."
"What else is really good?" the guy asks. I repeat myself. In the end, they order every single garlicky, alioli drenched, cheese-and-corn-kernels-up-by-your-eyebrows dish.
"Thanks, Barbie," he says.
"My pleasure," I say with a smile. Garlic breath = Barbie's revenge.
Table 45 just sat down and has been too busy making googley eyes at each other to notice me. Guess I should stop pouting at least try to take their order. When I approach the table, the girl has excused herself; the guy is sitting alone.
"I can come back in a minute if you like," I say.
"No, bring us two shots of Patron. With Rose's," he says.
Blech. That sounds so gross. I'm so preoccupied by the thought that I walk away without confirming whether he wants those chilled. He must...I think. The only thing more terrible-sounding than a shot of Patron with Rose's is a WARM shot of Patron with Rose's. But the bartender will be pissed at me if I'm wrong and she has to make the foul concoctions twice, so I return to the table to confirm.
"You want those shots chilled, right?" I say.
"No. Not chilled. Just Patron and Rose's lime juice. Not chilled."
Ewwww. When I approach the service bar to pick up the shots my bartender informs me that we do not, in fact, carry Rose's. Duh. I head back to Table 45 to let him know these will be coming with fresh lime & simple syrup instead.
"That's fine, he says," waving a dismissive hand in the air. "Patron, lime & whatever. Not chilled."
"Okay," I say.
"Thanks, Brb..." he says, mumbling something under his breath - did he just call me Barbie? I'm still too preoccupied by the disgustingness of his drink order to know for sure what has transpired.
I deliver the shots. By now the girl is back at the table.
"Thanks, Barbie," he says when I drop them off. Again. He mumbled it AGAIN, and I swear he just called me Barbie. I decide to ignore it.
I approach the table a few minutes later to see if they're ready to order food yet. They 'haven't even looked!' but are ready for cocktails:
"Hennessy and Diet Coke, please," the guy says. "Wait, do you guys have Hennessy? If not, Remy will do."
Hennessy of Remy? With DIET? Really? "Sure," I say, looking at him suspiciously. Who is this guy? I wonder, What planet is he from? Where is it okay to order Hennessy with ANYTHING, much less Diet COKE? "No problem."
"Thanks, Barbie," he says. This time I heard it -- I definitely heard it. He called me Barbie. I can't tell if he's laughing at me or with me and I have no idea how to respond.
By the time Table 45 is ready to order, I have decided that this guy is a total chode and I am in no mood to deal with it. He keeps ordering MTV drinks (maybe next he'll ask for Alize or Hypnotique?) and surreptitiously calling me Barbie. The aggressive shot-ordering indicates to me that he's desperate to get this girl in the sack; we'll see about that.
His date asks me what dishes I recommend, and I extol the virtues of the messiest, most garlicky items we have: I launch into a litany about the the pan con tomate, toasted bread rubbed with raw garlic and tomato, extol the virtues of the gambas al ajillo, the garlic shrimp, and tell how they haven't lived 'til they've tried the maiz asado con alioli y queso cotija, known to most as simply "the corn."
"What else is really good?" the guy asks. I repeat myself. In the end, they order every single garlicky, alioli drenched, cheese-and-corn-kernels-up-by-your-eyebrows dish.
"Thanks, Barbie," he says.
"My pleasure," I say with a smile. Garlic breath = Barbie's revenge.
Monday, September 29, 2008
who makes better tips? Blondes or brunettes?
I was out of town and out of a service area this weekend, but when I returned to civilization and my IPhone refreshed, I found this query in my email inbox:
Yes, I do get bigger tips as a blonde. I think that has more to do with how I am me as a blonde than anything else. As a blonde waitress I tend to be more obsequious, affect a more bubbly demeanor, and more flirty. I can't explain why, beyond that I feel this is what is expected of me by the people who sit in my section. In the mirror of their eyes, this is how I am as a blonde.
As a brunette, I did not act as bubbly or overly friendly or super-duper-nice. When I said, "Hello, how are you this evening?" my voice came out of my throat at a lower decibel, my tone more business-like. I approached my tables with confidence and poise, and assumed a more subdued demeanor with guests. I also didn't feel compelled to smile excessively or laugh at their stupid jokes so heartily. Good, attentive service seemed enough.
Occasionally, this distanced brunette demeanor did not go over well. I've only had a table complain to a manager that I provided bad service once in the past several years; that happened while I was a brunette. What can I say? I remained polite to the high maintenance bitch, but refused to kiss her ass: as a brunette, I didn't need to. Guess she didn't like it. When I served her a few months later as a blonde, she didn't seem to remember me...and the interaction was perfectly cordial.
Then there's the whole guy thing. Undesirable characters are MUCH more likely to sexualize the customer-waitress interaction when my hair is blonde. Men of all ages, from guys who are still in college to dudes old enough to be my dad; men of all walks of life, from rugged manual-laborer types to filthy rich guys who pay with a black AmEx; men of all stripes, from quietly classy to full-blown, downright, sexual harrassers. Do they tip me better? Maybe; unless I waited on them as a brunette, I have no way to compare. Is it worth a few extra bucks to feel totally objectified and mildly embarrassed every time I have to offer someone a drink or take away a plate? Not really. Then there are times when a guy at a table will have a few too many, make a total ass out of himself, and really humiliate me with his behavior, only to tip a paltry 15% or less. That's totally degrading, one of the shittiest feelings I've had to sustain in this line of work.
I distinctly remember approaching my first table of the night within a few days of dying my hair back to blonde. I looked up, saw two rugged, manly-looking man-men who were totally out of place in the high end South End establishment where I am employed (they asked for Michelob Light), and sighed. Shit, I thought. I have to go flirt with those guys right now and I really am just not in the mood. Then I realized what I'd just said to myself: Oh my God, did I really just think that???
So, in short, I do feel like I get bigger tips as a blonde. But are they better tips? Not so much.
I would really appreciate your advice.Well, curious reader, that's an interesting question with a complicated answer. I'm posting my thoughts here in the hopes that any other blonde waitresses (undercover or otherwise) who might happen by can chime in with theirs.
I've been looking on-line and haven't really found an answer yet, but maybe your experience can help. Do blonde's get tipped better than brunettes in a waitress position?
Yes, I do get bigger tips as a blonde. I think that has more to do with how I am me as a blonde than anything else. As a blonde waitress I tend to be more obsequious, affect a more bubbly demeanor, and more flirty. I can't explain why, beyond that I feel this is what is expected of me by the people who sit in my section. In the mirror of their eyes, this is how I am as a blonde.
As a brunette, I did not act as bubbly or overly friendly or super-duper-nice. When I said, "Hello, how are you this evening?" my voice came out of my throat at a lower decibel, my tone more business-like. I approached my tables with confidence and poise, and assumed a more subdued demeanor with guests. I also didn't feel compelled to smile excessively or laugh at their stupid jokes so heartily. Good, attentive service seemed enough.
Occasionally, this distanced brunette demeanor did not go over well. I've only had a table complain to a manager that I provided bad service once in the past several years; that happened while I was a brunette. What can I say? I remained polite to the high maintenance bitch, but refused to kiss her ass: as a brunette, I didn't need to. Guess she didn't like it. When I served her a few months later as a blonde, she didn't seem to remember me...and the interaction was perfectly cordial.
Then there's the whole guy thing. Undesirable characters are MUCH more likely to sexualize the customer-waitress interaction when my hair is blonde. Men of all ages, from guys who are still in college to dudes old enough to be my dad; men of all walks of life, from rugged manual-laborer types to filthy rich guys who pay with a black AmEx; men of all stripes, from quietly classy to full-blown, downright, sexual harrassers. Do they tip me better? Maybe; unless I waited on them as a brunette, I have no way to compare. Is it worth a few extra bucks to feel totally objectified and mildly embarrassed every time I have to offer someone a drink or take away a plate? Not really. Then there are times when a guy at a table will have a few too many, make a total ass out of himself, and really humiliate me with his behavior, only to tip a paltry 15% or less. That's totally degrading, one of the shittiest feelings I've had to sustain in this line of work.
I distinctly remember approaching my first table of the night within a few days of dying my hair back to blonde. I looked up, saw two rugged, manly-looking man-men who were totally out of place in the high end South End establishment where I am employed (they asked for Michelob Light), and sighed. Shit, I thought. I have to go flirt with those guys right now and I really am just not in the mood. Then I realized what I'd just said to myself: Oh my God, did I really just think that???
So, in short, I do feel like I get bigger tips as a blonde. But are they better tips? Not so much.
Monday, September 22, 2008
stoner Sunday
Table 60 is acting funny. They kept giggling while I was trying to take their drink order. Or maybe it's me. It's hard to tell. I was pretty exuberant when I initially approached the table to greet them, but there's no one else in my section and I'm bored! I have nothing else to do but dote on them. So dote I will.
I return to the table with their sangria and as I pour it into two glasses, ask: "Do you guys have any questions about the menu?"
"No," the girl says. "I don't think so." Across the table, the guy is snickering under his breath. She glares at him. Then she giggles, too.
"Cool! Are you guys ready to order, then?"
"No," the guy says. Now the girl is giggling under her breath. He just looks at her blankly, then looks up at me and says: "I need to tell you something. We're really stoned right now."
"Fabulous," I say. "What better way to spend a Sunday."
I return to the table with their sangria and as I pour it into two glasses, ask: "Do you guys have any questions about the menu?"
"No," the girl says. "I don't think so." Across the table, the guy is snickering under his breath. She glares at him. Then she giggles, too.
"Cool! Are you guys ready to order, then?"
"No," the guy says. Now the girl is giggling under her breath. He just looks at her blankly, then looks up at me and says: "I need to tell you something. We're really stoned right now."
"Fabulous," I say. "What better way to spend a Sunday."
Monday, September 01, 2008
on waiting on children in restaurants
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Monday, August 11, 2008
Restaurant Week Day 2: Part V
I am going through some of my charge slips at the end of the night, looking closely at the number of people in each party and at total cost of each bill. Most parties of 2 hover somewhere around $75 - 90 per check, not unlike our usual check average, and several of my parties of 4 are well over the $200 mark. And all of this is before tip.
Wait a minute...this is exactly like a normal night at Toro. And for even bigger parties, the checks seem to be way, WAY bigger than usual. Instead of ordering one pitcher of sangria and 8 orders of corn for 8 people (which would total $70), all members of these parties are forced spend $33.08 each (totaling $264.64 pre-tax, without any drinks included.)
Looks like RW isn't a deal after all at Toro: many people spend more under the illusion that they are spending less.
And I will laugh all the way to the bank. : )
Wait a minute...this is exactly like a normal night at Toro. And for even bigger parties, the checks seem to be way, WAY bigger than usual. Instead of ordering one pitcher of sangria and 8 orders of corn for 8 people (which would total $70), all members of these parties are forced spend $33.08 each (totaling $264.64 pre-tax, without any drinks included.)
Looks like RW isn't a deal after all at Toro: many people spend more under the illusion that they are spending less.
And I will laugh all the way to the bank. : )
Restaurant Week Day 2: Part IV
"SIX OF THESE TICKETS ARE ON THE FLY AND I HAVE TO MAKE CHURROS!" I hear one of the cooks scream from the garde marger station. The printer keeps spitting and spitting out ticket after ticket as though mocking the fact that the entire kitchen is in the weeds.
Hmm...guess we ran out of the only dessert we have on offer tonight. Not sure how that happened, since we knew almost precisely how many people to expect because we're actually taking reservations this week.
All desserts are taking like 25 minutes, as well as any other food coming off the garde marger station, all cold food that usually takes just a few minutes to prepare. The older ladies at Table 51 (my second Table 51 of the night) are growing impatient. They've only had water to drink all night and are completely uninterested in a digestivo or a coffee as they wait for dessert. I'm dying to check in with the chef, just to make sure their food is coming, but I'm pretty sure he'll stab me or shoot me if I get in his way right now. So, I simply pace, back and forth between the cold line and Table 51, feeling simultaneously anxious and totally bored.
Man, I hate Restaurant Week.
Hmm...guess we ran out of the only dessert we have on offer tonight. Not sure how that happened, since we knew almost precisely how many people to expect because we're actually taking reservations this week.
All desserts are taking like 25 minutes, as well as any other food coming off the garde marger station, all cold food that usually takes just a few minutes to prepare. The older ladies at Table 51 (my second Table 51 of the night) are growing impatient. They've only had water to drink all night and are completely uninterested in a digestivo or a coffee as they wait for dessert. I'm dying to check in with the chef, just to make sure their food is coming, but I'm pretty sure he'll stab me or shoot me if I get in his way right now. So, I simply pace, back and forth between the cold line and Table 51, feeling simultaneously anxious and totally bored.
Man, I hate Restaurant Week.
Restaurant Week Day 2: Part III
By now I have made amends with Table 51. I am delighted to note that we now seem to be friends again. They take about a zillion years to eat their tapas and leave me a crappy tip, but I'm still happy they managed to have a nice night, despite the oppressive structure of the menu.
Restaurant Week Day 2: Part II
I have just taken the entire food order for Table 48. "Great, can I get any of you another drink at the moment? Or anything else?"
"No, but I do have a question," one of the guests says, "And I'm only asking this for her," she says pointing across the table at her friend. "How do you get your hair like that? Do you do something to it? Or is it just naturally curly?
I am tickled. "Heaven's, no! My hair has been bleached so much it has like negative curl. All of this and more can be yours with the right tools and a ton of product. I use a roller set," I say, and launch into a lengthy explanation of how I styled my hair this morning, curling it around the rollers, wrapping it in a scarf like an old lady, letting it set for hours while I write and work on my PR stufff. The women look on in rapt attention.
Apparently my hair-do is exactly what the shy friend wants her wedding hair to look like. She has gorgeous delicate bone structure and is going to look exactly like Grace Kelly all curled up like this, I can just tell.
These people are cool. Maybe Restaurant Week ain't so bad.
"No, but I do have a question," one of the guests says, "And I'm only asking this for her," she says pointing across the table at her friend. "How do you get your hair like that? Do you do something to it? Or is it just naturally curly?
I am tickled. "Heaven's, no! My hair has been bleached so much it has like negative curl. All of this and more can be yours with the right tools and a ton of product. I use a roller set," I say, and launch into a lengthy explanation of how I styled my hair this morning, curling it around the rollers, wrapping it in a scarf like an old lady, letting it set for hours while I write and work on my PR stufff. The women look on in rapt attention.
Apparently my hair-do is exactly what the shy friend wants her wedding hair to look like. She has gorgeous delicate bone structure and is going to look exactly like Grace Kelly all curled up like this, I can just tell.
These people are cool. Maybe Restaurant Week ain't so bad.
Restaurant Week Day 2
Table 51 is fighting with me about the Restaurant Week menu.
At Toro, RW dinner for 2 people includes 1 pincho per person and 5 tapas per person. The amount of food scales per the size of the party. These ladies minsunderstood my explanation, however, and tried to order 10 tapas total. I explain to them that a normal meal at Toro is usually 2-3 tapas each, so this amount of food is pretty much on target. They then begin to argue with me about whether Restaurant Week is actually a deal, thinking they've been had.
I determine the best way to put this all into perspective is to show them the normal (more expensive) menu and offer to move them to the bar to order off the normal menu if they like. They ultimately decide to stay.
Then they tell me that they expect each portion to come out specifically sized for 2 people. "That's what you just told us," they said.
"No, actually, that's not what I told you," I explain. My tone is polite and soft but the minute the words are out of my mouth, one of the women looks like her eyes are going to pop out of her head. Oops, guess that was the wrong thing to say.
Sweet Jesus, do people hate to be told when they're wrong.
And I totally hate Restaurant Week.
At Toro, RW dinner for 2 people includes 1 pincho per person and 5 tapas per person. The amount of food scales per the size of the party. These ladies minsunderstood my explanation, however, and tried to order 10 tapas total. I explain to them that a normal meal at Toro is usually 2-3 tapas each, so this amount of food is pretty much on target. They then begin to argue with me about whether Restaurant Week is actually a deal, thinking they've been had.
I determine the best way to put this all into perspective is to show them the normal (more expensive) menu and offer to move them to the bar to order off the normal menu if they like. They ultimately decide to stay.
Then they tell me that they expect each portion to come out specifically sized for 2 people. "That's what you just told us," they said.
"No, actually, that's not what I told you," I explain. My tone is polite and soft but the minute the words are out of my mouth, one of the women looks like her eyes are going to pop out of her head. Oops, guess that was the wrong thing to say.
Sweet Jesus, do people hate to be told when they're wrong.
And I totally hate Restaurant Week.
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