I started working
for a well known bar and grill restaurant whose uniforms resembled a cross
between a soccer referee and a circus performer. Stripes are supposedly slimming, but I never
felt attractive donning the black, red and white monstrosity. I suppose the circus get-up was appropriate
considering the employees and customers made you feel like you were in a big top
performance.
Servers
are a unique breed. They are a mixture
of people with Peter Pan syndrome, gay men, lifers and college students. And then there was me- who never quite fit
in. I was just this lost soul trying to
find myself and using this as a pit stop.
My first day I was informed that in addition to serving delicious hot wings, I would also be gracing customers' with hearing my vocal chords. For those of you that have
been to restaurants and think it looks like fun to dance and sing while you are
at work, you are sadly mistaken. Let me
paint a picture for you so you can understand.
It’s
a crazy Friday night and I’m at a table “trying” to take an order. Out of the corner of my eye I see that the
hostess has double sat me. Yikes, I’ll just bang this order out and swing by the other tables, I
think.
The
family in front of me has other plans.
They have asked so many questions I’m convinced they think they are on a
game show and will be rewarded for their behavior. Does
the soda have free refills? Does the
cheeseburger come with fries? What
exactly is in the barbeque sauce? Does
it have a kick to it or is it like normal sauce? Is there seasoning on the steak? How much does it cost to add a salad? Does the salad have croutons on it? Where’s the bathroom? The questions were becoming a blur and my
new tables were starting to do the “look around” for the server. I try
to brush them off gently. “It looks like
you might need some more time, I’ll give you a few more minutes.” As I say this, I start to turn but the
mother interjects. “No, we’re ready. Kelsie, you go first.”
Kelsie
is probably about fourteen with frizzy hair and wild eyes. She has been studying the menu intensely
through this whole process like she is preparing for a calculus exam. She breathes a long sigh and then looks up at
me through some wisps of hair. “I’m
soooo confused.”
Through
clenched teeth, I try to ask patiently what she is confused about. I can already sense it. She is looking at our pick two menu which is
an entrée and either a dessert or
appetizer for ten dollars. That’s all
there is to it. I swear. But people want to make it more complicated. They will order an entrée, appetizer and
dessert. Let’s see-that’s three
things. Try again. They will order two entrees. Nope- still wrong. Or my favorite- they will order two entrees,
two appetizers and two desserts. And
then they will be pissed when you make a light-hearted joke that that would be
a great deal but no, that’s not right either.
Kelsie
looks at me with her wild eyes. “I don’t
get this,” she said. Her face is getting
red and she looks like she is about to have a panic attack. Meanwhile, her brother has picked up a knife
and is stabbing the remains of a mozzarella stick that was leftover on the
appetizer plate. He has not said much at
this point and seems to be taking greater pleasure than normal in the stabbing
motions. I can’t take it at this point. I tell neurotic family that I have to grabs
drinks for another table and will be right back.
I
dash over to my first new table hoping that it will be smooth sailing. It’s not.
They are foreigners which means it will take me twice as long because I
will be repeating everything. Well, at
least I can take their drink orders quick.
I plaster on my fake smile and ask what they would like to drink. The first guy looks up at me and says, “I
would like salty lemon water.”
“Oh,
you mean lemonade,” I said as I jotted it down.
The
guy shakes his head vehemently. “No,
no. Not lemonade. Salty lemon water.”
At
this point, I’m stumped. Maybe in India
they serve this delicious drink but not in America. I decide to pretend I know what he’s talking
about. “Oh, yes. I’ll be right back with that.”
As
I run to the kitchen, I swoop by table 65 to collect my tip. Wait- this can’t possibly be right. I count it again. They
left me a $1.50 on an eighty dollar bill??!!
As I stand there contemplating what is wrong with mankind, I hear
the familiar yelling. “I need birthday
singers for table 40 on the double!”
Oh, did you forget about the birthday singing from earlier? Yeah- I’m not in the mood to do it right now
either…
