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| My pet lobster, Shelly |
At this kind of job, you have to have some pretty thick skin. More shifts than not, I am typically surrounded by almost all male servers, who enjoy nothing more than the idea of making me uncomfortable. If you haven't learned already, it's pretty difficult to make me squirm, so it's usually just them asking me to make out, slapping my ass, and using food in every sexual way possible. Just guess how many clam references I heard the other day... Yesterday's conversation topics ranged from anal sex, to gangbangs, to the size of our manager's ass and whether that constitutes as the perfect bum. Typical.
When it comes to actually waiting on tables (which is the thing that happens in between our conversations, sexual harassment, and plain old goofing off), we're all experienced enough that we have it down to a science. It's not often that you will find any of us getting flustered by a table. If a few guests are being difficult, we typically laugh about it and send a manager to the table to smooth things over. There are a few situations, though, that even a manager doesn't have control over.
Campers: At the end of the night, it's that group of buddies, or those two guys in a business meeting at 10PM, who refuse to leave. The strategy to get them to haul ass out of there without sacrificing your tip? Clear everything off of their table, stop filling their water glasses, try to grab the unpaid check off of the table, and if all else fails, stare at them. They usually get the idea. And for future reference, if you are one of those people, move to the bar. The bartender have to stay until close, and you're usually keeping your server from going home, even after you have paid your check. This isn't a coffee shop or a conference room, so don't treat it that way.
Next, The Bitch: Every once and a while you get that one table where you can't do anything right according to "the bitch". Even if you send a manager over, forget it, most of the time you're getting a 10% tip. I've had tables that have talked down to me telling me that "their purse is worth more than I'll make in a month", or "how could I possibly know what a $200 bottle of wine tastes like?" Look, asshole, just because I'm not sitting at the table next to you, doesn't mean I'm any less of a person. In fact, I'm pretty sure I've got moral fiber for days compared to you, purely because you said something that superficial. So, instead of buttering up that table, I usually just go back to the kitchen and convince one of the line cooks to make me something yummy because unlike my screwed up guests, I actually get to eat like this everyday.
The person who is allergic to everything: Why bother going out to eat? Oh, you're allergic to gluten, nuts, coconut oil, and shellfish? Who on god's green earth told you it was a good idea to go to a seafood restaurant? Not only is it a pain in the ass for the kitchen, you're holding your entire table's food up because you couldn't brown paper bag it and save everyone the trouble. The worst part is, it's usually the people with these allergies who feel the most entitled to expedient service. You know how many more steps we have to go through in order to cover our asses in case you have an allergic reaction? A LOT. If you have a major special request, sorry amigo, it's going to take a little more time.
Today... was a little more interesting than usual.
"Mangria", one of the locals, was perched up at his usual spot on the bar. We got to talking and he mentioned how I probably don't like to date black guys. (He couldn't be more wrong.) Just as I was mentioning how I used to date a guy of the chocolate persuasion... he walked by. No joke. We'll call him George (Foreman). George and I had a brief stint back at the beginning of Fall. We had a bit of a falling out when I found out he was seeing someone else. I have no problem dating more than one person at a time, obviously, but it ended up being someone that I knew, so I elected to opt out of that sticky situation. Low and behold, Mangria knew George and invited him in. Usually, I love to let awkward situations just wash over me, but this is one I would have preferred to avoid.
Without any hesitation, I sauntered over to George and gave him a big hug. "Wow, hey, forgot you worked here blah blah blah," he said. "You look great blah blah blah, how have you been blah blah blah, we should grab lunch blah blah blah..." Yeah, whatever George, you had your chance. While I'd love to stay and chat, I have better things to do, like pick up a bottle of Veuve for Triathlete's birthday today, and then get laid. Have a nice life bro. Second chances are a luxury I rarely pass out.
That's just another reminder of how small this city really is.
'Til next time,
A Babe In Boston
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