A Good Case of VD

     I'm confused... Where was the drama, February 14th? I have a blog here, and if I write another wine post, I could scare off my few readers forever!

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     I was grumbling all afternoon yesterday, absolutely dreading Valentine's. I almost always get stuck with deuce after deuce of awkward newbie diners who ask a million questions about the menu and then order water and pasta. It's a "step up" night, where our regulars go to better restaurants, and folks who can barely afford ours fill the books.

     At 4:30 we had 229 reservations (vs. 150 or so for a busy Saturday). The phone was ringing and ringing and the boss had yet to arrive. I was holding my breath, waiting for some form of disaster to occur but it never came. However, no crazy night goes by without a few hiccups:

Flying by the seat of our pants, as usual- The boss' printer broke down, so he came in late with the night's menus- sort of an important item to have ready. A few servers swarmed over the stack of paper, quickly changing out the menu boards, just, just, as the line began to form at the podium.

     Also stations weren't assigned yet, another vital element of preparation since the floor plan was completely different with additional two-top tables. Flustered, bossman tried to set up stations as he was getting through seating the line of waiting guests. When he realized he'd  left out one of the servers from his plan, he threw his hands in the air, "You guys take whatever you want!" We all quickly conferred with each other and manned our stations, with no interruption of service on the floor. We are good with each other like that, and the boss was happy.

Deluded last minute reservation calls- I was standing at the bar well, asking the bartender about a transfer. The boss' voice came behind us as he veered away from the host stand with the phone. His pitch was a little high and odd, disbelieving: "7:15? No I'm sorry we are booked until 9:30." The bartender looked at the time: 6:50. Without needing to say anything, we started laughing.

Newbie loses his cool- Our very young, sweet day food runner was in to help the night expo. He came flying up the short stairs in the bus station into the kitchen, swearing: "That motherfucker, I'm going to fucking punch him in the mouth..." he was saying. I was a little concerned our newbie wasn't able to handle the stress of a crazy night. But then I found out who he was dealing with: One of my least favorite assholes, the misogynistic prick who I wrote about in the story Where to Shove the Pepper Grinder. I gave our newbie runner an even more explicative-laden description of dude, and he grinned widely with relief. It's always nice to know you are not alone.

     Oh, and true to form, the jackass customer tipped the server $25 on a 225 bill.

     Our improvements over the last year (remodeling, better chairs and lighting) seem to pay off this holiday. Our "sexy" was sufficient to draw our regular group of customers, and encourage them to rack up decently sized checks. And inexplicably, I kept popping 20 dollar tips on 80 dollar tabs, making up for the usual holiday 15 percenters. I even averaged over 20% tips for the night, which is simply unheard of on what is famously known as a restaurant amateur night.

     At the end of the night, we checked the sales and were disbelieving, having hit a new record. Bossman was content and I was relieved.

March of the Pens

The Elves Get Stabby

     The six-pack of wine rested on the mats at my feet. This half-sized wine case, so petite and easy to lift, had become a hurdle. It was over-zealously taped together, as though whoever had shipped it was a chronic tape-waster or simply took delight in envisioning a box monkey somewhere trying to wrestle this package free. Normally I would mount an efficient assault on such a mess, but this day was different.

     Somehow I hurt my lower back this week. This is in spite of a mellow schedule this holiday season, where I haven't had to do any doubles or banquet events, only a few extra shifts. Yet Wednesday I was lifting plates and felt an uncomfortable pressure in my back; By Friday the same motion produced a "Holy hot Chihuahua, that hurts!" Bending down was the worst, feeling like half a dozen miniature pitchfork-wielding elves were stabbing my lower back. Fortunately walking around was only minimally painful.

     Naturally, however, everything I had to get to in the wine room was low to the ground. At the end of the month, and end of the year in particular, the wine room is a ghost of itself, with the remaining cases lingering in bottom cubbies. It seemed like these survivors were either hiding or taunting me, like the mummy-taped six-pack of wine. Every time I reached down toward the small case to swipe at its wrappings with a butter knife, the pain shot back. Once I'd finally maneuvered it open, I had to try and get the bottles out. I lifted one bottle, ok, then the second, hmm, but by the third it was, oh hell no! I got down on my knees and set the bottles on a low shelf, then transported those bottles to their home cubby. A one-armed kangaroo could have handled this process about as quickly and efficiently.

     The boss man came in to help for a second, ripping open a couple cases of wine and throwing them into a cubby in no time. Meanwhile, I was dinking around, stuck with my one bottle, two bottle shuffle. Doh.

Loose Pens

     Every server knows the pen game. By the end of the day, half of those tawdry buggers will be in someone else's apron or purse; If not, it must have been a slow night. It is fully possible to walk in to work with ten black Bics, only to have them all vanish or curiously be replaced by some glittery clickers or others that are sporting some off-the-wall company logo.

     Last night, instead of a slow dwindle, my pens took more drastic measures to escape. My work apron has developed a giant hole in one of the pockets, so I had my kit and server book all stuffed into one side. Every other time I pulled out my server book, a pen came flipping out. I started feeling like I was pooping pens everywhere. They dropped in front of my tables, in the kitchen, in the bus station... I would gaze at them forlornly, knowing that the stabby elves awaited me if I tried to bend over to pick them up. So low, I admonished my writing implements. Running away while you know you can...

     A pen popped out onto the server station's floor, and I stared. It was one of my last pens left. I said to a coworker, "If you want to pick that up, it's yours." I would never ask them to get it for me. It was the way of the pen game- If they went to the effort of picking it up, it belonged to them. Nevertheless, I had the tiniest hope that this person might take pity and offer it back. But alas, the server picked it up and threw it in his pocket without hesitation and walked away. I sighed, thinking, Don't hate the player, hate the game. I would have done the same thing.

Ghosts of Kitchens Past

     We are rapidly approaching the point of declaring our restaurant a disaster zone‒ At lunch, booze-fueled Christmas parties wreak havoc on eardrums, the bartenders (Another bloody mary?? I just made five!) and our carpets, strewn with the crumbs of bread-devouring hordes, and littered with scraps of wrapping paper and forgotten gift bags; Dinners are filled with awkward family reunions and staring out-of-towners who don't "dine" much. Soon I expect to find my fellow servers (or myself) hiding in a corner somewhere rocking gently and murmuring: "No we don't have white zin! No white zin!"

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     I have a few things to be incredibly thankful for this season: We are NOT open Christmas eve or Christmas day this year (yay, doing a dance in my seat as I type); I haven't as yet had to work a double; And the fact we have the most awesome, efficient kitchen staff.

     Seriously, our cooks are restaurant ninjas. Night after night they crank out dishes that so rarely get sent back, I almost forget what it was like to work in a place where I had to cringe in fear every time I did my "two bites, two minutes" check back with tables. We are constantly complimented on Yelp and OT about our speedy service, which is largely thanks to them.

     Even better, we have little of the drama usually associated with FOH/BOH relations: No yelling, no insults, no imminent threats of thrown, sharp objects. Instead I get songs (reliving our inglorious past attempts at karaoke), smiles, and a maybe a grumpy-but-funny "What the fuck, how are you?" from the sous chef.

     In previous jobs I was not so fortunate. Here are some of my least favorite ghosts of kitchens past:

HEE HAW

     Kitchen workers are not always happy with their lot in life, understandably, and with their relative level of income in particular. I used to work with a prep cook who was handsome and smart enough that, with better opportunities, he could have been in the movies, or cutting high-stakes business deals somewhere, not baking brownies and making whipped cream for minimum wage.

     This cook's anger was regularly visible in his glinting eyes, his huge biceps flexed and threatening. Any question was met with an immediate "no" in spite of it being our policy to agree to special requests. To one of the girls, sensitive about her looks, he would pull out his ears and make loud donkey noises. Dread and tears became the typical result of having to ask for a simple side of salad dressing.

     Once, I was chatting with the cooks about how I'd visited Palo Alto earlier that day. "Palo Alto?" Mr. Raging Testosterone asked me. In Spanish this translates to "tall stick"; He grabbed a huge meat mallet and slammed it with all his roid-enhanced strength on a countertop a foot away from me. I spent the rest of the night with my ears ringing (I never let him make me cry though. Asshole.)

     His aggressive use of stimulants ended up being his downfall. The cops busted him driving drunk and in possession of cocaine, and that was the last I saw of him. I felt the smallest twinge of sadness for him, as he did have a more charming side, evident when he was out dancing; But this sentiment didn't last long, as our kitchen was blissfully peaceful after his departure.

QUUUEEE?

     I am still haunted to this day by the memory of a salad cook with large, empty eyes, and her broken record-like refrain: QUUUEEE? QUUUEEE?

     Peppers, a large corporate chain, had one constant frustration: the salad, fry and grill sides operated independently of one another, forcing servers to do a hokey-pokey juggle between them. On busy nights, getting all of a table's food to appear at the same time was a miracle.

     It was never sizzling fajitas or burgers that were our usual hang-ups however, but salads, a station worked at a turtle's pace by a resentful cook with big, frozen brown eyes. Simple questions or condiment requests were met with one response: "QUUEEE?" One time I was stiffed by a 6-top, who was livid that it took ten minutes to receive a side of guacamole for their fajitas. Management got tired of having to comp salad items for tables, and one day she disappeared.

Toast Wars

     At a mom-and-pop breakfast place, my first serving job, the unassuming side window where the toast came out became a battle ground every Sunday. I knew that the myriad of toast options was confusing and annoying to a kitchen much more concerned with omelet preparation; Unfortunately to our customers, toast wasn't nearly so unimportant, and they would loudly remind us of this at every opportunity. We would in turn, pressured by our tables, sit at the toast window begging for our damn English muffins and rye. A very meek, polite server was surprised once when a plate and its buttered, crunchy contents came flying at her, hitting her in the chest.

     One table of regulars showed me what they thought of the situation. Their five orders of toast came out as they were finishing their meal, in spite of me pleading with the kitchen and risking having plates thrown in my direction. As a reward they left a few pennies and dimes on the table, and a dollar bill stuffed into a syrup ramekin.

     All of these lovely experiences make me *heart* my current kitchen staff and their smiling faces so much.

     Have a wonderful holiday everyone!