Bruised Fruit

     I had the oddest breakfast dining experience while on vacation in Monterey. Well I actually didn't get to eat at this place, though I tried to, twice.

     Because I think I might write an email to the owner, until I hear back I will call this locale The Disheveled Pluot. I always look for these type of organic cafés when I travel, places where smiling hippies serve flavorful, energy-packed pancakes loaded with blueberries, mochas served in big old-lady mugs with fresh-made whipped cream, and sides of nitrate-free (thus slightly less guilty) applewood-smoked bacon. If I'm going to get up at 8 am for once, this is how I roll.

     On first attempt, we crammed into The Pluot's tiny entryway area, behind two groups of three waiting for a table. We could barely see past them to survey the scene, but finally grasped that of the ten or so tables packed into the small space, not much was happening. No one looked about to leave and no one bothered to take our name down on a wait list. Shrug. So we went down the road and found something quick and tasty; the cappuccino at this other spot was on the bitter side but it was small sacrifice to avoid waiting list purgatory.

     The following day we showed up, the restaurant was still full but we were first in line, with a three-top stepping in behind us. Was I was finally on my way to mocha heaven? Nope; as we stood there with full view of the restaurant, we noticed that the sleepy, still air pervaded yet again. In front of us a man at a four-top was literally twirling around a check presenter with a credit card in the air, trying to get someone's attention‒not a good sign. His wife was trying to keep their baby from going ballistic, and she eventually had to escort the little one away, while he continued to flash his plastic. After several minutes a server finally appeared to take the card, and she at least said "hi" to us in passing. She didn't return with the credit card for several more minutes, and she didn't have anything else in her hands. I could have run around the block several times in the amount of time it took her to run the charge.

     Meanwhile, we watched the rest of the servers‒we counted four‒occasionally dart out from behind the bakery counter to take an order or drop food then disappear again. There were long stretches of time where there was not a single server in sight, and tables clearly needed things. The only thing we could think was, maybe they were cooking the food? Why else would they disappear for so long? Two tables opened up and we waited, waited, for anyone to clear them. When that finally happened, and a server gestured for us to take a seat, no one reappeared to wipe the table, set it, or bring menus. We waited five more minutes before leaving. Since no one was on the floor, they didn't even see us leave.

     When we later checked Yelp, sure enough, people had split reviews: 4 or 5 stars for food, 1 or 2 for service. Almost every complaint was speed related. Two reviews were written while the customers were waiting for their food (oh the beauty of smart phones). An average time to have breakfast was an hour and a half. Clearly this owner just does not give a fuck, not one flying fuck about service. I will be curious to see if they even bother to respond to an email.

     Denied yummy organic goodness on this second go, we instead went for a tried-and-true diner that advertises "Good Eats and Crazy Waitresses." The slogan made me cringe but you know what? That crazy chick showed up at our table with a smile and had coffee, menus, and food out in short order. We left her a 30% tip.

A Wino's First Steps

A wee bit of time here at the Wino and I've learned a few things:

• Nice people finish last and so, apparently, do posts about nice things, judging by the anemic response to the last article. So far top posts have involved: stupid people, insane behavior, poo, and a certain undeserving celebrity.

• Strictly wine posts don't work. I started off wanting to talk more about the business of wine buying but a couple things have hindered me: a) no one cares, and b) I can't seem to get fired up about it myself. I'd go to tastings and be like, "Wow, I should write something about this," and never get around to it. Now a story about crop dusting? I'll have that ready in a hour flat.

• Other bloggers are super cool. They are at your left, check them out. Having some good laughs over their posts has helped me figure out what the hell this blog is about. And I've been surprised by how thoughtful and supportive they have been for this fledgling blog: Fly little wino, fly! 

• Bitching about work is not only therapeutic, it has helped me identify things I need to "fix." Boss man and I had a long talk the other day on what we can improve on, and this weekend went pretty damn well as a result. My customers are still nuts of course, but having a positive work environment makes them more tolerable.

• I've figured out what this blog is not. In response to that, I have a couple other projects in the works: One is a wine education web site that will attempt to make wine funny and interesting to your average non-caring server. I know a lot of people in the biz that need wine knowledge to increase their tippage, but don't want to pick up a book, and I don't blame them‒ that shit is boring. The second project will be a photo/general life silliness site. Because people don't really want to look at pictures of my cats on a serving blog.

Thanks again for the views and positive comments! I'll get right back to writing more posts about doodie and inappropriate customers.

The Nicest Thing I Ever Did for a Customer

     I believe in niceness. I know this seems a bit odd considering the amount of bitching I do here, and maybe I indulge in the occasional passive-aggressive ploy, but at heart I'm a giant sappy-pants and am genuinely kind to others. So often though, thoughtful behavior goes unnoticed and unrequited. I supposed this is the root of my bitchyness; People's general lack of morality or niceness is depressing.

     The recipient of this act was hardly a likely suspect. He was slightly built and odd looking; picture Sméagol, with clothes, a tan, a mop of grey hair that was always askew, glasses and beady eyes. And, oh yeah, dude was definitely a Creeper. He was a counter regular at my first serving job in a breakfast café, remarkable because he would leave an assortment of change for a tip (usually under a dollar), and would stare at us with his dark, pinprick eyes, making the occasional off-color comment. Whatever he said was usually hesitant and choppy, as if he had little practice talking to people.

     I was alone at the counter one day, with just the chef and a line cook in the kitchen. It was early evening.  We had just started doing dinners, so we were painfully slow- not unexpected considering the porcelain cow sugar containers on the tables and other assorted farmhouse decor. Sméagol came in to purchase a coffee at the register. He was smiling and excited for once, saying more to me than usual, though it was difficult to understand; something about getting a new job, doing his laundry across the parking lot, whatever. He left and I was thankful he wasn't staying to eat. 

     We finally got a couple customers so I was busy setting them up for a minute, practically forgetting that Creeper dude had ever come in. When I cruised back to the kitchen I noticed something on the register counter. The outline of the object was unmistakable, grabbing my attention‒a wad of money.

     I picked it up. The bills were all hundreds. As I slowly counted them, seven in total, I was awestruck. It felt like a small fortune in my hands. This was more than ten years ago and it was the exact amount of my rent, which I was probably going to be late on given the incredibly slow state of dinners. I made good money during my day shifts but at night I was walking with like 20 or 30 bucks. I showed the chef and he was excited for me: "It was meant to be!" he said, "A gift from above!" I wasn't so sure about that. I tucked the money under the register, knowing it had to belong to somebody. I almost didn't want the responsibility of guarding over that money, but part of me prayed no one would show up to claim it and it would be mine.

     No way it could have belonged to Sméagol, I rationalized. When he came in, he always got the cheapest breakfast and left a nominal tip, and, from what I'd gathered, he'd just gone through a spate of unemployment. How he could rolling around with a wad of hundreds?

     But he appeared a half hour later, his rail-thin frame visibly shaking, almost white in spite of his tan. He'd just finished his laundry and realized something important was missing: his hiring bonus from his new job. "I don't know what happened," he said. He started explaining his activities in the last couple hours, how he'd checked the seat in his truck...

     I slowly, heavily walked to the register. "I think I know what happened," I passed him the wad of hundreds. "It must have fallen out when you were paying for your coffee." He was beside himself with relief, his "thank yous" tumbling out in stuttering succession.

     A week later he came in for breakfast. He smiled when he saw me. "Here, I have something for you," he said, and held out my prize:

     A See's lollipop. And from then on he improved his tippage too: instead of leaving an assortment of change, he started tipping a full dollar bill.

     As an interesting aside, I was fired from this job because they suspected me of stealing. Never mind that I was alone for months during those empty dinner shifts and not a dollar ever went missing from my till. One of my co-workers hated the boss and thought it was fitting punishment to steal from him. She didn't even need the money; she later told me, to my shock, how she went and bought potholders and other frivolous things to decorate her kitchen with the money. But I had been young and naive enough to let my rent problems be known, and my co-worker waited until she worked shifts with me to lift the money. She quit the day I got fired, as the jig was up. Needless to say, when this all came to light, we were not friends anymore.

     Also funny to note: the thieving chick was also an uber-smug hippie who would lecture me on recycling and want to go on nature walks and shit.

     I don't know what the conclusion of this story is. Morality is complex?  Morality is bullshit? Nice people get pooped on? I do know that I would have given the money back 100% of the time, even if it would have saved me from being homeless. My hippie co-worker would have kept that wad-o-dough, leaving Sméagol to rot, and bought herself a nice set of pots and pans, and maybe some decorative napkin holders.

Dusting the Vampires

For an introduction to the art of winning see Part One.

Situation: Late-Night Campers

     In the home-stretch of the evening, after business has dwindled down to a few lonely tables, they appear at our door. The Lundershags, looking like two ghosts from the sixties: Tim, with his thick, owlish aviator glasses and buzz cut, and Sandy, with her hair pinned tightly, small face fringed with silver-blond bangs, and shoulders hugged by a white knit wrap. They quietly saddle up to the host stand, oblivious to the stir their presence has caused behind the kitchen doors. Despite their unassuming demeanor they are here for one thing: to get their party on.

     Los vampiros, the vampires, are here; the news always spreads as fast as breath to the staff, instantly eliciting moans of disappointment.  Plans of a big meal, a refreshing beverage, a conversation with a loved one, or just sleep, are now on a two-hour hold. The servers scurry to start counting the remaining tables, as whoever has the most is stuck closing, their turn to be chained to restaurant 'till almost midnight‒Tag, you're it! As we say. Those who are already done immediately feel like they've scored the jackpot for the evening.

      This couple does their best to extend whatever rocking lifestyle they lived back in the day into the wee years of their lives. To start: a vodka rocks for the lady (with a large straw, not those dinky little ones) and a 100-proof whiskey water for the gent. They settle into their usual corner, and have another round or two before they even contemplate the menu. Little Sandy, despite looking like a doting grandma who likes to bake cakes, can put away liquor in a more controlled, efficient fashion than your average 25-year-old bartender. During their course of their meal, she has about three vodkas and finishes with a double Tuaca, and who knows how much more she imbibes before their usual bedtime of 5 am. They sometimes laugh a bit at us servers, as we are yawning as midnight approaches. Amateurs, they must think. 

     No one hates the Lundershags (well, no one except one of my bussers who has to wake up at 6 am most days) because they are kind and tip well. Though they wait until five minutes before closing to order, their routine is at least familiar and easy. They even invite many staff members of the restaurants they  mildly torture- frequent to their yearly Christmas party, complete with prizes, free booze and lots of food. They gravitate toward the oddballs, the musicians, the tattooed, the scruffy; they are funny to talk to and we enjoy trying to figure out what exactly they were up to 30 years ago. We treat them well, as they are part of our weird little family after all. The worst thing they've ever been subjected to at our restaurant is perhaps overhearing our busser not-so-quietly cursing up a storm in his station; At other restaurants, they haven't been always been so lucky.

Tactic: Crop Dusting

     Let's preface this discussion by saying that servers are not the most mature lot. With sleeping in late most days and the fact that it's easier to get alcohol than food when leaving a shift at 11 pm, the average maturity level of a server is about that of a trust fund kid who has just turned 18. Add to that a certain unhinged quality that comes from being berated like an misbehaving child for doing something as slight as forgetting to bring a straw for someone's water, and there is potential disaster afoot.

     A case of burble butt at work is a complicated situation. It's hard to find a good place to alleviate a little gaseous pressure, as there is, at every turn, someone who will be blown up by it. The best a server can do is run to the bathroom and let try to let the sucker go peacefully, all the while praying there won't be a customer waiting on the other side of the door, who they will have to sheepishly face. Now this is the behavior of mature servers, at a restaurant with nice management; For an unhappy crew, any gifts of hot fetid air can instead be carried around during service, locked and loaded for the staff to unleash at will.

     At a restaurant very similar to mine‒same prices, same style of food, even most of the same regulars‒the art of "crop dusting" was at one time very popular. The game was simple: another server bitching about a shitty table? Oh here, I got that for you, and whoever had a stinker on deck would make a quick pass by the offending table and drop a stealth nugget of butt stench. Or a server was acting like a jerk? Again, a little walk through their station to let go some bottom rumblings upon any table who happened to be, say, enjoying an expensive bottle of wine. Unlike my restaurant, where we genuinely like the owners and would never dream of violating the air supply in such a way, at this spot the owner was a giant dick face. The servers spread their discontent in the form of noxious intestinal tumult, of which there was a seemingly unending supply; especially as their favorite shift meal was a creamy pasta dish, which they would load with fresh cut jalapenos. The UN could have posed a raid of the restaurant for the WMD-level of fire butt collectively held by the staff.

     It was almost inevitable that the Lundershags would be dusted at some point, as years of weekly visits had taken their toll on the staff. However, they ended up being the recipients of one of the most evil clouds of rot butt that the restaurant had ever seen.

     The servers were standing in the back server station, the one place where the boss couldn't watch them. The Lundershags were in their usual spot, maybe 20 feet away, one of the few tables remaining on a slow weekday night. "What shall we do?" the question was posed. One of the servers had the answer‒he was Mexican, and his chili-eating habit had left him that night with some extra-fiery volcanic activity in his guts. He made a quick swoop through his station to straighten a few chairs, and then paused, tilting his rear slightly to the side. He returned to the server station grinning. The others servers didn't know it yet but he'd felt it; he'd just unleashed the hottest, most lethal of silent-but-deadlys.

     The servers almost immediately began to gag; the smell was thick enough to taste and strong enough to floor a 300-pound bouncer. They were flushed from their cubby-like server station and to the other side of the restaurant, watching in horror as the Lundershags were left to eat their meals under the settling fart cloud. One of my friends had to eventually brave this no-go zone to retrieve the couple's plates. Even with the stench in retreat it was still foul enough to make him hold his breath. The Lundershags bore the injustice brought upon them well‒ While they looked sufficiently discomforted they didn't say a word about it, knowing perhaps that for their repeated incursion into the hollowed after-hours' space of the restaurant they would eventually run into some "playful" opposition.

     Whether the Lundershags ever deserved to be fart bombed to this degree is up for debate. They've never done anything to me, personally, to warrant this kind of wrath from my end. I will admit, however, that on a slow night when I'm closing server, and I watch them quietly creep up to the host station, I have this image‒ the two of them silently chewing their food in a hot cloud of SPD‒ to comfort me. I'm still thinking aww, damn, but at least I have something to genuinely smile about.

Hot Pasta

     His menu is down. He looks relaxed, chatting with his friend. He has done this many times before and does not feel the need to rush. Every course and step is allowed to unfold naturally, every moment relished. For this is not a McDonald's– No tray of paper-wrapped mystery meat will be shoved under his face by some careless teenager. He is paying good money for artfully prepared food to be served in a thoughtful manner, to dine.

     He makes eye contact, as I approach. My body language is soft, shoulders back, head cocked to the side, my hello gentle. I ask how they are doing, but don't really care about the response, as that is not the aim of my question. I am acknowledging your presence immediately so that I gain your trust for the course of the evening.

     He nods in return. Thank you. Your friendly presence has put me at ease. I'm looking forward to a good meal.

     "May I start you with a cocktail?" It's been a long day hasn't it? Let me fix that.

     "Yes, I'll take a vodka martini with," pauses, "an olive and an onion." Yes it has been a long day, I shouldn't have to compromise with my beverage.

     The experienced diner. We speak the same language, he and I; He knows how to ask for what he wants, and I in turn can serve him flawlessly. Drinks, wine service, setting, clearing, resetting, it all becomes a seemingly effortless dance. I am allowed to feel, for short time, the frustrations of my job ebb away.

     But we in the service industry are not always charged with the care of so skilled a guest. I get all kinds, and they all want the same thing from me: a stiff drink and a hot plate of pasta. But the inexperienced guest is often flustered, anxious about how things will proceed. I do my best to weave my spell, to make them feel safe and satisfied.

     I approach my lost-looking fellow, calmly smiling. "How are–"

     "We're not ready yet!" He and his companion look frayed, pouring over the menu like they are deciphering an ancient manuscript.

     "I was just wondering if I could start you off with a couple beverages?" Now, now there.. (cooing noises) It's going to be all better once you have a little drinky-poo.

     "Do you have any house wine?" HELP I am scared of spending too much money here.

     I guide him to the wines by the glass list. "I don't recognize any of these names.. Ugh, that's fine I guess," he points to the cheapest glass.

     He begins asking questions about every other word of the menu, clearly unfamiliar with the terminology. I am terrified of ordering something I don't like. I don't understand any of this crap! Why does the menu have to be so complicated!

     I patiently explain the unfamiliar words, try to make the dishes seem appetizing. Trust me, our dishes are very popular, you will like them. Try something different.

     Mid-explanation he interrupts: "That's not what the menu says! What are you, NEW?" If I don't get something to eat soon I'm going to lose my shit.

     I take a deep, deep, long breath. The spell is dangerously close to being undone. "No." I firmly point to the menu and finish my description.

     I leave the table and look around wistfully. Some nights my section is full of these braying, incompetent diners. Where is he, my confident guest?  I'll wonder. Please come and save me from these fools...

Tales from the Diner- Part One

Ahh, the worst job ever...

I generally try not to think about "the bad old days," and from the relative safety of my fine-dining enclave it's easy to forget. But lately I've been reading a lot of other blogs, and I think I would be remiss in not sharing some of my own old war stories. This series is about my stint in a 24-hour diner in a college town. Though humbling to relate, this experience, of all the weird crap I've lived through in a restaurant, was by far the wildest and funniest. Enjoy.

***

     It took me three different times to work up the courage to go in. Every time I stood outside the front of the restaurant‒ the tacky orange vinyl booths visible from the street, and colorful, cheap-looking paint on the windows advertising the special of the month, "two-for-one chicken fried steak!" or some other monstrosity, equally glaring‒ I'd feel this sense of foreboding, the voice in my head whispering urgently for me to stay away. I have to imagine that visitors to some Bates Motel-type location would feel similarly, having an inkling of their own impending doom.

     But I had bills to pay. Rent was late, again. I'd applied everywhere, absolutely everywhere, in the small college town, but all the semi-decent to good gigs were unattainable. The buff, young male manager would look at me‒ plain, shy, pale, brunette‒ like I was dogshit, and add my resume to the existing 2-inch stack. "It's a tough market," they'd tell me with a certain amount of genuine pity.

     I'd worked for one month at a cheesy Italian restaurant but it hadn't worked out. We had to wear the most demeaning outfits: a frumpy Italian peasant girl costume, complete with tights, short red skirt, and a "snood." I was the breakfast server, starting at 5 am, which meant I didn't sleep a wink before work. Twice I ran the coffee without a pot underneath, getting coffee everywhere, and then, while cutting green onions, I almost sliced the tip of my thumb clean off. My worst offence was that I had, in my panic, went to the general hospital next to my house instead of going to their insurance-approved clinic, so they had to pay out of pocket for the ER trip to reattach my thumb. I was fired a week later. It was ok; the servers were bitches and the manager, the spoiled son of the owners, was a coke head who was banging all the servers.

     I had, had to have tipped job. I had no help from my parents to go to school, not a single, lousy penny. It was May and I wasn't starting school until the fall, so I didn't have any financial aid to float me along. So I had very few options: move away (with what money??), be a stripper at the club north of town (me? lol), or drop my head in shame and walk through the doors of that restaurant, the worst restaurant in town.

     Why was Sam's* the worst? It was open 24/7, centrally located, and was a favorite spot after the bars closed down, in a town infamous for its partying. The decor was so worn, so plastic, it would make your average Denny's look bright and modern. The staff: even more worn. Fortunately the tweaker element was not there‒ the day servers weren't on drugs, for the most part, and were just haggard middle-aged women. The first person to greet me was the manager, a diminutive Mexican woman whose mouth was full of gold fillings. She smiled a lot but barely spoke. I was hired instantly: fresh meat for the graveyard shift.

     At first I trained during the daytime, when things were depressing but at least somewhat sane. A fat momma server, ugly as hell but just as funny, trained me. As I followed her around on her coffee-pouring rounds, she gave me the straight scoop on everything. Basically everyone that worked there was a rat: so watch your back. The day servers were possessive of their shifts, and saw every fresh face as a potential threat. There was always the chance that some young thing might actually make it past their first three months (which didn't happen often) and end up bumping an older server from one of their "coveted" shifts. No one, no one except one server, Dani, willingly worked the graveyard shift.

     No ladies, I'm not here to take your jobs. I'm here for a few months, tops! I just need to get on my feet again. It was a weird sense of hostility, those first few days with the day crew. I'd be cleaning behind the counter, wiping off plastic ketchup bottles or some stupid task, feeling a palpable sense of dislike from both the staff and the patrons sitting at the counter. I'm an average looking chic, but I was practically a beauty queen by comparison with that crowd, and a genius to boot. I didn't fit in. I don't want to be here either, you fuckers.

     Would I make it past three months at the worst job ever? To be continued...

     

*Names have obviously been changed to protect the innocent

Singletons

     The single diner. An island in a sea of chaos. Sometimes content to wait, book in hand, a peaceful reprieve for the overworked server. But so many singles are needy and impatient, with no newspaper or something to look at, the passing of time on fast forward in their boredom. They silently stare into the crowd: "Where is my server?"

     I don't necessarily hate the single guest for taking up a good table and ordering a salad and iced tea, and I actually feel bad if I have to make them wait for anything. I'm just not foolish enough to put them at the head of my list of priorities. Tables that come first on a busy night:

     1st  Six-top, head of the table in suit, orders two 150-dollar bottles of Barolo, and four appetizers to start. They need share plates, our nicest wine glasses, and bottle service STAT so that they might order another bottle later on

     2nd  Four-top, with full round of cocktails, nicely dressed, settling in for a good (expensive) meal.  Head of table is perusing the wine list, open to suggestions

     3rd  Two-top, VIP regulars. Easy but always want drink and food order in immediately

     4th, 5th, 6th, etc. (depending on how crazy the section is) Other tables spending money

     Last Priority  Singleton ordering salad and iced tea. Tip is likely to be $4, which after tip out and taxes is really $2

     Again, a mellow singleton is not necessarily a bad thing. I see them as a "place marker" table, giving me time to get that Barolo poured, take wine orders, handle the veeps, and so on. But inevitably some bored idiot will land in my busy-ass section, staring at me till I acknowledge them, looking like their pants are on fire. 

     The most oblivious of the impatient singles always have some sort of special need that threatens to strike down the server in the middle of a dinner rush. We have, for example, a regular who always wants something that is not on the menu (requiring a conversation with the busy and grumpy chef) and will only accept his coffee served at the exact same time as his dessert. I once looked over to another (full) server's station to see the man with his dessert, sans coffee. He was literally shaking with anger. I quickly ran to put out that fire for my coworker.

     Or my hundred dollar bill lady. She was alone on the patio, on a night when I had very busy 8-table section inside. She was nice enough, and I willingly did many sprints outside to meet her mild requests, but everything fell apart when it came time to pay. Not being outside, I couldn't casually observe if she'd left any payment. Several times I peered through the glass when at the bar picking up drinks, and the bill presenter hadn't budged. And my busser was out there cleaning up‒ He'd surely let me know if there was a payment, right? Finally, I got a moment to breathe and run outside, on the off-chance she had in fact paid. Sure enough there was a hundred dollar bill, tucked inside the presenter, out of view.

     *A note about 100 bills. If your bill is 25 and you pay with 100, you will wait for change. Period. Servers don't carry more than a 40 dollar bank typically, so you have suddenly become at the mercy of the bartender, who is even busier than the server.

     Our bartender was slammed. It took him at least five minutes to break down that bill, and probably another five for me to have the time to deal with getting the change together and bring it outside. "That took entirely too long," she informed me.

     Yes it did, I thought. The two dollars I keep of your tip was unfortunately not worth screwing over my other tables by walking outside ten times to see if you'd paid, or worth pissing off my bartender by pushing him when he was busy. I let her lecture me a bit (as time was ticking away), apologized profusely, and didn't make excuses, like a good servant does. 

     She was heated enough to come in and continue complaining to my boss, who in turn bitched at me for not carrying a 75 dollar bank. OK. I had just barely paid rent, and I sure as shit didn't have 75 bucks in small bills lying around.

     Singletons, please, bring a book, an ipad, a friggin' crossword puzzle; entertain thyself, and don't expect to be served faster than anyone else.