A Conversation, Just Now, Typical
A Sampling of Questions I Was Asked At Work in the Past Week

I Have a Lot of Nerve Eating My Own Fuck-ups

"I have a lot of nerve eating my own fuck-ups."

I said this as I snuck a forkful of homemade, hand-torn pasta into my mouth.

The fresh plate of hot pasta was available to eat, along with a mushroom pizza with leeks and fontina cheese, because I fucked up an order. My table of two ordered salads at my urging, as well as the aforementioned pasta and pizza from which I was sampling. When ringing in the items I failed, somehow, to press hold on the second course. 

One of my colleagues cornered me while I was filling glasses with ice water. 

"Did you want 42's food to all come out at once?

"No, I held the entrees," but as the words were leaving my mouth I could see him shaking his head no.

"Their food is up now." And then he said the words no server who knows she's in error ever wants to hear. "You'll have to talk to the chef."

There is a sickening feeling that overwhelms me when I realize I've made a major mistake. People work hard. It's hot. No one wants to do something twice because someone else didn't do something right.

I hesitated telling the chef his hard-working staff would have to remake the two dishes in just short ten minutes because I couldn't be counted on to push buttons correctly. I carried the two perfectly-cooked but entirely-too-early dishes around for about 90 seconds, delaying the inevitable.

"I don't want to talk to the chef." I was talking again to my fellow waiter.

"I know." He looked empathetic.

"I don't want this to be happening."

"I know." But now he was laughing.

The reaction wasn't as bad as it could have been, in fact it was damned near kid-gloved. The sous chef joked that if I was hungry I could just ask them for something next time. In moments all was forgiven. This could be because there were all of three tables in play in the entire place.

Then I had to tell my boss, the person who would delete the first order of entrees that wound up in the back on the giant cutting board as "waiter bait." I explained what happened. I mentioned I'd already talked the chef and that I'd already gotten the evil eye. She shot me the evil eye and said, "That doesn't mean I can't go it again."

So, it was pretty nervy of me to eat some of the pasta, most of which was polished off by the gentlemen I had the pleasure of waiting tables with tonight. But that particular dish has great garlicky breadcrumbs and san marzano tomatoes, and so it could not be helped.

Sowouldyou

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damn straight!

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