Sparkwood & 21

I Can Hear You

One of my favorite things about waiting tables are the short relationships you get to have with people who come in and out of your life, your shift, your tables, your care. I get to learn more about humans every time I go to work.

And one of the very best things about these fleeting relationships is that each one is unique. Each one lasts, typically, about an hour. Yet in that hour I am privvy to incredibly private and sensitive conversations, if only the snatches I overhear as I approach or walk away.

Here are just some of the bits of conversation I've overheard of late:

• "They were fucking each other's balls."
• "How was it?" / 'It was awesome. There were naked boobies everywhere.'
• "I told my dad I didn't want his wife in my life. And that's when my dad and I started to get really close."

And then there are the things people tell you outright when you ask if you may clear their plates. For instance:

• "We just got back from our first marriage counseling session. So we're still talking."

It's always incredible the sorts of sensitive information people will reveal to their server. Or even just around their server. My aim is always to provide attentive but unobtrusive service. In doing this, I can often be viewed by tables as invisible, just a ghost collecting unneeded butter knives who they think can't hear the heartbreaking language about how their mother's life is ending.

It Would Be Better

"It would be better," she told me. She told me several times.

She came in alone, requested a table for one and she carried a thick book. I took to her immediately. One of my own; a woman after my own preferences. I also enjoy a table for one accompanied only by a big book.

She wore a knitted cap the entire meal. It's safe to say she made it herself. It sat sloppily on pale hair cut in the style all women seem to adopt after the age of 55. The hair shook beneath the handmade hat.

I encouraged her to order the most delicious pasta and she did, especially when I told her it would be gone soon. Out of season. The time was ripe. 

She said she wanted red wine. I asked her if she wanted it with a big body or a light body and she said big but not too big so I directed her to something fitting and she nodded her approval. When I went on to describe more about the wine she stopped me rudely and said, "I know the wine." She repeated, "I know the wine." Her tone was patronizing, but her voice was soft.

I asked if she'd like bread with the pasta. She asked, "Whose bread?" I told her it was our own, homemade foccacia, and she said she would. I brought it at the same time her dish arrived hot from the kitchen. 

After leaving her to tuck into her meal, I came by later to inquire about the quality. A thumbs up and a smile pleased me and I left her to dine in quiet.

Later I cleared her used dishes and presented her with a dessert menu. She accepted it without a word.  On my next trip near her I saw her credit card was lying flat on the edge of the table. She was holding her open book, her arm outstretched away from her body.

"I'll bring your bill right back." I said it softly and quickly, unobtrusively.

At this point the woman put her hand, her pointed finger, in my face. She was signaling for me to wait. She finished reading the page in front of her while I stood waiting.

"I was absorbed in my book. It would be better if you had just taken the card." Her voice was coated in contempt. 

"I don't like to grab people's cards without a word. Most like to see a total before paying."

She then smiled at me, but her smile was matched by narrowed eyes. Her voice was ice.

"Just take the card. And bring back the receipt."

I was livid. 

Rarely do I let people get to me--each of us is fighting our own battle, and people don't mean it, they're just having a bad day, et cetera--but this? This pissed me right the fuck off. 

This guest had an air of eccentricity from the beginning, but it became quickly apparent that she was also quite particular. I'm fine with that. I like the challenge.

But if someone feels that they are above talking to me, I'm done with them. If someone thinks they shouldn't have to communicate with their server, especially about something as crucial as taking her money, then I don't know what to say to that. Except how dare you think you are too good or too busy or too absorbed to exchange a few words with someone whose job it is to wait on you. I mean, really. Fuck that.

This woman went so far as to complain to the hostess on her way out of the restaurant. "The meal was fine until she insisted on talking to me about my credit card."

To her credit, the hostess replied, "We are really big on communicating with our guests here," to which the woman sort of growled and walked out.

She didn't even have to talk to me. She could have nodded. But she couldn't be bothered, and instead made me feel incredibly small. Part of that is my own fault. No one can make you feel inferior without your consent, but goddamn. They can certainly try, and that's exactly what that woman did to me that day.

I'm over it now. Had I written this entry the afternoon it happened it would have been a fire hose of cursing so intense you'd have been in awe. I couldn't believe that someone stuck her finger in my face, had me wait nearly a minute, only to dress me down. Why would someone do that?

That's where it gets complicated.

[Photo by Robert S. Digby]

"No, You Can Have a Coke."

This guy at work kept quoting something. He'd walk away from a table and roll his eyes and go, "Rude." Or he'd say, "Suhcurrity! Suh-currity!" Finally I was like, WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT.

Then he sent me this video and I have not stopped laughing since.

This Happened

"I want the large tri-color salad, but with no salt. I already asked the girl up front and requested no salt."

"Okay. If the dressing has salt, you'd like no dressing."

"No, I want the dressing, just no salt."

"Okay."

"And what can I put on it? I don't want prawns. Give me chicken. Grilled chicken."

"We don't have grilled chicken, but we have organic roasted chicken. It is served cold, and it is thinly sliced. It's said to be very good."

"I don't want that. I don't want that, and I don't want prawns. What else?"

"You can add the roasted chicken or the prawns. That's really it."

"I get that! But I want a protein! What else do you have?"

"It's chicken or the prawns."

"Fine. Give me a sample of the chicken."

     *           *         *

"I'll have the calamari salad. What is it like?"

"It's fried calamari on an arugula salad. It's lots of lettuce with some preserved lemon and red onion."

"I can't eat dark green vegetables. I can't eat salad."

"Okay. Maybe I can help you select something else."

"No. I want the calamari salad. Can I just substitute asparagus for the salad?"

"Not really. The dish *is* a salad."

"Okay. Fine. I'll pick around the lettuce."

"Are you sure you wouldn't like a different dish?"

"Just give me the salad."

My Favorite Guests So Far

Waiting tables makes you hate people. I used to think that. This time around--and maybe it's because it's still new--waiting tables is making me adore people.

Last week I was seated with a party of eight women around 70 years old. I'll be honest, this is not a table most servers are thrilled to get, for several reasons. The likelihood of lots of food and wine ordering is low, while the likelihood you'll be making time-consuming hot tea for eight is high. And separate checks. They will definitely be wanting separate checks.

And they did! But, by God, they couldn't have been more gracious about it. I explained that it might take a few extra minutes at the end of their meal, but that I'd be happy to process the eight separate checks for them. They must have thanked me for this about two dozen times. Effusively. 

I fully expected waters and English breakfast all around, but they got fun with their drink orders and got fresh, blended lemonade, flavored Italian sodas and other zero-proof cocktails. One lady even got kicky and ordered a glass of vermentino. It was obvious this was a lunchtime party.

They are all college classmates who still get together for lunch every so often. I gleaned this from bits of conversation as they sat oohing and ahhing over the bright salads and fresh pastas.

"I'm so glad we did this. I don't know what I'd be doing otherwise today. This is such a treat."

These women were a total delight. They had nothing but compliments for the food, and they treated me like a queen. Every request was couched in the kindest of terms, and they always followed it up with, "and take your time."

Desserts were ordered. Fun was had. When I brought the separate checks those who somehow missed the prior conversations were sure to tell me how much of a pain they know separate checks are and that what I was doing was truly appreciated.

I was being thanked as though I was brokering world peace.

I actually felt bad about adding the automatic gratuity for large parties, because these women, frankly, graced me with their presences. They had such an appreciation for their outing, for the food, for the service, for their day together that it completely changed my mood for the better.

And, of course, as if they were some kind of too-good-to-be-true alien race of overly kind restaurant guests from outer space, they tipped me extra on top of the large party gratuity added in.

They could have left nothing, and this group of eight would still be my favorite guests so far since returning to serving. Hands down, slam dunk.

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.

That Was Then, and This Is Now

I got on my knees and used my hands to wrestle a giant hairy snake of digusting mass out of a bar drain, and I did it for no pay. Zero dollars an hour. That was when I was breaking my back working at Outback Steakhouse in Murfreesboro, TN.

Outback was the busiest restaurant in town with the highest ticket average per person. You couldn't make better money at any other place within 35 miles, and that included Chili's, Red Lobster and the white table cloth place out by the interstate.

I'd been promoted to bartender after years and years of waiting tables there. Getting bumped up to bartender was a big deal, and so were the tips. I soon learned that part of that promotion included getting up early on a Saturday morning with the other six to seven bartenders and detailing the bar--every nook, every crevice, every cranny--for about four solid hours.

We were paid nothing. We did not clock in. We were told specifically that this was part of being a bartender, and you could do it without complaint or not work behind the bar.

It was grueling work. I balanced on a teetering bar stool hoisting 20 gallons of hot water in a giant bucket overheard to clean the frozen drink machines. Had I slipped and cracked my face on the metal of the machine or worse, I would not have been on record as having worked and would not have been able to receive workers' compensation for medical bills incurred from my fall.

The place I work now is a corporate restaurant. The people who own it own others in the Bay Area, like One Market, Lark Creek Steakhouse and Fish Story in Napa. But it is not like Outback Steakhouse or The Cooker or large scale chains that I worked in before. Not even a little.

I am treated so much better where I work now. When I think back on how much physical labor some restaurant jobs in Tennessee demanded of employees making $2.13 an hour, I am baffled that it's legal.

Servers in San Francisco make minimum wage plus tips, not $2 an hour plus tips, as I was once paid. (Many, many servers in many, many states still make just above $2 an hour plus tips.) From my experience, when a corporation can get virtually free labor out of individuals at $2 an hour, it makes those in charge devalue not only the work being done, but the worker.

We were treated like shit. On multiple occassions a manager called us all into the kitchen to scream and curse at us until he was red in the face and beads of spit at ours. All because the people who worked there were so overtaxed that busy weekend shifts would often run on the verge of complete meltdown, every synapse on the verge of snapping. 

I am extremely lucky to work in a restaurant that values its people. I am respected where I work. The place is filled with bright, funny people who are a pleasure to be around because they are heard and forgiven and treated with care.

This return to waiting tables is better so far. In part because I am older, wiser, whathaveyou, but also thanks to those above me and my teammates. Seriously awesome people; I want to squeeze them each and every one.

Human Behavior

I love my job when an eight-year-old German girl is delighted to pieces to try her English on me: "Check, please!," she chirped. 

And it was perfect.

New Realities

• Pay rent in cash.
• Pay for items with the largest bill in my wallet so I will have a bank for the next shift. 
• Hoarding pens.
• Being the lady at the party with a wine key in her purse.
• Two pairs of socks to prevent blisters.
• Rarely having to decide what to wear.
• Ponytails.
• Untangling apron strings after the dryer.
• Days are nights, and nights are days.

Waitress Reborn

Last night hot espresso shot out of the machine and onto my face and neck. It was my first attempt at making an espresso in an espresso machine. 

Last night was my third night training to be a server at a local Italian restaurant after deciding a new career path. The first training shift was a lunch shift that got so busy I had to be pulled from following behind my trainer (who walked so quickly I literally had to run at times to keep up) to run food out to tables (something I had a month's practice doing in December). My second shift was a hosting shift where I learned how to take reservations of all varieties, accomodate walk-ins, handle menu changes and other not-so-physical duties. Last night I trained behind the bar.

I was a bartender for lots of years in my twenties, but that was in my twenties. And it was at an Outback. The best wine we had was Kendall Jackson.

The bar I was working behind last night serves only beer and wine and appertifs. It also has an extensive non-alcoholic menu of fancy coconut water drinks and other sophisticated "dry" beverages. The wine list is about 120 wines deep, and half are Italian, and I can pronounce about half of those. My knowledge about them is faint, at best.

So, last night I tried a whole bunch of wines. In a row.

My trainer looked at the training sheet and read aloud, "Go over wines by the glass." He pulled down two glasses and said, "Okay, let's get drunk."

We tried sangiovese and prosecco and chianti and pinot grigio and many more. The sips washed over my teeth and tongue, and I took down notes about their fruit forwardness or their low acidity or how well-balanced that cab is, but I felt a little like a fraud. Sure, wine is subjective, but I need a crash course in Italian wines and STAT. Waiting tables really well requires you to have extensive knowledge of what you are offering and know it like you know your own name. I feel intimidated presenting wine lists I know little about. That means I'm about to begin research on Italian wine and wine in general, which is something a good Northern California-dweller should know anyway.

I changed a keg. I squeezed lemons for their juice (which should always be avoided if you have a fresh cat scratch, for the record). I attempted to muddle sugar cubes in two champagne glasses and broke them both. I watched a man order a liter of wine and drink the whole thing. I cut my finger cutting a lemon peel to garnish an Italian soda just a blinding second after thinking, "You are going to cut your finger."

I type this with a band-aid on.

It feels good to work in your body. After seven years behind a desk for 8-10 hours a day, it feels incredible to feel a little sore after working hard. I don't mind the espresso burn or the back ache or the cut hand. It's a challenge and a blessing to be able to do this kind of work, and this reinvention makes me feel all tingly and alive and breaking a sweat means I'm making an effort, an effort I can touch.

They say we reinvent ourselves several times over the course of our lives. This reinvention is a new twist on an old thing, and I'm only three days in but I've never been more sure this move is the right one.

[Photo by Robert S. Donovan]