Serving is a serendipitous profession.
As such, I’ve learned not to expect too much from it, but that’s just the logic in my head talking. And before you laugh at me, let me ask: aren’t you the slightest bit emotionally wrapped up in your job? Do you not care about this ‘work’ you do – this activity that steals precious moments from your life, day in and day out? I care about my job because I invest a lot of time in it, time that could be spent on other passions, surely.
So, despite the logic of my head, I get a little emotional sometimes about being a waitress. Sure, I take it personally when I don’t get tipped well, and when people get mad because I don’t have exhaustive control of the restaurant’s temperature, etc. I am also disturbed by the colossal number of people who apparently hate waitstaff.
So, to make myself feel better, I’m going to tell the following triumphant story:
How the Waitress Beats the Stupid French Cow
The cast of characters: Myself (the waitress), a nameless hostess, a slew of other hungry, grumpy customers, and an aging Frenchwoman.
The scene: A busy restaurant and bar in a downtown area during evening hours. This story takes place over several days, but the scene remains roughly the same. A la’ same shit, different day.
The Introduction: I am getting worked running around the restaurant, it is very, very busy, and I am currently handling something like fifteen tables, in addition to a variety of balcony customers (we offer an upstairs balcony for drinking and appetizers). I have been quadruple sat, and I am starting to become afraid that I will fall down the stairs due to the blindness caused by my sweat-riddled contact lenses. The kitchen is horrifically backed up, and everything is starting to take a Very Long Time. While everyone’s food takes too long, I am busy firefighting like crazy and refilling drinks that are disappearing faster than the bar (downstairs!) is willing to refill (too busy playing with their iPhones and chatting up hotties… spoiled bartenders) when the hostess runs up to me and says, “There’s a woman on the balcony who wants a chardonnay… and something. I told her you’d be by to take her order, but she kept trying to tell me. She’s French.”
It is never a good sign when a person tries to order from the hostess, because it almost always means one of three things:
1. The person is an alcoholic and cannot wait. They also stand out on account of their foot/finger tapping and the dark circles under their eyes.
2. The person/people have no idea how a restaurant works. Oh boy.
3. The person/people know how a restaurant is supposed to work but are so incredibly narcissistic that they don’t care. All they care about is someone getting them what they want, regardless of other diner’s needs or the realm of physical possibility.
I walk over to the woman, and scope her out. She appears to be in her fifties, has blond hair well on its way to gray, and has a cardigan tied over her shoulders. In short: looks harmless. And then I speak to her.
“Hello ma’am, my name is Lindsay and I’m going to be your server tonight. May I start you off w —”
“I ordered a chardonnay.”
“I’m sorry ma’am, that was the hostess you spoke with, she unfortunately cannot take orders. Which chardonnay would you —”
“The house. And I want guacamole.”
Now my interest has been piqued. A chardonnay and a side of guacamole? Come on, that’s not normal. Plus, the heavy French accent is really adding a level of surrealism to the exchange that I’m almost enjoying.
Me now: “Would you like chips for your guacamole?”
Her, with an annoyed and condescending tone: “Yes. That is how it comes. And the chardonnay!” Now, she’s hit the very edge of her patience, what with the whole three minutes I’ve spent trying to derive her order. Also, in our menu, guacamole does not automatically come with chips. As a side, completely on it’s own, we charge $3.95 (we’re expensive – not my fault). With chips (aka: as an appetizer) we charge $7.95. In our defense, both the chips and the guacamole are homemade.
So, go do my waitress thing… Take one more quick drink order from a man who practically grabs me as I head down the stairs, and then go down and enter her chardonnay and guacamole/chips and his martini into the computer. I go back upstairs again to check on other tables instead of mindlessly waiting the five to ten minutes it will take for the bartenders to even acknowledge my order. While I’m upstairs, she says (loudly, across the room): “I ordered a chardonnay!”
I go over for damage control…
Me again: “Yes ma’am, and as soon as the bartender has it for me I’ll bring it right up to you.”
She scowls while looking simultaneously confused, reminding me of an angry monkey.
“Is my chardonnay coming?”
At this point, I decide despite evidence to the contrary, that the English language is not her strong suite. I check on another table (ketchup, they need more ketchup! Oh, and napkins!) and proceed back downstairs just in time to see the bartender pour the chardonnay. Meanwhile, the kitchen buzzes my beeper, telling me food is up, it’s not hers, but I grab both the food and the chardonnay and head back upstairs. I hand out the food, and turn to give her the wine. As I do so, she says – not nicely – “And my guacamole?”
She pronounces ‘guacamole’ like it is four separate words. Guahhc. Ahh. Mawle. Ahh. Suddenly, I hate her.
It has not been even twelve minutes. The kitchen is backed up to shit, and she has received her wine in a timely manner. I later found out the hostess told her (as she was instructed to tell everyone) that all food was running a little behind at the moment due to the heavy volume of customers and a shortage of cooks. I doubt she listened.
I go back downstairs after checking on two other tables who are eating, both request extra sauce that will require cooking. I am wondering how much the kitchen will hate me for ordering extra gravy (we make it to order), and I try not to think about it. Her chips and guacamole are done, thank God. It’s even a healthy portion, a rare thing indeed, when the cooks are rushed. I run it up to her immediately – even though I have other food up – because I want her stringy old ass out of my hair.
“Here are your chips and guacamole ma’am,” I say as I set them down, alongside some extra napkins. She stares at me, and then says, “I need a cup of ice.”
I get her her ice. Quickly. I want her to just Be Quiet.
And she is, for a minute. Actually, for several minutes. She nurses her chardonnay and guacamole for roughly forty-five minutes. When I check on her (between a thousand other tasks – I’m still busy), she stares at me like I have three (not just two) heads. Finally, she eats the last chip, and there is but one melting ice cube in her wine glass (so, so tacky, by the way), and I ask her if there’s anything else I can do for her. She says:
“I am waiting for the check.”
Holy shit, lady, I am going to kill you twice.
I get her the check, and leave it with her for five minutes. When I return, she is agitated like a rabid squirrel is agitated.
Her: “This is wrong!” (Don’t forget the French accent!)
Me: “Is there some trouble with the check ma’am?”
“Yes! I am overcharged. The wine is $5.50 and the guacamole is $4.50!” She showed me her drink menu and I was instantly perturbed. Somehow this woman had gotten a hold of an old menu… A year old menu. And, obviously, the prices were incorrect. It was a terrible irony that this woman would get this menu, but oh well. I’d fix it. But… The guacamole? Never $4.50. Ever.
“Ma’am, I apologize about the pricing inconsistency… This is an older menu and the prices have changed. I will have a manager change the price for your wine. However, the charge for chips and guacamole is $7.95.”
She sputters, she argues, she frets, she gets freaking pissed. I do not back down on the chips and guacamole. Her main argument? They always cost $4.50 ‘before.’ What’s ‘before’?! I’ve worked at the restaurant for three years! Finally, she gives up and I leave so my manager can change the wine price. When I bring her the new bill, she doesn’t tip. I wasn’t expecting her to.
Next Encounter:
She comes back a week later, and I slough her off on another server, because I am mean. She is awful, and orders a glass of house chardonnay without looking at a menu, and then argues the price. She knows full well the price, after our last encounter. I believe that if you don’t look at a menu to check prices for your order, you need to pay whatever you’re charged. Her server lets her get away with it.
Now for the Triumphant Encounter:
She returns, and tries to order through the hostess, again. This time she’s all mine.
I walk up, and when I’m still two feet away, she says: “I want a chardonnay and guacamole.” I smile sweetly at her and reply,
“Of course! But I do need to let you know, our house chardonnay is now being served for $6.50 a glass.”
“But, it says in the menu [menu she has not yet touched, by the way] that the house chardonnay glass is $5.50.”
“I know that a few of our menus do not reflect current pricing because of a problem with our printer. I deeply apologize about the inconvenience; that is why I am informing you of the correct price now, before you order.”
She just stared at me. I continued to smile, wider and wider, actually.
“Would you care to order a glass of house chardonnay?”
A pause.
Her reply: “Yes. And guacamole.”
Me: “With chips as well ma’am?” (I’ll be damned if I bring this woman chips and she bitches that she only ordered guacamole and thusly that should be her only charge!)
Her: “Yes.”
For the rest of the evening I waited on her hand and foot, everything was perfect, there was nothing she could possibly complain about. Nothing she could get for free. My manager was right there, casually eating his dinner and absentmindedly watching the entire time.
And she paid full price. And she was miserable. And my night was glorious thereafter.
Sometimes, it’s the little things in life that make it all worthwhile.
