Waitstaff

Waitstaff -- 09.27.09

As with most of the annoying things in life, I've learned to just chalk most of them up as "the way that it is". However, as I get older, I've noticed that it has become more and more improbable that I will ever be able to ignore some of the unnecessary comments made by servers. Speaking primarily about the waitstaff of finer establishments.

I don't know about you, but when I go to a nicer place to eat, I don't go just to eat. I go for the experience. I like tableclothes. I like forks that are made of metal, not plastic. I like choosing from a variety of sides. I like to pick what temperature my meat cooked to. I enjoy the large plate with the small portions and that French sounding sauce drizzled all over for added flair. It's not often that we drop a hunsky for dinner, but when we do, we expect something nice. We don't expect the world. Just a little better than what we get at the local burger joint.

Now, I love the local burger joint. But I'm picky. There's something about a frozen hamburger that comes out of box that can be good if the mood hits me. At those places, I expect the sticky tables and an occasional drip down the side of the A1 bottle. It just happens. These people get paid half of minimum wage in most cases to be food servers. They usually work long hours on their feet. And most of them have to work Holidays in order to get ahead. Because of this, I sympathize. So I don't expect great things. And, here's the biggie, I tip well. Usually, no matter what. If the food is remotely decent and I'm pretty sure the food is free of the server's saliva, then I tip. And I don't tip a percentage. I just give them a few bucks based on how easy it was for me to keep my cool.

Example. I hate pickes and mustard. Not only do I not eat them, but I don't like it when other people eat them. Neither one. I don't like the way they look. I don't like the way they smell. And if I even think I taste what might be a pickle or mustard, the food comes right out. End of story. There is no room for error on this topic. It's so bad, in fact, that I don't even walk down the pickle or mustard aisles at the grocery store.

So when I place an order at the local burger joint, I clearly specify: "I'd like a plate with meat and fries. No condiments. No garnish. No nothing. Nothing extra. Just a plain clean plate, with meat and fries." I leave no room for mistakes. Usually, this is an easy order to fill. And when it comes out correctly, I gladly leave $3-4 extra just because it came out right. Ok, it's a little non-conventional, but it's the way I like it. I guess I'm an unconventional guy.

Now, luckily, when we go to a nicer place, it's a lot less necessary to specify such things. At a nicer establishment I usually order a ribeye or filet and some type of potato. Simple and sweet.

I believe that the reason I get so bent out of shape in a better restaurant is because, at one time, I was trained as a fine dining food server. It wasn't anything spectacular. It was about a week or so of listening to what they expected out of me, and most importantly, what they didn't expect out of me.

Here's what I learned. Of course, I will paraphrase.

First, they said not to introduce myself as the server. This would be obvious they said. After all, I'm the one in the tuxedo jacket and white shirt, right? Shouldn't it already be obvious to them?

Second, they said not to ever, under any circumstance, tell patrons anything about my personal life unless it were specifically asked of me to do so. And that includes my spouse, my kids, my mama, my friends, my boss, my car, my house, my bills, my hours, how busy we are, how slow we are, etc. They don't care. They come here to get away from their problems not to hear mine. This actually made good sense to me, that people don't go out to eat so they can have a conversation with me. They are trying to get "away" from such trivial things as conversation. They also said, in a polite way, that customer's don't really care about "me". They just want their experience to be a good one.

Third, they said that the entire table gets sat at once. The entire table receives their food at once. And the entire table gets cleared at once.

Lastly, I was told to explain things if asked and to leave out my opinion, unless asked. "Our feature is sauted in a white wine sauce with cherry vinegarette." Not "its really good". And never, "Oh, you will like it". Especially not "I'm sure you will like it". Under promise and over deliver. And leave out the flowery over talking.

Four things. That's what I remember. I'm sure there was more. But that's what I remember. I learned that immediately. I have since carried that with me into my current profession. And I must say, it has served me well.

Quick introductions. Leave out the personal stuff. Start it and finish it at once. It's pretty simple really.

So even though I learned and have used those standards in my life, it seems only natural that others would have done the same, right? Wrong.

It's quite depressing sometimes when you really take the time to see what all is just done "half-way" nowadays. There is very little, if any, attention to detail. No one cares about anything, it seems. It's all about them. It's never about the customer. And it's never as good an experience as it could be.

Today we wanted to go out to eat. Nothing too nice, but not Sonic. Ya know?

So we decided to go to The Island View. They have a nice little menu slash salad bar buffet thing going on there. That would be fine. Soup. Salad. Tableclothes. Perfect.

And I swear to you, this is exactly what happened.

First, we were immediately seated. That part was the great part. There was no wait at all. I was impressed. Nowhere to go but down now, right? Just kidding. But that's exactly what happened.

This guy comes over to our table and says he would be helping out our server because she was new. Not the most professional introduction, but it's C&G, not Emeril's. But that's not what got my attention. What got my attention was that he forgot our server's name. Even that didn't bother me so much. But it totally threw him off his game altogether. I don't know about you, but I've never yelled for "Margaret" across a crowded room in my life. So it's fair to assume that I probably would not start doing so tonight. My server's name, really was none of my concern.

Just bring some water. Keep it full. And we'll be done in a minute.

But this guy got so overwhelmed with concern after forgetting her name that he forgot to even take our drink order. That deer in the headlight thing was going on. It was like he was in a trance.

He stared down. He looked around. He smiled that OMG/WTF smile. And then walked off like he was going to crawl into a hole. I'm thinking, dude, it really doesn't matter, but I am a bit thirsty.

So he walked off and, after a brief moment, came back. He immediately clarified that her name was... whatever-it-was, even though her name was not the answer to the riddle. So now that he was back, I was going to use this opportunity to order some water. I don't know why I'm so thirsty, but I am.

"Can we just place our order with your now?"

He said that the girl with the newly clarified name would be by to take our order.

"Ok."

But we are at C&G, I'm thinking. And it's really pretty much a buffet or menu deal at this joint. Today we are part of the buffet crowd. Why can't we just start our trek amongst the buffet (which stands for B-ig U-gy F-at F-olks E-ating T-ogether) anyway? Is it necessary that we wait to have our order taken? So we wait to the tune of 12-15 min for the newly clarificated girl.

She's new so its sorta ok, right.

We order drinks.

We mention the buffet, like we should have done almost 15 minutes ago.

And we're on our way.

I get gumbo first. Because of this, I need some hot sauce. I ask the guy that first didn't take our drink order and forgot her name for hot sauce. That's exactly what I said. Hot sauce.

"Could I get some hot sauce, please?" I swear to you, he asked me... "hot or mild?"

I said "Hot sauce."

He asked intellectual question number two. "Louisiana or Tabasco?"

I said "Just hot sauce."

Then come the unnecessary comments. "Ok, I will be glad to bring Tabasco. But if you'd have said Louisiana, I don't think we have it in hot. I think we only have it in mild hot sauce."

You have got to be kidding me. Mild hot sauce? What planet is this guy from?

He turns and walks away just as I hear something being placed on the table next to me from the other side. I turn to the other side of me and see the leatherette check holder.

I look up and make eye contact with the clarified girl as she says, "There's no hurry. This is just here for your convenience."

"For my convenience? How about that glass of water I ordered 20 minutes ago? How about taking that check away and replacing it with a glass of water for my 'convenience'? Now, that would be convenient."

I'm not loud. I'm really not that obnoxious. But I am irritated. And it's evident in my speach. I'm not a mean person. I really do care about people's feelings. But this is hard to accept. The check? Now? Come on now! I think to myself, "You can do better than that, right?" I'm wondering, "Didn't she go through orientation?"

So before the golden boy got back with my hot hot sauce, the new girl had already prepared our bill. And then delivered our bill. I have not chewed the first bite of anything and all of a sudden if the urge hits me to pay, or pre-pay rather, I can, and of course, "there's no hurry" and "it's all at my convenience".

I've been here 20 minutes. I've already been embarassed. I've embarrased my wife. I've shown my ass. I've pondered the probability that the word "hot" holds no meaning in the term "hot sauce". I'm still thirsty. And my gumbo is getting cold. But the staff here is making sure that it's convenient for me.

She takes away the bill and wonder boy brings my water. I trash that cup of gumbo and get another one. It's actually pretty good with the Tabasco. The meal has took a turn for the better.

I decide to fix a salad. I do a once over of the entire salad bar section, so that I can get in my head what I want to have. I decide on a simple and plain "house type" salad. I prepare it all on the plate and look over at the dressing choices. There are about 8 choices and several look good. I see this unmarked creamy italian looking milky one that looks like it might be ok. There are no markings at all on this bad boy. No lettering on the bottle. No sticker. No nothing. So I put some in a small cuplike dish and brink it to the table. When our girl, we'll just call her "Clara", comes back by, she asks, very politely if there's anything she can get for us. I kindly ask if she can tell me what kind of dressing this might be.

Clara smiles and says... and I quote... "Oh, it's good."

"It's good?" I say.

"Yes, sir. It's good."

"Are you kidding me? Am I on Candid Camera? Is this some kind of joke? It's good? It's good to whom? It's good to you? Is that the best you can do? Is that the name? It's good is the name? What are it's contents? Are they good contents? Apparently so. Why even have a menu. Just have a list of good shit and bad shit. That'll save alot of time for people like me. It's good! Are you out of your mind? What if I'm allergic to butter and this shit has butter in it? What if I'm allergic to pepper sauce and this shit has peppers in it? Better yet, what if I don't fucking like pickles and this shit has pickle juice in it? Are you gonna tell the next person that it's good while your are trying to get the vomit stains out of your burgandy carpet down there? So, Princess, can you Clara-fy that one for me? Here, I'll give you another chance. Can you please tell me what kind of dressing this might be?"

That was about the time the manager came over and asked if there was a problem. I quickly calmed down. Not out of respect. But more or less out of pity.

I got myself together and with all the kindness I could bring together, I said, "We were just discussing what type of dressing this might be."

The manager said, "Oh, that's a house favorite. It's a creamy italian with a little kick."

I thanked here. And returned to my meal.

I poured the now well described concoction onto my salad and began to eat. Apparently, I was alot more distracted through all of this than I had realized.

Upon the second bite, I noticed a slight twang that I wasn't used to.

But with all the bacon bits and croutons and nuts and frustration, I didn't put my finger on it too quickly.

I took another bite.

I stopped.

I looked at my wife.

I pointed at the dressing.

Clara was at the next table.

My wife spun around and tapped Clara on the shoulder. "Miss, I'm very sorry to interrupt you. But, we need you to ask the manager to come back over here please."

Like, Johnny-on-the-spot, Clara's manager is back over at our table. By this time I've transferred the contents of my mouth into the cotton napkin that had resided in my lap until this point. My wife is handling this for me, because I am unable. We don't discuss it. We don't have to. But she knows. No words are needed. She knows what is happening.

"Yes, mam." My wife continutes, "You mentioned the dressing had a 'kick'. Can you tell us exactly what that 'kick' is?"

The manager smiles. "Sure. I'd be happy to."

This is all happening in slow motion. I feel like I am watching it on a movie. The words are all drawn out and slow, but I hear them clearly.

"It's pickle juice."

During the last 30-45 seconds, I had played this outcome out in my head no less than 10 times. And through them all, the ending did not change.

I was not proud.

The coming outcome was one that for me was completely unavoidable.

I did not want to.

But I did.

I hurled.

Oh, God, did I hurl.

I must've have lost last week's lunch in the process.

I have never lost it quite this bad before. This put the incident at Outback on the back burner. This one was definitely one for the record books. I had not puked in public in 9 years. I had hoped to hit ten. A personal milestone of sorts. Double digits. But I would have to start all over tomorrow.

I left $20 tip for a $30 meal. It was the only thing I could think of that would remotely come close to an apology.

But, you know, I've thought it all over since it happened and I'm not so sure I was really "all that to blame". I will admit, this was pretty bad. For lack of a better phrase, I think it was just the straw that broke the camel-toe's back.

Either way, it's over.

I still get bent out of shape about stupid things that happen.

Probably always will.

It's just the way that it is.