Pop Quiz Revisited

Okay, so I wasn't exactly fair when I wrote out my dining out quiz.  There was just one answer for the first fifteen questions:  none of the above, an option I didn't give you.  


I was just checking to see if you were paying attention.


The questions and answers I provided, though, don't come without explanation.  All the answers were based on actual experiences, as you might have inferred.  So let me break it down for you, a few questions at a time.

1.  You walk into a restaurant, wanting to sit at a table.  Right away, you should:

a.  breeze right past the host stand, the host, and the sign that says, "Please wait to be seated."

b.  reply with a brusque "Two!" when the host greets you with a warm "Welcome!"

c.  not say anything at all-- just hold up the number of fingers to indicate how many people are in your party.

I'm always a little stunned to see customers walk straight into the restaurant and attempt to seat themselves.  While there are plenty of restaurants in the world that do have customers choose their own tables, the base assumption should be that someone will seat you-- particularly when there is a sign and a table, podium, or stand that is placed right inside the door.  It's best to assume that someone will seat you and to ask if you aren't sure.  And saying "hello" back to someone who greets you is just basic socialization stuff, as is using your words and not your fingers and grunts.  Right boys and girls? 


You caught me at a condescending moment. 

2.  Upon being greeted by your server, it is customary to:

a. stare blankly at her and not respond.

b. continue to look down at your menu and not respond.

c. glance over at the server, turn away, and then start a conversation with your dining companion-- in other words, not respond.

You remember that condescending thing I said a minute ago about basic socialization?  Well, you'd be astounded by the number of people who do not return a greeting from a server.  It's the most basic human interaction in our culture, yet the inability of a diner to acknowledge a server's presence is rampant.  

Rampant, I tell ya.

3.  When your server asks if you'd like to start with a glass of tap water, you should:

a. stare blankly at her and not respond.

b. continue to look down at your menu and not respond.

c. glance over at the server, turn away, and then start a conversation with your dining companion-- in other words, not respond.

Where I work, our standard question after greeting a table (whether or not they are responsive), is, "Would you like me to bring you tap water?"  We servers joke about how this is the world's hardest question to answer because of the frequency with which people stare back at us, gape-mouthed and unable to speak;  they drop their heads down to their menus to avert our eyes, we are left to assume that we've asked too much of our customers. 


Sometimes, a dialogue ensues between diners wherein they have an extremely detailed, drawn out discussion over whether or not they want tap water.  It's as if the decision to accept tap water is the most important decision they've ever been faced with.  


And we haven't even factored in bottled water yet.


More answers to come.

Pop Quiz

It's time to sharpen your number twos and test your knowledge of the restaurant experience-- from your side of the apron!  There's no time limit and it's open-book;  feel free to consult your notes and neighbors (or favorite server).  An answer key will follow in upcoming posts.


Good luck!


The Diner's IQ Test


1.  You walk into a restaurant, wanting to sit at a table.  Right away, you should:

a.  breeze right past the host stand, the host, and the sign that says, "Please wait to be seated."

b.  reply with a brusque "Two!" when the host greets you with a warm "Welcome!"

c.  not say anything at all-- just hold up the number of fingers to indicate how many people are in your party.

2.  Upon being greeted by your server, it is customary to:

a. stare blankly at her and not respond.

b. continue to look down at your menu and not respond.

c. glance over at the server, turn away, and then start a conversation with your dining companion-- in other words, not respond.

3.  When your server asks if you'd like to start with a glass of tap water, you should:

a. stare blankly at her and not respond.

b. continue to look down at your menu and not respond.

c. glance over at the server, turn away, and then start a conversation with your dining companion-- in other words, not respond.

4.  You madly flag down your server and emphatically say, "We are ready to order!"  The next thing you should do is:

a.  pick up the menu at that moment and begin to peruse it.

b.  say to your dining companion "I guess we should look at the menu.  Are you going to get a starter?  I can't decide between the chicken and the pasta."

c.  ask your server "What should I order?"

5.  When you ask your server for recommendations on the menu, you should respond to her answers by:

a.  making a face and saying "I hate brussels sprouts/ celery/ pineapple/ hot food/ cold food/ food that requires a spoon/ whatever it is you're going to suggest."

b.  making  a face and saying "I don't eat meat."

c.  making  a face and saying "I'm allergic to dairy."

d.  making  a face and saying "That sounds fattening."

e.  making  a face and saying "Ew!  Who eats octopus?  That's disgusting!"

f.  making  a face and saying "I don't eat carbs."

g.  making  a face and saying "I had fish at lunch."

6.  A server approaches your table with searing hot plates burning blisters into her fingertips, and you have your iPad/sunglasses/magazine/forearms resting in front of you where those plates should go.  This provides the perfect opportunity to:

a.  stare blankly at the server and not respond when she says, "Excuse me.  May I set this down?"

b.  say "Right here!" and point at the space in front of you as to suggest that is where the plate should go, except that what you're really suggesting is that you want your pizza on top of your Kindle because you haven't made any effort to move it.

c.  lean further across the table, thereby completely blocking the server's access to the space in front of you, as you continue to tell the person sitting across from you whatever story is so captivating that you can't move yourself out of the way for two seconds, which is twice as long as it actually takes to put down that plate.

7.  Your server is approaching your table of six with both hands and arms filled to capacity with plates.  Before she can even unload the first two dishes on the table, you say:

a.  "Where's my side of spinach?"

b.  (gesturing to someone across the table)  "He ordered the pasta."

c.  "Can I get some salt/ ketchup/ hot sauce/ more water/ a Coke?"

8.  The best thing to do as a server is attempting to refill your water glass is:

a.  grip your glass tightly with both hands and clutch it to your chest.

b.  immediately lift the glass to your lips but take your time drinking one sip.

c.  push the glass toward the server as she is pouring thereby creating a moving target.

d.  cover the glass with your hands not in a gesture of declining more water but as a gesture that you don't understand that your server can't pour water through your hands.

9.  If allergic or averse to certain foods, it is advisable to:

a.  absolutely not tell the server that eating nuts could kill you until the dessert with the pistachios sprinkled on top shows up at your table. 

b.  not predict that in a Mexican restaurant you might encounter cilantro or that in an Italian restaurant you might see parmesan cheese on your dish, and then not let the waiter know that you hate cilantro and parmesan cheese. 

c.  not bother to ask what "pancetta" is, even though it's written in the description of the pasta dish you just ordered, and, being that you're vegetarian, express that the server "should have told" you there was meat in the dish even though the server had no idea you are a vegetarian.

10.  When you are finished, always:

a.  stack your dishes.

b.  put your napkin on top of the pile of plates.

c. hand your plates to the server, then hand her your utensils, so that she has to grab the blade of your knife or the tines of that fork you've been eating with.

d.  move the plates and utensils around on the table as she's trying to pick them up.

11.  If you find hat you have left your table in disarray, you should:

a.  use your hand to brush off the table so that now the floor is all covered with bread crumbs, stray pieces of pasta, and the chunk of tomato that fell off your plate.

b.  use that napkin that you've been wiping your filthy, germ-ridden mouth with to brush off the table so that now the floor is all covered with bread crumbs, stray pieces of pasta, and the chunk of tomato that fell off your plate.

c.  lean with your forearms on the table when the server comes by with a table crumber  to wipe your table, and when she says "Pardon me" as she tries to maneuver around the upper half of your body, don't budge.

12.  If you are dining with a young child, of, say, highchair age, it is best to:

a.  most definitely not acknowledge or apologize for the fact that you've left behind a 2-foot radius of food detritus around the highchair.

b. use the dining room as a playground, allowing your child to run up and down the aisles while the servers, juggling plates of food and balancing trays of drinks, dodge your toddler.

c.  absolutely, under no circumstances, take your howling, screeching baby out of the earshot of every other diner (and staff person) in the restaurant.

13.  You should always:

a.  ask for another fork, plate, or napkin and then not use it.

b.  ask for more water when your glass is still full but ask in that way that makes it sound like your server has been neglecting you.

c.  ask for a refill of coffee or another glass of wine by pointing at your cup or glass, preferably with a grunt for emphasis.

14. If you are in a rush to make it to a movie, the best time to tell the server is when:

a.  you have exactly 45 seconds to ask for the check, pay, and leave.

b.  while you are impatiently waiting for your second course, which your server timed to come out after your first course because you ordered two courses, not one.

c.  after you've ordered the thing on the menu that takes the longest to make, not that you would know how long it would take, though you did know that you needed to be somewhere.

15.  When the check comes:

a.  hide the credit card or cash under the check or in the check presenter so that the server cannot tell if your payment is ready, and then become increasingly impatient when no one comes to take your payment.

b.  take both copies of the credit card receipt with you, so that if you've left a tip on the credit card, the server has no idea what it is and cannot enter that amount into the computer system, thereby losing the tip altogether.

c.  try to pay with an American Express card but then find out that the restaurant doesn't take American Express, and then get angry at the server, and then leave her no tip because you think the restaurant should take American Express, and utterly fail to realize that the server doesn't make those decisions and would take your stupid American Express card if she could.

16.  Servers notice and truly appreciate when customers say "please" and "thank you."

a.  true

b.  false

Congratulations!  You've made it to the end!  Stay tuned for the answers in upcoming posts.

Friday Night Phone Call

The kitchen at the restaurant where I work is small and can only do orders take-out pizza if the cooks aren't already overtaxed by orders from diners sitting in the restaurant. So when people call to see if they can get pizza to go, we have to double check with the kitchen to see if they can take the order. We try not to say no, but for the good of the diners, sometimes we must.

This is all to set up the following phone call. Mind you, I can set it up, but I cannot explain it.

I happened to answer the phone during a busy spell. The man calling wanted one pizza to go, so I told him I'd check with the kitchen.

I came back with the verdict.

I'm sorry. I'm afraid the kitchen can't accommodate any to-go orders right now. But thank you for calling, I said.

But I'll come pick it up, he responded.

Well, no. The kitchen can't do any pick up orders right now, I repeated.

Can I get a pizza to go? he persisted.

I began to wonder what I was saying wrong.

No. We try not to say "no" to take-out orders, but right now we are quite busy and can only make pizza for people sitting in the restaurant and dining. There are no pizzas to go right now. None.

I used my most amiably authoritative voice.

And then he delivered the punchline:

Well, then can I get two pizzas?

It was the punchline, but he wasn't joking around.

Oy.

You'll be most impressed by the fact that I did not hang up on the caller nor call him a moron. Though both were tempting.

Remind me not to answer the phone anymore.

Thrown

In my job, I do a lot of explaining about the food and beverage we serve. I'm used to talking about nebbiolo and how it can often exhibit notes of tobacco and violets. I describe amaro-- what it is and the spectrum it runs from floral and citrusy to foresty and menthol. I distinguish mild provolone dolce from its sharper and more pungent cousin, provolone piccante. I talk about flavors and textures, nuance and subtlety. I use flowery words like "bright" and "robust" and "velvety" and "aromatic" and "briny" and "lush."


A lot of the time, "delicious" does the trick.


I'm so used to giving more detailed descriptions about less familiar items that once in a while, I get completely thrown by the simplest of questions.


For example, the other night, a woman waiting for a table wanted to order a drink.


Do you have like a sparkling water, or a club soda? she asked.


I have both, I said.


Well, what does club soda taste like? she asked. It's been a while.


Was that a trick question? I wondered.


Now, I know not all water tastes the same. I rarely drink bottled water, but when I do, I make sure it isn't Evian because it tastes like swimming pool water to me-- bleachy and kind of slimy in texture. And it is common knowledge that not all tap waters are created equal.


There are plenty of foods that I totally take for granted that are incorporated into my palate but that I don't expect other people to necessarily be familiar with. I totally understand when people ask what lovage tastes like. Or dandelion greens. Or hell, even parmesan cheese.


But club soda? Who doesn't know what club soda tastes like? And can't you just sort of take a stab at what it might taste like? Is trying to imagine its taste that far beyond one's ability to conjure? And she alluded to having had club soda at some point in her past, so it's not like she'd never even had club soda before. Did she think I was talking about something else altogether?


Is it strange that I thought that question was strange?


It's very refreshing, I started. It has big, lively bubbles.


Big, lively bubbles? I think I might have rolled my eyes at myself for coming up with that.


I wasn't sure what else to say. But my answer was enough for her to order one. And it was lucky for me that she didn't ask me to elaborate because I really don't know that I could have.


But next time I get asked that question, at least I'll be ready.

Career Girl

A new server recently started training at the restaurant. 

After work the other night, we were chatting as we got dressed to go home.  I knew very little of her, except where she last worked.  And in the course of working a shift with her, I learned that she is sharp and has a take-charge attitude that can come in handy working in a busy, high-volume restaurant like the one I work in.

She mentioned something in the way-past tense about an old boyfriend, and I asked her if she's seeing anyone now.  No, she said.  I'm focusing on my career, she added with a bit of a grin. 

I knew she was talking more about not having a boyfriend and less about the career part.  But I asked anyway.

What's your career?  Waiting tables?  

She practically snorted her response.  This?  Yeah.  Like this would be my career!  

The disdain was unmistakable, punctuated by the rolling of her eyes.

It turns out that by "career" she meant that she is an actor, which, in this town, never comes as a surprise to me.

What does continue to throw me off guard, though, is the way so many servers seem to despise their jobs.  I mean, yes, we're in a position of service. Yes, we are sometimes treated like the lowly help.  Yes, we are constantly touching half-eaten plates of food and forks that have been in peoples' mouths.  Yes, we have an inconsistent income.  Yes, we witness customers being mannerless, socially inept, and downright rude at times. Yes, we deal with a lot of resentment from our underpaid, overworked kitchen counterparts.  No, we don't generally have company retirement plans, health care, sick days, vacation days, or profit-sharing opportunities.

But what job is without its drawbacks?   Waiting tables is, overall, a great gig.  The other night, Dave and Ellie, a couple of great regulars, were sitting at the bar.  Dave asked me a version of a question I get asked often:  So, are you hoping to own a restaurant one day?

The answer is so easy.

No.  

Despite all the things that make waiting tables a questionable career choice for some, I have some compelling arguments in favor of it:

• I never take my work home with me.  I show up, work hard, go home.  Done until the next shift.
• My work is physical.  I cannot imagine having to sit at a desk all day.  I like expending energy.
• I work around food.  Good food.
• My job is social but the interactions are fleeting.  I get a clean slate every time someone new sits down.
• I (usually) get paid well for what I do (I quickly admit that is not the case for every server or bartender).
• My job is fast-paced and challenges me every day.
• I learn a lot about food and wine, and sometimes the whole restaurant seems like it's one, big psycho-social experiment, which is its own kind of education.
• I have a flexible schedule.  This means not only that I can take time off when I need it, but I can also pick up extra work when I need it.

The corollary to Dave's question that I often get asked is What is it that you really do?  And when I reply, You're lookin' at it!, the person asking the question usually doesn't see that answer coming.  

Surely I wait tables to kill time until I become a published writer, get a degree, or land my big acting break, right?  Because who would want to do this kind of work forever?  I mean aside from the big-haired ladies in the pink, polyester uniforms who snap their gum and call you "hon"?

I would.

Don't get me wrong;  if someone were to throw me a book deal (ahem), I wouldn't shy away from it.  But serving good food and drink?  It makes for a career worth focusing on.

Poetic License

The announcement came as soon as I got to work yesterday.

Today is haiku day! Jonathan, one of the cooks, said. We're writing haikus about each other.

Haikus do not make for a typical Tuesday at the pizza mines. But I was game.

Julia had already gotten the poetic ball rolling with an ode to Jonathan and his pizza-making prowess:

heart shaped pizza pie
white cloud of flour and smoke
you control the flame

Service was off to a slow enough start that between mixing drinks and opening bottles of wine, I had time to jot down a few lines on the back of an old menu. My first attempt was for Julia, who had recently undergone Lasik eye surgery:

Look into my eyes.
Hindsight is twenty twenty,
and now so are you.

I eked out a few for Danny, Chris, and Jonathan, using the floor staff as my messengers, shuttling scraps of paper from the bar to the kitchen. Those haikus were just as bad as the one for Julia, so I won't make you suffer through any more than necessary.

Soon, the servers were delivering poems to me from the kitchen.

Julia's came first:

coppa, pancetta,
the slicer softly whispers
sopressata, please

On a c-fold, Jonathan wrote one about my baking compulsion:

She bakes all the time
for us. We love it so much.
Butter. Flour. Love.

Chris's haiku was part nod to/order for one of the kitchen's preferred mid-shift refreshments:

Mix, muddle & shake
Do you use maraschinos?
Four cherry Cokes please

It was followed a few moments later by this one:

No, seriously.
Thirst quenching is required
Four cherry Cokes please

Alright, alright. I can take a hint.

So I muddled some cherries with some cherry syrup and added some Coke and sent those drinks off to the kitchen with a final haiku. Unfortunately,

I don't remember
what I wrote, but I know I
did write "Bottoms up!"

Stay tuned for Sonnet Sundays.

Get a Room. Please.

Dear Bar 8 and 9,

If you ever manage to extract your tongues out of each other's ears, maybe you can then explain to me your ease at publicly sharing your moments of emotional and physical intimacy. I mean, you're in a restaurant, for Pete's sake. And I, your humble bartender, am trapped behind the bar, where I can do my best to avert my eyes, but really can only get so far away from you and your nuzzling, groping, and goofy gazes.

Love, or lust, or hormonal surges-- whatever they are, they're all a part of being human. And they can be kinda nice. I get that. And more power to ya! But holy schmo. Wouldn't you rather play out your mating ritual at home? Or at least in a car parked in an alley-- where no one has to watch you?

Think of how much more you'd be able to accomplish if you were actually able to, say, take your clothes off and not just feel each other up, à la junior high school. (I will thank you for actually being able to draw that line.) Given how free and open you are in public, what with all that tongue wrestling, I can only imagine how much more fun you could have in the privacy of your own home.

Well, I can imagine, but I really don't want to. I've seen plenty already.

I'm sorry that I didn't check in to ask you how your pizza was and that I didn't keep your water glasses filled; sometimes the best service is leaving people alone, especially if when it means not interrupting their foreplay. And if there's one thing I'm committed to doing as your bartender it's not interrupting your foreplay.

But I hope the rest of your night went as well as it seemed to be going-- our pizza makes for good carbo-loading!

Sincerely,

Your Bartender/Most Unwilling Voyeur

Second Wind

I just realized it's been over a year now since I started this blog. Of late, I've really not been on the writing wagon. And the reason smacks of irony.

I wanted to write this blog to aim some positive light on a much-maligned profession. I wanted to focus on why I love my job, why I feel like I'm lucky to be doing the work that I do, how serving and bartending are not just worthy of a little respect by customers and non-waiters, but by servers themselves who often seem to not take their jobs seriously.

I wanted to write about the funny stuff that happens, the ways in which the table-waiting list of pros outweighs the list of cons, how I can't believe that more people don't embrace food service as a meaningful profession and career in our culture.

What I very much didn't want to do was to spew complaints and gripe about my work. I didn't want to rag on customers and highlight their foibles. I didn't want to sound like I was complaining all the time, which is what happens rampantly in waiter blogs. I didn't want to add to that mix.

But I'm looking back at my posts, and I can see how I'm being seduced by the dark side. More recent (however infrequent) posts are cranky ones. There's little that I say that isn't grousing.

And I swore I wouldn't go down that path. That path of using my blog as a way to be negative about the work I do. That path of crabbiness. The path of bad juju.

But I'm having trouble focusing on what I set out to focus on, maybe because after eighteen years of doing this work, I'm feeling a tad burned out. Perhaps a lot burned out. It seems that when I'm at work and an idea for a blog entry strikes me, it's almost always because of something that falls under the heading of "whining/bellyaching"-- precisely what I was trying to avoid.

So, finding myself conflicted, I just keep my mouth shut. Hence the long periods of no writing. In keeping with adage, I can't find anything nice to say so I'm not saying anything at all.

I've thought a lot about where to go from here. Give in to the dark side? Make things up? Scrap the blog? After a little introspection, this is what I've come up with: 1) try harder to find and reap the good stuff and 2) be really bitchy if I want to be.

Is that the obvious solution? Probably. But in keeping with my default black-and-white thinking, compromise doesn't come easily for me. I'm willing to give it a shot, though, and hoping that it won't be long before that second wind kicks in.

Dear Bar 8

Dear Bar Seat Number 8,

I appreciate the great enthusiasm you have for wanting to pay the check. Really, I do. However, I am currently actively engaged in taking an order from the person sitting next to you (that would be Bar Seat Number 7), and when you try to get my attention by waving your hand in between our faces in a frantic chopping motion, it makes me want to swat it. Hard.

It is my job and not your job to manage the needs of the eighteen (no exaggeration) people who are currently demanding my attention, so I certainly don't expect you to know the crazed way in which I am juggling all those priorities in my head. In a way you made my job a bit easier by moving yourself to the top of the list.

But I don't think I'm quite at the stage where I can thank you for that.

I know you would like think you are my only customer, but when you're dining in a restaurant, you can expect that you are not your server or bartender's only focus. We all have to share our love-- spread it wide and far. We try to be fair. We try to act like you're the only person we have to take care of. We try to tap into our inner lap dancer and pretend like you are the only person that exists in the world.

But when it comes down to it, we have to see to lots of people. And sometimes that means you have to wait nine seconds for your check while I take someone else's order.

Or at the very least it means you needn't stick your hand in my face.

Anyway, I hope you got to where you needed to be, with a belly full of fennel salad and a refreshing Negroni on the rocks.

Sincerely,

Your Bartender Who Wishes More Than You Do That She Were Not Being Pulled In A Million Different Directions

A Dream About Bartending

last night's dream:

I am bartending at a bar that is in the upstairs bathroom of the house I grew up in, and it is on a cruise ship.

Five middle-aged, middle-American, white women are gathered around the bar, which is where the sink should be. One of them wants to order the rhubarb cocktail. [note: the restaurant where I work is, in fact, featuring a cocktail made with rhubarb juice right now.] Then another one wants one. And then suddenly they all want the same cocktail.

It's easier just to make five at once, I think to myself.

One of them says pipes up. I just looove rhubarb pie! she says.

I wonder if she knows what she has ordered, if she thinks she is getting pie.

It's a cocktail, not pie, I say.

Rhubarb pie is my favorite pie! she implores.

I let it go.

I begin to mix the cocktails. I do so not by shaking them in a cocktail shaker but by mixing them in my mouth and them spitting them out. But I don't even spit them into glasses; I spit them into shallow terracotta gratin dishes.

No one blinks an eye, but I think that the cocktail seems a bit low in volume and I wonder if it should have been more, if maybe I'd made them too skimpy.

The End.

[Oh, and just for the record, I have never spit in anyone's food or beverage nor ever would, lest any paranoidals accuse me of doing so. But any other pathology you can extrapolate from this dream I probably have no defense for.]

Dear Table 17

Dear Table 17,

I'm sure you hear this all the time, but what a toddler you have! She is just about as adorable as adorable gets in the whole spectrum of adorableness. That cute little face! Such an engaging smile! She appears to be nothing short of delightful.

You must be so thrilled to have such an animated little moppet to call your own. Just look at how she stands confidently on her highchair and waves her fork aloft. Was that a handful of pizza she just flung onto the floor with focus and commitment of a major league pitcher? Her feats of coordination and whimsy are the likes of which I rarely, if ever, see in a child who is barely verbal.

And I know she's so much more than just her darling looks and lively demeanor. I'm sure she's got wicked smarts, way advanced for her age. And sharp wit. And a heart the size of an island nation. With those traits I bet that one day she will burgeon into adulthood gripping the cure for cancer in one hand and the key to peace in the Middle East in the other.

Really, it's undeniable that she's destined for greatness. Just look at how she commands the attention of everyone in the restaurant as she calls out with great enthusiasm and authority. She sure doesn't let her lack of ability to speak actual words stop her from vocalizing-- at decibel levels that would send OSHA scrambling to slap earplugs on all of us working at the restaurant tonight.

And she doesn't let up. What persistence! She just keeps going and going. She barely needs to stop to breathe!

Your vacant stares suggest that you might be somewhat desensitized to her elevated utterances-- numb to them, even. You've probably had to learn to tune them out as a survival mechanism, assuming that her public restaurant behavior is similar to her behavior at home. But I can assure you that even if I were able to act as if the piercing, stabbing pain of her high-pitched shrieks did not exist, it would not mean that my eardrums would not still shatter, which I think they just did.

Well there she goes again! It sure has been a spirited last hour. You can tell by the gnarled grimaces and clenched teeth of the other sixty people in the restaurant right now.

Well, I could go on and on, but I really should go and try to sop up the blood coming out of my ears.

Hope you had a lovely dinner.

Sincerely,

Your Bartender Formerly Known As Able To Hear Normally

Eavesdropping

Well, now I can spot VD from a mile away!

-young man with three friends, table 25, seat 3, approximately 9:15 pm, so sad I didn't hear the rest of the conversation.

The Center of the Universe

If you haven't been able to find it, I can tell you where it was tonight: the Center of the Universe came and sat at the bar, and I got to wait on her.

I tried not to make any snap judgments about her by her wildly dyed, attention-getting hair style. And I tried to suspend my interpretation of the air of self-satisfaction she exuded. And I gave her the benefit of the doubt when she first beckoned me over to her with an air of urgency even though I was already clearly on my way to tend to her.

She was nice enough. Almost too nice, though. The kind of nice that says I know how to act like I am nice though really I require your constant focus and if I don't get it, I will unleash the hell-on-wheels that I really am.

I set her up with a cocktail, and as she and her dinner companions waited at the bar for their table to be set, the C of the U continued to peruse the beverage menu (it's an interesting read) as I waited on other folks at the bar.

Excuse me, she said, extending an arm over the bar and toward me. As in the me who was talking to another person on the other end of the bar.

I glanced over my shoulder and signaled that I'd be right over.

I walked with a deliberate slowness toward her. Yes? I asked with an even more deliberate sweetness.

Oh, she started. If you're busy it can wait.

No, no, I say. I'm all yours. Please go ahead.

And I meant this because I wanted to know what was so pressing.

She smiles fake-sheepishly. What's Cynar? she asked, pointing to one of the ingredients on the cocktail list.

I am always happy to answer questions about the menu (it's part of what I do, after all), and this one is a common one.

It's an Italian liqueur distilled from artichoke, I began. It's kind of sweet and bitter and herbaceous and vegetal.

Oh, cool, she replied, looking back down at the menu, which I took as my dismissal.

I eyed another customer who needed to give me an order and headed over to him.

As soon as I got there, the call came in again.

Excuse me, she implored.

And when I say implored, I mean she wasn't just casually trying to get my attention; her tone was just shy of suggesting that there was a natural disaster about to befall the bar and that I must act with all due imperativeness.

I consider ignoring her, but I turned around, smiling.

Oh, it can wait, she bluffed again.

I ended up answering two more questions in this fashion of hers, waiting until I'm otherwise occupied before she decides she must talk to me right away and then acting like she's just suddenly realized that she was interrupting me and feigning politeness by deferring to the other bar patron.

I know this game.

I've played it before. With other Centers of the Universe.

The kicker? Turns out she works in a restaurant, suggesting to me that she should know extra better than to try to talk to the bartender while that bartender is talking to other customers.

You don't have to be an astrophysicist to know that.

Black Saturday

Valentine's Day this year fell not only on a Saturday but also on a holiday weekend, so we were good and braced for a long, busy day.

Sarah and Neki raised spirits with Winnie-the-Pooh and Strawberry Shortcake Valentine cards. And Johnny Cannoli (sort of his real name) set the mood for the day by showing his love through what he does best: cooking. Before the restaurant got too busy, out from the wood-burning oven came a heart-shaped pizza.



What about that pie doesn't scream love?

So this holiday is known as Black Saturday because, theoretically, it's one of those busy nights that will help put a restaurant "in the black." Restaurants are infamous for jacking up prices and offering expensive set menus and overbooking their tables to help achieve this financial goal.

I will hasten to point out that this is not the case where I work.

In the industry, Valentine's day is also one of those events known affectionately as "amateur night," a night when non-restaurant-going folks feel obligated to go out to dinner. It's up there with Mother's Day and New Year's Eve, when restaurants are crammed with dazed and overwhelmed diners who might or might not actually want to be there. They are notorious for ordering cheaply, socializing poorly with the servers, and leaving tips not commensurate with service.

But we try to look forward to these nights anyway. Like any other night, we remind ourselves. Only busier. More challenging. We'll sleep really well after.

I only worked lunch so was spared the mania of the dinner shift, which, from all reports, was one of the busier nights we've had of late. It was a night of controlled craziness, with the kitchen pumping out food at a furious pace and the floor staff scrambling in the most pleasant way possible, trying to appease a crowd of people who were competing for seats, food, and attention.

Me, I was home tucked into my recliner under a blanket with a big book and a big mug of tea while visions of festive pizza danced in my head.

All thanks to Jonathan for getting us off to a deliciously Valentiney start!

What We Like To Tell Ourselves

In my barista days, I made plenty of nonfat mochas with extra whipped cream. As a server, I've put in orders for pizza with extra cheese and bacon with a hot fudge sundae for dessert and a diet Coke to wash it down. I've heard men order fondue and steak in the same meal and say, Thank god I take Lipitor!

And now, as a bartender, I can say I did something that really, I never could have seen coming.

Saturday night was possibly the busiest night I've ever worked at the bar. From beginning to end, for at least six and a half hours straight, I was bounced from one end of the bar to the other, mixing drinks and taking orders and trying to keep clear in my mind the eighteen things I needed to be doing at every second. It was so intense that I swear the pressure I was under was making my hands shake as I poured drinks, my blood sugar plummeting and my adrenaline levels soaring.

It was way-super-crazy busy.

Anyhow, in the thick of the busyness, a woman waiting with her friends for a table watched me as as I built and shook a cocktail made from vodka, meyer lemon juice, and simple syrup.

That looks delicious! she gushed. Is it just vodka and juice? she asked.

There's also sugar in it, I said as amiably as I could while my mind frantically tried to figure out my next several moves.

Can you make one with Sweet 'n Low? she asked.

This question was enough to get me to stop everything I was doing.

Um, well, I don't know if that would work so well, I said, feeling protective of the cocktail recipe.

Oh, I make drinks all the time with it at home, she said confidently.

Well, I said. I only have Equal.

That should have gotten me off the hook. But the woman fumbled through her purse and fished out a tiny pink packet.

Oh look! she exclaimed triumphantly. I've got some Sweet 'n Low with me!

She carried it with her? Couldn't I be tested on some night when I didn't have seven cocktails that needed to be made right at that moment, not to mention the plates that needed to be cleared, the cash that needed to be rung in to the register, the orders that needed to be put in the computer?

I was going to have to throw the game, lose the battle.

For the sake of keeping the flow of the bar going, I took the path of least resistance. It would have taken far too much effort and time for me to explain the importance of maintaining the integrity of the drink.

And at the end of the day, it was clear this woman was going to love the drink made her way; it was what she really, really wanted, and it was obvious that I was physically capable of making it for her.

I took the pink packet and, cringing on the inside, made her that cocktail.

She sipped. She swooned. She expressed pleasure and gratitude. I had made her night.

She liked it so much, in fact, that over the course of her dinner she ordered two more sugar-free concoctions, employing the servers as baffled couriers shuttling the packets of saccharin from her table to the bar.

And what did she eat for dinner? Not one but two bowls of one of the heartiest dishes on the menu: pasta with pork sausage ragù topped with a rich dollop of whipped ricotta cheese.

If she ingested less than an entire day's calories in just her main courses alone, I would be surprised. I guess that forty calories of sugar in those cocktails would have just put her over her edge.

They almost put me over mine.

An, Um, Intimate Dinner

The three women at table 15 started off a little bit, well, challenging.

Hello, I greet them. May I bring you...

Do you have a bar here? a voice cuts in. Is there liquor here?

Yes, I answer. You have the drink menu right there in your hands. I'll give you a moment to look that over while I get you water.

I return to the table with the water, ready to take a drink order.

We know what we want to eat! seat 2 pipes up, to my surprise. I was sure the drink order would come first.

I jot down the order on my notepad.

I'll bring the octopus and the dandelion salad to start, and then I'll bring the soup as a second course with the pastas, I confirm.

But you'll bring the appetizers first, right? the woman in seat 1 asks.

Yes, I affirm, poker-faced. I will bring your appetizers first.

And now we need drinks! enthuses the woman in seat 2.

Seat 3 clutches the drink menu. Do the house cocktails have alcohol in them? she asks, looking intently at the selection of cocktails, which list their alcohol-based ingredients.

Yes, they do, I say.

I want something with a real kick to it! she says animatedly, making a fist and poking it through the air as she says "kick."

I consider what this statement could mean. Does she want something that was very high in alcohol, or is she looking for something flavorful? I can ask her, but I go with my hunch: that she's looking for the buzz.

What kind of cocktails do you like to order? I ask, trying to assess what she might enjoy.

She turns her head to look at me blankly then goes back to the menu. In the mean time, the other women at the table, trying to be helpful (I suppose), read off the names of the cocktails.

I go for another question. Is there a particular liquor you prefer?

There is absolutely no response. Suddenly, seat 2 gets very excited. Beet martini! Get a beet martini!

Okay, says seat 4, with a pronounced lack of enthusiasm.

So you like gin, I affirm, knowing that drink will be an automatic turn-off to anyone who doesn't.

As there is still no response, I mentally shrug, writing down the order as seat 2 looks at the menu. She is audibly mumbling, Hmmm... What do I want, what do I want? as she leafs through the menu. She stops at the beer page. She stops at the wine page. She stops at the non-alcoholic drinks page. She finally lands on the cocktail and aperitif page (which, ironically, is actually the first page of the menu).

The restaurant is rather quiet at the moment, but this does not mean that there aren't other things that I could be doing. Like not having to watch her read every word of the drink menu and think out loud.

Good thing you aren't busy! she observes.

Is it better or worse that she is conscious of her behavior? I don't know. But I stand there, a patient, captive audience, giving no hint that even though I am not busy, her behavior is no less annoying.

She finally settles on an aperitif, and I go to send the orders through the computer. It's late afternoon when the shifts change over, so I sit down to eat family meal while the other servers take over the tables.

When I'm done eating, I stop at table 15 who is now at the end of the meal. Seat 3 now has now turned so she's leaning her back against the wall and has both legs draped over the chair next to her, feet sticking out into the aisle.

I am so drunk! she barks good-naturedly at me as I begin to stack empty plates on my arm.

I smile a small smile of acknowledgment. Clearly in my absence, someone had had another martini.

But approval of their dining experience was not just shared with me.

We want to kiss the chef and owner on both cheeks! they gush to my co-worker Sarah.

That was amaaazing! they howl, slapping their on the table for emphasis.

Eating here is like getting fucked! they whoop at my other co-worker Morgan, who conveys this story with the assurance that this is, in fact, praise-- and with a look on her face like she's not sure she's working in a restaurant anymore.

Not to toot our own horn, but we are used to hearing the generously positive comments that comes from our diners who make happy faces and tummy-rubbing gestures to express their content.

But really? Like getting fucked? I can't quite imagine expressing my contentment in this way to anyone, really, but especially not to my server, but then again, I can't imagine a more entertaining start to a Saturday night of waiting tables.