Tonight around 5:45 I answer the phone.

It’s a woman who responds to my greeting with: hi. We are the smiths. We have a reservation for 5 at 6:30 for 5 but we are really going to be 6.

I thank her for calling but say, I’m sorry but can’t accommodate a party of 6 at 6:30.

She can’t comprehend this.

I explain that we moved over 100 people inside because the patio was closed.

She insists we have to accommodate them. M
I explain that we don’t have a table for 6 at 6:30.

She insists I have too because they live on Marshall Point Road and come all the time.

I apologize but tell her it’s not possible.

3 seconds later and I talking to her husband.

We live on Marshall Pount Road, come all the time and you MUST accommodate us.

I apologize again. Explain that the patio is closed. There’s nothing I can do.

He is having none if that.

He says he’ll call back later to see if there’s a cancellation.

I assure him there won’t be.

He hangs up on me.

6:30 comes and goes and they don’t show.

Motherfucker!

I ended up trying to charge them but there credit card is out of date.

Motherfucker!

This is a long post.

With lots of fun twists and turns.

Last year the largest reservation we’d take was 12.

I spent the summer saying no to 13,14,15 tops.

Over the winter, chef came up with a family style menu we could use for large parties. It would make it easier for the kitchen and and a great experience for the guests.

Tonight we had our first large party reservation.

14 people. At 8:00.

They arrive. They are seated.

14 seconds later the server appears to let me know they’ve moved the tables together.

Fuck.

The area they are sitting in has four large farm tables that we do not move.

Ever.

Ever.

Because.

When they are pulled together the servers can’t serve the middle of the table.

They are stupidly heavy and were stupidly expensive to buy as they were crafted by a friend of chefs.

I march into the area.

They are still arranging chairs.

They are loud and boisterous.

I say hello. No one on pays attention.

Eventually, I clap my hands and raise my voice.

I say, we do not move the tables. Ever. We discussed this when the reservation was made.

They’ve stopped talking. They are looking at me like I’m stupid.

Why not?

Because I said do.

Why.

Because they are heavy. They cost thousands of dollars. Because the server can’t get to the middle of the table.

Someone asks if it’s because it’s a fire hazard.

I say yes. That two.

The a woman looks at me and says, well what do you want us to do?

I say put them back.

The same woman looks me in the eye and says, you mean you want us to put them back.

Yes. Yes. Yes. I fucking want up you to do the heavy lifting.

They move the tables.

I leave.

I feel guilty for being brusque.

I make a point to ignore them.

Their meal goes off without a hitch. Except they thought family style meant they could order off the menu.

Meanwhile.

I’m at the host stand around 9:15 when a man and woman enter the lobby. He goes to the restroom. I talk to his girl friend.

I ask her how her meal was.

She says amazing. She launches into how great the restaurant is. Her boyfriend is here for the first time.

We chat for a few.

At one point after her boyfriend joins us, she says that she was impressed by how I handled the big table.

They were seated at a 2 top next to it.

Her boyfriend says it’s the epitome of privileged.

She says that how I handled the table was perfect.

I thank them and tell them I was worried I was abrupt.

They both assure me that I was perfect.

It was great. Dinner and a show.

We continue chatting.

In the course of the conversation she mentions that she lives in Portland.

I mention that I moved here 10 years ago yesterday.

She lives on Munjoy Hill. Her family has been here for ever. I tell her my best friends who got me to live here lives on Lafayette street.

The conversation continues.

At some point I mention the our best friends Michelle and Lisa….

She stops me.

She says Lisa and Michelle? I know Lisa and Michelle Morgan. I know LK Weiss. I know Sheila and Julia Kirby.

What the fuck.

We both scream.

She literally knows our entire friend group.

She’s even having dinner with our friend LK on Monday.

She’s even seen all of their shows.

I tell her to tell everyone that I said hello.

Meanwhile. The 14 top is moving along.

Around 10:45 one of them comes into the dining room to use the restroom. She asks if they are keeping us.

I assure her they are fine.

When she comes back, I follow her to the table.

I step up the two steps.

I apologize for being abrupt. They don’t know what I’m talking about.

I tell them they are our first large party reservation.

I thank them. Tell them how grateful we are. And I ask them how the meal was.

It was perfect.

I ask if it was enough food.

They hold up their to go bags.

One of the women is hugging me and loving everything.

I finish.

I join chef back at the chefs table.

40 minutes later they start to leave.

The next thing I know all of the women are hugging me telling me how great the experience was, the staff was.

I invite them back to sit on the patio.

They leave.

It’s a late night.

But they left late.

I made a new friend.

Life was good.

Today started just like every other day.

Staff arrived at 4:00.

Pre-shift at 4:30.

Doors opened at 4:50.

We opened early so we can seat more people at 5:00. Tonight all of our 5:00’s were sat by 4:55.

At 5:05 I answer the phone. It’s a guy who’s concerned that he can’t find our menu online. Then he has questions. About the cuisine. The prices. Reservations.

About 90 seconds into this phone the chef arrives at my side. He needs me for something.

Usually at this time if he needs something it’s a friend wanting a reservation.

I hand the phone to the lead host.

Chef says, there’s a car in the parking lot. The engine is running. The driver is passed out at the wheel.

One of our line cooks discovered this when he went out to smoke before service started.

I head to the larking lot. Take out my phone. I approach the car. I can see the driver is slumped over.

Chef hangs back with a couple of employees.

I knock on the window.

No response.

I knock again.

No response.

I call 911.

They answer.

I choose my words carefully. I don’t want to create a scenario that may not be true.

I tell the operator that I have a car running in the parking lot. The driver is slumped over. I don’t know if it’s a medical emergency, drugs or alcohol.

He asks a lot of questions.

I answer.

At some point I send chef in to cook. They can live without me. Chef needs to cook.

Eventually, the police officer patches through to our town.

Not long after the police arrive.

He asks if I’ve knocked.

I have.

He asks if the door is locked.

I explain I didn’t try it. I say, in todays times I’m not going to open the door, I have no idea what the result will be.

He knocks. No answer.

He opens the door.

The kid wakes up. He’s mid 20’s.

They talk. I can’t hear.

It’s starting to rain again.

He’s talking to him when the paramedics arrive.

Eventually they take him into the back of the ambulance.

I approach the police officer. He says he doesn’t appear high or drunk but he is out if it.

At this point, I say I have to get back inside.

It’s close to 5:45.

I leave.

The cop eventually checks in. They are taking the guy to the hospital to be checked out. They are leaving the car.

That’s where it was left.

I hope it was just a medical situation. I hope he didn’t break any laws and I hope he doesn’t get into trouble.