I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Tonight, we had guests arrive at 5:00.  

They are seated at table #21.  

The person who sat them comes back and asks if they can move to another table.  

I say yes, they can move to table #31.  

The person returns 90 seconds later to say that they want table #12.

Here’s the thing, table #12 is reserved for Chef’s best friend who is visiting from out of town.   I’m in the middle of telling the person this when the woman who is being seated appears in the lobby.

She proceeds to tell me she comes all the time and they don’t understand why they can’t have the table just as much as anyone else.  

I say, you can sit there but I need the table back by 6:00.  

She says of course.  

They eat and leave by 6:00.

I look at their reservation history.  They’ve eaten at our restaurant 4 times in the last two years.  The last time was in May.  I’d hardly call that all the time.

And, I’m serious, it’s only a matter of time till I look at someone and say, if you eat here all the time what is my name?  

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I wrote this post three days ago and saved it to post on a night when I don’t work.  Adam suggested I write ahead so that I always have posts to share.

From Friday night:

I walked into the dining room tonight just behind Bob who was going to a dirty table to clean it.  

As I stepped behind him, I heard someone snapping their fingers, then I heard someone clap their hands twice and say, Bob, hey Bob.  

He didn’t hear them, but I certainly did.  

I turned and glared at them. 

Then I followed Bob to the wait station and said, table #25 just snapped at you, so I am assuming they need you. 

For those not in the business reading this, NEVER, EVER, EVER snap at a server to get their attention.

Nothing you need is that important, unless your guest is having an allergic reaction and needs an shot to the heart to survive, like in Kill Bill.

This is your public service announcement for the day.  

Update from today:

I was headed to my office to get my laptop, when I hear a whistle and realize that table #14 has their head stuck out of their room and is looking for someone.  They call me over, to tell me their chicken is undercooked. 

It’s not.  We smoke out chicken.  It’s smoked for hours before it’s served.  It was cooked through before they ever ordered it.  

Second, don’t fucking whistle at me.  You can only whistle at me if you are Ryan Reynolds or Jason Mamoa and you are about to fulfil a lifelong fantasy.  

Don’t do it.