I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I answer the phone tonight.  

It’s an older lady, who tells me she’d like to make a couple of reservations, but first she has questions.

I say of course, what can I help you with.  

She then asks if we have outdoor seating.  

I say yes, we have a lovely patio, that serves the full menu.  

She says great and says then I’d like to make a reservation for October 22. 

I interrupt and say that our patio will not be open on October 22.

She huffs and says, I don’t understand why?

I say, because we live in Northern New England and it will be cold by the end of October.

This perplexes her.  

She says, she’ll have to discuss this with her friends and call back.  

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Last night was a non-descript Saturday night.  

Save for two encounters.

The first a gentleman who was pissed that when he arrived at the outside bar for a cocktail 10 minutes before his reservation he was told by me that there would be no way to get a cocktail before he needed to be back inside.  

He left without saying anything to me.

But was he ever pissed.

He told the host when he arrived back outside that it was unacceptable to be told no.  

He told his server that waited on him that it was unacceptable that he was not able to get a drink before his reservation.

He then made a point to stop and let me know it was a failure in performance.  Especially since when he came back in for his reservation he had to wait 20 minutes.  

Here’s the thing.

He arrived and was checked in at 6:45. He was seated at 7:03.  

I could have let him approach the bar and wait.  He’d have waited 20 minutes for the drink but I guess he’d be happy.  

Instead, he let this one act ruin his life, which I have to assume is picture perfect, since this was the worst thing that has ever happened to him.

Meanwhile, the evening ends.  We are all in.  We are still full but all the reservations have been seated.  

I’m standing at the wait station and the host comes looking for me frantically.  I am concerned about what is coming next.  

She says, we need to talk in private and pulls me into a corner and says, someone has thrown up.  Right in front of the host stand.

Seriously.  Fuck.  Fuck.  Fuck.  

One of the most beautiful things about my restaurant is there are hardly any pukers.  At my last job, you barely got through a week without a puker.  

I grab a food runner and tell them to grab some towels, gloves and soapy water and to meet me at the host stand.

She looks at, like every other person I have said this to, like I I’m speaking German. 

I repeat myself. 

She continues to look at me.

I speak slower and more directly.

Get me some towels.  Some kitchen gloves.  And a container of soapy water.  

Ahhhh.

She understands and goes away.

I go to the front door and host stand.

Yeap.  

There is a stream of throw up from directly in front of the host stand, around the corner and into the bathroom.  I’ve seen far worse, but the distinct smell is starting to fill up the lobby.

I stand there, telling people to walk around as they head into the restroom.

I wait.

I wait.

And wait.

I sent the host to find out what is taking so long.

Fun fact:  It always takes a long time, as though you’ve never asked for kitchen gloves or towels before.

Finally, they appear.  

I don the gloves.  Kneel down and go to work.  

The food runner begins to help bare handed and I yell at her to stop.  No.  No.  No.  Not without gloves.  

I scrub the rug in the lobby, the floor, and then move to the women’s room where I’m grateful that it’s not too bad.  The worst of it is already cleaned up.

In about 15 minutes, it’s done and the smell is waning.  

Once, it’s done, the host says to me that she was glad that she didn’t witness it, as she’d have probably joined her.  

She also says that she is glad that she didn’t have to clean it up.  

I explain that there are a lot of things I no longer do as a GM, on the floor.  That I will always ask a staff member to do.

There is only one thing that I will never ask my team to do and that is to clean up vomit. 

I never have and as long as I can get on the floor and do it, I never will.  

I have a strong stomach.  I know it’s not super safe.  And I won’t suscept them to that.  

So, as I have always done, I put on the gloves and cleaned it up.  

Now someone go bus table 33.   

I wrote this post more than 10 years ago. I share it every year on social media. This year I’m sharing it with you.

When I rolled over and looked at the clock it was 6:45 a.m.  I didn’t need to be out of bed for two more hours. I adjusted the pillows, pulled the blanket over my head and willed myself back to sleep. After another 45 minutes of this I gave up. Jet lag is a bitch. I’d flown home from Barcelona two days earlier and in spite of my trying I was not going back to sleep. I was wide awake and I didn’t need to be at work until at least 9:00. I crawled to the end of the bed, switched on my computer and checked the weather. It was going to be a perfect day, and since it was clear that I was not going back to sleep, I might as well get it started.

At 8:15 a.m. I locked the door of my apartment and headed out into the day. My commute to work was insane. It required me to walk one city block to the south, and one half block to the east. Even after stopping at the grocery store for milk, cereal, and cream for my coffee, I was at work by 8:30. I unlocked the door, turned on the lights, started my computer and then performed the most important task of the day, making coffee. While the coffee was brewing, I sorted through the mail that had collected over the three weeks I’d been in Europe on a “business” trip. Finally, the coffee pot was full and I poured a bowl of Kellogg’s Raisin Bran (it’s funny the things you remember), filled my coffee cup and planted myself at my desk. The time was 8:45 a.m. 

I took a sip of my coffee. I dipped my spoon into the bowl and as I took the first bite of cereal my desk moved about six inches. I had no idea what had happened. I sat there. I rolled my chair to the window, opened the window. My office was on the 25th floor of a non-descript office building. It had no view but if I leaned out the window about a foot,  I had a clear view of the World Trade Center, that was 4 blocks up the street. Today I leaned out the window and gasped as I realize that the North Tower of the World Trade Center was on fire. Think Towering Inferno on fire. There were flames shooting into the air. I was stunned. I ran down the hall to the office next to ours and shouted, the World Trade Tower is on fire! The women from that office ran to my office and we all stared out the windows. By now it looked as if there was a ticker tape parade occurring. The air was filled with 8.5 x 11 sheets of white paper floating through the sky.  

I immediately picked up the phone and called home. My mother is a worrier.  She is from a long line of worriers.  Even though NYC is a huge place, if it happens here, it happens on my block. In this particular instance she was right. She and my father had visited NYC in May from Lexington, KY and she was VERY aware of my location. She picked up the phone on the second ring. This was a habit from years of working as a bookkeeper. She NEVER answered the phone on the first ring. She was cheery, I suspect because she thought I was calling to wish her a happy birthday. Yes, September 11th is her birthday. Instead, I said, “I have no idea what’s going on, but the World Trade Center is on fire. I’m fine, but I wanted to let you know that before you saw the news and got scared. I’ll keep you posted on what’s going on here.” 

I had barely replaced the receiver when the phone rang. It was my boss. He was calling to check on me. He told me that a small plane had crashed into the WTC and reports were differing on what had happened. I assured him that I was fine. He told me he would see me later in the morning and we hung up. I turned, stuck my head out the window again and looked back up the street just in time to see the top of the South Tower explode.

It is 9:03 a.m.

I had no idea what had happened. I did not have a TV or radio in my office and the online sources couldn’t tell me any more than I knew first hand. My boss called back and said that it is now being reported that it was two passenger jets that crashed into the buildings and that from all accounts it was a terrorist attack. I assure him once again that I’m fine. He tells me that he’ll see me later. I’m staring out the window at the fires when a voice comes over the PA system telling us that the office building is being evacuated. I immediately call him back and tell him what is happening. I also tell him that since I have to leave the building I might try and work my way closer to see what’s really happening. He tells me to be careful and I hang up once again. By this time the announcement has been made several more times that there is a mandatory evacuation in effect for our office building.

I grab my cell phone, lock the door, and head downstairs. My cereal and coffee are still on my desk. My computer is still on. The lights are still on. There was no doubt that I would be back in the office in just a short while. I then start the trek down the stairs from the 25th floor as the elevators had been turned off.   The stairwell was filled with people, calmly headed to the lobby.  At this time, things seemed calmer than they were about to be.  

The scene on the street is utter chaos. There are people everywhere. All of the office buildings are evacuating. No one knows what’s going on. People are pushing to get closer. People are pushing to get out of the mess. I start down the street toward the World Trade Center, fully wanting to get closer to see what is happening. By the time I get to the corner of my street, I give up and go home. There are too many people and it’s clear that I’m not getting anywhere near the action.

I get to my apartment, unlock the door, turn on the TV and FINALLY start piecing together the puzzle. Two passenger jets have crashed into the buildings. The idea that this was a freak accident has passed and now there are reports that it was a terrorist attack. I sit on my couch watching the TV in utter disbelief. My phone rings. It’s my mom wanting to know if I’m okay. I tell her that my office building has been evacuated and that I’ve gone home. I assure her that I’m fine.

My phone rings again. It’s my best friend Michelle. She wants to know if I’m okay. I assure her that I am. 

I’m sitting on my couch talking to her as the first tower begins to fall. 

The entire event is surreal. I am chatting with a good friend, while watching this horrible event happen on TV, all of this being accompanied by a tremor of around 2.3 on the Richter scale. My entire apartment was shaking. And just as soon as it started it was over. I was still sitting on my couch, on the phone, still watching TV.  Neither of us is speaking. The awe of the devastation we’d just witnessed is overwhelming.

I realize the air is filled with debris. I go to the window just in time to see the huge billowing smoke that is so often shown in the news footage. My apartment had three 10-foot tall windows facing the street. As I stood watching, the beautiful day with perfect blue skies was obliterated and replaced with the blackness of night created by the smoke and debris. 

I hear loud shouting in the hallway. I open the door to find 10 or 12 people covered in soot. They had been chased down the street by the cloud of smoke and had run into my building. The doorman is letting them use the vacant apartment across the hall to clean themselves. I gather up several towels and wash cloths for them to use. 

Looking back, I’m amazed that I still had phone service. Both my cell and land lines continued to function. My phone continues to ring and ring. My boss. My parents. Michelle. Friends from around the country. I’m talking to Michelle again when the second tower falls.

The apartment shakes harder this time. Things falls. What little light that is left of the day is gone. 

My apartment is completely dark. 

I hear the silence.  

The sirens have stopped.

The horns of stopped.  

The sounds of the New York streets have stopped.  

It is quiet. 

Quiet unlike anything you’ve ever experienced.

There is a complete lack of sound. This is not New York. New York is always noisy. There is always sounds.  There are always horns, and sirens and people yelling. 

This is the complete opposite of that.

I sat there speechless.  

Within minutes Mayor Giuliani issued a full evacuation of lower Manhattan. 

It’s 11:00.

I call my mom and tell her that I’m evacuating and that I will call her when I can. 

I call my boss and tell him that I am fine and that I’m evacuating. 

I call Michelle and assure her that I’m fine. 

I grab a backpack and fill it.  There is little thought of what I need, or how long I would be gone.  

As I leave my building the sky is blue again.  The perfect blue sky of an early autumn day.  Deeper than a summer blue, not a cloud to be seen anywhere.  

I cross the street and pass someone from the hospital handing out face masks. I take one and put it on. 

I continue to walk, north and east toward city hall and the Brooklyn Bridge. 

My walk out of lower Manhattan still gives me goose bumps. There are 1000’s upon 1000’s of people moving in mass. 

Once again the sound of silence.  

No one is talking. There are no cell phones. There are no sirens. There are no helicopters. Just the silent movement of people in shock moving toward what they hope will be sanity.

I was forced north with the sea of people not knowing where I was going. I had no plan. I walked. Once I passed Canal Street it occurred to me that with the mass destruction that had just occurred that surely there would be a need for volunteers. 

Although I really didn’t care for the Salvation Army’s politics I thought it would be a good place to start, so I kept heading north, finally getting to the Salvation Army building on 14th street. There were 50 or 60 people there, and we were all told the same thing, you have to go through training to volunteer. 

I exit the building, lost again. 

I was on 14th street and remembered that St. Vincent’s hospital was just up the street. I could go there and see if they needed any help. 

I get within a block and a half of the hospital and find myself in a sea of 1.000’s of people all hoping to do the same. There were people as far as the eye could see and they all had the same thought, Be Helpful. They were there to give blood and volunteer. 

While I was standing there, I heard my phone ring. It was my friend Stacy, who was in town on business. She told me that she was at her hotel and that I could spend the night there if I needed a place to stay.  

Stacy was staying on the Upper West Side. At this point all traffic in Manhattan had been halted. The only way to get anywhere, would be to walk. I began my trek north and spent the next several hours walking to her hotel. 

When I got there, I was hoping they knew more than I knew. But at this point, the news stations very little.  We planted ourselves in front of the TV and didn’t move for what seemed like hours. At some point, we realized that none of us, had eaten all day.  We wandered downstairs.  Into the street.  Where there were no cars, not taxis, no buses.  In both directions, the street was empy. 

We discovered a restaurant that was open. We ate dinner in silence. Not really sure at this point what was happening, or what else to expect.   

I didn’t return home for three days. 

Getting home was an adventure.  

It’s approaching 7:00.  The sun is setting.  The city is getting dark.  

I got to my first military checkpoint at Canal Street. I explained that I lived in the financial district and that I needed to get home to get more clothes etc. They wanted to see ID. Unfortunately, my driver’s license did not have my current address on it. Luckily, I had a prescription bottle in my back pack and they allowed me to pass. I passed through seven or eight more checkpoints before I got to my apartment building. 

It was dark. There was no electricity. No phone. No water. The entire apartment smelled as though it had been on fire for days. There was a fine dust of soot over everything. The windows were covered as well.  I did not want to stay there long.

As I exited my building, I asked one of the guards on my corner if there was a place in the area to volunteer. He told me that there was a place about a few blocks from my apartment. 

I made my way there. People were everywhere. Volunteers were preparing food. Rescue crews on break. I asked about ten people what I could do to help before someone said to me, “You want to help. Go find bread. It doesn’t matter if it’s fucking hot dog buns. Find some bread.” 

And that’s what I did. I walked about ten blocks north to a “real” grocery store and bought all the bread they had. About 150 dollars’ worth. When I got back, the guy that had told me to get bread was in awe. I spent the rest of the afternoon making food, cleaning tables, etc. 

Around 10:00 p.m. they asked if I wanted to go to the site and help at St. Paul’s Chapel. I said that I would.

For those not in NYC, St. Paul’s Chapel is the oldest church in the city. The rear of the church faced the east side of the World Trade Center. It survived. Not even a broken window. It is believed that the large sycamore tree in the graveyard behind the church shielded it from destruction. 

I got to the church around midnight. The next eight hours were long and grueling. It was an endless parade of rescue workers coming in to rest, sleep, pray. Watching these people come in and spend sometimes as little as fifteen minutes resting before they went back to work was moving, it’s easy to understand why so many of them face post-traumatic stress disorder today. 

They were working tirelessly at a job that would prove to be futile.

I spent the night making coffee, emptying trash and trying to be as quiet as I could. There were people everywhere, sleeping on the floor, in the pews, anywhere there was a spare inch of floor. 

Once or twice, I wandered outside to look up the street. The air reeked of smoke and destruction. There were huge industrial lights lighting the area where the two buildings once stood. 

It was breathtaking and overwhelming, to think that less than a week ago I’d stood in the area between the buildings and relished in the peacefulness that square provided. At night there were very few people in that part of town and for me it was a quiet place to sit and think undisturbed. 

Places like that in New York City are few and far between. 

Now it was a mound of destruction that words could never describe. 

Around 10:00 the next morning, I was shuttled back to the volunteer center and I said goodbye to everyone, and started my trek back up town. 

I can’t begin to describe how I felt that morning, once again walking north. 

It was three weeks before I returned home for good.

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I only had four notes on my paper today.

That’s maybe because we are less busy than two weeks ago.

Or maybe because it was a LOT of locals and regulars tonight.

Or maybe it’s because August is waning.  

Or maybe because I’m becoming immune to their power.  

Here are my four notes today, combined into one post.

________________

Do not.  And I repeat do not show up 45 minutes early for your reservation, get seated upon arrival and then not be happy with your table.   If you’d arrived at 7:30 as you scheduled, you’d have had a great table.  I’m sorry but I can’t move you, because I won’t have another table until 7:30.  

_________________

Tonight, a food runner finds me at the host stand and says a woman is losing her mind because she’s sitting in the Adirondack chairs by the fire and the fire is going out and she is demanding someone do something about it.  It’s 7:45. We are in the middle of the second turn.  We are not short staffed, but we are NOT overstaffed tonight.  Who the fuck do you think has time to fix to stoke the fire.  You might, turn around, pick up a log and toss it on the fire.  

__________________

I was walking through the Gallery tonight as a server was speaking to a diner, eating alone.  He was asking about her comment to the server that was in that section with him.  Seems the server had checked in on the lady after she got her food, inquiring as to how she liked her $140 snow-aged Wagyu strip loin.  

She exclaimed, OH MY GOD.  THIS IS AMAZING.  I THINK I MIGHT BE HIGH, JUST FROM EATING THIS.

And that my friends, is how you respond to eating some of the WORLD’S best beef.

___________________

And to end my night, at 8:00 we sat a 12 top.  

Here’s the thing with large parties.  

Any party over 8 we require to use a pre-fixe menu.  

I can write more on that later.  

The menu is served family style.  We went to this system at the beginning of the spring and it’s worked quite well.  

I organize the reservations.  Get approval.  Book the table.  Put all the information concerning the reservation into Google Calendar so that Chef knows when they are coming and preps for them before service.  

I might add, that my manager nightmare is booking a party and forgetting to document it, and having a rehearsal dinner show up a week early for a table that I don’t have and food we didn’t order.

Tonight, we seat the 12 top, and the server goes up to Chef and says, the 12 top is seated, We’ll be ready to fire the first course in about 10 minutes.

And Chef looks concerned and says “What party of 12?”

And almost immediately, dings the bell twice, to summon me.  

He is perplexed and annoyed and a little cranky.  And I completely understand why.

He asks why the reservation wasn’t in the calendar for the tonight.

I assure him it is.

He pulls out his phone, opens the app and NOPE.  No reservation.

Fuck.  Fuck.  Fuck.

Did I really forget???

Here’s the thing.  I know I didn’t forget because I checked the notes on the reservation in the calendar today.  

I go to my computer, check the calendar, and it’s there.  I double check that it’s the right calendar.  I have my work calendar and personal calendar on my computer at home, and last week I updated my work calendar with a change to our cable bill.

Nope.  

Right calendar.  Right date.  Definitely there.

I still have no idea what happened.

I open the event.  I make a small change to it.  Save it.

And what do you know, Chef gets a notification.  

The event went off without a hitch.

After the food landed on the table, I went up to him and told him that I’d already packed my things, and put my yellow lamp in the car.

He looked very serious and said, great, that’ll save me from a conversation later.

Then he laughed.  

I have no idea what happened.

______________

That’s it.

That’s all my drama for today.

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Server Edition!!!

Tonight started great. We were busy. People were tipping. My tables were turning. No problems with the kitchen. The bar was cranking out the drinks. Life was good.

And then at 8:45…

I was standing at the counter taking an order and the most intense pain ever cranked out behind my right eye.

Fuck.

I mentioned about a month ago that I’d started having cluster headaches. They are a type of migraine. The pain usually starts behind one eye and is intense.

Usually I know they are coming on because I get nauseous and a little dizzy. There was none of that tonight. One minute I felt fine the next mine I felt like my eye was going to pop out of my head.

Then it just became a low dull ache. That wouldn’t go away. I decided not to take the migraine medicine because it’s possible it can interact with one of my anti-depressants. So I toughed it out. For about two hours. And finally I said, fuck it. And I took the pill. The headache subsided some, but not much. I took a second one on the way home from work. The dull ache is still there but it’s much better.

I’ve realized since I went to the doctor a month or so ago, that I have had these for a long time. I just attributed them to sinus issues and after a few hours/days they went away. I guess I was wrong. I’m going to make an appointment to see the doctor again this week. I want to check in with him and make sure it’s nothing serious. I joked at work tonight when someone asked what was wrong, that I had a brain tumor. I don’t think that’s the case, but I’d like to at least talk to him about it. I also need to get more medicine. I took the last pill tonight. And if it were to not go away tonight or even worse come back tomorrow night I’m sort of fucked.

In all though it was a good night. I just put the waiting thing on auto pilot and toughed it out. I still outsold everyone else and made good money. Just think how great it could have been if I’d been feeling well.

Update:::

These headaches stopped when we moved to Maine. In fact, I’d forgotten that I got them until I read this post. I believe they were stress related and my day to day stress doesn’t really exist anymore.

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

At 5:05 tonight a woman walks in.  

I say hello to her and ask if she has a reservation.

She says hello back and says, yes she does.    

I ask the name, she tells me…I can’t find it. 

I ask the name again, and she tells me suggesting it might be under a different name.

Ultimately, I can’t find the reservation so I ask all the questions:

Did you get a confirmation?

What phone number did you use (sometimes its the wrong date, or time).

Did you enter your credit card information.

And that’s when she says no, she didn’t.  She didn’t feel comfortable doing that. 

Ahhh.  

You clicked on the date and time, started the process, didn’t finish it and now you are here.

I say I’m sorry, if you didn’t enter your credit card you won’t have a reservation.

I assure her that it’s okay, I can get them seated.

And I do.  

Four of them. At table #22. 

And I go back to being a hostess.  

About 16 minutes later, a man who looks like Joel Grey,  appears at my host stand, placing his glass of red wine right in the middle of it.  

He says that he’s here to discuss something with me.

I realize eventually that he’s from table #22.  

He says to me, that he was really put off today, when the reservation system asked for his credit card information.  He assures me that we are losing customers because we are asking for credit card numbers. Most people will be put off by this and he assures me it’s bad for business.

I listen as he continues. 

He dines at the best restaurants in Denver and Pittsburgh and Cincinnati and no one has ever asked for his credit card information, and we ultimately need to stop this practice.

I try to explain why we take credit cards but he shushes me and keeps talking.  

I’m not exaggerating. 

He held up his finger like Diane Wiest in Bullets Over Broadway, and shushed me.  

He assures me that the business we lose by taking credit card information would more than cover the people that no show.  

He tells me that we should just write down the number and tell people our cancellation policy without taking the code and the expiration date.  

I try explain that to ACTUALLY charge people, it’s a financial transaction and I have to have all the information.

He assures me that just threatening to charge them would ensure a contract between the gues and us and they would indeed always show up.  

Finally, he runs out of steam and goes back to his table.

Fast forward an hour or so and Joel Grey appears in front of me again, sans red wine.

He tells me he’s here to apologize.

He had no idea when he entered the establishment, what caliber of restaurant we were.  He thought we were a casual, non-descript restaurant.  He now knows, based on the menu, the prices, the service, and the food, that we are a five-star restaurant.  

He continues, it makes sense for us to take credit cards, considering the caliber of restaurant we are.  

He brings up his favorite restaurant in Denver again, letting me know that they take his phone number and text him the day before, 30 minutes before, and a few minutes before, to remind him that he has a reservation.  

I assure him that if they’d ACTUALLY made a reservation, he’d have had the same experience today.  

And just like that he disappeared again.  

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Karen

1 Review

9/7/2022

Rude staff/manager/ hostess. $140.00 for their special. the price was never disclosed!!  the steak was thin and tough. When we spoke to our wait staff and asked to speak with a manager, they came to our table and told us the steak was fine! Unbelievable will never eat there again!!    I had no choice but to choose a star to rate this establishment. . I chose one star but really a megative star rating was my first choice.

First, do you think she sees the irony in using the name Karen?  

Second, this is a post by someone who did not eat in our restaurant, and is echoing what they’ve been told without knowing which parts are true and which parts are not true.  

What they are doing is combining two stories that happened on the same day.

I’ll explain.

On Sunday night before the woman who yelled at me at the door had her moment, able 32 told their server that their $160 Wagyu tomahawk ribeye was overcooked.    I assumed they had ordered medium rare, which is most common, but no they had ordered medium.  

I go to the table and say, “hello, my name is Jeff.  I understand that you have a concern about your steak.”

He separates, the steak where he has cut into it and shows me the inside.

It’s a perfect medium.  And it’s only going to get rarer as he gets closer to the bone.  

Perfect.  

Like, I actually looked up a photo of medium when I got home that night to confirm what I knew and it was picture perfect.  Red in the center.  Not pink.  And cooked more through as you got closer to  the outside. 

And here’s the part that sucks.  

We are not going to re-cook your steak if it’s cooked the way you order it.  We are not going to refund your steak if it’s cooked the way you ordered it.  

And unfortunately, I’m the guy who’s going to tell you this. 

I end up being the asshole.  I’m rude.  And arrogant.  And mean.

Because I have to tell them no.

His steak was not cooked wrong.  

But here’s what he had to say about me on his survey:

I ordered the 32oz tomahawk special this evening and ordered it for a medium temperature. My wife ordered the Tbone medium well. It was very obvious that the two orders were somehow flipped and my tomahawk was cooked medium well to well done. I explained the issue to our server and she was fantastic and offered to get the manager. I asked her to confirm that the steak was in fact over cooked and she agreed. I asked the guests from both tables next to us and they agreed that it was clearly over cooked. The manager came to our table and was very rude and short to us. I stated that I had ordered it medium and he scoffed at me and said that is medium in a very dismissive tone. I asked if he was sure and he impatiently said that’s medium. I’ve eaten at this establishment several times and ordered many different cuts of steaks always medium. They were no where’s near as cooked as this steak was. I understand that they were busy and accidents happen but the manner in which the manager treated me was completely unprofessional and rude. I’m more disappointed with his attitude and behavior than anything else. I wasn’t expecting anything but I would expect a much different interaction with a manager. Very disappointed

Here’s the thing.

He separated the steak.  I looked at it and said, I’m sorry sir, but it appears to be medium to me.  

He said and I quote, “well okay then.”

There was no discussion.  He dismissed me.

I didn’t have a tone.

But here’s the kicker.

Guess who was seated at the two top next to him.

Table 33.

Ms. $140 steak.

They commiserated I’m sure on how horrible their experiences were.  

And Miss Karen of Yelp fame, has combined the 2 stories and written a post that is far from factual.  

And this is a first.  I was called a hostess.  I’ll take that as a compliment.  

It makes laugh at how much energy these people have spent on teaching me a lesson.  

So much negativity.  

Yes, I’ve spent time on it as well, but only that you may hear the details.  

Chef couldn’t be bothered when I brought it up today at our meeting.  We literally spent less than 5 seconds on it.  

My friend, who shared the post the woman that did eat with us posted, defended my honor today on her Facebook page.  

It made me quite happy.

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

The gift that keeps on giving.

Sunday night around 6:50 the lobby was full of people.  We, meaning I, were in the beginning of seating the second turn.  There were about 10 people in the lobby, with more on the way.

I’m standing there, when a very nice-looking lady, and her friend appear from the dining room.  

She smiles at me and says hello.  

I say hello back.  

She says, “may I give you some advice?”

I have no idea what was coming, but okay.  Fire away.

And she does.  

She’s not actually giving advice.  She is working herself into a frenzy.  That builds and builds over the next four to five minutes until I ask her to leave the restaurant.  

It seems that she and her friend had ordered our dinner special.  And the server had failed to tell them the price.  

(I apologize.  I know where this is going.  I ask who their server is.  I try to tell her that it’s not our policy to do this.  I say I will speak to the server.  In fairness, the special she is referring to is a $140 9oz steak.  By all means the server should have told them.  By all means I will speak to the server.  By all means this will never happen again).  

She doesn’t hear me, want to hear me, or have a discussion.

She is shouting within a minute of the beginning of the conversation.  

How dare we charge her this much for a special.  She was expecting it to be $60 dollars.  Not $140. 

She turns around and addresses everyone in the lobby.  Don’t order the special if you don’t want to get taken advantage of.  The only way they can sell it is if they don’t tell anyone how much it is.  

She is now doing what I mentioned last week.  Not speaking for a result, just speaking so everyone can know her displeasure.  She is going person by person in the lobby telling them about how she was cheated.  

I finally tell her she needs to go.

This only makes her madder and she starts to speak louder.  

Once again, she doesn’t want a response.  She doesn’t want her money back.  She just wants everyone to listen to her yell.  

She leaves the lobby and heads outside.  She literally stops at every person she comes to and tells them how awful we were.  There is a line of about 15 people outside.  

I’m done at this point. 

I go outside and tell her that I’m going to have to ask her to leave the premises.  

She only talks louder.

And then.

She blew up social media.

And not just the usual Yelp and Facebook.  

She’s on private local Facebook pages, telling everyone how awful we are.

If she’d even paused for 2 seconds when this all started, I’d have discounted her check. 

If she’d been interested in a solution, I’d have found one.

Needless to say, the server got a stern talking to and it’s been announced at every pre-shift since that we are not that restaurant.

But once again.

She just wanted to hear herself yell.  And to make sure everyone else heard her yell as well.  

A friend of mine, shared one of her social media posts last night with me.  I followed it back to her page.  She has the same post on her own social media page.  The comments were delightful.  

“The Great Lost Bear has a great steak and good beer for a lot less”.  

“Call the attorney general and report deceptive business practices.”

“Unfortunately for him he doesn’t know who he is dealing with”.  “You got that right Jennie.”

“That’s INSANE ….Call the BBB or if you paid with a CC maybe dispute the bill..They have no idea who they’re messing with …Its on girl…I’m making flyers”

“Hopefully they go out of business and the owner goes bankrupt!!”

“Yay ____,  Jason said go to the Big Texan and get a 72oz. steak and get your moneys worth.”

Seriously.  

I’m going to say it again.  

What happened was absolutely wrong.  

WRONG.  

The server should have absolutely told the guest.

And.

Had the guest wanted a resolution, we’d have found one.  But alas that was not to be.

PS.  The steak is $140 for 9 oz.  It’s snow aged Japenese Wagyu.  It’s over $100 a pound for us just to buy it.  We don’t get even close to a reasonable profit on it.  We bring it in, because we are a steakhouse and our guests love it. We sell out, in a couple of days every time we bring it in.  And yes.  People are told the price. 

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

It’s still only a few days past August.  

The remnants of Angry August still exist.  

I can’t remember if I’ve spoken about the 8th month being called Angry August. Every one calls it that, though.  

Tonight, I was on the patio and a woman I met this weekend, comes up with a friend.  

She says, I bet you are glad August is behind us. Angry August is the worst.

I say, ahhh. You must be in the business if you know that term. 

We chat.

The friend who is with her, is the man who bought her inn. She is no longer in the business.  

We all stand there and talk commiserating on how bad it actually is.  

How glad we are that things will slow down and become less “angry.”  

I excuse myself and head back inside.  

Angry August is a real thing. And there are still signs of its presence.  

The third table we sat tonight after opening, was a couple with a small child. They had made a reservation for 2 people. They can’t sit at their reserved table because it only has 2 chairs.  

We move them to a 4 top table.

A server takes them in. And reappears 45 seconds later to say they want to sit at a booth.  

I explain that it can’t happen.  

She goes away and returns 90 seconds later. They want to speak with me.  

I go to the table. And say, hello. May I help you?

The woman is in attack mode. 

She says that the server told them that they can’t sit at one of the booths because they are reserved. I concur that yes they are.  

She pushes back, that there was no option to pick a booth when the reservation was made.

I explain that we don’t let people choose their tables, but in this case, the requests had been made and have been granted.

She pushes back, well there was nowhere to put in a request.  

I assure her that there was.  

The husband says, I can’t believe you won’t let us move. It’s our anniversary.  

I apologize but again explain that the tables are reserved.

They both get huffy with me. I say I’m sorry. And leave.

May I point out at this time, that their reservation was made at 2:00 today. The reservations at those tables were planned out an hour before they booked.  

I don’t ever get into with a guest but we’d started service. The ball was in motion. There is a whole host of reasons, why things can’t change that are not visible to the naked eye.  

Three minutes later their server appears and wants to know if they can move outside.

Why yes. Yes they can.

And move they did.

It seems they only come to our restaurant on their anniversary according to their history. Which is great. But book ahead.

Now.  

Back to Angry August.

Around 6:30 I walk up to the host stand and there is a man there speaking with the host.

He is apologizing to her.  

I say nothing, I just listen.

He turns to me and says, I owe you an apology as well. I came in last week, got angry, tried to slam your front door and stormed out.  

I have no idea who this man is.

I ask him when this happened.

He was a week ago.

I assure him that I have no memory of it, and so it must not have been as bad as he thought.

We chat for a bit and I realize he’s the husband of the woman that I was speaking with on the patio that mentioned Angry August. Her husband was an angry person.

He keeps apologizing and finally leaves.

Then my host explains who he is.

Last week a man comes into the restaurant to make a reservation.

She asks for his phone number and he says he won’t give it to her. He’ll only give his name.

I’m standing there and explain that the only way we can make a reservation is with a phone number.

He starts shouting about not wanting to get text messages about his reservations. Works himself up and then storms out.  

I’d never have remembered this is she hadn’t told me.

All of this over text messages.  

The funny thing is, it’s really easy to turn off our text notifications. So easy. In fact in a worse case scenario, block the number.  

And this is what he yelled about last week.

And apologized for tonight.

It really was mild in comparison. 

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Today was our first shift back after the Labor Day weekend.  

The last time we did numbers comparable to tonight was the first week of June.  

It was quiet to say the least.  

And it was nice.  

There is not a person in my restaurant who doesn’t like to see big numbers.  All summer long, push, push, push.  

But I was very grateful when I saw the numbers tonight.

And I was very grateful when the last guests were gone by 9:30. 

And I was very grateful when I got into my car a little after 10 to head home.