I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Adam and I went to NYC two weeks ago.  

We try to go once a year. 

We tend to do more than we should.  

And we spend WAY more than we should.  

But as I like to point out to people at work, we aren’t paying for college, braces, a third car, prom, trips abroad, travel sports, video games, laptops, school supplies, and a 2,500 square foot home.  

Cats are cheap. Plus, you they don’t expect to travel with you.

We went to NYC.  

And I missed two days of work.  

And there are people who come in, who wonder where I was two weeks ago, because I’m literally in the building 99% of the time.  

Tonight, a guest asked where I was. And I shared that I was in NYC. 

The following conversation has happened four or five times now.  

WOW. It’s a real shit show down there now.

The crime. The trash on the streets. The closed businesses. The homeless. We were just down there this fall, and it’s horrible. Disgusting. I can’t believe how much it has changed in the last three years.  

And I stand there, wondering, if they were really in NYC.

I lived there for 5 years. Moved away for 3. Then moved back for 6.  

Yes, it has changed.  

But.  

There are has always been trash on the streets. There have always been businesses closing. There has always been homeless people.  

And most of all.

It’s always been disgusting, which is single handedly, why everyone I know that lives there, lives there. 

I can’t speak for everyone, but most everyone I know gravitated to NYC, because they were looking for something. A career. Love. A hiding spot. Sanctuary. Freedom. Life. Safety.  

For me it was all of the above.  

So yes, it has changed.

But so has Maine. And Peoria. And Des Moines. And Tulsa. And Amarillo. And Los Angeles. And Seattle. And little Sadieville, Kentucky.  

And fun fact.  

Yes, a lot of places I used to love are gone. 

But the only real difference I can see in the city, is the addition of the outdoor seating pavilions that small and large restaurants alike have installed.  

Besides, who wants to go to city like NYC and not be a little disgusted. 

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

There are 2 things I knew as a child. 

1. I would go to college.  
2. I would get a job as soon as I could so that I could buy things for myself, that my parents wouldn’t.  

Full disclosure, it really wasn’t–wouldn’t, it was more a couldn’t.  They didn’t have the money to buy the things I wanted.  

It’s funny, looking back at what I spent my first paycheck on.  I bought clothes.  That were in style.  That weren’t from K-mart.  For my friends in Kentucky, I spent my $83 (I remember this) on clothes from McAlpin’s.  My family thought I was deranged.  That’s another story.  

I turned 16 on Sunday, April 12, 1981.  I just learned that on that day, the first NASA Shuttle was launched.  

Two weeks later, I started my first job.  

I was hired to be a dishwasher, at the Day’s Inn Restaurant on Delaplain Road, in Georgetown, Kentucky. Making $3.35 an hour.  

I was fucking stoked. 

I’ll have to post a photo if I can find one.  

I wore white uniform pants, a white uniform shirt, tennis shoes, with a brass name tag.  I was Robert, because they didn’t have a Jeff.  

My shift on the first day started at 4:00.  

I was nervous as fuck. 

And didn’t have a clue what I was doing.

I’d gotten the job, because my Aunt Debbie worked there as a cook, and my parents knew the husband/wife team that managed the hotel and the restaurant.  

I punched the clock.  

And I was off.  

The restaurant closed at 9:00 that night.

At 11:00 I was still washing dishes.  

My parents sat in the dining room, with the manager and my aunt, smoking, while I meticulously, scrubbed every dish spotless.  

I think I finished up around 11:30 that night.  

My parents had been told I was the slowest dishwasher they’d ever hired.  They were going to give me two weeks to figure it out.  And if I didn’t speed up, then I’d need to look for a new job.  

And speed up I did.  

Within six weeks, I was FAST.  

In six months, I was cooking.

In 12 months, I was waiting tables.  

And just shy of 2 years I was fired but these are all stories for another day.

The only thing that matters today, is that I went from the slowest dishwasher to the fastest dishwasher and cemented my career path in hospitality.  

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Server edition!!!
The following occurred tonight at work.

A four top was sat. Ordered. The food arrived. They ate.

The server seeing that the woman at the table was finished with her dinner, approached the table and tried to clear the her plate. 

At this point the women completely lost her shit. Why you ask? 

Because her plate was being cleared before everyone at the table was finished. She began to yell at the server because it was very rude of the server to take the plate when others at the table were still eating. At some point she, became completely indignant and demanded to see a manager.  

When he arrived, she began again.

By the time I heard all of this the server was crying in the wait station, because of course, the manager sided with the guest. 

Because the guest is always right.  

At some point I guess our new “English” manager explained that this was an English custom that some people were very strict about.

And my comment.

FUCK HER!!!

This is not fine dining. It’s not even close. You are eating a hamburger with French fries using a paper napkin. The mayonnaise you were given is in a plastic ramekin, and you are squirting ketchup directly from the bottle. When you ordered tea, it was Lipton, and the mug wasn’t even on a saucer. And if I were your server you wouldn’t have even get a spoon. You’d have a little cocktail straw.  

Hmmm. The server was being rude????

Once again.

Fuck you

You want to know what’s rude. Going to another country and then proceeding to demand that your customs be followed.  

Fuck you.  

Fuck you.  

Fuck you.  

Seriously.  

You don’t get to be indignant over a 16-dollar cheeseburger. You want fine dining go find fine dining. You want “proper” service, don’t go to high volume restaurant where the server’s job is to get you in and out in as little time as possible. Don’t go to a restaurant where the other 99% of the people want their plates cleared as soon as they finished. The next time you need “proper” service call up the fucking queen and see if she’s available for dinner. 

Oh.

You know what’s really rude?

To yell and berate someone in public.

In the big scheme of things on the rudeness scale.

Clearing your plate early. 1.

Yelling at a server. 100. 

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

This one is fast and easy.  I have been down a rabbit hole tonight, that I can’t wait to share with all of you…but that day is not today.  

The two-week Christmas celebration in our little town is over.  

As I like to say, businesses do summer numbers with winter staff.  The masses come to town, they spend a lot of money, we all stress out and not one business in a 50-mile radius is sad when it’s over.  

It ended for us tonight around 11:00 when the last two-top left.  

I have to say that I am very glad.

As for me, I have 6 more working days, until we close for a much needed, much deserved winter break. 

Normally, the restaurant is closed for about 2 weeks just for Xmas and New Year’s.  This year we are closed for 23 glorious, GLORIOUS, days. 

The time off will be well spent.  

In the meantime.  

Prelude is OVER!!!

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

We open our doors religiously every day at 4:50.

Our hours are posted as 5-Close.

But we open early.  

Except today.

Today, was the exception.

Because at 4:55 today, the entire staff.  Owner, Chef, GM, Servers, Bartenders, Cooks, Dishwashers, Hosts, were all gathered around the TV’s in the bar watching Argentina play soccer.

I asked at 4:50 what time Chef wanted to open.

He replied, NOT UNTIL THE GAME IS OVER!!!

It ended at 4:57. Thankfully, Argentina won, because everyone would have been in a bad mood otherwise.

When we opened the doors, everyone came in excited about the outcome of the game.  

It’s exciting stuff.  

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

One thing I have realized, is that so much of my life truly does revolve around hospitality.  

And I have discovered that there are so MANY stories to share.  

Some fun.  Some painful. Some educational.  Some just are good stories.  

One such story.

In 1992, I was in grad school at the University of Kentucky, getting an MA in theater.  I was in my fourth year there as a grad student.  In a 2- year program.  

Actually, my classwork had been done for 2 years.  I started in 1989, and finished at the end of the 1990-1991 school year.  All I needed to do was write my thesis.  Which didn’t require much.  A one-page paper about something or other.  The degree was production based.  

However, I’d been told my whole life, and I do mean my whole life, that I was a bad writer.  I was embarrassed to turn anything in.  Instead, I kept working in the department as a designer, adjunct, painter, TD, electrician, carpenter, etc. to keep putting it off.  

I’m not exaggerating.  The reason that I had not graduated, on time, was that I was afraid to turn my thesis in.  

My life was such that I work in the theater department during the day, and at night I bartend at the local O’Charley’s restaurant on Nicholasville Road.  I didn’t even ask to be a bartender there.  I applied to be a server, but the they didn’t need servers, they need bartenders.  When they ask if I could do it, I said OF COURSE, how hard could it be.  And presto, poof:  I was a bartender.  

For those not familiar, it’s what a friend used to call a brass and fern restaurant.   Lots of brass to polish at the end of the night, lots of ferns to water at lunch.   Most of the O’Charley’s were located in old Bennigan’s restaurants.  

This particular location, had a busy bar.  Especially Thursday nights which was 10 cent wing night, and all-night happy hour.  2-4-1 on all well drinks and draft beer.  For every beer ordered, I pulled 2.  Sometimes 30 or 40 at a time.  I served Miller Lite and Bud Light in 16oz plastic cups all night long.  These were the only 2 beers we had on tap and fun fact, NO ONE, AND I REPEAT, NO ONE could tell the difference in the 2 draft lines.  Trust me, I tested lots of people on this fact.  

Another fun fact:  My boyfriend at the time, would come in and eat at the bar several times a week.  No one, had any clue that he was my boyfriend.  He’d sit by himself, chatting with me, while I did my bartending thing.    

I digress.

So there I am bartending on the fateful afternoon of March 28, 1994.  

A day that will live in infamy for ANY ONE who was alive and well and living in Central Kentucky that day. 

Picture this:  

The University of Kentucky is ahead 103–102 with 2.1 seconds remaining.  

The energy in the bar is insane.  People are screaming.  They are yelling.  There is no way in hell that Duke can get a ball to the other end of the court and score in 2.1 seconds.  The game is ours. 

Duke called a timeout and drew up the final play where Grant Hill would throw a long pass to Laettner at the opposing foul line. Hill’s 79-foot pass found Laettner at the opposite foul line, and Laettner dribbled once to his right, then turned back to his left and shot a turnaround jumper over Feldhaus just before time expired. The ball swished through the net as the buzzer sounded, giving Duke a 104–103 victory.

There is a moment of silence when things like this happen.  Where you can hear a pin drop.  Where the air in the room stands still.  Everyone stops breathing.  No one’s heart is beating.  

Then there is a collective inhale and all hell breaks loose.

The bar exploded in terror as people began to curse, and shout, and scream their dismay.

A good 50% of the people who are reading this right now, probably experienced this live.

But here is where my experience and your experience probably differ.

About 7.4 seconds after the shot.  About 5.2 seconds after the buzzer.  About 3.6 seconds after the room realized the outcome. 

A whole section of my bar started to scream that Laetner was a f*g.  

A f*gg*t. 

It was not 1 person, or a couple of people.  It was 20 or 30.  Many of them were my co-workers.  

It went on for what seemed like forever.  

I sat there, in my own dismay, but it was no longer about the game.  I no longer cared about the score.  The game.  The outcome.   

Such hatred.  Such outrage.  Such vile, disgusting words.   

Their hatred was so intense.  The hatred, that they’d surely have for me, if they knew that the kid who comes in on Thursday night, for wings, was my boyfriend.

In what was probably less than 30 minutes, the bar was empty.  

I got a clean towel and started putting the room back together.  Wiping up the stale beer from the bar rail.  Filling my ice wells for the evening.  Re-stocking liquor.  Emptied a bus tub.  I closed all the checks.  

An hour later, it was just me and a server. 

The game was over.  

The score was not in our favor.

The score was not in my favor.  

 A day that would live in infamy.  

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Last night, a friend from high school, shared with me a link to a new book, written by a Maitre‘d.  He wrote the book, sharing stories of his encounters in NYC, in some of the nicest, of the nicest restaurants.  

He finished by saying that he really thought I should compose my stories into a book.  He also shared that I should include my 9/11 story in the publication.  

I have been told this several times.  

I think it’s there.  But as I told him, I have really figured out an in.  

A hook.

A direction.

A focus.

I sit down to write.  And most of the time something comes.  

Sometimes, I think it’s funny and engaging.

Other times, I re-read the story the next day and am embarrassed that I hit publish.  

Full confession:  It’s late when I write.  I don’t spend a lot of time editing.  I read through the post once or twice and hit publish.  

My 9/11 story has been written for more than 10 years and every single year, I read something and change it to make it sound better to me.  

I always chalk up what I do, like an artist who creates a painting a day for a year.  I’ve only been posting for 18 months and have 635 posts.  

That being said. 

I’ll continue to look for an angle.  A hook.  An in.  

And when I do, I won’t share it with you, I’ll just let you know when you come to my book signing.  

PS. If anyone has a suggestion, please share because I’ve yet to figure it out.

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

On Facebook, I belong to a group that focuses on Broadway shows.

Surprise, surprise.  

A couple of weeks ago, someone said, I am Mormon and did the missionary trip.  Do you have any questions about Mormon Missionaries from watching Book of Mormon.  

I asked, rather politely, if the Mormon church had changed their stance on gay people yet, like they did with people of color in the 1970s.  

The kid who asked the questions, tried to be genuine and courteous and said all the right things.  Including, sharing a link to the recent story, that the church was no longer going to fight marriage equality.  

All was good, until I ask if they support gay people, or is it still you can be gay just don’t have gay sex. 

And then suddenly it was all love the sinner, hate the sin.  

Love the sinner, hate the sin is continuing to care about your Uncle Bob when he gets his 17^th DUI.  

Love the sinner, hate the sin is loving your Uncle Brett after he embezzles 5 million dollars from a charity for poor people.  

Love the sinner, hate the sin is supporting your father when his company gets convicted on tax evasion.

You absolutely, DO NOT LOVE me if you can’t support my relationship, my home, my children, my life without pointing out that I’m a sinner because I have gay sex. 

Nope.  You don’t love me at all.  

AND.

PS.

I’d bet all the money my father owes for tax evasion, that the reason the church is changing its status on marriage equality is that young people are leaving their church as fast as they are all the other churches because of their narrow views of social issues.  

I told the kid they’d have to walk back a long way to recover from the damage they did from Proposition 8 in California.  

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Hello thank you for calling how may I help you?

Yes, I’d like to know if you have any reservations available for Sunday night?

Of course, for how many people?

Wait just a second while I count.

I waited 90 seconds and hung up.  

Fun fact:  When you call to make a reservation you need to know the following:

The date:

The times that work for you:

The number of people that will be joining you:

These are absolutes.  

The more you know.  

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

It’s a full moon.

And oh boy was it in effect tonight.  

It should have been the easiest of easy nights.

We were quiet. 

The staff was in a great mood.

Chef was in a great mood.  

I was in a fucking great mood.

But alas. 

The night started with a 5:30 reservation for 6 arriving at 5:05.  

They walked in and immediately told me where they were sitting, who was waiting on them, and essentially how the night was going to go.

They insisted that I seat the 6 of them at table #24 which is a five top. 

I explain that this can’t happen, because table #24 is a five top.  

They tell me that they WON’T sit in table #14.

I explain that that’s a good thing because they aren’t supposed to sit there.

They then demand that no matter where they sit, they get Jen or Lorrie as their server.

I explain that that can’t happen because Lorrie and Jen aren’t waiting on the table where they ARE sitting.  

They finally agree to go look at the table.

This is my favorite.  I’m 102 and never, ever, ever have I told a host that I wanted to walk through the restaurant, to take a look at a table, to decide if I want to sit there.  

But off they go.

The 16 year-old who has led them to the table is back in 14 seconds to let me know they aren’t pleased.  Aren’t pleased at all.  

(She tells me later, that she tried to say something to the woman who made the reservation and was told to shut up she wasn’t being addressed).

I tell the 16 year-old to bring them back to the lobby.  I will seat them at the table they insisted they didn’t want. But I’ve just sat that server two tables so they’ll need to wait.

They get to the lobby, full of huffing and puffing.    

The lady in charge says, I’ve never seen a restaurant so inflexible.  

Her friend says, loud enough for everyone to hear, I told you we should have cancelled our reservation and gone someplace else.

I interrupt and say, I’ll gladly cancel your reservation without penalty if you’d LIKE to go someplace else.  

By this time the lobby is filled with three or four more tables.  All people I know, all people who are glad to see me.  I’m getting handshakes, I’m getting hugs.  

One group of four has witnessed the whole exchange, and are intrigued by the behavior. 

The ladies get settled on the couch waiting.  Everyone else gets seated.

By the time 5:30 rolls around and it’s time for the them to finally get moved to their table, at least three or so more tables have walked in, with big hellos for me.  

It’s now 5:35. Everyone is seated.  

And now comes all the people I’ve seated, wanting to know exactly what the fuck that was. 

It’s food.  It’s a great restaurant.  How are you so miserable if it’s Christmas and you are here.  Isn’t she a business owner in town, she should know better.  Do you get treated like that often?

The four top that witnessed the whole exchange, actually commented on how polite I was, while saying that if they wanted to go somewhere else, it would be okay.  

The rest of the night was full of compliments.  

Two tables I don’t remember seeing before told me one of the reasons they come back is for my smile at the door.  

And then 8:00 rolls around.

I finally go pee, after waiting 2 hours.  

When I get back there are 3 people without a reservation, waiting to be seated.

The man’s face changes when he sees me.

According to the server who was watching the door, he was perfectly pleasant.  Then I arrived and he got aggressive.  He wanted to sit where he wanted to sit and let know that in no uncertain terms.  

Turns out, he was still pissed from showing up without a reservation three weeks ago, and having to sit at the end of the bar, instead of in the middle where he wanted. 

They are seated.  

The night ends.

At 10:15, because the 8:00’s always arrive late, and sit forever.

Oh.

And I almost forgot.

I’m standing at the host stand.  The phone rings, I answer, see a server out of the corner of my eye, and he says to me, a woman in the dining room is choking.

I won the 100 meter dash tonight.  I was in the dining room in about 3.4 seconds, yelling what table.

By the time I got there, a nurse had given the woman the Heimlich.  And she was okay.  

I checked on everyone.  All was well.  She was just embarrassed.  

And this in my very long post, is a reminder that if you are choking, fuck being embarrassed. 

It’s better to be embarrassed than dead.

PS. It was a piece of broccoli.