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.

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

The phone rings, I answer and a man on the other end of the line says, Hi, I’d like to make a reservation please.

I ask for the date and time.

He says, tomorrow at 6:00, for 4 people.  

I say great, can I get your phone number starting with the area code.

He says, 555-5555.

I realize that he has not given me the area code.

I stop and say, can I get the area code please?

And he gets angry and says, it’s 207, I told you I live here.

Well honey.

My little machine that I use requires me to put the area code in, whether you live here or not.

And.

I live here too, and my area code is not 207.  

In fact, as it turns out the friends you are dining with tomorrow, live here as well, and their area code is NOT 207.  

And it really doesn’t cost you anything to be nice.

PS.  After you hung up, I remember who you are.  You were the very nice party that on Saturday night, one of the busiest night of the fall/winter, stayed almost 3 hours at the bar when you were told when I seated you that I needed the chairs back by 7:15. I made it work for me, but the bartenders didn’t appreciate losing three 2-tops I pushed into the dining room in order to accommodate them.  

I’d like to speak with the manager!!!

I answer the phone today, and a woman on the other end of the line wants to know if she needs to make reservations to come in.

As always, I said, they are not required but even on slower nights we recommend them, as there is no guarantee that you’ll be able to just walk in.  

I ask her if she’d like to make a reservation.

She says, yes.

For how many?

Two people she says.

I follow up with, would you prefer a table, or seats at the bar.

She replies, I’ll wait and decide that when I get there.  

???????

I tell her I missed what she said.

She repeats, we’ve not been to your restaurant, we’ll decide where we want to sit when we get there.

I explain that that can’t happen.

She immediately wants to know why not.

I gently try to explain that it takes a bit of planning for the evening, so we must know where everyone is going to be seated.

She doesn’t like this, but chooses a table.

I make the reservation.

Two people tonight, 6:30, in the dining room.  

All set!

She called and cancelled at 6:15 tonight. 

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

When I got to work today, Chef had sent me a copy of this post from our Facebook page. 

Come join us for December’s book club! We are reading The Last Thing He Told me by Laura Dave. We will meet at 6pm. Parking is limited so grab a pal and carpool.

Registration will be limited due to the small size of the restaurant so please RSVP as soon as possible. Registration will close 12/8. If there is a large enough interest, we will move from the restaurant to a member’s home (still with delicious food- rest assured!)

Contact _______ with any questions and to RSVP! You can dm us to RSVP, too! 

Seriously.

There is no date, so we have no idea when to expect them, or how many to expect.  

Also, we really aren’t the book club sort of restaurant.  But then again, I’d ask what restaurant wants a group to come sit for three hours and discuss a book.  

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Server Edition!!!

Tonight around 11:30 I was working trying to get through the end of the night.  I picked up money for a check.  Went to the wait station and counted out the change, put the money back in my pocket, dropped off the change and went to the bar to pick up drinks.  When I got to the bar, I did what I often do and put my hand in my pocket.  And my money was not there.  I panicked.  I went running toward the wait station and as I turned to go in someone yelled my name.  I looked back and there was a trail of money all over the floor.  Several of us picked up the money as quickly as we could.  Picture one of those machines that’s blowing the money around and you are grabbing it as fast as you can.

I get all the money back in my pocket and go back to work.  About 30 seconds later I panic.  What if somehow we missed a twenty dollar bill, or a fifty or even worse a hundred.  Fuck.  Fuck.  Fuck.

I realized there was nothing I could do about it.  I just had to finish my shift and pray for the best.

Just a note to all you non-restaurant people out there.  Most waiters carry their banks in their pockets.  Not just their tips but all the revenue they’ve collected for the evening.  At the end of the night they run a report.  The report totals up all your sales, from that amount it subtracts your credit card payments and then you get a total due.  You give the restaurant it’s cut and what ever is left is yours to keep.  If by chance you lose your bank you are responsible for it.  So let’s say I hadn’t found my money tonight.  I would have had to cough up all the money I owed out of my own pocket.  To put this in perspective as to how much money we are talking about.  I’ve had to pay as little as a couple of hundred dollars.  And one night I had over 2300 dollars in my pocket.  It’s a little scary when you think about it.

So as soon as I ran my report.  Before I’d even finished my side work or gone to the office where everyone else was doing their cashout, I counted my money.   I owed the restaurant 900 dollars even.  I had 927 dollars in my pocket.  I counted again.  And again.  And again.  And again.

FUCK.  FUCK.  FUCK.  FUCK.  FUCK.  FUCK.  FUCK.  FUCK.  FUCK.  FUCK.  FUCK.  FUCK. FUCK.  FUCK.  FUCK.  FUCK.  FUCK.  FUCK.

I counted one last time and realized that basically my whole night had been a waste of time.

I went in to the cash out office, pulled out a chair, plopped down in it and started doing my paperwork.  As I was doing it I told everyone in the office what had happened.  They were all very compassionate.  Not compassionate enough to offer me money, but nice all the same.  So I’m sitting there counting my money again and Melissa says, did you drop some money on the floor.  I look down and there’s about 50 bucks on the floor.  I assume in my despair I’d dropped it.  I count it all out again and now I have 975 dollars.  Perhaps I’m just stupid.  I count again.  And yep.  It’s 975.  So I made 75 dollars not 27.  Big fucking deal.  I stand up to go turn in my money and Nick, my fellow cocktailer says to me, “Yo fucktard.  You dropped your money on the floor again.”  I pick up the money and what do you know.  I now have 1045.  What the fuck.

And then I realize what has happend.

I’ve told you guys a lot about my restaurant.  Some of you by now even know where I work.  My restaurant is big.  There are 130 servers on the schedule.  With so many people and so many shifts and so much stuff to cover most of the time their is very little attention paid to our uniforms.   I should also say that as a rule, I’ve never met a waiter who has a clean uniform every day.  A clean shirt maybe.  But never new pants every single day.  Some of the people I work with wear the same pants for weeks at a time without washing them.  I know it sounds gross, but in the big scheme of things that would gross you out a lot less than some of the other things I could tell you about.  I have a pair of pants that I wear to work that I’ve had since I started.  They fit me better than most of my other pants so I wear them a lot.  I’ve worn them a couple of times this week and since there were no ranch dressing splashed all over them I decided to wear them again today.

Now the thing about the pants is that they are two years old.  And have been worn to hell and back.  The cuffs are ripped and torn.  The right side is bleached a lighter color because of the towel I carry.  And there are four of five holes in them that are mostly covered by my apron.  One of the holes happens to be a rip that is parallel to my right pocket.

So tonight I’d put my money in my pocket.

Only I’d missed my pocket and put the money in the hole in my pants that runs parallel to my pocket.  When I went running the money fell out of my pants leg.  I picked it up not realizing that there was more there.  When I sat down more fell out.  When I stood up to take my money to the cashier more fell out.  When I realized what was happening I shook my leg and a whole pile of bills fell out.

When it was all said and done I counted my money and although it was not as much as I’d have liked it to be it was a realistic amount based on my sales for the evening.

So.

Those pants are going in the garbage tomorrow.  And even though I don’t have any other clean pants, I’ll be scrubbing the ranch dressing off another pair so I have pants that are safe to wear to work.

I’ll take the money I didn’t lose tonight and buy new pants on Saturday.

Whew!!!!!!

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I’m in my 10^th year of being a GM.  

I have no idea how I got here.  An ex-employee of mine asked me that today.  

One day, I was cruising along as a server making a shit ton of money, and ten years later, I’m the BOSS, making a lot less money.  The bad guy.  The one everyone hates.

That being said, I love being a GM.  

I love my staff.  I love our guests.  I love guiding the restaurant.

Last night two tables, went out of their way to tell me how much better things were since I’ve taken over. One of them chatted with me like we’d known each other for years, and I had no idea who he was.  

Most of my efforts are done by doing the exact opposite of what so many managers I’ve had along the way have done.  

I worked at a restaurant in Kentucky for three weeks once.  

In the middle of a Saturday night shift, the GM, whose name was Karen, called us all into the walk-in.  About 15 of us.  She slammed the door and then began to chew us a new asshole.  She went on and on about how horrible we were doing our jobs.  How she was embarrassed to work with us, because we were so bad.  She then told the entire team, that if we couldn’t do our jobs then we needed to find a new career.

I quit about 5 days later.  Without notice.  

Then there was Mike.  AKA Cookie. 

He was great.  Until he wasn’t.  

Every day when you entered the restaurant, the first question was, Is Cookie working?  And that was followed by, What kind of mood is he in today?  

If he was in a good mood, the shift would be awesome.  

If it was a bad mood, then the whole night would suck for everyone.  

Then there was Allan, who randomly picked people to shit on.  He took over the server schedule about a year into my job, and decided that I was making too much money, so he cut my shifts and then stopped giving me the schedule I’d had for a year.  He eventually got fired.  

Then there was Beth, she’d just graduated from restaurant management school.  She was just great.  She had never worked in a restaurant in her life.  My second week of working at this new restaurant that happened to be fashioned after a 50’s diner, we were slammed after all but me and one other server were cut.  

She just kept seating the tables.  And seating them and seating them. 

You can ask anyone who has ever worked with me.  I AM A TABLE WHORE!!! Give me more and more and more.  At my last waiting tables job, I’d have a counter with 10 seats and 4 four top cocktail tables.  And I drove that shit like a pro.  

But I kept watching her seat the tables and seat the tables and seat the tables.  I looked around and every table in the restaurant, about 20 tables were seated.  

I was taking an order when she sat the table next to me.  She gave them menus and said, Jeff with be right with you.  I leaned over while taking the order and said, Actually I won’t.  It will be a long time before I get to you.  

She fired me for insubordination.  

My favorite manager story is Keith.  

Keith was special.  

He too had just graduated from restaurant management school.  He knew everything about everything.  

He was also dating a server at the time, which was a big no no.  I’m pretty sure they eventually got married and moved to Louisville.  PS.  This took place in Atlanta.  

Keith didn’t like me.  I have no idea why.  I will never know why.  

To back up before the day of the special event, we had just gotten a new tile kitchen floor.  The old floor was bad and the tiles were loose and missing.  The powers that be attributed this to pouring salt on the floor when there was a spill.  Supposedly, it eats away at the grout and causes the floor to fail.  However, every restaurant I’ve ever worked in does this…

Fast forward two or three weeks.  It’s a Friday evening.  We are busy.  Crazy busy.  I’m doing my thing.  I walk into the kitchen and the floor is soaked.  We get it mopped up and I pour salt on the floor so no one kills themselves.  

As I’m doing this, Keith comes into the kitchen and loses his mind.  

To this day, I’ve never been treated so badly by a manager.  

He begins to shout at me.  He tells me that I’m fucking stupid.  I’m a fucking asshole.  I’m a fucking this and a fucking that.  I’m ignoring him as I make 4 iced teas and place them on a tray.  

I start out of the kitchen and he follows me, using the word fuck every chance he gets.  I enter the dining room and he’s behind me with fuck this and fuck that.  

I go up three steps into my station and he’s still shouting at me.  

I turn around and he continues.  Finally, I’ve had enough and I say, you know what Keith.  Fuck you.  And I launch the tray at his head, with the four iced tea glasses still on it.  It smashes into the wall above his head.  

There is silence.  

He looks at me and says you are fired!!!  

This was before computerized POS systems.  And so, I pull out the tickets for the 5 tables I have and I rip them into a million pieces and I say, you figure out what the fuck everyone is eating and I leave.  

Fun fact:   My family was visiting from Kentucky and witnessed the whole exchange.

Was I proud? No.  But should anyone be spoken to like that.  Absolutely fucking not.  

I get into my car and I drive 15 miles to another restaurant with the same name.  I go in and ask for Reggie.  I tell him what happened and ask if I can work for him.  He says be back the next day at 4:00.  

Damn.  I was unemployed for 30 minutes.

I get there the next day and he tells me that I can’t work for him because I’m no longer allowed to work for the company.

Hmmmm.

I arrange a meeting with the GM of the restaurant I was fired from.  I tell her what happened.  

24 hours later the district manager calls to apologize and tell me that I can work at any of their other stores.  

2 days later a friend from the original store calls to let me know that the district manager had been in, called Keith into dry storage and chewed him a new asshole.  Everyone in the back of house could hear.  

The GM of that store later shared with me that at the GM’s meeting that month they were mostly upset that I missed his head when I threw the tray.    

I have a million of these stories.  

And the moral of these stories, is try to do the right thing.  At least try.  And don’t treat your staff like shit. And don’t tell them they are fucking stupid.  And don’t be mad when life happens to them.