I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

First I have a question…

Does anyone know the term for someone who yells in public not to make their point, but so that everyone in their general vicinity will know they are unhappy?

For example, let’s say the parking lot at a restaurant is full.  

A person, leaves the lot to go do something, and when they return there is no ready spot for them.  This person, decided to park in the no parking area, clearly labeled, which happens to be the access point for a neighbor who’s driveway is an extension of the parking lot.

When the person with the car, is asked to move, he begins to yell at the 22 year old hostess.  

But he does move his car. 

But when he returns to his seat, he complains loudly for everyone’s benefit.  

This continues, with his telling of his displeasure whenever he has the opportunity.

At one point his is yelling so loudly that the manager, hears and starts to pay attention.

Once again, his speaking is loud, not to prove his point, but just so everyone will know he is unhappy. 

He is insisting that a restaurant must have at least one parking spot for every table in the restaurant.  

He is insisting that when he returned there were empty tables, thus proving that the restaurant has more tables than parking spots.  

He is insisting that something be done immediately about this. 

There is no reasoning with the man, although the manager tried.  

It was very important for the man to make sure everyone knew that was annoyed.  Very loudly.  For everyone in ear shot.  

So.  

What is that called?

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Hello, thank you for calling the restaurant, how may I help you?

I hear…

Hello?  

Hello?

Hello?

Is this the machine or is this a real human?

I say, I think I’m a real human.

They say thank god and go on to make a reservation.  

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

″‘Should I put this speck down? . . .’ Horton thought with alarm. ‘If I do, these small persons may come to great harm. I *can’t* put it down. And I *won’t!* After all A person’s a person. No matter how small.‘” 

Tonight, was a fun one. 

I hardly know where to start.

First, it was a weird night to begin with.  A weird, full moon energy that many people commented on. 

However, the night had gone quiet smoothly.  And we were much busier than we thought based on numbers at the start of the shift.  

We were all in at 8:35. Only 9 open menus.  We were winding down.  

I was standing in the lobby when a server comes to let me know a table on the patio has found sand in his creamed spinach and has chipped a tooth.  

Fuck.  Fuck.  Fuck.  

First, how the hell is there sand in the creamed spinach?

Second, how does one crack a tooth on a grain of sand?

Third, why does my night always go to shit at 8:30?

I head to the patio.  

I approach the table.

You always play over in your head as you approach the table how you are going to start.  What’s your approach.  How will you turn the scenario around.  

I approach and say, I understand there was a piece of sand in your spinach.

I look at the table.  Everyone is finished.  The porterhouse has been picked clean.  The crock of spinach is completely empty.  There is a small spoonful of spinach on a side plate.  

The man starts, there was a rock in my spinach and I could have chipped my tooth.  I bit down on it and it startled me.  

This is the first of my discrepancy, of many, I’m going to see.  

Sand?  Or a rock?  Did my server miss speak?  

I say, I’m sorry to hear that.  I can’t imagine how a rock or sand got into a crock of creamed spinach.

I’ll add at this point that playing this over in my head immediately afterwards, I heard a server’s voice in my head say, were you being an asshole?  And I thought to myself I might have been more open to fixing the problem and a little less condescending…but as my friend Laura said to me tonight, to what end?  They were looking for a something and you clearly weren’t going to give it to them. 

The man looks at me and say, I can’t imagine either, but I thought you should know about it and that I almost chipped my tooth.  

I apologize and then he points to a very, very, very, very, very, very small object on his app plate.  He picks it up.  It’s less than a .05 millimeters thick.  He says, this is it.  

The wife interjects to tell me that she has taken photos of it and blown it up and it is definitely a rock and her husband chipped his tooth on it.  

I say once again, I can’t imagine how that happened but I’ll definitely discuss it with our chef.

They aren’t letting it go.  They insist that I look at it, and he places it in my hand.

Once again, it was tiny.  VERY.  Tiny.  I look at it and say, I’m not sure it’s a rock but that I’m sorry they found it in their spinach.

He once again repeats that he bit down on it, and could have broken his tooth.  

I say to them, if I had to guess, it is the salt we sprinkle on top before we send out the spinach. 

He assures me it’s not salt. 

I put the object down on the plate and start to pick up the plate saying, I’m going to take this inside to chef to get to the bottom of this.  I grasp the plate and the woman screams at me, YOU AREN’T TAKING THIS ANYWHERE and tries to snatch the plate from my hand.

What happens next could only be called a tug of war over a yellow app plate.  I wrench it from her hand, and say, I’m going to show it to chef and see what he thinks.  

I probably could have been more gentle but things are so surreal at this point, I’m not even sure what’s happening.  

And let me repeat.  It’s a tiny.  Tiny.  Tiny.  Piece of something.  On a small yellow plate.  

I head off to the kitchen with them shouting as I leave, come back here you can’t take that away it’s evidence.  

Of course, as I walk, I realize that the object is nowhere to be found because it was a tiny, tiny, tiny speck of something.  

I get to the kitchen, show chef the plate, he looks at it and says, let me guess the spinach crock was empty.  I assure him it was.  

He continues, there is no way a rock could have been in the spinach.  It comes to us washed.  We wash it before we cook it.  It was probably salt.  

He puts the salt mixture we have in a ramekin and I look at it.  It’s exactly what was on the plate.  A tiny piece of salt.  And I’m sure if you bit down on it, the wrong way, it could grind your teeth.

I take the plate and ramekin back to the table and say, chef is about 99.99% sure what was on the plate was salt.  

Except at this point, things are ugly.

The man turns to me and says, you are an ass.  You should be ashamed of yourself, for taking that plate from us.  It was evidence and you were just trying to cover up what happened.  You are an embarrassment to the restaurant, to yourself and you should be ashamed to call yourself a manager.  You are worried about your liability. 

At this point I have no fucks to give.

I don’t remember my first response, but I will say that I never lose my cool in these exchanges.  They don’t make me mad, they upset me but don’t make me mad.  It’s never fun to be called names but I just never go to mad. 

At one point, I say, I’m sorry you feel that way, I’m not sure what you mean by evidence.  

The wife says, it was evidence to show what my husband chipped his tooth on.  

I say, but he didn’t chip his tooth.  If he had chipped his tooth, we’d been having a very different conversation.

He says, but I could’ve. 

I say, but you didn’t.

The wife looks at me and says it doesn’t matter anyway we have photos for proof.  

I say proof of what?  

He repeats that he might have chipped his tooth and we’ll be hearing from his attorney.  I’m going to be very sorry that I took that plate off the table.  It was evidence.  And I’m just trying to protect the restaurant from out liability.  

I say, that is fine but I don’t know what we are liable for.

The wife says, for his chipped tooth.

I say, but he didn’t chip his tooth.  

I notice at this point that people are watching the exchange.

The man says but I could’ve. 

But you didn’t chip your tooth.  

At this point is has become comical. 

I guess he could read this on my face because he says you’re enjoying this aren’t you.  

At this point to be honest I am.  It’s become so outlandish that I can’t even make sense of it.

He goes on to call me an ass.  Tell me that he hopes that I spend many sleepless nights thinking about this. He calls me an ass again.  That I’m an embarrassment to the restaurant.  That I have no business working in the public and that I’m basically a bad person.

I look at him and say, do you enjoying doing this?

He says, enjoy doing what?

I say, going to nice restaurants and creating a scene.  

He barely lets me finish before he says that this is not a nice restaurant.

This is their third time here and it’s been a disaster every time.

I seriously said, then why do you keep coming back?

He continues, every time we come here the steak has to be recooked.  He did ask to have his steak cooked more, but per my post last week, chef has a good percentage when it comes to returns.  

He continues, the last time we came the salmon we ordered for my son was so rare it almost gave him salmonella.

I ask him what almost salmonella was?  You either have salmonella or you don’t.  I don’t bring up that you can eat salmon, rare, even raw.  

His wife says he didn’t say salmonella, he said it was undercooked.  

The man interrupts and says it wasn’t salmon it was chicken.  The chicken was undercooked and almost gave him salmonella.  At least it would have if he had eaten. 

I say to them both, are you even listening to yourselves?  Chipped tooth.  No chipped tooth?  Raw salmon? Raw chicken?  Salmonella?  No salmonella?  You need to get your stories straight before you start.   And if the restaurant really is so bad you might not want to come back.  

He looks at me like he has had a revelation and says, that’s it, we are never coming back!!!

I say, great.  I think that would be best for all parties involved. 

He tells me he is done with me and that I need to get the fuck away from the table.  

I start to say something, and he says get the fuck away from my table.

I say, of course, have a nice evening.  

He says, you fucking have a nice evening.

I leave.

I go inside, and chef asks what happened.

I don’t get mad.  But these exchanges are like vampires sucking all soul out of your being.  

I’m exhausted now.  

I get heated in the kitchen. 

I give chef the 30 second version.  

His first statement is to make sure they pay their bill.  Then he says, great, we don’t need people like that coming here.  Sometimes it’s best for everyone to just say no.  

I send word to the server to make sure they pay their full bill.  

I felt like shit for the rest of the ending.  

I do admit that I could have handled it better.  But to quote Laura, to what end?  They wanted something we were never going to give them.  What they wanted, I still have no idea.  

They ate everything.  They left clean plates.  They didn’t chip their tooth.  It was a piece of salt.  

The server was vague about what they said after I came back inside.

They did pay their check.  They stayed for a while, because as they told the server they needed to calm down.    Their 9-year-old son, who this played out in front, of also had to cool down, he told the server.  

They did eventually ask to speak to chef.  

He looked at me like I was crazy.

I gave him his options.

I could go back out and make things worse.  I could tell them he was busy.  I could give them his email and phone number.

He went with option 2 and 3.

In truth, the kitchen had just put out their last plate, and he was still cleaning his station.  So I sent word to the server to tell them he’d be available around 10:00, 45 minutes from now.  And gave them his email and the restaurant phone number.  

Chef did go out at 10:00 but they were gone.  

I went and sat in the lobby.  Which I never do.  Hoping to be ignored by everyone.  

Alas, that was not to be.

The rest of my night was filled with people leaving, thanking me for such a great time.  Thanking me for getting them in when we were booked.  Thanking me for being so hospitable.  Thanking me for the best meal they had on their whole vacation.  

I guess I am an embarrassment to the restaurant.  

I’ve been writing my posts for over a year. Well over a year actually.

I started my blog in October, buy by then I’d saved my Facebook posts into a word document and then copy and pasted them in the blog once I started it.

For the longest time I wrote all of my posts on my I-phone. It was tedious, but fine and it was just the fun of it.  

Sometime around Memorial Day I finally pulled my lap top out and started writing my posts on my laptop in a word document and then transferring them to FB and my blog. I was set up in the dining room and was there for about 6 weeks.  

Sometime around 6 or 8 weeks ago I finally cleared my desk off in my office and moved my laptop in there. I have loved it. I come in at night, do my chores, grab the cocktail Adam has left for me in the fridge and I plant myself in front of the computer.  

I have a my routine down now.

There are about 10 or sites I check before I open a blank page and start to write.  

Depending on how tired I am, and how late it is, I might write one post. I might write 7.  

The only catch to all of this is that my laptop is 10 years old. I bought for a big design project that landed in my lap right after we moved to Portland. It was big and bulky and powerful.  

And wouldn’t you know it, 5 minutes after the project started, it ended…long story.  

I was left with a laptop I didn’t need.

But it has come in handy. Until this job, I’ve needed it at every restaurant I’ve worked at. My current boss was nice enough to give me a MacBook about 6 weeks after I started.  

My laptop has been a champ at spreadsheets, and manuals, and letters of recommendation, and Facebook and all the things.

But it is SLOW as fucking Christmas.  

And the fan runs constantly.

So I have to keep it unplugged. And when I do get home it sometimes takes 15 minutes just to wake up.  

I might have had a little tantrum about a month ago…and asked Adam if it would be okay to get a new computer.  

This might have led to a teeny, tiny argument. But finally he said yes.

And so, two weeks ago I ordered a new apple desktop.

And it arrived today.  

And it’s pretty. And blue. And fast!!!

And I’ve been setting it up for the last 2 hours and it’s 3:a.m. but I’m very happy.

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Speaking of overcooked steaks.   

At the end of the night on Sunday night, an order comes in, 2 Australian Wagyu tomahawk steaks. 

$165 each. 

One medium. 

One medium well.

I’m called to the kitchen. 

Chef explains that there is no way to cook a bone in steak to medium well, without charring the outside, and risk of overcooking it, because the area near the bone takes longer to cook and will always be less cooked than the area away from the bone. 

Dining Tip:  If you like a medium well or well done steak never order a bone in steak.  Get the filet, butterflied or a New York strip. 

He says all of this, which I already knew. 

He tells me to let the guests know that he’ll attempt medium well, but it’s at their own risk.  If they do not like the steak and the way it’s prepared, it will not be removed from the bill. 

I share this news with the server.

She reappears 90 seconds later saying they’d like it medium instead.

The steaks are served and deliciousness was experienced by everyone. 

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

It would not be Monday night if I didn’t have an unpleasant encounter with a guest. at 8:30 of course. One of the last tables.

It would not be Monday night if I didn’t have a guest tell their server I was rude…and tonight, not a people person.

I asked their server to share with me what they said. He was vague. I think he thought it would hurt my feelings. I find it comical now. The only thing he shared was that they said I was rude and not a people person.

Tonight’s story.

Seems the guy at seat 4 at table L3 ordered his steak medium rare, and charred on the outside.

The server explained that this is essentially Pittsburgh Style and asked if that’s what they wanted. They said no. They wanted it charred on the outside, and rare plus on the inside.

He tried to explain to them what they were asking for and they were having none of it.

He ordered the steak as he should have and waited.

The steak comes out, Pittsburgh style and the guest is angry that it is charred on the outside. He sends it back.

Chef takes on look at it, says it’s cooked perfectly and won’t cook another one.

He stands his ground when it’s not his fault. Sometimes to a fault. If he fucks up he’ll cook them 10 steaks. When the guest fucks up he’s having none of it.

This is where I come in. I’m the one who gets to go to the table and deliver this news. Well most of the time. Tonight, I was on the door, and couldn’t leave, so the server goes off to deliver the news.

He reappears about 90 seconds later to say they want to speak with me.

I approach the table and things fall apart quickly.

I say hello, I understand that you had a situation with the filet that you ordered.

The man explains that he ordered his steak charred on the outside and rare plus on the inside.

I say yes, Pittsburgh Style, which is what your server ordered for you.

He replies, I don’t want it Pittsburgh style, I want it charred on the outside and rare plus on the inside. This was charred too much.

I say that it’s impossible to get medium rare on a Pittsburgh style steak without the outside being charred.

He insists that he didn’t want the steak Pittsburgh style, but instead wanted it charred rare plus. Pittsburgh style is only rare.

This is not true but I don’t argue.

He repeats himself that he wants a steak cooked rare-plus charred on the outside.

I then explain that there is no such thing as rare plus.

And all in unison say, oh yes there is…135. 135. 135. 135. 135.

Their response lets me know they’ve had this conversation before.

The man continues, you can order rare plus at any decent steakhouse, just not here.

I think to myself that I’d like the definition of decent. I also think, that no decent chef pulls out a meat thermometer to cook a steak.

The man continues that he grills meat all the time and he knows for a fact that he can cook to rare plus.

I think to myself that I doubt very seriously he is cooking his steak on a wood fired grill. I also think that he probably has his thermometer stuck in the steak.

He tries to continue to argue with me, but I stop him and say, here’s the deal. Chef will cook you another steak. But it’s at your own risk. I you don’t like it you are paying for it.

He stares at me.

I stare at him.

I ask him, do you want another steak.

He agrees.

I leave, and chef sends out a perfectly cooked normal rare filet. And the man loves it. And if he didn’t feel the need to be special he’d have had a perfectly cooked rare filet in the first place.

Chef has cooked over 3,500 steaks this month alone. Almost 1,000 of them were filets. He probably had less than 50 sent back. That’s a .014 return rate.

Trust the grill master. He is a genius at cooking meat. Fun fact, he’s never, ever, ever sent out an over or undercooked steak and not known it was going to come back. He will often ask me to check on a specific table when they’ve gotten their food, to make sure they are pleased. When a steak comes back, he generally knows why.

So trust the chef.

Or open your own restaurant.

Meanwhile, the people person is going to be at the door, making people happy.

PS. The server tonight said, he understood why I pushed back because the guy was being so aggressive.

135.

135.

135.

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

This is your yearly reminder that if you pay part of the bill with cash and part of the bill with a credit card you MUST tip on the whole bill, not just the part you pay with a credit card.

This is your yearly reminder that if you pay part of the bill with a gift card you MUST tip on the whole bill not just the part you pay afterwards.

This has been a public service announcement brought to you by my server who made $15 bucks off a table that paid for their $150 dollar check with a gift card of $75, and left her 20% of the remaining balance. 

Don’t do this. 

That is all. 

You can resume your regularly scheduled program at this time. 

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

The patriarchy is alive and well and living in the restaurant business.

I’ve known this since before I was born.

It plays out often in my current restaurant. Tonight was such a night.

I can’t speak to if it’s true once a person gets seated, but it is absofuckinglutely true at the host stand.

First, if I’m at the host stand helping, I’m the one who is addressed.

Always.

Regardless of whether I speak first, I am at the I-pad, or if I’m across the room.

Often if a guest is getting snippy with the 19 year old female host, their entire demeanor changes when I come around the corner and ask if I can help.

Our female hosts inside, get yelled at often because of a lack of parking, meanwhile, our 6’6”male host who works on the patio gets nothing but politeness, when people are trying to find parking.

I could go on. It’s all day. Everyday. And it pisses me off.

I can say, the cruelty directed at the hosts stopped when I started. Olivia, who worked with us last summer has commented on that saying that she has been yelled at less this summer. It also helps that the rules are followed by everyone now. No one gets special treatment.

About a week before I started last year, an older man called two hosts stupid bitches. They got chef and he came out and explained to the guy that he would not be seated until he apologized. He did. When I was told this last summer, I knew that he’d have my back when I stop that kind of behavior.

Meanwhile friends.

Check yourselves.

Do you address the man when a woman is clearly in charge?

Do you treat the 19 year old girl differently than the 57 year old man?

Do you act aggressively toward women when you’d never do that to a man?

Are you generally an asshole when there is no need to be…especially when you are interacting with a woman.

If so, take a deep breath and say to yourself, I am the problem here.

And fix it.

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I over slept today.

By 2 hours.

I knew this day would come. And today was the day.

We did go to be late last night. Or I should say early this morning.

Adam didn’t have to be at work at his normal time so he stayed up watching TV. He was asleep on the couch when I got home.

I did all of my Friday night chores. Yes, I have a different list for each day. I enjoy doing them. I like keeping our house nice and neat. And the cats like it that I scoop the litter every day.

I then made dinner. I used to eat dinner before my shift at work. But I found that scarfing food in 4 minutes, while people ask you questions was far from enjoyable. I eat when I get home now.

I make dinner, and I eat it at my computer in my office, which I’m actively using for the first time since we moved in 7 years ago. I enjoy it a lot. My dinner. My office. My computer.

I eat, and read the news, read reviews of the restaurant, etc.

Once I’m finished eating, I write whatever posts I’m writing for the night.

Last night I finished up around 2:00. Cleaned up my dinner dishes and joined Adam on the couch.

I watched TV and read Facebook.

It was about 3:30 or 4:00 when I woke him up to go to bed.

Our lights were out by 4:30.

Yes, this is late, but not really when the alarm won’t go off until 11:30.

Except.

I didn’t set my alarm last night.

We turned off the lights, and I was asleep in about 15 seconds. And it was a restful sleep. And I didn’t wake up all night.

And I was still sleeping when Adam called. He was concerned as I didn’t call him on my way to work. I dial his number when I’m leaving the house. Sometimes we talk. Often he sends me to voicemail because he can’t talk. He is at work after all.

I hear the phone ringing this morning, pick it up and wonder why the hell he is calling when he knows I like to sleep.

I look at the phone again and realize that I am seeing the time as well.

It’s 1:45. It’s 2 hours past alarm time. And I’m currently 45 minutes late for work.

Here’s the thing. I still have to shower, which will take 15 minutes.

And it’s a 45 minute drive to work the minute I start my car.

I got to work at 2:45. An hour forty-five late.

I did text my boss before I left to say I was on my way.

I got there and hit the ground running. Luckily messages were only 20. And I was able to get everything I HAVE to do before service starts.

However, Saturdays and Sundays are the days I get caught up from the week. So I did not get all any those things done today.

Chef only asked what happened. He laughed when I told him. He knows I like to sleep. He’s awake at 6:30 every morning, no matter his bedtime.

I’m a sleeper. I could and would sleep till 4:00 every day if I didn’t have responsibilities. During Covid shut down, I hardly ever got out of bed till 3:00.

Sleep truly is the most glorious thing in the world.

I like to think that when I die, it will be like sleep forever.

At least I hope so.

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

We had a couple at the bar tonight that were a bit much. 

You could tell by the way he took over three seats who they were. 

They scolded the bartender when she cleared their silver between courses because they were enviro people. 

I saw them get up at the end of the meal and thanked them for coming in. 

Imagine my surprise when I was standing at the wait station and the woman popped up beside me.  Straight out of some weird movie edited to scare you. 

She says, are you the manager?

I say that I am. 

She says, I just wanted to let you know that the food here is amazing.

I thank her…she continues.

But I did feel neglected by the service. 

Uh. Oh.  Here we go. 

She continues, that she felt like they didn’t get the attention that they needed. 

I thank her for the comment and say that I will speak with the staff at the end of the shift.

She then says, And I should know I used to be a server, throwing her hand above her head like she’s carrying a tray. 

I say excuse me…

And she repeats herself, once again throwing her hand above her head likes she’s carrying a tray.

I stand there looking at her as she walks away.

And with all people who tell me they used to be in the business when they complain I looked up their check in the POS.  They tipped $24 on $189. 

There is no fucking way you paid your bills with a serving job.  If you had you’d never tip that little on a check regardless of the service.  I’ve had to get up and get my own soda refill and still tipped 30%.  And if you’d actually been a server you might have some empathy and patience with a team who are working their asses off.

And I’ll end by saying, you get what you give.  When I checked in with my bartenders to see what their experience with you was, they said they gave you the service you wanted.  Including putting your silver back on the counter after having removed it. 

PS.  For all of their faults, we have an amazing bar team.  People fight to get seats at our bar.  So I have to wonder what the issue was tonight.  You perhaps?