Just give me those tips…

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I learned a lot working at Day’s Inn.  I could write a novel about all the things that went on there.  

I’ll get to them in time.

The one thing that it did give me, was my first experience waiting tables.  

I got to work one day, to discover the woman who was supposed to serve that night wasn’t able to make it, and I was tasked with moving to the floor.  

First came the uniform change.  

Black pants.  White shirt.  Black shoes.  Red vest.  And a clip-on bow tie.  

It was as sexy as you think it was.    

100% polyester.  

100% exactly what a 17-year-old boy wants to wear at work.  I was terrified someone I knew was going to come in and see me in my uniform. 

I was given about 6 minutes of training.  

Then I was pushed off the deep end.  

I was terrified.  

I approached my first table.  Took a breath and said hello.

I was in my head.  I couldn’t think.  I couldn’t breathe.

I asked if they’d like something to drink, but I couldn’t hear them because of the chatter in my brain. 

Eventually I got them drinks.  A sweet tea and a cup of coffee.  

Taking the food order was worse, and I knew the food.  

I forgot the questions to ask.  I forgot to write down the sides.  I forgot to breathe, again.  

I got through it.  

And I pushed on.

Eventually 9 it was 9:00.  The sun had set.  It was dark outside.  

The woman I was working with, lit a cigarette and began the task of showing me how to close up.  

Restockthe side stations.  Break down the soda station.   Empty the coffee pots and clean them with salt and ice.  Put the bread away.  Turn off the bread warmer.  Set the tables for breakfast the next day.  

Finally, we sat down to count our riches.  

By today’s standards it was pennies.  Well to be honest quarters.  This was the time of, keep the changes, which was a $1.75.  Or you went to clean the table and there was 75 cents under the coffee cup.  

Somewhere, I have calendars that I used to record my earnings while I was waiting tables.  From this first job at Day’s Inn to my last job at the Hard Rock Café.  

I would record my earnings when I’d get home so that I’d have an idea of how much I was really making, as we all know, servers aren’t great at reporting their tips.  

I’m 99% sure these calendars are in a box, in the top of my office closet.  

That first day, I couldn’t have made more than 25 bucks.  

As I said.  Mostly in quarters.  

But it was real money.  In my hand.  At the end of the night.  And it was more than I’d have made washing dishes or cooking that night.  I was done an hour early.  

It was the beginning of getting bitten by the server bug.  

I didn’t wait tables often, but I always enjoyed the jingle of the coins in my pocket as I drove home.    

I’d walk through the door and drop the coins in a jar.  And put the dollars in a drawer.  

I’d keep it there until I had enough to make it worth going to the bank.  

I never got rich waiting tables at Day’s Inn, but it gave me enough experience to make it possible to fake my way through waiting tables when I applied for a server job in Atlanta.    

Come on down to the Double Cup.

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Once upon a time.  

Way, way, way back in the dark ages.  

Before electricity, and the internet.  

I turned 16.  

And I was super, super, super excited to turn 16.  Not because I wanted to drive, which I did, but mostly because I wanted a job.  

Back in 1902, in the town I lived in you had to be 16 to work.  Not like these spoiled kids today who can get a job at 14 working in an ice cream shop.  

I wanted to work, because I wanted stuff.  

My family was relatively poor.  Not dirt poor.  We had running water, and were fed, and had the basics.  

There was however, no money for luxuries.  No name brand clothes, or shoes.  Or the latest video games.   Or records. Or especially a walk-man or an Atari, which I wanted a lot.    

I needed a job if I was going to have these things.  

Two weeks after my 16th birthday, I started my first job.  

I was hired to wash dishes at the Day’s Inn Restaurant, on Delaplain Road in Georgetown, Kentucky.  

I applied and worked there, because my parents knew the managers and my aunt worked there as a cook. 

I started on a Friday night. 

I arrived at 3:30 as I’d been told to do, and for the first time, in what would become thousands of times, I filled out new hire paperwork.  

It probably took me an hour to fill out the tax forms. 

After my paperwork was finished, I was taken to dry storage to find a uniform.  

The uniform was a lovely shade of white.  White white. 

White pants.  A white shirt.  100% polyester.  With a dash of yellow on the pocket.  

Lets not forget the brass name plate, with Robert spelled out nicely.  

I don’t think I ever had a name tag with Jeff on it the whole time I worked there.  

It’s approaching 4:30, I’m dressed and ready to go.  

I punch the time clock with the long beige card.  Hear the clunk, clunk sound and I’m off. 

I was given a quick tour of the restaurant.  Dry storage.  The break room with it’s ash tray over flowing with butts.  

The restroom, that I’d be responsible for cleaning later that night.  

I got a run down on the kitchen with a quick explanation of things I might need to help with if we got busy later during dinner service.  

I was shown the dishwasher, had a 45 second explanation on how to use it and I was turned loose.  

The next five hours lasted longer than I could have imagined.    

My aunt who was cooking that night, would come in and check on me every so often.  

I worked and worked, and the dishes piled higher and higher.  There was no keeping up.  

And then we closed, and the pile got even bigger as the pans from the kitchen started to appear.  

I’d wash one and turn around to see five more.  

The pans had to be scrubbed in the 3 bay sink and the water was a few degrees hotter than the surface of the sun.  

Scrub.  Scrub.  

Empty the dishwasher.  Reload the dishwasher.  Hit the button.  

And then turn to scrub, scrub, scrub.  

On and on I went.  

I hadn’t even cleaned the bathrooms or the breakroom yet.  

Scrub.

Scrub.  

Finally, as we neared 11:00 I was done.

I was wet from head to toe. 

I was exhausted.  

My shoes squished as I walked.  

I clocked out and walked into the dining room to find my mom, my aunt and the manager of the restaurant smoking and drinking coffee.  

I was very casually informed that I was the worst dishwasher they’d ever hired.  

Hands down.

The worst.  

What does a 16 -year-old kid say to that?  

I was embarrassed, but this did not deter me.  

I’d worked 7 hours.  

At $3.35 an hour. 

That was $23.45.  

That was a lot of money. 

I came back the next night.  And the next.  

And after about a month I was the best dishwasher, they’d ever hired.  

I was fast.  Thorough.  

And soon, I was backing up my aunt in the kitchen.  

And then after about 6 months, I was told, I was being replaced, so that they could move me into the kitchen.  

And for almost 2 years after that, I was the dinner cook 4 nights a week.  

And was I good.  

I was a short order cook, with hand written tickets, and a bell, and I was in there all alone.  

Flipping burgers, frying chicken, baking scrod, making a mean prime rib.

And I’d yell for the dishwasher to come set plates for me.  Something I’d been doing a month ago.    

All the plates were decorated with a canned peach and a maraschino cherry.  Or a candied apple.  

And for the love of god don’t forget the parsley.  Everything came with parsley.  

And the dishwasher set the plates, so that I could add fried chicken and mashed potatoes. 

And a burger with fries. 

And the prime rib with a baked potato.  

My personal favorite was the turkey, over dressing, with. Mashed potatoes and carrots.  (We added about a cup of sugar to the carrots when we dumped them out of the can).  

I spent my first paycheck at McAlpin’s, in the men’s clothing department.  I bought an Izod shirt, a pair of khaki pants and an Izod belt.  It cost $84, and I was really, really happy to have a job. 

And I plugged along.  

And then. 

One night the owner’s daughter came in to the restaurant to borrow bread.  And I asked her to take it from dry storage, not the bread drawer in the kitchen as I’d already stocked.  

And this upset her.  

And the next day I was called into the office for a meeting.  

And I was told I’d been rude to the owner’s daughter.  

And I was let go.    

The funny part of this story was I was sitting across my manager eating a chocolate sundae for dinner, and when I finally realized what was happening, the sundae slipped out of my hand. 

Later, it was reported that I’d thrown the sundae at her.  

I still don’t know what I did.  

But I’ll die knowing that for a brief moment in time, I was the best dishwasher, and one of the best short order cooks to everwork at the Day’s Inn Restaurant on Delaplain Road, in Georgetown, KY.  

Hello Again, Hello

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Hello.  

Long time no see.  

In fact, it’s been one day short of a month, since I last wrote a post. 

It’s been suggested that since I’ve changed jobs, I have nothing to write about.  

This couldn’t be farther from the truth.  Every day I pull out my phone and jot down notes about potential entries in the never-ending saga of a restaurant manager.  Stories about guests, funny employees, my first job, dining out in Boston, and commentary about stories in the news.  

And I’ll get to them.  I will.  

Today however, I thought I might tell you why I haven’t been writing.  

To be honest, it’s because I’m a selfish asshole.  

Adam and I just celebrated our 15th anniversary.  

15 fucking years.  

When I met him, I hadn’t dated anyone in 5 years and had little interest in ever dating again.  

Boys are bad, bad news. 

But alas, the magic happened, we were smitten and the rest is history.  

Here’s the thing.  

In 15 years, Adam and I have never, ever, ever, ever had the same schedule.  

Never.  

Ever.  

He’d leave early.  

I’d leave late.  

He’d have to work till 1:00 a.m.  

I got off at 6:00.  

He was off on Tuesday and Wednesday.

I was off on Monday and Tuesday.  

For the past three years, he’d text around 11:00 that he was going to bed.  

I’d get home sometime after that.  

I didn’t want to go to bed as soon as I got home.  He needed sleep in order to get up and be at work early.  

Then I lost my job.  

And I found myself home all the time.  Which meant, when Adam was home, I was home.  

And it was awesome.  We had dinner together.  We went to bed together.  

Life was good.  

But alas, all things come to an end.

At the beginning of December, I started back to work.  

And miracle of miracles. 

We have the same schedule.  

ISH.

He gets up 30 minutes before I do.  I get home an hour or so after he does.  

We have dinner together almost every night.  In fact, three weeks ago, he told me he didn’t want to be responsible for dinner every night and we agreed that he’d cook on Sunday, Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday.  

We get to watch TV together.  We’ve watched more TV in the past 6 weeks than in the past three years.  

And best of all.

We go to bed together. 

In the past, he’d be in bed when I got home and I’d be asleep when he left the next morning.  

Now we go to bed together.  He looks at Tik Tok’s on his phone, while I actually read books. We have The Golden Girls on in the background and there’s always a cat or two at the bottom of the bed.  

This is the gay agenda you’ve been warned about.

And after about 30 minutes we turn off the light, and we snuggle and we go to sleep together.  

And life is good.  

It’s very fucking good. 

But alas, I haven’t been able to figure out where writing goes in this schedule.  

I’ll never do it before work.  I’m not a morning person.  If I ever tell you that I’m going to get up and do something before work, you should know that I am lying.  

And I don’t want to write late, as I love going to bed with Adam.    

And I don’t really want to do it when I get home from work, because I like catching up with my boyfriend and hearing about his day, and not venting about my new job.  

So last week, I told Adam that I might start staying at work 30 minutes late and writing.  

And I asked my boss if he’d mind if I hung out for a few in the office and write.  (He knows about and has read my posts).  

And he said of course not. 

Now, it’s Friday night at 8:30. the shift upstairs is winding down.  I have a club soda on my desk and I’m listening to the sounds of the restaurant above me.  

And I’ve written a post. 

Mostly to let you know that I miss writing.  I miss sharing my fun adventures.   I miss the outlet.  

I’ll try this for a while, and perhaps, in a month or so, I’ll try something else.

Until then, I’ll continue to hang out late at work and find time to write.  

Good Food and Atmosphere…

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

As a manager, I firmly believe that the guest who is sat at 5:00 should get the same service as the guest at 7:00 and the guest at 10:00.  

This is not always, in fact I’d guess, very rarely the case.  

Especially with the 10:00 guest.  

When Adam and I were in NYC we ate at one of our favorite restaurants.  

We were sat at 10:15, the seat until 11:00 or so.  

We’ve eaten there many times, and have had NYC style service most of the time.  

NYC style service, is perfunctory.  Greet the table, take the order, come back only when you have to and never, ever engage. 

The last time that we were there we had spectacular service.  Like borderline the best ever.  

This past time, was the worst.  

The server kept disappearing.  

He was fast to take the order, slow to do anything else.  

In fact, we had to wait to order dessert and after dinner drinks because he was gone for at least 15 minutes.  

And our favorite part of the meal was:  in many nicer restaurants, especially in larger cities, the tables are too small for the wine bottle to take up space.  So they are sat about the space, with white wines in the corner in an ice bucket.  

For this particular meal, the server, was slow to pour, and even slower toward the end, and so when he presented the check, he presented the bottle, which was 1/3 full asking if we wanted to take it with us.

The answer was no, we actually wanted it with dinner.  

We didn’t say this, but it was frustrating.  

So I push very hard for my staff to make sure that the last table in the restaurant, gets even better service than the 7:00 guests.  

We don’t push you out.  Even when I have been waiting for 90 minutes for you to finish up.

We don’t ignore you.

We don’t put the chairs on the tables before you are gone.  

We don’t put the candles away.  

We don’t take your order, then clear the other tables of place settings letting you know that you are unwanted.  

We don’t drop the check with entrees.  We don’t even drop the check with dessert.  

We offer coffee, even though Bob cleaned the espresso machine 45 minutes ago.  

Here’s the thing.  

If you don’t want to seat a guest at 10:00, then stop seating at 9:00.  

If you don’t want to give them the full experience, then switch to counter service or takeout.  

If you don’t want to keep the whole staff there, then offer a limited menu at the bar, so they won’t order the dish that takes 30 minutes to prepare.  

Here’s the thing. 

During season, it happens a lot.

Off season, not so much. 

But the waiting, and the treating them with hospitality should be built into your budget.  You know it’s going to happen, but if letting someone be treating kindly once a week, kills your labor budget, then you have much larger problems to contend with.  

The one caveat to this post, is that if you have a server, who makes friends with the table who is still there 45 minutes after they’ve paid, and they are just shooting the shit, that server should have to scrub the bathroom with a toothbrush, cause while I appreciate their love, Daddy wants to go home.  

And I felt nothing…

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I got my first bad review today.  

And I didn’t even do or say anything inappropriate.  

An Open Table review called me rude.  

Well not me specifically, but me the male host.  

Backstory.

They arrived at 4:45 for their 5:00 reservation.

We didn’t have a table for them.  

They take seats at the bar to wait.  

Around 5:05 we approached them and offered a high top in the bar, or said they were welcome to wait for a regular table.  

They chose to wait.  

At 5:30 a woman approaches and lets me know that it is absolutely ridiculous that they have not been seated yet. 

At 5:30, I have one table available in the entire restaurant.  The high top they were originally offered.  

She scolds me, tells me it’s ridiculous again, and then says they’ll stay at the bar.  

As she sits down, the table that we have reserved for them, becomes clear.  

I approach and  tell them their regular table will be ready in about three minutes and we can get them seated.  I apologize and explain that we don’t rush people along and they are welcome to stay as long as they want.

It’s at this time, they explain they have 7:00 theater tickets.  

We had no way of knowing this.  

They are seated at the regular table.   

Have three courses.

We buy their dessert and they are out in 75 minutes.  

Then today, they exclaim that I am rude and they are never coming back, leaving out the offer of another table, and the free dessert.  

After three years of this, I can take it, but I wasn’t even snarky with them.  In fact, in the past three weeks, I’ve been able to reclaim my hospitality gene and not assume everyone is going to stab me in the heart with how horrible I am.  

Today hurt a bit.  

Sing out Louise!!!

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Today was a first for me. 

A woman shows up at 5:55 for her 6:00 reservation.  She’s carrying a bouquet of roses and let’s me know she is meeting her son and granddaughter to go to the play next door.  

She gets a cocktail and waits and waits and waits.  

It’s almost 6:30 before they arrive.  

The granddaughter is dressed in a Christmas dress.  

The dad looks like a father from a Hallmark movie.  He is wearing form fitting jeans, a tight black t-shirt under a jacket and has a bit of scruff.  He’s noticeably handsome.  

He tells his mom there was a problem deciding on a dress to wear.  

They get settled, get drinks and order as they have less than an hour before the show.  

And then I hear singing. 

And it’s literally the table 5 feet behind me and I turn and realize the little girl is channelling her best Andrea McArdle (the little girl from the play Annie) and is belting My Favorite Things from The Sound of Music.  She sounds great, like really great, but we are a 40 seat restaurant, and this is neither the time or the place.  

She sings all 12 versus. 

Then moves on to a Xmas carol.   

And then another song.

And her father is encouraging her.  

And the grandmother is loving it.  

Meanwhile, a very old lady turns around and says “What is that awful noise?”  

A server comes by and says “I have no idea what is happening.”

I ask if we charge extra for the entertainment.

I failed to mention she is using the pepper grinder from the table as a mic.  

This continues until their dinner is served.  

They eat 1/3 of their food before they have to go, but first a costume change.  

The grandmother takes the little girl to the restroom and when she comes out she is wearing a different Christmas dress.  

I do hope that she didn’t sing along to the musical they were going to see.

After they left, I said to the server, we should remember this as that little girl is going to win a Tony someday.  

Maybe this time!!!

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Anyone ever wonder how words end up in your lexicon?  

How you end up with responses you’ve never had before?

Sometime in the last two years I started calling people friends.  

As in “welcome friends.”

I used to get compliments all the time from people who said this made them feel like they were in my home. 

The reason I bring this up is that in the last week I’ve started saying Awesome!!!

As in, “how are you tonight?”

And I respond, “AWESOME!” 

This is completely new, and I have no idea where it came from.  

It feels completely comfortable in my mouth.  

And even better, is prompted people to comment.

Table 7 ask if that were the truth and I assured them that I love my job, and my life and couldn’t be better.  Absolutely awesome!

And for today that is true. 

A month ago I was depressed as all get out.  With my knee.  My job.  My bank account.  

Today I deposited my first paycheck in 3 months.  

Actually, I deposited my first paycheck in at least 3 years as they’ve been direct deposit in the past. 

It felt nice to wait in line and do it.  

Yes, I know that I can use my phone but I like the act of going to the bank.  It makes me feel good.  

And to further that, I had a great day at work.  We were busy.  The staff killed it.  And I met lots of new friends.  

What’s the matter with kids today?

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

An observation I made today.

My new restaurant is a staple in the Portland community.  We serve elevated, approachable comfort food.  

And yet.  

There are not a lot of kids dining with us.  

Occasionally, yes.

But not like my old restaurant.

One night at my old restaurant, there were 14 kids below the age of 6 seated having dinner.  It was chaos.  

One night, they were almost all seated in a single server’s section.  We referred to it as Garrett’s Day Care.  

Meanwhile, you’d think that a less expensive restaurant, serving more approachable food would be filled with children.

But alas, that is not the case.

I hope I didn’t just jinx myself.  

Beautiful People

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

As I mentioned Adam and I went to the theater last night.  

In Boston.

From Portland to Boston is only a 2-hour drive. 

Door to door.

Assuming there is no traffic.  

Assuming.

Therefore, you have to give yourself ample time.  Sometimes it’s 2 hours.  Sometimes it’s 4.

We left at 2:00 for our 5:00 dinner reservation. 

Yesterday wasn’t too bad and we arrived around 4:15. Our restaurant didn’t open till 5:00, so we had a few minutes to spare.  Adam pulled out his lovely answer box and discovered there wasn’t much else open save for a Mexican place about two blocks from us.

We walked there and when we arrived, it was fairly non-descript space on a corner on a side street.  There was only one other table occupied.  The staff was clearly prepping for the evening service, as a bartender was cutting fruit and a server was rolling silverware.

An older Hispanic gentleman was at the lone table trying to take their order.  He motioned for us to sit anywhere and went back to the table.  There was a language barrier as he spoke mostly Spanish and they spoke mostly English.  

Finally, he got their order, and brought us two menus.  

He went to put their order in, grabbled silverware for us, and came back to the table.

We explained that we only wanted drinks and we ordered two Aperol spritzes.  

He went on his way, as Adam and I chatted about the show, our dinner plans, and new eye glasses.  We both need them.  

What seemed like forever passed and he brought our drinks.

He explained that he’d run out of Aperol, at least that’s what we think he said through broken English, but we do know he apologized, was very sweet and sat our drinks in front of us. 

We toasted, blew each other a kiss, and took a sip.  

It was an Aperol spritz of some sort, but it was clearly not traditional.  It was not bad by any means, and served its purpose by giving us something to do before dinner.  

We were sitting there chatting, when the gentleman approached the table again.  

He apologized for the Aperol spritzes and sat two new drinks in front of us.  

He explained that the first two drinks were not of the quality he liks, so he’d brought us something better.  We were so surprised, and protested, but he would have none of it.  

He insisted.

He walked away to serve the three other tables that had arrived since we sat.

We toasted and tasted the most wonderful coconut concoction, booze forward, especially for having to drive later, but delicious.  

We continued to sip them until around 4:45 and then we asked for the check by doing the official sign for we need a check.    

He came back to the table and told us there would be no charge, as we didn’t get what we ordered and he wanted us to leave happy.  

We were stunned, but Adam was having no part of it.  He insisted that we pay, because when you own a 40-seat restaurant, every penny counts. 

Finally, the man acquiesced and took Adam’s credit card.  A few minutes later he returned.  He’d charged us for 1 drink.  

We tipped more than the check and made a promise to come back, and not only have drinks but have dinner as well, as the menu looked amazing.  

Another table was coming in as we made our exit, and we walked hand in hand to our restaurant.

Blood in the Water!!!

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Adam and I went to Boston last night to see a play.

Tremendous show, we were both impressed.

Before the show we had dinner at a tapas restaurant.

We sat at a two-top that was spaced NYC style. Meaning that the tables next to ours was less than six inches away. When you live in New York, you get used to it, and after a while, you mostly stop noticing the conversations next to you, and just focus on your own date.

Which was mostly the case last night.

Except.

The table next to us was intriguing.

Adam thought they were on a date.

I’m pretty sure she was a friend seeking immigration advice as she was in the country on a student visa.

He was an attorney.

I know a little about immigration law, as a manager of a restaurant in Maine who has often brought J-1’s and H2B visa employees to work for me. They are some of the best.

His commentary sounded legit, although I was ready to whip out the contact information for my favorite immigration lawyer who lives in Boston.

The meal was quite delicious, although our server forgot to bring two of the small plates we ordered. I was mostly disappointed that we didn’t get to try the octopus.

But when all was said and done, we were full and really didn’t need them.

However, about 30 minutes into our meal, the man next to us knocked his cocktail off the table. He didn’t knock it over. He knocked it off. It hit bottom first and exploded with a boom. Glass and liquid went everywhere.

He didn’t apologize.

He didn’t help to clean it up.

He didn’t check with the table on the other side of him, which was the side of the table the glass was on.

He instead went into lawyer mode.

“Doesn’t the table look slanted.”

“Is the table level?”

“I think the server put the glass too close to the edge of the table.”

And a few more comments that made me laugh.

Meanwhile, I’m thinking, if you are worried about liability, then I’m pretty sure some concern for your neighbors would go a long way.

Perhaps, say, are you folks okay?

Do you need anything?

Let us move while you clean up the mess.

But alas, he made his comments, then sat there and went back to eating.

When a new drink arrived, he made a point of taking it from the server and setting it in the middle of the table.

I’m still convinced it wasn’t a date.

And if it was, I’m hoping it was her last with him.