I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Server edition!!!

Have I mentioned lately that I love my job.  I actually enjoy going to work and making money.  I enjoy the energy of the place.  The pace, the excitement, the fun of waiting tables.  It’s sometimes unfortunate that I like my job so much because it’s not forcing me to find more theatre work, but that’s not even the issue right now.

On that note, I had a very interesting night.  For two reasons.  One is kind of interesting in a good light, the other is kind of interesting and appalling in another light.

I’ll tell the good story first.  I’ll also let you know that both the couples I’m about to discuss were sitting next to each other at my counter at exactly the same time.  It really demonstrates a lot about the people I deal with.

Couple number one was a young attractive couple.  American.  Very nice, nothing that would have made me even take notice of them except for the couple they were sitting next to.  When the evil couple I will talk about later left, my nice young couple wanted the whole story about what was going on, since they only started paying attention when the evil couple began screaming at the manager.  And I told them the story.  And they too were appalled.  And we laughed over it.  And somehow in the course of the conversation I discovered that they were locals.  And the first question I ask any locals is why the fuck are you eating here.  And they replied that they wanted nachos and they thought they could get them here.  And what do you know.  We had nachos.

And the conversation continued.  My question was followed by their question of why the fuck do you work at this restaurant.  And I gave my stock answer.  It’s busy.  It’s busy.  It’s busy.  And I’ll never run into any of my friends here, and no one minds if I take off to go do other work.  And I told them that I was a lighting designer for theatre and opera.  I told them that I designed around the country and had just returned from doing three shows in Oklahoma.    I then told them that I had just gotten an email asking about doing two operas in the midwest next spring.  And they asked me if I’d ever heard of the Des Moines Opera Company.  And I told them that I had.  And I asked them if they were from Iowa.  And they said that they were.

And here’s the fun part.  I asked them if they were familiar with the little school that I taught at in Spring 07.  Not only had they heard of it, the girl had gone there.  And then we started playing the do you know game.  And she was amazed that I knew all of these people she knew.  And then by chance she asked if I knew this guy named Mike who had just done an internship in the theatre department.  And then she was completely shocked to find out that not only did I know him, but that I had been his boss this summer while he worked for me in Oklahoma.  Turns out that they are best friends and that he’d told her all about me, the summer and the drama of the whole thing.

So here was this random meeting of two people who happen to be good friends of a friend of mine from Iowa.  And this just proves that the world is too small.

At this point you should get a beer or a shot of tequila because you’ll never believe the crap that I’m about to tell you.

Just before I sat the above couple in my section I sat a foreign couple.  I did my thing, dropped them off at their seats and then went on to check on everyone else.  And then I came back to the table, said hello, and asked them if they’d like something to drink.

I know I’ve said this before, but our drink menu does not have prices listed on it.  And as I’ve said before I’ve never gone in a restaurant that has prices listed on their drink menus.  I’m not sure why this, but it seems to be the rule not the exception.  And it’s impossible to know all the prices.  We have close to fifty drinks on our drink menu and I’m barely able to remember what’s in them, let alone how much they cost.  And I always explain this to people by explaining that I just push a button and the computer does the rest.  And that if they’d like to understand better what I’m talking about, they should let me have their cell phone and I’ll pull up some random persons name and see if they know the phone number.  And every single time the understand what I’m talking about.  If they speak English that is.

So I say hello and ask what I can get the couple to drink.  Their first comment is that there are no prices in the drink menu.  They seem to speak English fine although it’s clear that they are foreign.  I tell them about the prices, the range that they run from.  And then they ask how much a bottle of wine is.  I have worked at this restaurant for a year and in that time I’ve sold three bottle of wine.  We don’t sell many bottles of wine  and so there was no way in hell I was going to know the price.  So I explain that they start around 35.00 and go up to about 50.00.  And then they ask how much the glasses are.  I explain that they start around 8.50 and go up to about 12.00.  And then they ask which one is the cheapest.  You should never say this to your waiter.  It raises all kinds of red flags about who they are dealing with and what the rest of the meal is going to be like.

So I’ve told the couple all about the wines that I can and tell them that if they let me know specifically what wine they are talking about I can tell them the price.  And I go away.  And I do my thing and eventually make my way back to the couple to see if they are ready to order.  And they are.  They order two orders of grilled salmon.  I ask if they’d like wine and they say no, they’ll just get water.  And I go away put the order into the computer and go do my thing.  And I go and seat another table, check on yet another table, run some drinks to someone else and as I’m passing by the counter the man is turning around from the bar with two glasses of wine.

And this pisses me off.  And I tell him as much.  I explain that I’m their waiter and that if they need something, no matter what it is, they are to get it from me, not the bar.  I’m stern about this.  And the man begins to shout at me.  He’s screaming that I didn’t come back to answer his questions about the wine and that I wasn’t helpful because I didn’t know the prices and that it was his right to go to the bar to get his drinks.  And I respond by saying that’s fine, I’ll go get the manager.

And so I explain to the manager about what’s happened and then I explain that I WILL NOT BE YELLED AT, BY ANYONE.  And that the couple needs to be moved to another table.  So the manager goes to visit the couple and stops me a few minutes later to tell me that it was a misunderstanding and that it wouldn’t happen again.  By now I’m pissed, I know that I’m not going to get a tip from them, so I’ve decided they’ll get my most crappy service, which is still miles above what some of my co-workers give.

And so I’m running around waiting on my tables doing my thing, and then I’m called over by the evil couple and the man proceeds to say the following to me.

“I’m about to go get two more glasses of wine at the bar, do you need me to call your mommy?”

OH, NO HE DIDN’T!

I don’t even give him the pleasure of a response.  I leave the bar, go the office and tell the manager (a different one this time) that I’m done with them and that I’ll not wait on them any longer.  They are welcome to sit there but I will not offer them any service.  I’m told that if they say anything else disparaging to me, they’ll be asked to leave.  And so I for the most part ignore them.  And then when there was no way I could ignore them any more the asshole calls me over to tell me that he’d like a to go box for his meal.  And then points to the miniscule speck of salmon left on his plate and then begins to laugh.  Once again I walk away without any remarks, I go to the office and tell the manager that table 65 needs their check and that under no circumstances am I delivering it to them, or having any other interactions with them.  So I’m standing at the other end of the counter when Matt drops the check off.  And I see the couple waving their arms and shouting at him.  And he takes the money from them and walks away.  When he brings me the money he tells me that they were pissed off that I hadn’t brought the check to them.  I guess they wanted to see if they could annoy me any more than they had.

And all of this is witnessed by the fun couple sitting next to the evil couple.  And as soon as the spawns of satan left, they asked to see Matt so they could give their side of the story.

I’m still pissed as I type this.  I know I responded to the assholes just as I should have.  I didn’t provoke them.  I didn’t engage them.  I didn’t give them the pleasure of a response.  And I think the thing that pisses me off the most is that the managers didn’t do more to stop the situation.  In their defense though, each time I brought the situation to their attention it was a different manager.  So none of them were completely aware of what had happened before.

I argued with these people in my head all the way home.  Saying all the things that I wish I’d said in the moment.  And yet I said none of them.  And if I had to do over again, I would still say none of them.  I like my job and I won’t risk being fired by arguing with a customer and engaging in some sort of debate.  But there is a limit to what I’m willing to tolerate and this was too much.  These people were rude and out of line.  And they should have been asked to leave the restaurant.  And if such a thing were to happen again, I would be more diligent about getting the managers to at least move the assholes to a new table.

On his way out tonight one of the managers complimented me on my cool head.  He said if it were him, he would have punched the guy and then come to get the manager.  I told him the same thing I told the nice couple.  I don’t allow my mother to yell or raise her voice with me.  I’m sure as hell not going to allow if from some asshole stranger.  I don’t care how important they are, or how much money they have, or if it costs me my job.  I have limits and these people crossed them tonight.

I’d like to speak to the mangaer!!!

Things that happened tonight:

A man sent back his old fashioned, saying it was just too strong for him.  

A woman sent back her blueberry martini because it was just too strong for her.  

A woman didn’t send it back, but only ate one small bite of her skirt steak, telling the server at the end of the meal it was chewy.  99.999% of the steak was still on the plate.  I showed chef and he said and I quote, “it’s a skirt steak.  It’s supposed to be chewy.”  We comped it but I didn’t want to.  

A woman shows up at 7:00 insisting that she has a reservation.  I was called to the door.  She is insisting that not only does she have a reservation but she and her family eat at the restaurant often.  I must do something.  Unbeknownst to me, until later, I find out she was mean to the host.  I find her a place to sit, but explain they only have 90 minutes to eat, as we have a table coming in at 8:30 that will need to be seated. 

Here’s the thing, someday I’m going to ask someone who insists that they are regulars whom I’ve never seen before what my name is.  Go ahead.  I’ll wait.  What’s my name? If you’ve been here more than twice you know who I am. 

A woman shows up with 2 reservations tonight.  Never have I ever, made two reservations at one restaurant on the same night, 15 minutes apart from each other.  I never accidently entered my credit card twice, clicked through the 12 confirmation phrases.  It’s just never happened.  

A woman called tonight.  I answered the phone.  She was trying to find out when her reservation is.  This is not uncommon.  However.  She doesn’t know the date.  The time.  The name.  Or the phone number on the reservation.  It’s Friday night.  I don’t have time for this.  

I’m going to share a secret with you.  If someone calls and I don’t have time to deal with the call and it’s for a date two weeks from now, I say, I’m going to put you on a brief hold and I put the cordless on the receiver when I didn’t know until I had done it a dozen time that it ends the call. 

At that point they call back, leave a message and I call them back the next day.  

Before you protest.  I don’t have time to explain why I can’t finish the call.  I will lose the paper if I record a message.  Call me back, leave a voicemail.  

At 4:30 a woman was banging on the front door.  I go to the door. We are in pre-show mode.  The restaurant is buzzing with activity as we get ready for service.  I go to the door and she says that she’s there to buy a gift card.  I explain that she’ll have to wait until 5:00.  She gets huffy.  I say, you can always buy one online.  She wants the physical card.  I say, she’ll have to wait until 5:00 and she huffs away.  

I had a lady last night who became huffy when I asked if she had reservations.  She said no, of course not, you don’t take reservations.  I assured her that we do.  She insisted that on our website, it said that we do not take reservations.  I spin the I-pad around to her, open our website, and point to the reservation button.  She huffs and I get her seated.  

We had a table in from NYC last night.  New Yorkers always work the fact that they are from NYC into the conversation.  I always work into the conversation that I lived there for 15 years.  Said table announces they are from NYC and then get seated.  2 hours later on their way out they say and I quote, we had heard you were a good restaurant, but we are from New York, we had no idea a restaurant this good could exist outside of New York, let alone Maine.  The food was excellent.  The service impeccable.  The ambiance stunning.  We just had no idea it would be this nice.  She was probably surprised we had running water and were wearing shoes.  

Yesterday I was giving a tour for a group that is exploring doing a buyout for a business dinner.  I’m in the middle of the tour when a group of 5 people walked around the corner.  (Fun fact if I leave the front door unlocked for 10 seconds someone walks in).  I ask if I can help them and they say they are here for a tour.  They want to host a rehearsal dinner at the restaurant.  I ask them if they have an appointment, thinking did I forget something.  One of them says, oh, no.  We just stopped by.  Can we get a tour???  Uh.  No.  First, you aren’t going to book when I tell you the price.  Second, you need an appointment.  Third, even if we were an event space you don’t just show up.  Fourth, I am in the middle of a different tour.  So no.  I think they were upset, but I did explain that if they emailed me I would give them details and pricing.  They emailed today, I sent them pricing.  They did not email back.  A rehearsal dinner at my restaurant is going to cost more than their wedding venue.  

Tonight a host comes up to me and said a man named Mike called.  I asked if I could take a message, he said, you called him early today and he was returning the call.  I’d know what it’s about.  I had 37 messages I returned today.  I have no idea who Mike is. 

Last but not least, last night I was on the door.  A woman calls and leaves a message.  I can hear the message as it’s being left on the cordless phone.  I know they gist of the call.  It’s a long message. She calls back about 10 times throughout the night.  Today I check messages.  I get to hers.  I save it.  When I’m finished recording all them, I play hers starting the stop watch on my phone.  Her message is almost 3.5 minutes long.  That is a very, very long way to tell me she needs her reservation cancelled.   Thing is when I start returning calls I discover that her reservation has already been cancelled and she didn’t need to speak with me at all.

I’ll end by saying I could write a post like this every day.  I have about 6 more items just from tonight, that I could share with you.

Meanwhile.  It’s bed time.  

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

At my last job, I discovered there was no place to get a soda for my drive home.  

Not Diet Coke.  Calm down.  

Club Soda.  Flavored fizzy water.  

Last spring, I got into the habit of taking a cup of soda water home from the restaurant each night. 

This continues at my current job. 

The difference is that my current cup is a red, Coca-Cola cup.  

There are only three of these cups in the restaurant.  The rest are clear plastic.  

I use my cup, every day.  All day.  

I take it into work with me from my car.  I use it throughout the shift.  I fill it up and take it with me when I leave.  

Everyone knows it’s my cup. 

Why?  

Because I ask them to fill up my cup when I’m running around, or at the door, or when I’m lazy and my feet hur.  

When I’m hosting, the glass is on the desk.

When I’m on the floor the cup is on the coffee shelf.  

Tonight, I was on the floor. 

Tonight, my cup was on the coffee shelf.

It was a crazy second turn, so it around 9:30 when I went to get my cup, fill it, and settle in for the end of the evening.  

But to my dismay, my cup was gone.

What the fucking fuck?

It was not where I left it. 

There is a thief in our midst.  

I am going to have to do a bag search as people leave to figure out who the fuck took my cup.  

I looked everywhere.

In dish.  

At the bar.

In my office.

At the host stand.  

Finally, I was forced to get a clear plastic cup.  

The soda water tasted and felt completely different.  It was just not the same.

I sat sadly at the chef’s table.  Depressed that someone would take my cup.  

Finally, this horrible evening ended and I locked up and was ready to go home.  

And as I walked through the kitchen, what would you know.  

Miracle of miracles.  

There was my red cup, on the clean dish rack.

I was so overcome with happiness, I collapsed on the floor sobbing.  

I then poured the contents of my clear cup into my red cup.  

And drove joyously home for the evening.

Normalcy had been restored. 

Update: I watched the security cameras. It was Bob. Bob stole my cup. Damn him for being good at his job!!!

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.