hospitality

Start spreading the news!

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Happy New Year!

For five years I worked at the Hard Rock Café in Times Square NYC.  It was a very lucrative job, and it afforded me the ability to pay my rent, as well as take time off to design shows that came my way.  

There were 120+ servers on the schedule, and 75% of them all had side gigs going on.  Artists, models, musicians, actors, comedians, and the list goes on.  On any given busy night there would be 40+ servers on the floor.  The restaurant sat around 800 people at one time and was often on a 2 hour wait.  There were nights that you’d run into a co-worker in the dish pit that you didn’t even know was working that shift.  

The Hard Rock was known for doing lots of events throughout the year, but the big event was New Year’s Eve.  We were closed to the public and did a private party for one of the sponsors for the Times Square ball drop.  It was a very all hands on deck kind of event, and I was scheduled almost every year.  

As a manager, I love working events.  As a server, I’d rather get a root canal.  Every year, I’d scheme to get out of the shift, and it never happened.  In 2009, my first New Year’s Eve with Adam, I paid a co-worker 50 bucks to work my shift so that I could spend the evening with him.

The next year, we were in Texas, and I managed to be off.  

The years preceding Adam, I always took the cut.  Around 11:00 they’d ask for volunteers to go home and I’d always say yes.  I hated being there, and I hated being in the crowd trying to get home.  

However, in 2011, Adam and I had just gotten back from Maine, where we’d spent Christmas.  On Christmas Day, my friend’s Lisa and Michelle, along with myself, sat Adam down and did an intervention.  We explained to him that he was moving to Maine the followiong summer, and just to embrace it.  After about 30 minutes he craved, and the plan was put into motion that got us moved to the northeast.  

When we got home, I was of course scheduled to work New Year’s Eve.  This year was different.  Although, I’d not yet given my notice, I knew that this would be my last New Year’s Eve in NYC.  And although, I hated working events I was excited to work New Year’s Eve 2011.  Because the Hard Rock Café is at the base of the building where the ball drops.  And for all my years in NYC, I’d never been in Times Square to watch the ball drop.  

So in 2011, when volunteers were asked to speak up, I didn’t volunteer.  At 11:45 for the first time ever, I was present, when the staff gathered on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant.  And at 11:59:59, I watched the ball being to descend, I experienced the playing of New York, New York, I saw the confetti fly, as all of my co-workers hugged each other. 

Somewhere on this laptop, I have the video of that night saved.  It is buried in files and files of photos off lots of different phones and cameras I’ve had since grad school.  I have looked for the last three days, but have yet to be able to find it.  I’ve found lots of other fun surpriseds, but not the video.  

I’m glad that I worked that night.  I’m glad before I left the city for good that I got to see the ball drop.  It’s one of those New York City memories that I will always cherish.  

Look over there. Look over there. Somebody cares that much.

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i’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Picture this!

Perhaps it’s time to rename my blog since I very rarely talk to the manager anymore.

Anyway!

Picture this!

Lexington, Kentucky. 1994.

I’m working at an Italian restaurant called The Italian Oven.

It’s a fun concept, in a strip mall off Richmond Road.

It features a wood fired oven, used to make pizzas, calzones and pastas.

I would often get the pasta carbonara until I discovered it was the dish with the most calories on the menu.

The owner’s name was Wayne. He was a bit crazy as all restaurant owners are.

He had an assistant, who’s named Nina, who was a host, then became assistant manager. She scared everyone but me.

For some reason she liked me, which I appreciated.

Turns out the concept, a franchise operation has gone kind of bust except for one location in Georgia.

Home

Same idea, except we only served beer and wine.

My ex-boyfriend Jim got me the job there, after I walked out of O’Charley’s when my manager was on maternity leave, and the replacement manager was a dick.

The concept included, black and white checked table cloths, with white craft paper on top. When you approached the table, you introduced yourself and wrote you name upside down in crayon. There was a small glass with crayons on the table for people to draw while they waited.

Fun fact, when someone who was artistically inclined we kept the drawings in the back on the walk-in.

We also were way ahead of our time, as we used pasta as straws, long before cities were banning plastic.

I worked there for two years, until I moved to Cincinnati to teach at the School for Creative and Performing Arts.

That was a long introduction to the meat of the story.

On a summer day, in 1994, I was at the restaurant for lunch.

Lunches were busy. Business was starting to wind down, when a table of four was seated in the back of the restaurant.

The server approached the table, we’ll call him Scott.

It’s funny. I can see his face, but for the life of me I can’t remember his name. He was an older gay man who didn’t even try to hide his gayness.

He walked up to the table, wrote his name upside down on the table, and before he could say more, a man at the table stopped him and asked for another server.

He responded, “Did I do something wrong?”

The man responded, “You are gay. We don’t want no gay server waiting on us.”

Scott said, “Of course, I’ll be right back.”

We were all hanging around in the front when Scott approached us, and told the three or four servers as well as Jay the manager what was said.

Jay said, “I’ve got this.”

He walked through the dining room and approached the table and said, “I’m sorry, is there a problem?”

The man at the table spoke up and said, “We don’t want no gay waiter. Give us somebody who ain’t gay.”

“Well sir, that’s going to be a problem. See that woman over there. She’s gay. See that man standing beside her, pointing at me, he’s gay too. See the guy with the beard making pizzas in the kitchen, he’s gay. In fact, I’m the manager, and I’d offer to wait on you, but I’m gay too. So if you don’t want no gay person waiting on you, then I guess you’ll have to just eat some place else.”

With that he walked away.

To be honest, I think they stayed, but I don’t remember.

The thing about Jay was, that if you’d asked me when I started, fuck if you’d asked me 24 hours earlier, I’d have sworn he was a little homophobic. But that day, he did the right thing. I’d never loved a manager more.

This was 1994, conservative, Lexington, KY.

The times they were a changin’.

Blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue.

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Tonight was busy at work.  

Very, very busy.  

We were fully staffed, and ready to go, so I actually stayed out of the way and let the team do their thing.  I was able to get payroll started for the week and catch up on a few things that I’d not done since being back from NYC.  

Around 7:30 I went upstairs, to check in with the FOH manager, who likes to call her kids around 7:30.  While we were at the host stand talking a three top walked in.  I explained that we did not have room for them, and wouldn’t have room for them for about an hour.  

The manager, tapped me on the shoulder and told me I should seat them at table 13, because the reservation for the table was already 15 minutes late and she didn’t think they were going to show.  

I looked at the three top, said what the hell, let’s gamble and roll the dice and I gave them the table. 

At this point the manager took a break from the door and I took over.  

30 seconds after she left, the reservation we thought wouldn’t show appeared in front of me.  

Fuckity, FUCK, FUCK.  

I explained that because they were late, we no longer had a table for them.  They were indignant for about 3 seconds, and then pivoted to the nice routine.  They were so suite and nice about it, that I made it work.  By giving them a table we were going to need in 20 minutes.  

I call this kicking it down the road, hoping against hope that someone along the way, will skp dessert and just pay the check and leave.  

When I told them I could get them seated, the woman I’d been speaking with asked me if I wanted a hug and a kiss.  I jokingly said, I’m not easy, you have to at least buy me dinner and a drink first.  They all laughed, and I got them seated.

5 minutes later their server appeared to let me know they had bought me a bourbon drink, as I’d explained that was my drink of my choice.  They were so sweet.  

Meanwhile, the kitchen calls for hands and I go to the window and pick up the appetizer for table 13.  I approach them and drop off the baked brie and jokingly say, you’ll never guess who walked through the door 5 minutes after I sat you.  The reservation we didn’t think would show.  

They immediately became apologetic and I assured them I didn’t tell them this to upset them, I thought it was par for the course, and that sometimes you gamble and you win and sometimes you gamble and you lose.  

The father asked me three or four times, if I was sure I didn’t need the table.  I repeatedly said, absolutely not, I only wanted them to enjoy dinner.  That’s all I needed.  

He introduced himself and then asked me to join them for dinner.  I laughed and said I had to get back to work.  We shook hands and I casually asked if they were local.  

The father and mother lived in Massachusetts and their daughter explained that she lived in Pennsylvania.  In the blue part of the state.  

I took a deep breath.  Do I respond?  Or do I let it pass.  Never, ever talk politics at work.  

However, It suddenly felt like that she’d shared the secret code word.  

I said that it was awesome that she lived in the blue part of the state and that it was a shame it wasn’t bigger this year.  She agreed and said that she had done her part.  

I replied, “So you understood the assignment.”

She said, “Not only did I understand the assignment but my in laws, who are life long Republicans also understood the assignment and voted blue for the first time in their life.  

I felt goosebumps rise on my arm.  

I told them that they were exactly who I needed to meet tonight after the week that we had.  

She also went on to say, that in her neighborhood on Monday, she had no less that 10 door knockers ring her door bell, and ask who she was voting for all canvasing for Harris.  Not one Republican came to her door, and that she’d been shocked by the results.  

I told her that I was going to tell this story on Facebook tonight, as I think it’s important for all of us to know that we are not alone.  

I thanked them again for being so nice, the father asked me again to join them for dinner, I shook his hand one more time.  Told them to keep up the good work and took my leave.  

I really did get goosebumps talking to them and it really made me smile that they thought that they could trust me and shared this with me.  

Spread the word folks. 

So keep right to the end. You’ll find your goal my friend. Find your friend. Then the prize you won’t fail find your grail! Find your grail!

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

It’s the day after Labor Day!!!

I met two employees at a bar tonight for a post cleaning cocktail and the bartender said, “Cheers to local’s summer!”  It’s the time of year when you begin to see the winter locals come out of hibernation. 

They are splotchy white, from lack of sunshine, as they’ve been hiding in their homes, counting down the days to Labor Day when it’s safe to come out into the light.  

It’s a miracle of miracle every year when we get to the date.  

Trust me, we MUST have the summer.  It’s how, my staff pays their rent in January.  

It’s how the restaurant pays its labor in the depths of the winter.  

As manager’s we preach to our staff, save your pennies, because Winter IS coming.  

Although, since Covid, winter has not been as deserted as before.  There are still people in town.  There are more people traveling north.  There are just more people in general.  So it’s not as bleak as it was in 2013, when I had January nights, with a bartender and two servers, and we did 4 guests.  2 two tops.  

And you must never, ever close early.  

My restaurants were closed today for cleaning.  Twice a year, we shut down and power wash the shit out of everything.  Every nook and cranny gets a wipe down, or a coat of paint.  We’ll finish up tomorrow, have a staff meeting, and reopen on Thursday.  

You could sense a difference in the team today as everyone was happy and fun.  We had the music pumping and most everyone was in a good mood. 

We now turn to cruise ship season and leaf peeper season.  

These are NOT the same people who vacation in the summer.  It takes money to summer in Maine.  Hotels are upwards of 600+ dollars, even more if you have a view.  

The people we get now, are retirees, and families, who come to Maine to see the leaves change and enjoy the cooler weather.  

Speaking of cooler weather, it dropped to 48 last night in Portland.  

We still have the a/c on.  

We also start to get a plethora of cruise ships and tour buses.  These are 100% retirees, who have come to Maine to see the leaves.  They come off the ship and buses and go to the closest restaurant selling chowder and lobster rolls for the cheapest price.  We are a little bit too far away from the wharfs to see them, but occasionally they venture up to us.  They are in a hurry, and are not known for tipping.  When I worked in KPT during the teens we saw them, and because we didn’t offer them a discount they often didn’t stay. 

Oh. And they need the whole process to take less than 30 minutes.

The whole point of this post is to say, we made it to Labor Day.  

I 100% guarantee you every hospitality worker in Portland has had this conversation in the last two days. 

 I guarantee you.  

It’s a conquest every year. 

Like passing the bar exam. 

Like killing the Night King. 

Like melting the Wicked Witch.   

Like pulling the sword from the stone?  

Like finding the Holy Grail. 

Like winning gold at the Olympics.  

It’s that.  

Without the fame and fortune.  

But give it to me every hour, Forty hours every week, And that’s enough for me to be living like a king!

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

It’s Labor Day tomorrow.  (It’s currently Sunday night).  

The unofficial end to summer.  

For most of you, that means school is back in session, the days are getting shorter, and you can no longer wear white.  

For those of us in the hospitality industry, in a tourist town in the northeast, its the official end of the craziness.  

Tomorrow will be significantly slower than last Monday.  There will still be business, but for those who track these things, the slowdown happens.  If a stranger walked in, they’d think I’m crazy, but a 20% decrease is just enough to breathe.  Sigh.  Know, that for the most part, the worst is behind us.   

When I worked in Kennebunkport, 10 years ago, it was the countdown we did to the end of the summer. The Friday, Saturday, Sunday of Labor Day were insane.  The last big weekend of the year.  On Sunday, we’d keep the whole staff until we were done.  When the last guests were out of the building, we pour beer and wine for the team.  And I’d toast the great job they’d all done to get us where we were.  

Summer there was insane.  Summer at my current restaurant is busy but not like Kennebunkport.  10 years ago, we were doing 600 people for lunch and 600 people for dinner.  We’d open the doors at 11:30 and we wouldn’t stop until around 10:00 when we locked the doors.  It was intense.    

We’d have close to 175 employees for the summer.  That’s a lot of food prepped, a lot of silver rolled, a lot of glasses polished.  We’d push for that first weekend in September. 

Then we’d toast.  We’d breath.  

And we’d come back the next day, to start the count down to Indigenous People’s Day.  

That’s when we could really breathe.  

I hadn’t thought about the end of summer toast for a long time, but I talked to my friend Laura tonight, and she asked if we had toasted to the end of summer tonight.  

We did not.  

We cleaned up, moved some furniture around, so our floors can be refinished tomorrow, and we all said goodbye.  

Happy Labor Day.  

A weekend in the country, would be charming, and the air would be fresh.

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

It’s the third weekend in July.  

That means it’s the weekend of the Yarmouth Clam Festival.  

That means it’s just six weeks till Labor Day Weekend.  

It means that we are half way through the summer season in Maine.  

And it also means it’s Camper’s Weekend.  

AHHHHHHH.  

That was a chorus of angels singing.  

What is Camper’s Weekend you ask?  

Well.  

Let me tell you.  

There are around 150 summer camps in Maine.

Many of these camps are sleep-away camps.  

Many of these camps welcome kids for several weeks at a time.  

And most of these camps DON’T allow visitors on the regular.  

So.  

One weekend, in the middle of the summer, these camps open their gates and allow parents to visit.  

And that one weekend is the third weekend in July.  

July 19 and 20, 2024. 

And why is any of this important?  

Well.  

Summer camp in Maine is NOT for working class folk. 

For the most part.  

There are subsidies and scholarships if you are a middle class and poor.  

For most of these kids their parents are wealthy.  

Very.

Wealthy.

And I do mean VERY wealthy.

People, from all over the country, ship their kids to Maine for the summer.  

And on the third week of July, these wealthy parents descend on Maine, to visit their offspring.  

And these wealthy, wealthy, stupidly rich people can be very amazing. 

Very sweet.  Handing out money to anyone they come in contact with.   

But far too many of them come to Maine, and they eat in our restaurants, and they are HORRIBLE.  

But how are they horrible you ask?  

Well.

Let me tell you.

First of all, every restaurant in town is booked months out.  

Completely booked.  

But that doesn’t deter these folks.  

They call repeatedly. 

They threaten.

Do you know who I am?

They have their assistant’s call.  

Do we know who they are? 

And these folks, finally get reservations.  

At their first, second, third, fourth choices.  

Yes, they make lots and lots of reservations.  

Leaving it up to fate, luck, and what others are doing as to what reservation they will keep.  

If they keep them.  

Today we had 23 cancellations.  

Most of which were in the last 24 hours.  

About ten of them were after service started tonight.  

We were significantly less busy, even though on paper we should have been crazy.  

But that’s the good part. 

The bad part is how a lot of these folks act when they walk through the doors.  

On Friday night, not one table sat where I had them scheduled to sit.  They walked in.  Looked around and then told me where they were sitting.  

I’m not sitting at a high top.

I’m not sitting at the counter.  

I’d like that corner table in the window that seats six, even though we are just four.  

I’m not sitting on the patio.  

I know I booked a regular table, but there is a lovely table on the patio and we’ll sit there.  

None of these things could happen.  

 A party of four would show up with six, and say, we’ll squeeze, until they realized that wasn’t an option.  

A party of 10 took 75 minutes to be complete last night.   The first guests sat at 5:15,  the last guests arrive at 6:40.  

They let their children run wild.  And I do mean wild.  I watched an 8-year-old, it was his birthday, run into different servers for 90 minutes. 

They are also all gluten free, organic, vegan, dairy-free, probiotic, paleo, pescatarians, who are allergic to black pepper, allium, mollusks.  However, they are gluten free, not celiac, so if you use the fryer that’s okay.  

And ALL, and I mean ALL of their phone numbers originate in New York City and its suburbs.  

Something an employee pointed out last night, is that for the most part, they don’t really enjoy food.  They are quick to order a burger, a pizza, or salad.  Most are not venturing in to seafood, especially raw seafood.  Steaks are preferred medium well.  

And more than anything, they don’t like to be told no.  In fact, they don’t take no for an answer.  

Like never.  

It goes back to do you know who I am?  Do you know who I work for?  Do you know how much I am worth? 

I can buy and sell you!!! 

Friday night, was the worst shift I have had at my new restaurants.  

The host working next to me, kept saying, you’ve got to be kidding me?

Do you have a kids menu? 

No.  

Do you have child friendly food?  

I don’t know what that means.  

Do you have chicken fingers?

No.  

Pasta?

No.

Spaghetti?

No (Spaghetti is pasta). 

How about grilled chicken? 

No.  

How about pizza?

Yes, we have pizza.

Is it gluten free?

Yes.  

That might work.  

This is a conversation I had at the host stand.  Long before they were seated or spoke to their server.  

If you live in Maine, you know it’s coming.  You can’t take the weekend off like we used to do in NYC for Fleet Week.  Or Easter Weekend or any of the other horrible days.  

We all suck it up, take a deep breath and take it like a man.  

I do have to say, that this weekend, this year, was every weekend last year, and the two summers prior. 

So, I really shouldn’t be complaining.  

But I think it’s important to share the fun.  

And, every restaurant in town does well this weekend.  

And by this time tomorrow, every family will be headed back to NYC and we won’t see them again till the third week of July, 2025.  

And I will be sitting in my underwear, drinking Buffalo Trace, which Adam found in the grocery store today, grateful the weekend is over, but also grateful, that it was another banner Camper’s Weekend.  

One man may seem incompetent, another not make sense, while others look like quite waste of company expense. They need a brother’s leadership, so, please don’t do them in. Remember mediocrity is not a mortal sin.

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Management is hard.  

That’s what my friend Laura says to me, over and over and over.  

She was my first AGM when I became a manager!

She tells me often that management is hard.  

She is not wrong.  

I had the same conversation today with my front of house manager.  

I always thought the hard part would be knowing the job.  

How to do financials. 

How to manage labor.  

How to make sure the needs of the restaurant were met, like ordering trash bags, and paying the rent. 

Turns out that’s the easy part. 

The hard part is managing people.

The personalities.  

All different.  

Not unlike teaching.  

Who needs a hug? 

Who needs a scolding? 

Who needs to be sent home to breathe.  

Who needs a cheeseburger. 

Thinking back to ALLLLL of the manager’s I’ve had in my life, and it’s been a lot, there is a lot I’ve learned along the way.  

My first manager was a friend of my parents.

She fired me for being insubordinate.  

To her daughter.  

My next manager, chain smoked like a chimney.  Was about five feet tall.  Weighed about 80 pounds.  And was a firecracker.

She put up with no shit.  I followed her from the Georgetown Wendy’s to the North Park Wendy’s.  I stopped working for her when my car died and I could no longer get to Lexington.  

I always joke that when I got hired to be a restaurant GM, I sat down and said who do I want to be like. 

The name that came to mind was Mike Cook from Daryl’s restaurant in Lexington.  

Cookie.  

He was horrible

First question when you got to work was what kind of mood is Cookie in?  If he was in a bad mood, everyone was in a bad mood.  If he was in a good mood.  Everyone was in a good mood.  

He was one of the worst manager’s I ever had, because you never, ever knew who you were getting.   

And that I’ve spent the last 13 summers asking myself what would Cookie do, and then did the opposite. 

For all of my faults as a manager, the one thing that I don’t do is take out my personal mood out on my staff.  If I’m depressed?  If I’m mad about something?  I don’t yell at them.   I put a smile on my face and keep it to myself. 

Last summer, was the first time, I developed crack in my facade.

I had employees who could see the pain.  They helped as much as they could, but to no avail.  

In the past though I’ve had lots of good, and lots of bad manager.  

I’ve had managers who played with my schedule.  

I asked for 10 days off at the Hard Rock.  

The 10th day fell on the beginning of the next schedule.  

I went away on my trip, and didn’t show up for day 10 because why would I be scheduled.  

I was told I was being fired for a no call – no show.  

It took about 10 minutes in the GM’s office dropping the word harassment, and discrimination 17 times, for that decision to be reversed.  

The manager who played with my schedule was transferred about 6 weeks later because of me.  

While I’m on the subject of the Hard Rock, two of the best GM’s I ever worked with were there.  Great attitude.  Fair treatment.  Listened.  Cared.  Treated the staff like gold.  

Back to the subject.  

Managing is hard.  

Managing restaurants is especially hard.  

And it’s truly not for the feint of heart.  

I’ve learned a lot over the past 14 summers.  

Do I still fuck up?

Of course.

Back in 2014 I made a rule for myself.  

If I snap at an employee… 

I buy them a beer at the end of the shift.  

Not literally.

Because that would be illegal.

What I do, is take 20 dollars out of my pocket and give it the employee, to buy themselves a beer after work.  

And I ALWAYS apologize. 

ALWAYS

I usually only have a couple of occurrences a year.  

I won’t tag her in the post, but one of my favorite employees of my GM days, was a girl who hosted for me.  

We butted heads a lot. 

She gave her notice at the end of the third summer, in a letter to my boss.  

She gave him all the reasons that she hated me and that was the reason she was quitting.  

Fast forward six months, and she is working in a restaurant, in another state, and she texts me to say that she was sorry.  

She was wrong about me. 

After working in a restaurant, with actual bad management, she realized that I was quite fair in my expectations.  Was pretty clear in what I wanted.  

And wasn’t so bad after all. 

Since then, she has finished her degree, has two kids and I love watching her grow from 8 states away.    

She is not the only person to share the same sentiments with me.   

To end the story, she was the last customer I spoke to on October 29, 2017 the night before we all lost our jobs.  She was in town visiting and had come to the restaurant to see me.  She sat at seat 51 at the Front Bar and we chatted.  

She left.

I went home.  

The next day when I got to work, the locks were being changed and yellow envelopes were being handed out.

I was told, it’s just business.  

It’s not personal.  

But that’s another story.    

I’m not scared to be seen, I make no apologies, this is me

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Gay Pride Edition!

A friend posted my favorite clip from the TV show True Blood today.

You can view it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H7l-VVxCLo8

Whenever I see things like this, it reminds me of the decades of my life spent in the service industry.

This one brought back a very specific memory.

In the mid 90’s, I worked at an Italian restaurant, and I use the word Italian loosely, called The Italian Oven. My ex-boyfriend, Jim got me the job there, after I may or may not have walked out of a job at O’Charley’s, after a substitute manager, filling in for a pregnant manager I loved, yelled at me.

I find myself at The Italian Oven. It has black and white checkered plastic table cloths. The table cloths are covered with white craft paper. When you approach the table, you introduce yourself by name and write your name upside down in crayon on the table cloth. It never ceased to WOW the audience.

Fun fact. It takes about 22 seconds to learn to do this when your name only has 3 different letters.

It was a wood fired restaurant, that served mostly pizzas, calzones, and pastas. The food was remarkably not bad, and it’s where I learned to love tiramisu. We had a beer and liquor license and were very busy most nights. I made a comfortable living there, and had a good time most nights.

It’s funny, that I only remember a couple of people from there, so it didn’t make a huge impact on me, and I remember no one’s name but Jim’s.

What I do remember, is that one Saturday afternoon, toward the end of the lunch rush, a table of five arrives, and are seated in the far back right corner of the restaurant.

The server approaches the table.

I don’t remember his name. I can see his face. I can hear his voice. And he was fun to work with.

The one thing that I do remember is that he was gay. Undeniably gay.

The kind of gay, that when he opened his mouth, a purse fell out.

(We said these things back in the 80’s and 90’s).

He was also kind, and lovely, and the best server in the restaurant.

If I remember correctly, he was the person who trained me.

He approaches the table, introduces himself, writes his name on the table, and is responded to with the following:

You gay?

What?

Are you gay?

What?

We don’t want no gay person waiting on us, get us a new server!!!

I’m in the kitchen with a couple of other servers, and the very straight, very redneck, very religious manager who was on duty. We’ll pretend his name is Robert, which I think it was.

He says, Hey Robert, table 43 has told me they need a new server, because and I quote, they don’t want no gay server waiting on them.

They may have used the “f” word. I don’t remember.

Robert wants to know if he heard them correctly.

He is assured that he heard them loud and clear.

Robert says, I’ll be right back.

He might as well have said, hold my beer.

He goes to the table and says, excuse me, I hear that you have a problem with your server?

They reply, yeah we don’t want no gay person waiting on us.

Robert says, well I don’t know what to tell you all my servers are gay.

They question him.

He says, yes, we only hire gay servers here.

They then ask, if he can wait on them.

He replies, well yes, I can wait on you. I do wait tables from time to time, but I’m gay too, so I don’t know what to tell you.

They hem and haw and eventually realize what is happening.

He says, if you don’t mind a queer manager waiting on you, I’ll be glad to get you some food.

Instead, they gather their belongings and leave.

And I’ve never been happier to work for a redneck, conservative, Christian manager.

Give it to me quick. Or drop it in a dish.  Slip it in my pocket, I won’t mind that a bit.  Leave it on the table, I know just where you sit, don’t you bother come back if you haven’t left a tip.  

/ fightmasterwrites / 1 Comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I haven’t posted a real restaurant post in a while.

So here goes.  

I may have written about this, but it was two years ago, so hopefully if I did you don’t remember it. 

Tonight, on the Facebook, a friend posted that she didn’t like dining out with friends who give the waiter a hard time.  

One of her friends commented that she wouldn’t even send something back if it came out wrong.  And said she’d ordered a burger medium well, it came out mooing so she ate her fries and left the burger.  

First and foremost, you should never be afraid to send something back.  Restaurants get it wrong.  We know this.  We undercook or overcook a steak.  We forget that the dressing is supposed to be on the side.  We miss the note that you wanted no onion and tomato and you get the whole set up. 

These things happen.  

Just politely call your server over, explain the problem and know that it will be a minute before you get what you wanted.  The key is to not be an asshole.  But always, always, get what you ordered.  We want that.  It’s fundamental to who we are.  If the restaurant gives you a hard time, it says more about their hospitality program than you.  

That being said, also remember that sometimes you make the mistake.  You ordered the chicken when you meant the steak.  You forgot the dressing on the side.  You ordered pinot noir when you meant pinot grigio.  

So always own that as well. 

So.  

Two years ago, this fall, I went home to Kentucky for the first time since my mom died.  2018 – 2022.  

I saw the relatives.  I saw friends.  

I visited my Aunt Doo in her nursing home, picked her up and took her to Jim’s Seafood in Frankfort, Kentucky.  It has beautiful views of the water, and serves up the best fried frozen food in the area.  It was her favorite restaurant.   Adam and I love it, as who doesn’t love fried food.  

My aunt order fried banana peppers, and even got an order to go when we left to take back to the nursing home. 

We spent the afternoon laughing, and after lunch we drove around looking at the beautiful Kentucky countryside. 

When we got back to the nursing home, she begged me not to take her back to jail.  She laughed.  I laughed.  We all laughed.  

I got her back to her room.  Said goodbye and that I’d see her tomorrow for lunch again.  

At 7:00 a.m. the next morning, I received a call that my Aunt Doo had died in her sleep, overnight.  

I like to think she was holding on till I got home as it had been four years since I’d seen her.  We were super close, and I was one of a few people who remembered to call her on her birthday, and send her flowers.  

Adam is convinced the fried banana peppers killed her.  He also was the last to hug her when we left.  He was touched that she wanted to hug him.  She’d accepted him into our family from the very beginning. When we chatted on the phone she always asked about him, something my mother never did.  

That morning, after we gathered at the nursing home to say our goodbyes, my Aunt Debbie, Adam, and I went for a late breakfast at the Cracker Barrell.  It was my idea, as I wanted breakfast, it was close by and we just needed some place to unpack the previous 24 hours.  

We get there, are seated, and order breakfast.  

The server is cute as a button, and very sweet.  You can tell she is new, and a little nervous.  We’ve all been there, and didn’t think anything of it.  

Our food took a while, enough that we were starting to comment on it, but once again, we only noticed because we were hungry, not because we were impatient.  

Finally, the food is carried out of the kitchen.  In fact, like 12 people come out of the kitchen at the same time, all carrying food. 

The food is placed on the table. 

It takes about 90 seconds to realize this is not what we ordered.  It’s kind of what we ordered.  But not really what we ordered.  

We look across the dining room and realize that our order, and the table across from us have had parts of our orders mixed up.  

We decide to go with it.  We don’t expect them to recook two orders.  We are hungry.  And so, we eat.  

The manager comes by to apologize and we assure her that all is well.  We are hungry.  The food is good.  And none of that is a lie.  

We finish eating.  Drink our 5th cup of coffee.  And we realize that we need to get on with our days. 

We ask for the check.  

The server brings it over, and we realize that it is not what we ordered.  It’s not what we ate.  It’s an entirely different check.  

And I said fuck it, we are not giving the new girl a hard time.  

And I paid the check.  And I tipped 25%.  

And we all went to the parking lot, where we hugged extra hard, and extra loving.  Said our goodbyes and went our separate ways.  

So, to summarize.  

We ordered food.  We got different food.  And we paid for food that was neither what we ordered or what we ate.  

And fun fact.  I didn’t complain.  I didn’t yell.  I made no one feel stupid.  

And why you ask?  

Because life is fucking short. 

Do you really need to get upset that the dressing is on your salad?  Do you need to get upset that your steak is 1* past the temp that you ordered?  Do you need to get upset that your egg is over medium, instead of over easy? 

That day was not the day.  

We needed to have a place to unwind.  To unpack and be with each other.  

Adam and I have sent things back.  In Boston, we got something we didn’t order.  We asked for it to be corrected, and it was.  Once, we got a bad bottle of wine.  We mentioned it, they corrected it.  

There is absolutely, no reason to give the waiter at your table a hard time.  

Not even in jest.  

Waiting tables is not for the faint of heart.  

It’s not for the meek.  

You get beat up every day.  Every day.  

Not to mention the number of people who ask what your real job is?

Love that one.  

I had a server come to me crying because a “bro” asked her if her parents were proud that she was using her college degree waiting tables.   

Those of you feeling obligated to challenge me on the tipping structure in America. Don’t.  It’s the way we do things.  Change it.  

Those who don’t think it’s a hard job.  

You are the same folks who complain about your five-year old driving you crazy.  

I challenge you to just watch what the servers and bartenders are doing.  

They are managing four to five, to ten tables.  They are keeping all their balls in the air.  They a remembering your extra ranch, your blue cheese olives, and the change you need for the valet.  

They have gotten all the drinks to the table, without spilling them.  They remembered the 6 different kinds of martinis your guests ordered.  And they even remembered the birthday candle for your husband who’s birthday is three months away, because you just wanted to embarrass him.  

I watch my team every day, and am amazed at how talented they are.  

Of course, sometimes, I have to remind them that grandpa Jeff, back in the 00’s, was just as talented.  They don’t believe me, but my HRC folks can assure them that I indeed handled station 12 with no station 11 which was a counter with 10 chairs and 5 four tops.  And I kicked ass, ran no food, pushed people out of my way, and made a living for 5 years.  Selling 3,500 dollars a night in 15-dollar cheeseburgers.  

At the end of the day.  

Just be kind.  

That is all.  

When in doubt.  

Just be kind.  

It’s gotta happen, happen sometime. Maybe this time, I’ll win

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Was I wrong?  

Tonight, I actually asked to speak to the manager.  

Adam and I sometimes have chicken Caesar salads.  

And we discovered a while back, that it’s easier to pick up Popeye’s chicken than it is to cook our own.  

Adam suggested salads tonight, and so drove to the Popeye’s out by the mall to pick up chicken.  

I ordered the chicken.  Get to the window and pay for the chicken.

I’m handed my chicken. 

At this point, I remember that I forgot to order a biscuit for Adam.  

I ask the guy at the window to buy a window.  

He tells me that I need to drive around, get in line, and order again.

I say seriously?

He says yes.

I say, seriously?

He says yes?

I ask to the speak to the manager.

He comes to the window, says, 1 buscuit?  

I say yes, he says that will be $1.50.

I give him the money. 

He gives me the biscuit.

The whole exchange took 90 seconds.  

So here is the question…

Was I wrong for not driving around.

Or was it silly for them to ask me to drive around for a 90 second transaction.  

Meanwhile, I have an appointment to get my hair frosted and cut into a Karen cut tomorrow.