serving

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

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

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’.

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.