We are Servers, not to be Confused with Servants

Some people take pleasure from seeing you run around like a race horse for them. I don't know how many times I have approached a table when they received their food and asked them if they need anything else only to have one of them tell me, "Mustard." Ok, that's a fair enough request, right? I retrieved it for them. Then, when I arrive with the mustard, someone else wants something. "Oh, and extra ketchup." I then go and get that for them. When I get back with the ketchup, they then say, "Oh, and some barbecue sauce." WOULD IT KILL YOU SONS OF BITCHES TO ASK ME FOR EVERYTHING YOU NEED AT THE SAME TIME? Believe it or not, I have other tables full of patrons who also need my attention. And nothing says "cheap tipper" like making plenty of demands and being difficult. These people usually show through their attitude that they have no respect for you by making you do tons of special things for them since they are so entitled and then by tipping you less than 15%.

I also hate it when people request water with no ice and/or lemons, especially when it's busy. When it's very busy, getting lemons means maneuvering my way through a large, crowded restaurant to the crowded service area, where servers are waiting for drinks since the bar is always overworked and understaffed, getting lemons, and going all the way back to their table with their damn lemons. When it's slow, it's not much to ask, but when it's very busy, that takes time away from me being able to help other customers.

Last night an Indian man in his forties or fifties came in with a white female companion who was about the same age as him. There is no need to know that both were quite unattractive, but it makes me feel better to put that out there. After greeting them, I asked if they wanted anything to drink. I knew they were going to be annoying when Mr. India suggested tea. "Oh, why, yes! I think I will take a hot chamomile tea. With lots of lemon!" Of course, you menopausal bitch. I will be happy to bring you lots of the disgusting lemons that have been sitting for hours, unrefrigerated, at the bar. They are probably contaminated with all sorts of lovely microbes since servers and the bartender have been sticking their hands in them all day, and I hope that you catch a disease from them. India ordered a coffee- but with a special request. Read this out loud in your best Indian accent. "Can you do me a favor?" Me, with a smile- "Of course I can!" India- "I would like regular milk, but I also want some skim milk on the side. Can you do that for me?" Me- "Of course!" Me in my head- Does it look like I have a fucking choice? Would it kill you to just get one type of milk? Pick one-skim or regular. If I were you, though, I would just stick to skim. You could stand to lose a few pounds.
His lady friend thought that his special request was a hoot and laughed after he made it. "Oh, Akbar! You are too much!" Her in her head- This waitress is a lot skinner, younger, and prettier than me. I am secretly jealous of her and, because of that, would like to see her suffer. I cannot say this out loud, so instead I will laugh when my ugly male companion makes her run around for him since he is so fucking entitled!
Mr. India paid the $27 bill and left me $3.90. How generous of him. A few more cents and it would have been 15%. But he probably needs the 15 cents more than I do.

Farts

It has been slow at work recently, so the other night my coworkers and I got to talking about farting in front of your significant other (Note to non-service industry people: this is what your waitress/waiter is talking about when they are huddled with their coworkers by the coffee station). Some of my (American) coworkers were shocked to learn that my fiancé, who I have been with for 4 years, has never farted or burped in front of me. My theory is that many men who are not from the US are more traditional and gentlemanly than their American counterparts and are more mindful of such things. A generalization, I know. A really dumb one. But I wanted to validate my theory by asking some of my foreign born coworkers if this was true. It was slow and I was bored. My coworker Emma has more balls than I do, so she entered the kitchen, which is comprised of strictly foreign born men, to see if I was right.

“Hey, guys! I want to ask you a question!” The Hispanic and African cooks stopped chatting in Spanish and Patoi and focused their attention onto her. “Me and waitress over here wanted to see if non American men fart in front of their girlfriends. Do any of you fart in front of your girlfriends?”

Now all of the cooks/the dishwasher/the salad prep guy were glaring at her. For a few seconds, there was complete silence. Then Amadi, our skinny, African salad guy, broke the silence. “Why not?” he replied enthusiastically. We all busted out laughing and made fun of him for the rest of the night. I guess my theory was wrong.

Grammatical Error

The restaurant where I work is luckily situated by a university. And by luckily I mean unfortunately. It's a large, expensive university that costs upwards of 40 something thousand dollars a year to attend. They provide most of our customers, many of whom are spoiled, entitled 18-22 year old brats who don't tip well, despite the fact that many (but not all) of them come from money.

The other day my coworker, who we will call Lissette, had the pleasure of waiting on three blond students, who pretty obviously attended said school. They all ordered salads with lots of modifications. When the bill came, they suddenly realized that a substitution that they each got cost $2. It was clearly stated on the menu, though our menu is full of grammatical errors. In the sentence on the menu stated that their substitutions cost $2, there is a comma where they should not be one. These three scholars claimed that because of that comma they did not understand that their substitutions would cost extra. They demanded to see a manager.

The restaurant was packed and Lissette had many other tables who needed her attention. "Ladies, I'm sorry, but I don't have time to get a manager. Please feel free to take that $6 out of my tip." They refused. One of the blondes replied, "No. I want to see a manager."

Lissette got the manager, who for whatever reason took the $6 off their check. Even though he clearly shouldn't have. It was obvious that their substitution would cost extra. They were just being difficult.

As they were leaving, they thanked Lissette. "Thanks so much for getting a manager," one of them told her. "You see, there's a grammatical error in the menu which can throw people off. It really needs to be changed." Lissette was through with their bullshit at this point. She asked the blondes, "So, are you girls in school?" "Yes," one of them replied, excited to brag about the pricy school she attends, "We go to <name of pricy university that her daddy pays $45,000 a year for her to attend>!" To which Lissette replied, "Well just because you're in school does NOT mean you are smarter than me." She then turned around and disappeared into the crowded restaurant.

Slave Labor

Most restaurants in NYC do not offer paid training, which is illegal. My current job did not pay me for training, and it scared the hell out of me because I have had other jobs where I trailed a server or did their work for them and still did not get the job.

One restaurant in particular screwed me over quite badly (Pranna in the Flatiron District). The manager interviewed me quickly and hired me immediately. I was so excited, as I had been looking for work for months to no avail.I trailed the servers for 3 days. I learned how to detail their fancy fucking place settings. I memorized the menu and table numbers. When I messed up, I was berated by the bitchy sons of bitches that are the managers there in front of the rest of the staff. I would come home each day a nervous wreck, scrambling to remember the menu.

On day 4, I came in to train. I started doing the ridiculous detailing at their fancy fucking tables. Making sure that each table aligned PERFECTLY. Making sure that each knife was directly across from the space between the two forks. Making sure place mats were evenly aligned against the edges of tables. Sweating bullets, making sure I did everything correctly. Then one of the managers called me over. "Waitress," he told me, "I want you to serve me and Ashley this bottle of wine as if I were a customer." Ashley was one of the waitresses who trained me. She wasn't exactly friendly. I was so nervous. I had no experience serving wine and had not been asked about that during the interview. I clumsily attempted to open the bottle of wine. My hands were shaking, my palms were sweaty. I could barely manage to open that damn bottle of wine.

"Waitress, that was atrocious," he stated with disgust in his voice. "The way you hold that bottle is just awful." Ashley stared at me blankly, but I could have sworn I saw a slight smirk on her face. "What am I supposed to do? You're a nice girl. Maybe you should look for a job in a diner or something." I had the feeling that he thought that Applebee's was more my speed. I started to break down and cry. I ran to one of the disgusting employee bathrooms and bawled my eyes out. I finally thought I had a job, and just like that it's gone. I cried for a good 10 minutes before I had the courage to go back out there. He tried to talk to me some more, but I wasn't hearing it. Hyperventilating, I told him, "I guessES I wuh-will g-g-g-get mah-ah-ah-my things eh-eh-and leave." I ran down to the office where  Payal, one of the owners, calmy typed up something on the computer, completely ignoring me. I grabbed my things and left. Like a scene from a bad movie, it was pouring outside. I was grateful, as I could hide my crying face under my umbrella and no one would see it. I took a taxi home and went to sleep.

Those three days I worked for that hellhole were for free. While they gave another more experienced waiter tax forms to fill out from the start, they didn't give me shit. I should have known. I guess karma is a bitch, because now those bitches have a lawsuit against them for doing similar things to their employees like not paying overtime, etc. The restaurant business is such an abusive one. I wish as employees we would stand up for ourselves more often and get treated the way that we deserve to. For my own reasons, I did not join in on the lawsuit. But I wish I could have.

Burnt Out.....

Work and school is kicking my ass. This semester just sucks, and half the time I have to run from school to work. And the last few nights I have made shitty money while other servers did ok. For a while, I was making around $150 a night. Now, all of a sudden, I'm making $85. I'm starting to look for bartending jobs on the side. Today I'm going to apply for a bartending job at a strip club.

I've worked at a strip club before, but during the day. I cocktail waitressed there. The money was shit because it was during the day, while the night girls made tons of money. And they didn't let day girls go to night unless they went into champagne rooms (where they would have to dance topless for customers). Me and my coworkers would stand around and laugh at the bad boob jobs and at the customers who acted like they had never seen a pair of tits before. I started drinking too much. Then they told us we would have to wear a pair of panties and a corset to work, so I quit.

I really hope I get this bartending job today. The place seems a little seedy, and there aren't reviews about the place on the internet, but I might as well go check it out and see for myself.

Ben

Ben is one of the managers at the restaurant. He is an older, wire-skinny Chinese man. He downs shots of vodka throughout shifts, smokes like a chimney and runs around as if in a constant state of panic. He incessantly feels the need to repeat whatever he tells us at least three times in his accented English.

“86 tiramisu!” he runs up and tells me one shift. He runs up to Bruce, our token gay waiter. “86 tiramisu!” He runs up to Don. “86 tiramisu! You got that? No more tiramisu!” Me, Bruce and Don gather at the bar, joking around before the dinner rush comes in. Ben runs up to us in a frenzy. “86 tiramisu. No more tiramisu. You got that?” he yells at us. “Wait, Ben, what are we out of?” I ask him sarcastically. “Tiramisu! No more tiramisu!” he answers. The three of us bust out laughing.

The dinner rush comes. People try to order tiramisu, but I tell them that they’re out. In the middle of the rush, I glance over to the bar, where I see Ben gobbling up a tiramisu. I go up to him. “I thought we were out of tiramisu?” I ask. “I found some. Don’t 86 tiramisu.” He tells me. I see Bruce approach him and ask the exact same thing. Ben then approaches each of us individually and announces in a frenzy, “I found some tiramisu. We have tiramisu. We have tiramisu!”

Poor Ben. He must suffer from some type of severe anxiety disorder, and probably uses vodka to self medicate. This industry does make you need a drink after your shift, especially after dealing with difficult people.

Don't Mess with the Bartender

Jessica is a nasal 18 year old girl. She is pretty but wears hairstyles that make her look matronly. She was a busgirl but recently became a waitress. Her and I got into a little argument a week ago. I am over it but she isn’t. I try to talk to her about it, but she lies and says that she has nothing against me while ignoring me otherwise. I chalk it up to the fact that she’s only 18 and practically still a child who needs to learn about forgiveness. However, it’s still a pain in the ass working with her.

            On this particular night I’m bartending. I walk in and greet Jessica. She ignores me as she has for the past week. When I’m behind the bar, she faux-sweetly asks me for change, milk, lemons, and anything else she needs from behind the bar. I keep in mind how rude she’s been to me for the past week while waitressing beside her, but how tonight when I’m the bartender she’s all nice to me. She needs a beer. I take the bottled Heineken out of the fridge, make sure she’s not looking, and shake it up really hard. I leave it on the service section of the bar. Eddie, a food runner, comes up to the bar and starts chatting with me. I watch the service area out of the corner of my eye while only half listening. Jessica comes up to retrieve the Heineken. She removes the top of it with the beer opener on the side of the bar and it explodes all over here. She sets it down and foam pours over the neck of the bottle.

“What the…”

She has a look on her face like she can’t fathom what had just happened. What on this earth would make a bottle of beer explode when opened? Her little 18 year old brain can’t comprehend the complexity of it all. I can’t help but smirk. Her reaction was just what I had hoped for. I know it's silly, I know it's immature. But she shouldn’t have messed with the bartender.