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.