I knew almost from the start that I would be the resident slave. I should have listened to myself and split from week one.
All parties where kept such a secret that the CIA would have been proud. Of course that was a no brainer to figure out within the first two weeks, as the head waiter and manager Steve, who continually pointed out that he was the head waiter and manager, got all of the parties.
More like from what I saw, he stood around and made others work his parties while he kept all the tips. That, and actually took of course the larger and better station while actually doing a party, narrowing down the playing field towards me having a 3 table station.
Which was rarely seated before 7pm.
And I was scheduled to show up at 4.
To do all of the side work for opening, including side work for his parties.
So for three hours or so before I even got a table, I was busy cutting Lettuce, opening the BOH Salad bar, plates, straws, Coffee, Butters, Olive Oil containers, Salad plates, Dressings, Tomatoes, Lemons, Salt and Pepper shakers, Cheese and Oregano containers, paper napkins, wiping down silverware, rolling silverware into cloth napkins, the list went on. And believe me, one person, ME, doing all of the opening side work, it did sometimes take 3 hours.
The other two ding a lings stood around and ate food, drank endless amounts of Soda and chatted. On occasion I would find them reading books, doing cross word puzzle’s while sitting at the back of the restaurant.
Many times AFTER opening, I was then asked to clean. Windows, blinds, chair slats, bathroom…..
Once, on New Years Eve while rolling 3 bus pans of silverware, the phone gal was getting Liquor out of the back room, when I had stopped her.
“The Boss told me that there are some Champagne splits back there,” I said.
“Splits?” she asked.
“Little bottles of Champagne. Maybe take a few out and I’ll sell them.”
“We can’t sell those,” she replied.
“Why not?” I asked. “I already talked to him, and he said it would be great to get rid of them.”
“We can’t sell those bottles of Champagne. It’s not wine,” she explained. “It’s hard Liquor.”
“Ummm,” I began, “Champagne IS Wine, SPARKLING WINE.”
“No it’s not,” she confirmed.
“It was invented in France by Monks. For Kings. It’s Wine.”
“Oh you don’t know anything about Wine. Champagne is NOT wine,” she stated as she walked away.
I sat there stunned at her intelligence wondering where I had been for the past 25 years waiting on tables.
Stunned as during the course of all those years, I had actually managed a few places, and dealt with Beverage purveyors. Stunned that everything I knew about DOCG, Vuevre and down to Asti Spumante was nothing but a sham.
Maybe this gal who managed the front and was in charge of
I guess so. Why heck, she was after all a high school senior, and here I was with years of experience, numerous cork screws and a silver plated taste au vin at home had yet A LOT TO LEARN.
Then Mr. Wiseguywannabe came into the back room and began to set the tables for a party. Unfortunately, he ALWAYS set the tables with no room at all for servers to even get by, let alone the people who will be sitting there, which meant the server would have to leave by one entrance and walk all the way around and re-enter by the other entrance just to serve the other side of the SAME table. This with plates of hot food.
I would always ask him while he did this, “Now what if a very FAT person sit’s RIGHT there. Then what?”
But he insisted his table arrangements were correct while it left a good 5 feet away from the windows, 5 feet that could have been easily used.
And of course, with such knowledge of customer bases, would still seat normal walk in’s into the booths that were in the back party room just so normal people could be in the middle of a major party with unruley kids who did nothing but run about shooting the paper off of the straws and throw food. Yup, walk in’s need this kind of entertainment.
Whenever a customer complained, they would go to Steve who did absolutely nothing, but would hide out in the kitchen just so he wouldn’t have to speak to them. He would go so far as to avoid those customers that he got the bus girl to deliver his food.
Good management strategy.
On occasion, their complaint would ease it’s way to the FOH to Mr. Wiseguywannabe who TOTALLY ignored any and all complaints. It cut into his cell phone time with all his girlfriends, or him hanging about outside with his gear head monkey friends.
On more occasions than not, either one of them would ask me to speak to the customer, or the customer would just approach me, as other people who worked there really couldn’t give a damn what the complaint was, even if it involved them being served dishes that they didn’t even order. To get something voided out involved more strategy than a chess game and was like pulling teeth.
I was yelled at by a customer who complained that $16.95 for Chicken Breast Vesuvio was an outrage when Chicken Marsala only costed $12.95.
I agreed with him. Both dishes involved the same amount of Chicken Breast, the same amount of potatoes, and in fact, if anything, the Marsala was more expensive to make as it involved Butter, Marsala, and Mushrooms, whereas the Vesuvio only involved Olive Oil, Garlic and a pinch of Oregano. But what do I know.
It didn’t seem to bother even the owner that he was loosing customers.
The owner liked to think of himself as CHEF EXTRODIANAIRE which was a joke. On a busy night he would interrupt the flow of the line and jump back there totally upsetting the timing of dishes.
Even when he didn’t jump behind the line and screw up things, as the cooks were all in fear of his loud mouth, it wasn’t unusual for an Entrée to come up long before the appetizers. FUN.
On Valentine’s Day, many customers just walked out. Without paying. They walked out as it was taking up to 2 hours just to get their food. Of course it was the server’s fault, and of course the owner would yell at the servers for this.
The stations themselves were not too important, as they rotated through the servers. Each new table that came in went to the next server in line. I was always the LAST server to be sat, and on every evening, the other servers would be seated in MY section, thus limiting the field even more. The hostess’s excuse was “they requested so and so, or so and so’s station is filled and it was their turn, or, the customer wanted that table but it isn’t your turn,” which equated to: Essie gets all the deuces of young couples who split a meal and drink only water.
Working 5 evenings a week, I always opened, and when the other servers would slither out of the joint around 9, I got to close. Which is sidework in reverse, including major cleaning and tear down. Many nights I left there BARELY being able to walk.
After a couple months of convincing myself that I was the last one on the totem pole, so I needed to “pay my due’s” so to speak, it was management’s decision to hire yet another server. The new gal quickly fell into the routine of doing absolutely nothing regarding side work.
Oh, Essie will do it.
On my last evening there, while a major party that involved well over $500 tip, which of course was called STEVE GET’S IT BUT DOES ABSOULTUELY NOTHING FOR IT, I was asked to pitch in and help bus, then clean up the disaster area of the party. Including wiping down every single silverware that had been used, and roll into new napkins. Steve, of course split quickly before anything had been done to clean up, with his tip money.
I finished my last table and checked out.
I knew that it was going to be my last night based on Easter. Most establishments are closed on that day anyways. Not this place. They’d rather drive off customers with lousy management and stay open on a major holiday for that one table that MIGHT walk in.
At this place EVERYONE needed to have the day off “to spend with their family.”
Upon questioning some of the cooks, I was informed that all the other Easter’s the place was dead. Maybe two tables the whole day AND night. But it was the owner’s day to bring his family and friends THERE to have THEIR party.
I quickly discovered upon this little secret, that I had been scheduled on what was my only request of having a day off upon hire (Sunday) that I was scheduled to work it.
Everyone else could have off to “spend time with their families,” but then again, who was I? Like I don’t have a family?
And to spend THAT day, let alone ANY day being the slave to the shit assed owner AND his loud mouthed family? I don’t think so.
When I asked the cook if the owner even tipped for his little 30 some odd people get together and he just laughed.
Anyways, getting back to the party that had left Steve well over $500 and had split, I was collecting my credit card tips.
“Aren’t you going to help close?” I was asked by yet another 21 y/o manager who was too frightened to attend to any customer complaint, but would rather smoke cigarettes outside with all his other 21 y/o friends who stopped by in their souped up cars.
“No,” I replied. “My last table left, I wiped down what could be wiped down currently.”
“But you need to totally close,” Mr. Wiseguywannabe said.
“No, I don’t,” I said. “Steve had the party, it’s his mess as well as his tip. Ask him.”
“But he left.”
“Oh well!!!” I said as I walked out of the place, “as will I.”
“But, but,” he said as he followed me out to the parking lot.
“BUT WHAT?”
“When Steve opens for lunch tomorrow there won’t be any silver ware rolled, nor salad plates, nor Olive Oils. You’re supposed to do this to close.”
“Look,” I seathed, “It was his party. His tip. He took it and ran. If he’s out of silverware that needs to be wiped down from water marks, have him run it through the dishwasher again, wipe it down and roll his own damned silverware. It was HIS PARTY that used up every last fork, knife and spoon. In the mean time, I only had 5 tables. FIVE. Besides, the only mess Steve will face tomorrow morning when he opens for lunch is his hang over. If ya need him, he’s probably over at the bar across the street having fun. Me, on the mean time will take the measely tips I made off of FIVE TABLES that I was given over the course of 7 hours and go to McDonalds, as it’s CHEAPER to eat there than here, even with the discount.”
“But tomorrow’s Easter and he won’t be here, that’s right.”
“No, he won’t. But you and the owner and YOUR family to spend FAMILY TIME together WILL BE, now won’t you?”
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