Waiter Rant

by Steve Dublanica

  Rizzo was a pistol-packing Buddhist, mind you, so he was attracted to the stranger and contradictory stories about his faith. He loved telling me the story about the two Tibetan lamas who were such bitter enemies that, when they died, they tried using their considerable powers to kill each other in the womb as they attempted to reincarnate into new bodies. “Baby ninja karmic assassins!” was how Rizzo described them.

  While one part of Rizzo was very spiritual, another part of him was tough as nails. Rizzo didn’t take shit from anyone, and he didn’t suffer fools lightly. He’d verbally pimp slap chefs, owners, customers, and especially other waiters. The best example of this was how he brought it to Wahdi, the worst waiter I ever had the displeasure to work with.

  Wahdi, a hulking, sweaty brute from Syria who was in the country on a student visa, got hired by Sammy a few months after I started at Amici’s. Devoid of social skills, knowledge of American culture, or patience, Wahdi was ill suited for the job of waiting tables. Worst of all, he was a greedy son of a bitch. New waiters normally start off with the worst shifts and lowest-earning sections. Not Wahdi. Because he was tight with Sammy, he thought he was entitled to the best sections and yelled at the hostess whenever he fell behind in the customer count. If he discovered that he made a dollar less than any other server, he started shouting that we were discriminating against him because he was from the Middle East. After being a pain in the ass for several weeks, Wahdi decided to start a turf war with Rizzo. Big mistake.

  “Hey, Rizzo,” Wahdi says at the start of a Friday night, “I’m working your section tonight.”

  “The hell you are,” Rizzo replies.

  “I talk to Sammy,” Wahdi continues. “I tell him it not fair you always have the best section. He agreed and give it to me.”

  Rizzo looks over the top of his glasses and gives Wahdi a look that zips right through his eyeballs, punches a hole out the back of his skull, and continues traveling through windows, masonry, pedestrians, and several parked cars before its energy dissipates somewhere over the Hudson River. I’ve seen Rizzo reduce customers to quivering lumps of gelatin with that look before. Rizzo calls it his “thousand-yard waiter stare.” It’s devastatingly effective. I’ve got to develop my own one day.

  “If you fuck with me, Wahdi,” Rizzo growls, “I am going to call the Syrian consulate in New York and tell them you’re a Mossad agent.”

  We all hear Wahdi’s sphincter pop. The Syrian intelligence services are not known for their subtlety. After Wahdi cries in Arabic to the manager, Sammy sticks him in Rizzo’s section just to shut him up.

  Chagrined, Rizzo turns to me and says, “Time to dance a little jihad on Wahdi’s head.”

  Rizzo runs off to the kitchen. He returns with Fluvio in tow, ostensibly to tell us the evening’s specials. After reviewing the night’s offerings the chef tells us he’s prepared a special dish.

  “Tonight we have freshwater ostrich in a Dijon mustard sauce,” Fluvio says. “Make sure you tell the customers it’s freshwater ostrich—not saltwater—the taste is entirely different.”

  All the waiters stare at their dupe pads and pretend like they’ve heard nothing out of the ordinary. Wahdi writes down the specials furiously.

  “You got that, Wahdi?” Fluvio asks. “Freshwater ostrich.”

  “Yes, I got it,” Wahdi says.

  Rizzo and the chef smile at each other. This is going to be fun.

  The restaurant fills up immediately, and Wahdi’s in trouble from the start. Greedy for sales, he pitches freshwater ostrich to his tables and can’t understand why everyone’s laughing at him. Embarrassed, but not knowing why, Wahdi’s social ineptitude takes over, and he starts arguing with the customers. “Of course ostrich is a fish!” he yells. As he gets angrier and angrier he moves slower and slower. His tables wait half an hour just to get sodas.

  Finally a customer walks up to Sammy and starts complaining. “That waiter is a complete asshole,” he yelps. “I want another one. He thinks ostrich is a fish!”

  Sammy knows what’s up. He pulls Wahdi off to one side and tries to calm him down. Before long the two of them are screaming at each other in Arabic. Seeing this, Rizzo and I swoop in to snap up the unattended tables and, before you can say baba ganoush, Wahdi loses his section.

  Sammy’s pissed, but there is nothing he can do. Wahdi’s temper has gotten the better of him. One of the Egyptian busboys starts taunting Wahdi mercilessly. “Freshwater ostrich? You asshole! Go back to Syria!”

  Wahdi, in turn, starts screaming at the busboy. In the background I can hear Rizzo crowing, “Hello? Damascus information? Could I have the number for the secret police?”

  Realizing he’s been set up, Wahdi runs up to Rizzo, screaming. “YOU HAVE DONE THIS TO ME!”

  Rizzo smiles and yells back. “WELCOME TO AMERICA, MOTHERFUCKER!”

  Wahdi breaks down, crying in rage.

  He was fired several weeks later.

  A short time after Wahdi’s departure Caesar decided to have a massive heart attack. I know, you’re not surprised, but let me tell you the story anyway. Earlier that fateful day the industrial-strength dishwasher went on the fritz. That’s stressful for any restaurant owner since the dishwasher is one of the most expensive and complex machines in the kitchen. Ironically, it’s always run by the lowest-paid guy in the place. Because the machines are so expensive, most establishments lease the machine and/or have service contracts.

  Ralph, the rep from the company that leases the machine to us, comes over to examine the washer’s innards. After he finishes his examination he informs Caesar that a $500 part will have to be ordered to get the thing up and running. Caesar’s response is to start screaming profanities in the middle of the lunch rush and chase Ralph out of the restaurant. Horrified, several customers flee the restaurant without paying their bills. Later that day, Caesar is rushed to the hospital suffering chest pains. Go figure.

  The morning after the myocardial event Sammy held an emergency staff meeting to tell us the news.

  “Caesar’s in the hospital,” Sammy says, close to weeping. “I want all of us to remember him in our prayers.”

  It soon becomes obvious the waiters aren’t besieging heaven with requests to speed up Caesar’s recovery. In fact, they’re probably asking the Almighty for the exact opposite. Rizzo’s biting his hand to keep from laughing. Most of the waiters are openly smiling.

  “You guys think this is funny?” Sammy says, his voice rising.

  “No, of course not,” Rizzo says, his laughter starting to get away from him.

  “You’re a bastard, Rizzo.”

  Rizzo’s laughter’s contagious. I find myself smiling, too. I remember the Russian Jew. I remember how Caesar called me a peasant. Fuck Caesar.

  “It couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy,” I say.

  Sammy looks at me in shock. “What’d you say?”

  “You heard me.”

  Sammy storms off, furious. Caesar’s the source of his power. Without Caesar, Sammy’s just a tubby, impotent leech.

  “Oh man,” Rizzo giggles.

  “Like no one saw that heart attack coming,” I mutter.

  “You think Caesar’s blowout with Ralph had something to do with it?”

  “A piece of arterial plaque or something must’ve dislodged when he was screaming his head off,” I say. “It floated around for a while, then—whammo!”

  “It wasn’t arterial plaque,” Rizzo says.

  “What was it?”

  “It was karma, man,” Rizzo says, shaking his head. “It was motherfucking karma.”

  While the Dali Lama might disagree with Rizzo’s theological interpretation of events, karma or no, Caesar survived his heart attack and came back to work several weeks later. During this time, unbeknownst to us, Fluvio had been sneaking around trying to open up his own restaurant. He was being covert because Caesar—with his Wagnerian, Godfather-esque notions of loyalty—would view Fluvio’s desire to have something for himself as a bet
rayal deserving of death. If Caesar couldn’t control you, he hated you. Then again, he hated everyone.

  But Fluvio made the mistake of advertising for waitstaff in the Help Wanted section three months before his restaurant was scheduled to open. My brother, who never liked Fluvio, answered the ad, discovered what he was up to, and ratted him out. Caesar fired Fluvio soon afterward.

  Now, a restaurant without a chef is a problem. Fluvio was experienced, and his services didn’t come cheap. Being a tightwad, Caesar decided now would be a good time to increase his profit margin by going with a less-expensive and less-experienced chef.

  The first guy Caesar hired, Ray, was a disaster. His management style was to let the kitchen guys do whatever they wanted—so they had no respect for him. Sammy even caught Ray on the phone asking his mother how to make risotto. Ray was a dead chef walking. Caesar took away his spatula after two weeks.

  After Ray an assortment of con artists and criminals pretending to be chefs waltzed in and out of the kitchen. Considering what Caesar was probably paying them, the substandard applicants were no surprise. Without a firm leader in the kitchen, things started to go awry. The health department issued Amici’s a summons for unsanitary conditions. When Caesar didn’t remediate the problems quickly enough, the health inspector quickly publicized that we were a dirty restaurant. Business took a nosedive.

  Caesar finally hired a no-nonsense guy named Jeff. He wasn’t going to win any culinary awards, but he was a good manager. The kitchen got cleaned up, and the health department got off our backs. Business started to pick up. But Caesar wanted Jeff to be a world-class cook for less than world-class wages. That would be my undoing at Amici’s.

  The end comes on a beautiful June day. I’m enjoying my only day off when the phone rings. It’s Sammy.

  “Two of my waiters called out,” Sammy says, panic rising in his voice. “I only have one server on for lunch.”

  I consider suggesting that Sammy’s problems retaining waitstaff might be symptomatic of a broader systemic problem. Amici’s is dysfunctional because the owner is dysfunctional. A well-run restaurant putting out a good product usually attracts good staff. But dysfunctional restaurants tend to retain staff with less-developed professional skills. A few months earlier I’d had the chance to dine at Gramercy Tavern. I was dumbfounded by how polished the waiters were. As I watched the restaurant’s elegant servers gracefully navigate the crowded dining room floor, I felt like a bush-league player watching the Yankees take the field. Compared to Gramercy, Amici’s seems like a hot-dog stand. Why the difference? Simple—quality flows from the top down. Gramercy’s owner, Danny Meyer, is a driven, classy guy who, unlike Caesar, treats his employees with respect. Sure, he has problems like every other business owner, but he deals with them professionally. Meyer and his staff’s attention to detail and customer service is tremendous, and that’s a large reason for their success. And the reason Meyer’s staff can stay so focused is because they’re basically happy and secure in their jobs—most of the time.

  But in a restaurant where the manager’s shaking down waiters and the owner’s pining for the glory days of the Third Reich, you shouldn’t be surprised if the service and the food are below par. Not only does all that negative energy result in horrible staff, it attracts crazy customers like a moth to a flame. The customers at Amici’s are awful. Granted, you may get evil customers at Gramercy, too, but you get more déclassé (that’s French for “trailer trash”) customers at a place like Amici’s. Since the owner and manager treat the staff like slaves, it’s no surprise that many of the customers display similar attitudes toward the hired help. A restaurant gets the customers it deserves. I feel like telling Sammy all this but decide against it. He wouldn’t understand what I was talking about.

  “So you want me to come in on my day off?” I reply. “I have plans tonight.”

  “But I just need you for lunch,” Sammy whines.

  “I know you, Sammy. You’ll make me stay for dinner, too.”

  “I swear on my children that you’ll leave at three o’clock.”

  I sigh deeply. As much as I don’t like Sammy, I was raised with a good work ethic.

  “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  “Thanks,” Sammy says. “I owe you one.”

  “Don’t forget it.”

  I hang up and drive into work. When I get there, it’s a madhouse. As I race around taking orders I notice Caesar is sitting at his customary table, sucking down red wine, oblivious to the fact that he should be helping to keep his restaurant going.

  “Come over here,” Caesar barks, waving me over to his table.

  “What’s up, Caesar?” I say impatiently. “I’ve got fifteen tables to take care of.”

  “Tell the chef I want the fish special for lunch.”

  “Okay, no problem.”

  “But don’t tell him it’s for me,” Caesar whispers.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t want him to know it’s for me!” Caesar snaps imperiously. “Don’t question me!”

  “Okay, Caesar,” I reply, rolling my eyes.

  “Don’t be a smart ass.”

  I put Caesar’s order into the POS computer. Then I go into the kitchen and tell Jeff it’s for the boss. The reason I’m disobeying the owner’s instructions is because I’m following a cardinal rule for waitstaff—always stay on the chef’s good side. A chef can make or break a waiter. He or she can make sure everyone gets their food but you. If the kitchen staff turns on you, it’s all over.

  Jeff thanks me for the heads-up. After a while the owner’s top-secret striped bass gets plated. I drop it off at Caesar’s table.

  “Jeff doesn’t know this is for me?” Caesar asks, his breath reeking of onions and red wine.

  “He doesn’t know a thing,” I lie.

  “Good.”

  I dive back into the lunchtime fray. Things are so bad Sammy’s taking tables. I run up to a couple eating with small children, apologize for taking so long, and get their order. As I’m punching the kiddie meals into the POS a hand grabs my upper arm and almost yanks me off my feet.

  “YOU COCKSUCKER!” Caesar screams, his face an inch from mine. “You lying piece of shit!”

  “Wha—” I reply, stunned.

  “YOU’RE FIRED!”

  “Why?”

  “I told you I didn’t want the chef to know the food was for me!” Caesar screams.

  I look over at the kitchen. Jeff’s standing in the doorway. He shrugs innocently and walks back into the kitchen.

  “Caesar—”

  “Get the fuck out!” Caesar screams. “GET THE FUCK OUT!”

  “Do you mind?” the father at my table says. “There are children here!”

  Ignoring the man, Caesar grabs my shirt with both hands. “Get the fuck out, you cocksucker!” he shrieks, shaking me.

  Caesar’s hot spittle sprays onto my cheek and lips. I raise my hand to wipe it away. Caesar knocks it down.

  Sammy comes running over. “Caesar,” he yelps, “let go of him.”

  “You want to get fired, too?” Caesar yells, the veins popping out of his neck. “I’ll fire you next, Sammy!”

  Sammy slinks off with his tail between his legs. Caesar’s pulling on my shirt. My vision starts to tunnel. My hands ball into fists. A red haze starts to surround me. I’m seriously considering picking up where Caesar’s heart attack left off.

  But years of working with psychiatric patients kicks in. I realize I’m thinking about pummeling an alcoholic septuagenarian. Caesar’s not worth going to jail over. I disentangle myself from his grasp and head for the door.

  “GET OUT!” Caesar yells, chasing me. “GET OUT!”

  I race onto the sidewalk. Caesar follows me, screaming. I don’t want to leave because I have some of the restaurant’s money in my pocket. If I take off, I could be arrested for stealing. I’m not giving Caesar that opportunity.

  “Caesar,” I warn ominously, “if you take another step closer, there
’s going to be trouble.”

  A reptilian wariness creeps into Caesar’s eyes. He backs up, sputtering obscenities. After a few tense seconds he heads back inside. Sammy pokes his head cautiously out the door. When he realizes the coast is clear, he comes out to talk to me.

  “Thanks for not killing him,” Sammy says, genuinely shocked.

  “Something’s seriously wrong with that guy,” I reply, handing over the restaurant’s money. “I come in on my day off, and he treats me like that?”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m outta here.”

  “I’ll talk to Caesar,” Sammy says. “Maybe I can get you your job back.”

  “Tell him to shove it up his ass.”

  I walk to the back of the restaurant to get my car. My hands are shaking. As I round the corner I see Jeff standing on the back staircase having a cigarette.

  “Jeff, man,” I say, “what happened?”

  “Caesar asked me if you told me the fish was for him,” Jeff says. “You did, so I told him.”

  “Dude,” I reply, flabbergasted. “I was trying to help you. Why’d you rat me out?”

  “I’m taking care of number one, man,” Jeff says, taking a drag off his smoke. “And I don’t give a shit what you think.”

  For the second time in two minutes I think about strangling someone with my bare hands. That walls-are-closing-in-around-me sensation starts pressing in on me again. A cold sweat trickles down my back. My heartbeat and respiration go into overdrive. I feel like I’m having an anxiety attack. I forgo throttling Jeff. In my current mental state discretion is the better part of valor. I get in my car and drive home.

  Later that evening my brother calls. “What the hell happened?” he asks.