“You’re drinking?” Beth asks, astonished.
“Sssshhhhhhh,” I say, putting a finger to my lips.
“You know one of the Uncle Toms is going to tell Fluvio.”
“I don’t care,” I say. “That’s what he gets for being AWOL on the busiest day of the year.”
“Way to be, brother,” Beth says, clinking her glass against mine. “Way to be.”
I guzzle my Bloody Mary and head back onto the floor. As I’m running around I notice many brand-new mothers are celebrating the holiday with us today. I grin inwardly. I served some of these women before they started dating their husbands. I even hit on a few of them. When I started at The Bistro seven years ago, they were fresh-faced college graduates determined to take the world by storm. Now they’re married and having babies. How time flies.
“Excuse me, waiter,” one of the new mommies asks me. “Would you mind taking a group picture?”
“Certainly, madam,” I reply. “It would be my pleasure.”
The woman hands me one of those impossibly complicated digital cameras. After giving me a brief tutorial she instructs everyone to gather around.
“Lean in, everybody,” I say, peering through the viewfinder. “Say cheese.”
After I snap the picture the young mother hands her baby, a pink-swaddled little girl, to the octogenarian woman sitting next to her.
“Could you also take a picture of us around the great-grandmother?” the mother asks.
“Sure.”
Everyone clusters around the wizened matriarch. As she looks at the baby squirming in her arms, a voice in the back of my head tells me this might be this old woman’s last Mother’s Day. Suddenly I think about my own mother. I better not forget to call her.
Despite the numbing effects of the ethyl alcohol, the hours tick by with agonizing slowness. As soon as one table gets up a demanding set of new customers takes its place. The noise level in the restaurant’s gotten so bad I feel like I’m working inside the turbofan of a 747. If I couldn’t read the customers’ lips, I’d never be able to understand anyone’s order. Suddenly I realize that I’m sweating. I walk over to the thermostat and look at the display. The temperature’s inched up to almost 85 degrees. I remember learning from a television show that sound can create heat. On the sun, a hot place to begin with, explosive processes within the interior interact with the star’s magnetic field lines and create acoustic waves of tremendous power. These sound waves are so intense that they superheat the atmosphere just above the sun to a temperature of 1 million degrees Celsius. I smile inwardly at the thought of my customers suddenly glowing incandescent and vaporizing from the sound waves emanating from their jabbering mouths. Maybe if I told them to shut up, it’d get cooler in here. I decide to turn the air-conditioning on instead.
“Holy shit,” Louis says, walking past me, his shirt soaked through with sweat. “It’s hot in here.”
“I know,” I reply. “I just turned on the AC.”
“Thank God.”
“Louis,” I say, “I can’t even believe you’re here. I thought you’d find some way to scam out of Mother’s Day.”
“Believe me, honey, I tried.”
“Run out of dead grandmas?”
“Kiss my ass,” Louis snaps prissily.
Louis is a bit of a drama queen. Whenever he doesn’t feel like working, he calls in with some fictitious medical or family emergency. Once, on a slow night, he told me he was having a heart attack and asked if he could go home. He made a miraculous recovery when I picked up the phone and started to dial 911 instead. I guess spending the night in an ER was too high a price to pay to save face and make good on a fib.
“Don’t feel bad, Louis,” I say. “I tried to get out of working, too.”
“Fluvio didn’t buy your excuse?”
“He just laughed when I told him I wanted today off.”
“That bastard.”
“And he’s not even here.”
“Figures.”
“I’m telling ya, Louis,” I say, shaking my head. “This is the last Mother’s Day I’m going to work.”
“You said that last year,” Louis says. “And the year before that.”
I think about my own mother, enjoying retirement with my father in the hinterlands of Pennsylvania. I miss her. I think about the great-grandmother I took a picture of earlier. People aren’t always around forever.
“I know,” I reply. “But this time I mean it.”
“Sure you do.”
A few minutes later I’m telling a new table the specials. As I’m explaining to a blue-haired old lady what a frittata is, the sound of breaking dishes fills the air.
“Mazel tov!” a drunken patron shouts.
The restaurant erupts in laughter.
My head swivels toward the source of the noise. Kelly, a new server, is standing near the entrance to the kitchen, staring at the floor in shock. She’s dropped an entire table’s worth of food.
“Will you excuse me a minute?” I ask my customers, failing to keep the homicidal gleam out of my eye.
“Uh-oh,” the blue-haired woman says. “Someone’s in trouble.”
By the time I reach the crash site the bus people are already efficiently cleaning up the mess. After performing a quick check to make sure no patrons or staff were injured, I ask the server what happened.
“The plates were too hot,” she whines.
Kelly’s been on the job only a couple of weeks. Something tells me she won’t be here much longer.
“What table was the food for?” I ask.
“Fifteen,” she replies.
Annoyed, I push past Kelly and head into the kitchen.
“Yo, Armando!” I shout.
“What?”
“You gotta recook table fifteen.”
“What the fuck?” Armando says. “It just went out!”
“Kelly dropped the whole order.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“I wish I was.”
Armando closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and exhales. When his eyes open, he smiles. “Give me ten minutes,” he says.
As I walk out of the kitchen I say a prayer of thanks that Armando’s so graceful under pressure. For most chefs, verbally bludgeoning Kelly into emotional catatonia would be the normal course of action.
“Your table will get their food in ten minutes,” I tell the hapless server. “Don’t drop it this time.”
“I won’t,” she says sheepishly.
“Now I’ve got to go over to fifteen and smooth things over,” I say. “Thanks a lot.”
“Sorry.”
I walk over to four adults seated at table 15. One of the women already knows what I’m going to say before I say it.
“That was our food that hit the floor,” she says. “Wasn’t it?”
“You must be psychic, madam,” I reply.
The table’s aggravated that their food’s going to be delayed. Before their aggravation can turn into anger I employ the most powerful customer-service tool at a restaurant manager’s disposal—free booze. After a round of free drinks all is forgiven. If Fluvio knew how much booze got wasted washing away waiter fuckups, he’d have a conniption.
Eventually Mother’s Day ends. Because I’ve been running around all day, my underwear’s soaked through with sweat. All the moisture and chafing has invited a nasty rash to take up residence on my ass.
“Why are you walking so weird?” Beth asks me.
“I’ve got a case of Waiter Butt,” I reply.
“Ouch.”
“You wouldn’t have any Gold Bond powder on you, by any chance?”
“Sorry,” Beth replies. “I’m fresh out.”
After an extensive cleanup Beth and I start walking over to Café American for a well-deserved drink. As I hobble up the street I call my mother to wish her a happy day. I decide not to mention my current dermatological crisis.
“My God!” squawks Arthur, the bartender, when we walk in the doo
r. “You’re still alive!”
“Barely,” Beth mutters.
Arthur’s a part-time actor with two ex-wives and three kids. Thin, with a shock of unruly black hair, he’s a handsome fellow who usually has a bemused expression on his face. Like all good bartenders, he’s quick with a story or a piece of gossip. Today, however, he looks like a beaten man.
“How’d it go here?” I ask, gingerly lowering myself onto a bar stool.
“Hell on earth, brother,” Arthur says, dramatically shaking his head slowly from side to side. “Hell on earth.”
“Sounds like you had a bad day.”
“The worst,” Arthur replies. “We had a party of ten stiff us on the tip for a five-hundred-dollar check.”
“How’d that happen?”
“The guy who paid for the party thought the tip was included in the bill. When we told him it wasn’t, he claimed the person he made the reservation with misled him, and he refused to pay it.”
“Sounds like a scam.”
“Probably,” Arthur says. “But he was making such a scene we let him go.”
“You should’ve made him pay.”
“Whatever,” Arthur replies, waving his hand dismissively. “Life’s too short to worry about pricks like that. Now, what do you two want to drink?”
“Two dirty Ketel One martinis,” Beth asks.
“Coming right up, darling,” Arthur says. “And these are on the house. Waiters drink free today.”
“Thanks, Arthur,” Beth says.
Arthur mixes our drinks and rests them on top of the bar. Beth and I drink them quickly. We like them so much we order two more. The alcohol mercifully numbs my gluteus maximus.
“So I heard a funny story about Mother’s Day,” Arthur says, as he’s mixing our second batch of martinis.
“Tell me,” I say. Arthur always has great stories.
“Did you ever see the movie Heat?” he asks.
“The one with De Niro and Pacino?” I reply. “Great movie.”
“Remember the gun battle?” Arthur asks.
In the movie’s most cinematically intense scene, cops and robbers battle it out with fully automatic weapons in the middle of a crowded downtown Los Angeles street. Violent, loud, and very scary, it’s one of the greatest gun battles ever captured on film.
“Yeah,” I say. “What does that have to do with Mother’s Day?”
“I was watching it on DVD the other day and listening to the director’s commentary.”
“And?”
“The section of L.A. where they were filming the gunfight only allowed them to shoot on Sunday mornings.”
“So?”
“Guess which Sunday they did some of the filming?”
“Mother’s Day?” I say, a big grin spreading over my face.
“Yeah,” Arthur says, grinning. “They filmed that gun battle outside of a restaurant serving Mother’s Day brunch.”
“Awesome,” I say. “Just awesome.”
“Can you imagine M-16s blasting outside while you’re trying to hustle French toast?”
“I’d be tempted to swipe a gun from one of the actors.”
“Waiters and machine guns,” Arthur chortles, “on Mother’s Day. That’s not a good combination.”
“You ain’t kidding.”
A couple of hours later I arrive home. The martinis I drank earlier have worn off, and my rear end is throbbing with pain. I peel off my clothes and examine my posterior region in the mirror. My ass is as red as a boiled lobster.
I shake my head in disgust and head into the bathroom. Grabbing a package of oatmeal bath powder I keep around for these situations, I start filling the tub with warm water. While the water’s running I go into the kitchen, throw ice into a rocks glass, and fill it to the brim with chilled vodka. Returning to the bathroom, I lower myself into the soothing water, close my eyes, and start sipping my drink.
The minutes pass. The house is quiet. The only sound is water dripping from the faucet. I plug it with my big toe. The melting ice shifting inside my glass reminds me I have a drink in my hand. I take a long swallow and think about how much I drank today. Staring into my glass I imagine a tiny Satan trying to free himself from one of the ice cubes. Hmmm…maybe I did drink a bit too much.
I put the glass down on the edge of the tub and close my eyes. My rash still burns and the bathwater’s growing cold. I hate Mother’s Day.
Chapter 14
Vengeance Is Mine
Waiter,” my customer says, “my coffee is not hot.”
“I’m terribly sorry, madam,” I reply.
“Make it hotter.”
“But of course, madam.”
“Remember,” the woman says, “I’m drinking decaf.”
I take the coffee to the back and dump it out. I steep a new cup with boiling water to warm it up. It’s an old waiter trick. I toss out the water, fill the cup with piping-hot decaf coffee, and return it to the table. A minute later the customer calls me back to the table.
“Waiter,” she says, “my coffee is still not hot.”
“Terribly sorry, madam.”
“Are you stupid?” the woman says. “How hard is it for you to give me a hot cup of coffee?”
“A thousand pardons, madam,” I say. “I’m new here.” (I’ve been new here for six years.)
“Get me another cup,” the lady says. “And remember…”
“It’s decaf,” I say. “Understood, madam.”
I return to the back and refill the lady’s cup with regular. I brew a strong espresso and dump it into the lady’s coffee. I take the cup and place it in the oven. After two minutes at 400 degrees I take the cup out with a pair of tongs and place it on a cold saucer. I bring the bubbling cauldron of java back to the ill-mannered woman’s table.
“Madam,” I warn, trying not to be a total dick, “please be careful. This beverage and the cup are extremely hot.”
“Good,” the woman says. “Just the way I like it.”
As I walk away from the table I hear the woman cry out when she grasps the cup handle.
“Ouch,” she yelps. “It burns!”
I walk away from the table, struggling to keep the self-satisfied smirk off my face. Vengeance is mine, saith the waiter.
Yes, dear reader, we’ve come to the scary part of the book. This is the chapter where I talk about waiters spitting in your food.
Adulterating food or drink is a convenient way for servers to exact covert vengeance. Waiters can and do spit in people’s food. Personally, I think spitting in someone’s food is unimaginative and rude. Dropping sputum into someone’s fettuccine Alfredo may give the goober in question a momentary burst of satisfaction but not much else. I’m proud to say we’re above such petty bullshit at The Bistro. No server has ever adulterated a customer’s food with foreign matter or bodily fluid. (Or at least they haven’t told me about it. I’d rather live in ignorance on this one.) I prefer more elegant methods of revenge.
Of course, not all restaurant personnel are as classy as me. One day, when my friend Sal was working at a chain restaurant, he had a very abusive customer. The customer kept sending back his hamburger saying it tasted bland. On the burger’s third return trip Sal and the cook decided to play floor hockey with the man’s meat. Using greasy brooms as hockey sticks, they passed the char-broiled puck around the filthy kitchen floor for several minutes. I think the goal post was a dustbin. They hosed off the burger in the sink, threw some heat on it, and brought it to the table. The abusive customer dug into it and pronounced, “Now it’s good.” Dust and floor cleaner were just what it needed.
Some of you reading this are probably horrified that anyone would seriously consider messing with your food. Usually such antisocial behavior is a reaction to abusive customer behavior. It’s an unfortunate fact of life, but customers can really piss us off. Complaints about food or service I can deal with—that’s the job. But when customers cross the line, when their dissatisfaction devolves into personal attacks,
waiters are sorely tempted by thoughts of revenge. Many of my patrons are a few pills shy of psychiatric commitment. They have so many personal problems it’s hard for them to keep their shit together in public. They consume most of their psychic energy trying not to freak out at work or in front of the kids. When they get to my restaurant, they have little restraint left. Often customers are angry at someone in a position of power over them, usually their boss or a client. Unable to express anger at the people responsible for their incomes, many customers redirect that anger toward us. Since waiters are perceived to be in a subservient position, customers think yelling at us is safe. We’re only servants, after all. We become a cheap substitute for therapy or a punching bag. I’ve had people call me a loser, faggot, asshole, cocksucker, and shithead to my face. How would you react if someone at work talked that way to you? When you lose respect for my dignity and call me names, my inner serial killer comes bubbling to the surface. When that happens, watch out. Revenge is inevitable.
I’m a big fan of the psychiatrist/gourmand/serial killer Hannibal Lecter, the fictional maniac who ate his victims with fava beans and a nice bottle of Chianti. I always liked Dr. Lecter because he dispatched his prey with panache. (And, if you didn’t notice, all his victims kind of deserved it.) My favorite scene in the movie Hannibal was when a tuxedoed Lecter, looking like a deranged James Beard, removes the top of a man’s skull, digs out some gray matter, and flambés the guy’s brains tableside—while the guy’s still alive. After I saw that film I’d found myself measuring the circumference of obstreperous yuppies’ heads and wondering where I mislaid my cranial saw. “What’s the special tonight? Why, my dear sir—you are.”
You probably think I’m crazy, but I’ve never actually indulged in my little cathartic fantasies. I have an aversion to long periods of incarceration. Actually, I’m quite mentally healthy. Some people in this world would like you to think a negative thought has never furrowed their brow. Those are the people who snap. Have you ever wondered why, when the police are digging up the graves in the back of a serial killer’s house, the neighbors always say, “But he was such a nice man! He was so quiet!” Uh-uh. Too quiet. Everyone, no matter what kind of job he or she has, fantasizes about freaking out at work. How many corporate drones, stuck in a boring staff meeting, have had the sudden urge to jump on top of the conference table and start screaming obscenities? Strip off their clothes? Kiss the woman or man next to them? We all have. How many employees joke about shooting the boss or blowing the place up? I’m not suggesting we do any of these things, mind you, but let’s not kid ourselves; we all have a little murder in our heart. Why should waiters be any different?
Waiter Rant Page 18