Waiter Rant

by Steve Dublanica

  Many chefs and owners possess outsize personalities and demand David Koresh–like obedience from their employees. Like starry-eyed neophytes trapped in a culinary version of Jonestown, waiters and staff can find it hard to extricate themselves from the delicate web of abuse, reward, and guilt that can constitute a restaurateur’s cult of personality. When servers try doing something for themselves—auditioning, studying, or spending time with their spouse and children—the control freaks often see it as a betrayal. Now smart chefs or owners, who are secure in their sense of self and scouting possible long-term strategic alliances, will encourage subordinates to develop their human capital. What’s that old saying? Be nice to people on the way up so they’ll be nice to you on the way down? Setting aside simply acting like a human being for a moment, from a strictly utilitarian point of view, it pays to be nice.

  But Fluvio doesn’t have that sense of perspective. His deep-seated control issues make him force everyone who works at The Bistro to be nervous, agitated, and dependent on him. He doesn’t encourage people to follow their dreams. Since my Web site never made any money, it never impressed Fluvio and flew underneath his psychological radar. Now, when it looks like my hard work might finally pay off, Fluvio’s secretly rooting for me to fail. People tell me about what he says behind my back. He’s hoping I fall flat on my face. I suddenly remember how Caesar fired Fluvio when he started to want something for himself. Ah, how abuse perpetuates itself.

  “We’ll see, Fluvio,” I reply. “We’ll see.”

  On the other end of the line there’s an indrawn breath and more silence. In the background I can hear the three waitresses arguing. Too many egos, not enough talent.

  “I’ve got to go,” Fluvio says, hanging up.

  I cradle the receiver and close my eyes in silent prayer. I don’t think I could stand it if Fluvio’s proved right. Seeing his smug “I told you so” look would be intolerable.

  A short while later Beth and I are in the kitchen drinking coffee. The lunch shift’s drawing to a close. The restaurant’s almost empty. Beth can’t wait to go home.

  “I’ve worked six doubles in a row,” she groans. “I can’t take any more.”

  “The craziness won’t last forever,” I reply. “Bistro Duetto will eventually stand on its own two feet.”

  “It can’t happen soon enough.”

  “I hear ya,” I answer. “I’ve worked twelve days in a row.”

  Beth and I sip our coffee quietly.

  After a minute Beth asks, “So what’s up between you and Armando?”

  “We’ve got a mini power struggle going on,” I reply.

  “Things have gotten tense between you two.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  Beth takes another sip of coffee. She looks pensive. “You know Louis and Saroya are talking shit about you,” she says.

  “That’s nothing new.”

  “Yeah,” Beth says. “But now they’re saying your blog has given you a swelled head—that you’re focusing on your writing instead of your job.”

  “I remember when they just crabbed about me stealing the best tables,” I chuckle.

  “It’s not funny,” Beth says. “Don’t you ever worry that someone who works here might wreck your anonymity and screw up your blog?”

  Beth’s question sparks a tickle of anxiety. Ever since I started Waiter Rant I’ve taken great pains to protect my anonymity and the true name and location of The Bistro. But the blog isn’t a secret at work. Everyone at the restaurant knows about the Web site. Initially, everyone got a kick out of it and chuckled at the names I assigned to them. It also helped that I never wrote any nasty or critical stories about the staff. I passed up some juicy stories, but I like working in a peaceful work environment. I’ve been less than kind to the customers, however, and if they found out about my Web site, I might be compelled to quit. Anonymity has shielded me from customer retribution and protected my job. Now that tensions between the staff and me are increasing, I’m beginning to wonder if someone might rat me out just to get rid of me.

  “Everyone’s been real good about it so far,” I say optimistically.

  “Let’s hope your good luck holds.” Beth says.

  Suddenly I see a flash of red hair out of the corner of my eye. Holly, one of our summer hostesses, walks past the kitchen door with a customer in tow. I see the man’s face for only a second—but it’s enough.

  “Isn’t that Russell Crowe?” I ask Beth.

  “I think you’re right,” Beth replies.

  Beth and I casually saunter out of the kitchen and pretend we’re rearranging napkins. As we perform our little reconnaissance I throw a covert glance toward the back section. Yep—sitting on one of the banquettes is Russell Crowe.

  “It’s him,” I say, walking back into the kitchen.

  “Wow,” Beth says, star-struck.

  “Can you handle it?” I ask. “You know our policy about movie stars.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Beth sighs. “Pretend like they’re not famous.”

  “No problems?”

  “No problems.”

  Beth goes out to take care of Mr. Crowe. I go downstairs to the prep area to look for Armando, our sous-chef.

  “Guess who’s here?” I say.

  “Who?” Armando asks.

  “The Gladiator.”

  “NO FUCKING WAY!” Armando almost shrieks, our earlier animosity forgotten. Gladiator is one of his all-time-favorite movies. It’s one of mine, too.

  “Yes fucking way.”

  “How cool is that?”

  “Get behind the stove, man,” I say. “You’ll want to add this guy to the list of famous people you’ve cooked for.”

  Armando bounds up the stairs. He’s really thrilled.

  I walk back upstairs. Mr. Crowe’s been joined by a guest. Beth’s taking good care of them. If she’s nervous, she doesn’t look it.

  The Bistro has always had a fairly ironclad policy regarding celebrities—we don’t care. Waiters are not allowed to ask for autographs. We just treat them like any other customer. Don’t get me wrong. It’s always nice to have famous people patronize your restaurant. It creates a buzz and drives in business. The Bistro has had many famous patrons—ranging from Academy Award–winning actors and directors, famous rock stars, Nobel Prize winners, and crazy-gorgeous supermodels.

  But the dangers of becoming a celebrity hangout are the same dangers a restaurant faces if it becomes a Mafia hangout. You end up with rich and powerful people who might start treating the restaurant as their 24/7 preserves for late-night parties and backroom deals. That’s bad for business. Celebrities are notoriously unfaithful where restaurants are concerned. It’s the noncelebrity customers who pay the light bill. It never pays to alienate the bread-and-butter clientele by fawning over celebrities.

  So The Bistro doesn’t care, and the celebrities pick up on that vibe. Most of our famous patrons appreciate that we treat them like everyone else. Maybe that’s the reason so many well-known people eat at The Bistro. If we made a fuss over them, they’d just go elsewhere, or, worse, start treating us like some L.A. eatery. Screw that. The last thing any restaurant needs is some Jeremy Piven type coming in without a reservation and leaving a DVD of his TV show as a tip.

  I head into the kitchen and find Beth gabbing excitedly on her cell phone to a girlfriend.

  “He’s so handsome,” Beth swoons. “He has really hypnotic eyes.”

  Actually, I think Mr. Crowe looks smaller in person than he does on-screen.

  “If he asked me to spend the weekend with him in Mykonos, do you think my boyfriend would mind?” Beth asks the phone innocently.

  I shake my head in the affirmative. Beth smiles.

  “It’s just a thought,” she says to her girlfriend. “I’ve got to run. Later. Bye.”

  “How you doing?” I ask.

  “I’m a little dizzy,” Beth replies.

  “You’ll be fine.”

  “When I looked into his eyes, I com
pletely forgot the specials.”

  “I’m sure he’s used to that happening.”

  “Wow,” Beth says.

  “If Charlize Theron was here, I’d be acting the same way.”

  “Oh my God,” Beth says. “You couldn’t handle her at a table.”

  “Probably not.”

  Some time passes. Mr. Crowe and his guest finish lunch, pay the bill, and leave.

  “Have a nice afternoon,” I say as he walks past me.

  “You, too, mate,” he replies, smiling.

  Beth scoops the check off the table. She got a very nice tip.

  “I love you, Russell!” she shouts. I’m glad The Bistro’s empty.

  “Don’t start sniffing where he was sitting,” I joke.

  “I love you, Russell!”

  Beth kept it together while the superstar was here, but now that he’s gone, she’s just decompressing. I did that after I waited on Alan Ruck—the guy from Spin City and Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. I had to fight an insane urge to call him Cameron. Dude, you killed the car!

  “Wow,” I say, “Russell Crowe ate here. We should put up a sign.”

  But Beth doesn’t hear me. She’s already talking on her cell phone.

  “Mom,” she jabbers, “you’ll never believe who was just here!”

  I leave my star-struck waitress to her conversation. Honestly, I’m kind of star-struck myself. When I get home that night, I write up the entire encounter on my Web site. I title the post “Gladiator.”

  The next morning my phone rings at the ungodly hour of nine A.M. The caller ID tells me it’s Fluvio. I debate whether or not to answer it. When Fluvio calls me at home, it’s never a good sign.

  “What?” I answer.

  “Your computer on?”

  “What?”

  “Go to your computer.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it,” Fluvio says.

  I roll out of bed, slap my laptop out of hibernation mode, and sit down.

  “What do you want me to look at?”

  “Go to this Web site,” Fluvio says, spelling out the URL for me. Within seconds I’m reading an article on some Russell Crowe fansite highlighting the “Gladiator” story on my blog—and giving The Bistro’s exact name and address.

  “Holy shit!” I exclaim.

  “The lady who run the Web site write me and tell me she put it up,” Fluvio blabbers. “Now people know where you are!”

  I shake my head. How was I supposed to know Russell Crowe has groupies who track his every movement around the globe? I thought that was the paparazzi’s job.

  “Send me that lady’s e-mail address,” I say. “I’ll ask her nicely to take it down.”

  “People find out where you work, you have to quit!” Fluvio says. Great. Now he cares.

  “Relax, Fluvio,” I say. “Don’t go all Code Red.”

  “Fix it,” Fluvio says.

  “I will.”

  I hang up the phone and look out the window. A spasm of anxiety hits me. My agent’s trying to negotiate a book deal for me right now. Part of the appeal of my blog has always been my anonymity. Fuck.

  I fire off an e-mail to the administrator of the Web site. To my surprise, the lady quickly writes back and tells me she’ll take down the post. I anxiously spend the rest of the day scouring the Internet, looking for some indication that my cover’s been blown. No activity. The problem got caught in time.

  The next couple of days, however, are a stressfest. My agent calls with updates. I wonder if the prospective writer having a perpetual urge to vomit is usually part of the process. Things at work aren’t helping either.

  “Why you taking that table?” Saroya asks me on a fairly slow night.

  “Because I like to make money?” I reply acidly.

  “It’s slow,” Saroya sniffs. “You’re getting paid as a manager. You shouldn’t be taking tables.”

  Part of the problem with the player/manager setup at The Bistro is that there’s a built-in conflict of interest. Fluvio doesn’t pay me enough for me to be only a manager. If I’m lucky, my manager pay covers the monthly cost of my health insurance, around $450, and my taxes. Waiting tables constitutes the bulk of my take-home income. When it’s slow, I usually hang back and let the other waiters take the tables. But, when the rent’s due, no matter how slow it is, I’m on the floor. This drives Saroya nuts. I think she’s related to that Wahdi guy from Amici’s somehow.

  “I’ve got bills to pay, too,” I reply.

  “You’re greedy,” Saroya hisses.

  “Gimme a break, please…”

  “It’s not fair!”

  I’m not about to be lectured by the chef’s girlfriend.

  “Tough shit,” I say.

  Saroya runs off to the kitchen in a huff. I’m sure Armando’s about to get an earful. I don’t care anymore—and that’s a problem.

  I’m not the greatest waiter or restaurant manager who ever lived. Far from it. In fact, I can be a real asshole to work with. The staff has some legitimate gripes about my managerial style. Invoking the seigneurial right of headwaiters everywhere, I almost never do side work and I always work the best section in the house. In fact, the waiters snicker that a personalized PROPERTY OF plaque should be embedded in my section’s floor. I respond by saying that when I die, my ashes can be interred under it, and then they can walk all over me. Sometimes I think they want to hurry that process along.

  Beth especially gets aggravated over what she calls my “customer profiling”—my cherry-picking the good-tipping customers and sending the dregs to the less-senior servers. That’s the conflict of interest I was talking about. Do I profile? Of course I do, but only to a degree. First off, my section holds only fourteen customers. The Bistro’s a popular restaurant. I can’t snag every big tipper who comes along. I’m also not that greedy. I have an amount of money I need to make every month. As long as I hit that goal I’m happy. I don’t need to suck up every dime. Once I’ve hit my financial target, I slack off and let the other servers get the rest. I know that sounds mighty white of me, but that’s how it works at many a restaurant. The senior server is king.

  I know there are other things I do that drive the staff nuts. In addition to my chronic tardiness, I also can be a bit of a bully when it comes to the POS computer. The Bistro has only one computer for placing orders. When things get crazy, a bottleneck forms and everyone gets backed up. Me? I’m famous for cutting in line. My usual MO is to claim a fake manager emergency so I can put my orders in ahead of everyone else. But I’ve also physically bumped people out of the way, abruptly logged them out of the computer while they were in the middle of placing an order, or hovered close to them, angrily muttering, “Hurry the fuck up” in their ear. Most of the staff learned to deal with my craziness, but some, like Inez, actually pushed back. Good for her. For the tough cases I use deception to cut in line. If I see a server nearing the POS computer when I need to use it, I’ll say, “Is that your cell phone ringing?” Once I even pointed to the floor and said, “Eeek, is that a tampon?” While the female server (who earlier had loudly informed everyone that she was having her period) frantically searched the floor around her, I slid in front of her and started inputting my orders. She didn’t speak to me for the rest of the night. The lesson here? Keep your bodily functions private.

  After putting up with Fluvio’s nonsense for six years, I feel like I’m entitled to the special treatments I give myself. When I compare myself to Sammy and the other restaurant managers I’ve known, I’m a saint. I don’t scam tips, extort servers, shake down kitchen staff, or sexually harass the waitresses. I know, I know, not doing something you’re not supposed to be doing isn’t a sign of virtue. But in the restaurant business it almost is.

  I’m not the best manager in the world, but I’m not the worst, either. The Bistro has always earned a high Zagat rating for service, so I must be doing something right. In my mind a good restaurant manager is like a good chief of police, always allowing a littl
e larceny to operate in his or her town. Besides acting as a safety valve for the inevitable vices, the chief knows his or her officers can pump the low-level dealers, prostitutes, and bookies they franchise for information on bigger and more dangerous criminals. A restaurant manager is the same way. I overlook the occasional drinking on the job and the pot smoking/low-grade drug dealing going on in the alley. I usually fix checks, cover up mistakes, and smooth things over with the customers when the waiters invariably screw up. Rarely do I have to intervene and drop the hammer on a server. I’m also the one keeping Fluvio off their backs. Without my moderating his rages, the atmosphere of The Bistro would become more toxic than the skies of Venus.

  I’m also almost always the last server to leave the restaurant. I deal with the irate and crazy customers, and I’m the one who has to keep his cool in a crisis. After the lady who had that stroke went off to the hospital, Louis had a nervous breakdown and babbled that he was too upset to stay at work. He kept crying about some guy he saw die facedown in his all-you-can-eat platter at Red Lobster. Then again Louis calls in sick if he cuts his finger. I can’t imagine him or Saroya handling an emergency. But do the waiters remember that? No. Waiters are always complaining about something. They’ll bitch and moan when they’re making no money and then they’ll complain that they’re overworked when they get busy. You can never win.

  However, some of their complaints are valid. I’ve gotten too comfortable in my job, and that comfort had metastasized into a sort of arrogance. The bus girls complain that I’m lazy. I call it energy conservation, but they’re right, I don’t do anything I don’t have to do. Fluvio’s shit is getting old, but I know he’ll never fire me. If I was Fluvio, I’d fire myself, but his paranoia makes him dread breaking in a new manager. Like Rizzo, I know where all the bodies are buried. And I’ve gotten away with a lot of shit because I know every dirty, stupid thing he’s ever done. With the new restaurant opening up and the personnel shifting this way and that, however, I can begin to feel the ground shifting beneath my feet. New people are coming into the picture, people who could and should replace me. That realization’s causing me stress. Like the dynamic between Armando and me, things are starting to change.