Tales of a New York Waitress

by Samantha Garman

  “Hi,” I said, holding out my hand, which he shook.

  “Zeb is going to train you tonight,” Jess said.

  “I am? That’s news to me.”

  “Zeb…”

  “She looks young and fresh. I might destroy that with my bitchiness.”

  Jess looked at me. “Don’t believe anything he says.” She walked away, leaving me alone with Zeb.

  “Come on, I’ll give you the grand tour of this place.” Zeb took me through the front dining room and began to show me the layout of the restaurant, complete with table numbers. “And then we have a back room,” he said, leading me past the kitchen into a courtyard area. The floor was uneven cobblestone, and there was a large unlit gas fireplace at the back.

  “Canvas roof,” Zeb explained. “So we can heat it in the winter and cool it in summer. But on perfect days like today…” He gestured to sunlight shining down on us.

  “Nice,” I said.

  An hour later, I heard yelling in French, followed by the sound of breaking dishes. I glanced at Zeb. He seemed remarkably unruffled. Like it was an ordinary occurrence. I could feel the stress streaming from the kitchen.

  “This is an Italian restaurant, right?” I asked him.

  “Yes.”

  “Then why is the chef French?”

  “Sibby, let me give you a piece of advice,” Zeb said. “This is Antonio’s. If it makes sense, it doesn’t happen here. Antonio’s is the anti-logic. Trust me, this is a drop in the bucket.”

  “Yikes.”

  “Each restaurant has their own brand of crazy. I don’t even notice it anymore, to be honest.”

  “Wow.”

  “The shifts are short and the money is good. And no lunch or brunch. We put up with a lot for those sorts of perks.”

  “What other things do I have to look forward to?” I demanded.

  He thought for a minute. “No, I’m not going to tell you.”

  “Why not?”

  He grinned. “More fun that way.”

  “For you, maybe.”

  “Definitely for me.”

  “Are you hiding horns under blond hair?”

  Zeb laughed. “So, what’s your story?”

  “Story?”

  “Yeah, like, I’m in college, so I work a few shifts around my class schedule. What about you?”

  “You’re still in college?”

  “I keep changing my major,” Zeb explained. “It’s why I’m a twenty-eight year old junior. Are you an actor who has to go on a bunch of auditions? Something like that?”

  “Oh, that kind of story,” I said slowly and then figured, what the hell? “I got laid off from my office gig editing textbook copy.”

  “And instead of getting another job editing textbook copy you decided to work in a restaurant?”

  “I’m hoping for a new direction,” I said. “You ever work in an office?”

  “God, no. The idea of working in an office makes me want to put a bullet in my brain. Or drink an entire bottle of soda and down some pop rocks.” He looked at me. “I have one mode. It’s called ‘sarcasm’.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Change kinda happened to me. I figured I might as well embrace it. What do I have to lose?”

  “Uhm. Your sanity.”

  “I’ve worked in a restaurant before. Long ago, in a galaxy far, far away…”

  “Have you ever worked at a restaurant in New York City?” He stared at me and I shook my head. “Then pay attention, because you’ll want to remember what I’m about to say: People are insane. Like, crazy cat lady insane. You’re going to have to guide them through this journey we call dinner. They want the impossible. They want things without knowing what they want. They’re going to ask stupid questions, like, whether there is gluten in pasta, and you’re going to have to smile and try not to punch them in the face. You’re going to have to bring them what they asked for, and listen when they tell you that they didn’t order what they ordered. You’re going to want to drink. A lot. But we’ve got a good group here, and both Aidan and Jess are awesome managers.”

  At the mention of Aidan’s name, my stomach felt like it dropped out of my body, landed on the floor, and stayed there.

  “Especially Aidan. He’s a good guy. And he’s fucking hot. I’m gay, by the way.”

  “Yeah, I kinda already got that.”

  “You met Aidan, right?”

  I nodded, struggling to get air into my lungs. “He went through a wine tasting with me the other day.”

  “Excellent. That’s one less thing I have to do.”

  “You don’t like training people, do you?” I wondered.

  “Hate it, actually. I try and scare the newbs off, but Jess keeps giving me people to train. Makes no sense.”

  “Maybe you’re the first test. If people get by you that means they have real staying power.”

  “Have I scared you off?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Damn. I need to up my game.”

  I hadn’t spoken to Annie since I’d been hired a week ago. She had left town with her boss to go to the Hamptons and cook a dinner party. She’d only just gotten back into the city that morning. We met in neutral territory, a bar around the Union Square area, half the distance between the Upper East Side and Brooklyn. Location mattered to New Yorkers.

  “Cheers,” Annie said, clinking her martini against mine. “You made it through training.”

  “I did.”

  I wasn’t sure how I’d done it. Maybe it was because I’d taken Zeb’s advice and ignored the chef. I had also ignored Aidan, though he was almost un-ignorable. He was super dreamy.

  Blarg. I was making myself sick to my stomach.

  Annie set her drink down and said, “Tell me about stuff.”

  I held up my right pointer finger. It was covered in a roll of Band-Aids. She frowned. “What happened?”

  “Foil finger. From practicing opening wine bottles and nicking myself.”

  “You’re like, really cool, you know that?” Annie said sarcastically.

  “I never had to open wine bottles at the barbecue joint. It was just beer and sweet tea.”

  “Point taken.”

  I grinned and paused for dramatic effect. “Aidan is my manager.”

  Annie’s blue eyes widened comically. “Aidan Aidan? Caleb’s friend? The guy you slept with but didn’t sleep with?”

  “That would be the one,” I affirmed.

  “That’s New York for you.”

  “Right?”

  “And you didn’t think to call me immediately?”

  “I wanted to see your face.”

  “You’re a bitch.”

  “That I am.”

  “So, have you kissed him yet?”

  “What!” I shouted. “Are you insane? I can’t do that.”

  “Why not? You know you want to.”

  “Do not.”

  “Do too.”

  “Do not!”

  She rolled her eyes and then her face shifted into a look of panic. “Wait, did Aidan tell Caleb that you two work together?”

  “Worried about Caleb finding you, huh?’”

  “No!” She paused. “Maybe.”

  “I told Aidan he’s not allowed to tell Caleb.”

  “What is this, junior high?”

  “You tell me. According to Aidan, Caleb wants to ask you out on a date.”

  “I don’t get it. I already gave up the goods.”

  “Yes, I pointed that out. You know, it’s possible he actually likes you.”

  “Huh. But I don’t go on dates.”

  “What about when we were in college?”

  “Dinner at Moe’s doesn’t count.”

  We both fell silent. Annie stared into her martini and I took a sip of mine, and by tacit agreement, we decided not to talk about Aidan or Caleb anymore.

  “Heard from Matt?”

  I shook my head. “Not since I blocked his number.”

  “No emails?”

  I
shrugged. “I haven’t checked my spam folder, so I have no idea.”

  “Do you have feelings, like at all?” Annie wondered in dismay. “I mean, you haven’t wallowed or cried, or left your house with chocolate on your face or anything. You lost a job and a boyfriend in one day. What are you, a cyborg?”

  “Maybe I’m a really good compartmentalizer. Ever think of that?” She raised an eyebrow and stared me down. “I don’t know, Annie,” I said quietly. “I think about the office job I no longer go to and I wonder how I managed to last as long as I did. The restaurant is taking some getting used to, but I don’t have to ride the subway at rush hour. Do you know how amazing that is?”

  “And what about Matt?”

  “No use crying over an ex’s hidden sexuality.”

  She blinked. “You’re being way too mature about this. Cry! Scream! Get a tattoo or something! Go off the rails!”

  “Tattoo? I’m thinkin’…no.”

  “Let’s pierce your nose!” She reached for the toothpick in her martini glass speared through a few olives.

  I covered my nose in a protective gesture. “Back away from the nose. It’s my one feature I’m immensely proud of. Why are you so unruly?”

  “Sorry. This is my second martini.”

  “Second?”

  “I got a head start while I waited for you.”

  “Shit, I better catch up.”

  I weeble-wobbled home around 2:00 AM. 2:00 AM on a weeknight. My life, once a boring routine of nine to five was now, at the very least, not that. If I wanted to stay out on a weekday night, I could. If I wanted to go to the post office during the day, I didn’t have to go on my lunch break. It was weird. Daylight hours were mine.

  I climbed the stairs of my apartment building, and all my good feelings disappeared.

  Matt was on his butt, leaning against the wall. Asleep.

  I wanted to kick him. I settled for nudging him with my foot. When he didn’t stir, I gave in to my impulse and kicked him.

  Hard.

  He moaned, his eyes flying open. “Sibby,” he said, jumping to his feet.

  “Go away,” I said, sticking my key in the lock.

  “I want to talk.”

  “You’re like an alley cat that won’t go away. I had the locks changed; I blocked your phone number. Don’t you get it?” I asked. “I don’t want to talk.”

  “I screwed up!”

  “Understatement! Mayday, mayday! Eject, eject!” I finally got the door open and shoved my way into the apartment. Matt tried to follow, but I elbowed him back. “Go. Away. Or I’m calling the cops!”

  “You won’t call the cops.”

  I glared at him. “Try me.”

  “Sibby, I really want to talk.”

  “Why?” I stated. “I don’t need to hear what you have to say. Nothing you say is going to change the fact that I caught you cheating on me with some random dude!”

  “He’s not random. His name is Taylor.”

  Annoyance morphed into drunken rage. “You’re a putz, you know that?”

  “I—”

  “And a schmuck! You’re a shmutz!”

  “Are you drunk?”

  “None of your damn business! Stop loitering in my hallway.”

  I slammed the door in his face.

  Chapter 5

  Al dente [ahl-den-teh]:

  1. Literally, to the tooth; a term for slightly undercooked pasta.

  2. Your pasta is not crunchy. No need to send it back to the kitchen and have them remake it. Seriously.

  “Okay, explain to me the different meats on the meat platter—and what animal they come from,” Annie said, my menu description packet on her lap. She took a sip of beer while she waited for me to answer.

  “Uhm…hold on, give me a moment,” I said, pacing across my living room floor.

  “Damn. There is so much information in here. How are you supposed to memorize all this?” she demanded.

  “Shhh.”

  “But—”

  “No more pep talks from you.”

  “A nice Jewish girl works in an Italian restaurant… It’s like the beginning of a really good joke.”

  “Can we just go over the food descriptions, please?”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “Meat platter…”

  “Pork, pork, and more pork.”

  “Rah, rah, rah!” she cheered.

  “I’m never going to remember this entire menu. ‘Antipasti’, ‘insalatas’, ‘pastas’, ‘secondi’, ‘contorni’, ‘dolci’. That’s like—thousands of ingredients.”

  Annie laughed. “What are your basic ingredients of Italian cooking?”

  “Pork. But we established that already. Garlic…and cheese.”

  “Three staples to Italian cooking. There ya go.”

  “Homemade pastas, homemade desserts, aperitifs, digestifs. The frickin’ barbecue restaurant had about fifteen items on the menu. And no one had food allergies; no one was worried about gluten or sugar. Now, it’s apparently cool to be allergic to everything except kale and water.”

  “Uh, it’s not cool. Not cool at all. Stop procrastinating. Meat platter: go!”

  “I remember them! Soppressata, speck, coppa, prosciutto, bresaola. All from the pig. Except for the bresaola. That’s from a cow.”

  “Very good. Next question: are you still avoiding Aidan?”

  “That’s not a food question.”

  “No, but it’s more interesting.”

  “I wish he wasn’t so pretty.”

  “Catch yourself staring at him?”

  “All the time. He walks by and it’s like—instant brain static.”

  “If I was a terrible best friend, I’d place bets to see how long you’re able to keep your pants on around him.”

  “I would never take a bet like that,” I scoffed.

  “Because you know you’d lose.”

  I sighed. “Probably.”

  My first shift. Flying solo. My very own section. My black apron was new and starched, my black button down relatively wrinkle free and my wily, frizzy hair pulled back in the semblance of a ponytail.

  Five minutes after we opened, the hostess walked over with one customer. She tried to seat the tall, gaunt woman at a table for two at the banquet, but the woman wasn’t having any of it.

  “That one. I want that table,” she said, pointing at a table for four.

  “Are you expecting anyone to join you?” the sweet, young hostess asked.

  The woman glared at her. “No.”

  “Oh. Well, we really need that table for four.”

  “The restaurant is empty. Why can’t I just sit there?” the woman scoffed.

  The harassed hostess mumbled something and blushed and let the woman have her way. I waited for a minute, wanting the woman to get comfortable, but before I could approach her, she held up her hand and snapped at me.

  Snapped. At. Me.

  “Excuse me? I don’t have all day.”

  I hastened to her and said, “May I bring you some water?”

  “You may,” she said loftily. “No ice, three lemons, and a straw. Also I’d like some bread, butter, salt, pepper, and Parmesan. I’ll order when you return.” Her face was screwed up in a picture of annoyance.

  It was my first table in my own section ever and already my patience was being tested.

  “Sure thing,” I said. I left to do The Queen’s bidding, and asked a busser to bring her all the ingredients she had ordered to apparently make her own appetizer.

  I dropped off the water along with the accompaniments and said, “The bread will be right out. He’s just cutting it. Do you need more time with the menu? Have any questions?”

  Her nostrils flared, as if she was angry that she had to wait for anything. What was with her?

  “The risotto balls, are they vegetarian?”

  I smiled. “Yes, they are.”

  “I’ll have those. And the roast kale salad, but I want it raw, not cooked, and add cheese but hold the dressing.”


  I was thrown into the deep end—on my very first day. Some kind of karmic bullshit, right?

  “Got it,” I said, taking her menu. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “Just a decaf cappuccino. Make sure it’s decaf.”

  “Absolutely.” I went to the computer by the coffee station where Zeb was folding napkins. “Can I ask you if I’m putting this order in right? It’s a bit complicated.”

  Zeb stopped folding his napkins and came to my side. “Jesus. Why can’t people like that stay home?”

  “Seriously. Anyway, she’s vegetarian, so she ordered the risotto balls.”

  Zeb grinned. “And you let her? With a straight face?”

  “What? Wait…oh my God. They’re not vegetarian?”

  “A little chicken stock won’t kill her.”

  “So I shouldn’t tell her?”

  “Oh, no, honey, she won’t know the difference.”

  “Okay, well I have to make her a decaf cappuccino. She stressed that it must be decaf.”

  Zeb’s eyes twinkled with server power. “She’s so not getting decaf.”

  “What if it stops her heart?” I asked.

  “We’ll be doing the world a favor. Hopefully she hasn’t procreated.” He looked at me. “It’s possible it’s time for me to leave the hospitality industry.”

  The busser came back from dropping off bread and said to me, “She’s asking for her decaf cappuccino.”

  I grinned. It was pure evil. “She’ll get it.”

  And on my very first night, I had become a server of justice.

  “So, like, what’s the difference between calamari and octopus?” the girl asked. She twirled a strand of bleached blonde hair around a finger and smacked her gum while she gazed at me with questioning brown eyes.

  “The difference between calamari and octopus?” I repeated. “Really?”

  She nodded. “Like, is it just that they’re cooked differently, or what?”

  “They’re two different animals.”

  “They are?”

  “Calamari is squid. And octopus is…octopus.”

  “Oh.” She paused. “I don’t get it.”

  Six hours later, my first shift was over. I had somehow managed to avoid going into the kitchen, thus avoiding the temperamental French chef.