Hostility.. hospitality.. what's the difference?

There's always, or almost always one miserable person in the restaurant. Now, if were lucky the miserable person is in the BOH and doesn't intrude more than absolutely necessary in what happens in the dining room.

Now, the miserable person can be anybody. from anywhere doing any job. They can be a hostess, server, busser (it really sucks if it's a busser.) Manager, Chef, sous chef, line cook pantry cook. You name it.

currently my miserable person is a pantry cook. The girl who makes the salads. (on a side note women in a kitchen is still weird to me. Kind of foreign and unnatural. Like those thirty something divorcees who help themselves to the mens room at concerts and sports events. You just kind of wonder why? Why are they there? Why do they want to play with the boys? and last but not least, can they really keep up? this is wrong,, wrong. Soo wrong, but you kind of have to wonder. Now realistically it makes sense for a woman to be in the kitchen. That's where my grandmother was, she made incredible banana bread. My favorite aunt is known for her mashed potatoes. But, they're in their kitchens at home. With a recipe book in front of them and soap operas in the background. It's a far cry from the hot, loud, cramped kitchens that I've been around in my professional life. But things are changing. A lot. When I was younger I knew one woman in one kitchen in five years. A flat chested lesbian who used to say that, 'her tittys are steamin'. But these days it's different. women are there. In their white coats, and they rock. Hats off to my French Sous chef from last year. Awesome cook, amazing woman. Has me convinced that that is exactly where she should be.

Back to hostilities. You know it's bad when the 'fuck you' and the 'god damnit' gets replaced by actual screaming. But it happens. this girl has picked fights with everyone. I do believe i'm the last person that she hasn't brought to a screaming rage over salad dressings or re-fires. Not that she has a lot of refires. She's a little slow, on average around two minutes longer than you think they'll be. I know this by the clock in my head. That silent buzz that pulls you to the line when it's time to get your food. The food is good, usually. It's the anger over getting orders at 5:59 when the dining room opens at 6:00.. Never mind that the line is out the door for six oclock reservations and sitting people a few minutes early is going to make the difference. There's eighty covers that have to move from six oclock to eight oclock. that's an average of twenty people per server that you have to have done in two hours. Three, maybe four courses. But, hell the panty girl wants another cigarette before she makes any salads.

I've taken to having my cellphone in my pocket waiting to hit the send button until exactly six oclock. Pathetic.

There's also the manager and his bad day. Table cloths are a short on one side of the table. There's a spoon missing, the water glass doesn't have enough ice. You name it. On a bad manager day anything can and will turn into the restaurant equivilant of a heart transplant. It's all life and death. After a few years this goes away. Atleast for me. What happens is going to happen. The restaurant will open and eventually the place will close whatever happens in the between time. Well, it's just going to be. don't worry, there will be a tomorrow.

And then there's the hostile customer. They stare you down like you're getting some kind of satisfaction by not being able to give them A-1 sauce. Actually, I am but only because you're an idiot. I love the table that is convinced that your wines are kept three degrees cooler than they should be. They comment on the napkin folds being soo much nicer at the last place they ate. And are very unhappy you can't pull oysters rockefeller out of some magic hat.

I have on very rare occasions been the hostile one. I've been put in just about any and every situation imaginable. from the private club I was bartending at when a drunk told me that he was circumsized to the diner I was at that had the sailor sitting on the hood of my car because I wasn't giving up my phone number. People can suck, in a major way. A middle aged waitress once told me to just 'smile' She taught me how to spill water on someones lap but not make a big mess out of the table. granted, I haven't been put in that position in about seven years but at the time it saved me. Over and over again. In case anybody is wondering if you ever go into an all night diner, drunk in the middle of the night and get water spilled all over you it's never an accident. And you deserve it.

Fucking Up.

I just used the word fuck as a title for this thing. I'm halfway convinced that nobody else is ever going to read it. Therefore I can say fuck fuck fuck. guilt free. This makes me giggle to myself. Just a little bit. as a server you become very used to watching your mouth.

This can be a challenge the second you step into the back of the house you might as well be on a Naval ship, or a strip joint in Vegas. It's dirty, very dirty in the back. Shit fuck damn flies around your head like mosquitos in the summer time. But the most common is 'fucking up' This holds so much meaning can encompass so many different things. It's like buying a vowel on jeopardy. when you hear 'fucking up' in a restaurant well, there are more potential meanings behind it than just about anything else you can think of.

I fucked up tonight. In my own defense I fell the night before ended up in the ER, sprained the ankle I had surgery on last winter. I'm messed up. It has however become fairly routine for me that anytime I see a doctor they give me drugs. I'm not talking prescription strength ibuprofen i'm talking serious narcotics here. As of right now if I were to find a street corner and 'sell off' my stash I could pay off my car. Too bad it's illegal and I have a certain paranoia about getting caught. So, guess i'll have to continue to make my payments like the good law abiding citizen I am.

As to the fuck ups. I'm not that waitress. There's always one. The one that orders things wrong, fires early or late, opens the wrong wine, crashes plates on the way to the dining room. You get it. That is not me. I don't make mistakes. I have a system that never lets me down. I repeat people when they order cocktails and wine. I do not forget. Yeah, sounds a bit like ego but I'm entitled like I said, I don't fuck up. But, give the girl half a percocept and all kinds of strange things can happen. I ordered those cocktails, went to the bar picked up the beers for another table looked at the cocktails and left them there. I spilled the sparkling wine while lighting the fondue burner, ordered a soup instead of salad. Fired tables too early. Fired a table too late. Thank god my English impaired busser was paying attention.

So with the exception of one spill my tables didn't notice. It's almost like it didn't happen. Except I know it did. Drives me crazy even at 1:20 in the morning I'm pissed. My white coats will now be suspicious of me for the next few days. the cocky twenty year old intern making salads will think he's got one up on me. It just sucks. I will now go back to work tomorrow and do it better, the way I usually do it. Without the percocept. Ibuprofen will be fine.