Waiter Rant

2005-11-19T23:02:00.000-05:00

Waiter Rant has moved!!!!!
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2005-07-31T13:19:00.000-04:00

For technical reasons beyond our control.......

Commenting will be disabled for the next two days. I'll resume posting Tuesday.

I have a surprise in store for you.

2005-07-29T11:31:00.000-04:00

Where's Prozac When You Need It?

The phone rings.

"The Bistro," I answer, "How can I help you?"

"What kind of cuisine do you serve?" a female voice asks.

"Northern Italian madam."

"And what's your sushi special tonight?"

I pause a moment.

"We don't serve sushi madam."

"Why not?"

"Because we're not a Japanese restaurant?"

The caller thinks about that for a sec.

"Do you serve tuna?" she asks.

"We do."

"Can't you make sushi out of that?"

"No."

"Why not?" she asks incredulously.

"Because."

"Oh."

There's a long pause. I can visualize this woman sucking her thumb.

"Would you like to make a reservation?" I ask

"No, I really wanted sushi tonight."

"Sorry," I verbally shrug.

"Could you suggest a place?" she asks testily.

I give her the name and number of a very expensive sushi house and hang up. I look at the clock and sigh. So far I've put in eighty hours at the Bistro. When Fluvio comes back this Sunday it'll be 110 hours without a break. Phone calls like this threaten to destroy whatever sanity I have left. It's time to self medicate.

I go to the back and fetch a can of my new best friend – Red Bull.

"Cocaine in a can?" Gerald quips as he walks by.

"I can't afford the real thing," I deadpan.

"The dumpster dealers will cut you a break," Gerald says, referring to the criminal element that delivers behind restaurants everywhere.

"Never did that stuff actually," I reply.

"A couple more of these double shifts and you will be," Gerald observes.

"I'd settle for some Prozac," I say, "Got any?"

"I'm fresh out."

"Damn."

I go back to the front and start reading The Times. The Red Bull kicks in. Great. Now I'm wide awake borderline psychotic.

I try and lose myself in the Dining In Section. There's a good article about aperitifs. I crack up when I get to the part about Cynar, a liquor made from artichokes. Sounds disgusting I know but it's quite good on the rocks with soda. We have it. No one orders it. Hmmm. I wonder how that would taste mixed with Red Bull………….

Gerald interrupts my reverie.

"The lady on 26 left her credit card on the table," he says handing me the checkbook.

I look at the folder. Not only did she forget her card – she forgot to sign the receipt and leave a tip.

"Was this woman drunk?" I ask.

"I wish she was," Gerald replies, "she and might have been less of a bitch."

"What was the problem?"

"You know the type," Gerald says drolly, ''water with lemon, chicken Caesar spilt, and three hours of prattling with her friend."

"You can retire on checks like that," I observe humorlessly.

"You'll take care of it?" Gerald asks.

"I'll lock up the card," I reply, "maybe she'll come back for it."

"Ok."

Two hours go by. The lady doesn't come back. I call the credit card company.

"Hello, Credit Card Company," a pleasant voice chirps, "How can I help you?"

"A patron left her card behind in my restaurant," I say, "Could you call her and let her know we have it?"

"What's the number on the card?" the rep asks.

I rattle of some digits.

"Thank you sir," the rep says, "that card has now been deactivated."

"Wait a minute," I yelp, "I just wanted you to call the woman and tell her we have her card!"

"I'm sorry but its procedure to invalidate a card when it's reported lost or stolen."

"Could you at least call the lady and tell her she left her card here?" I ask.

"I'm not allowed to relay messages to a card member," the rep drones robotically.

"But…."

"Please destroy the card."

"But…."

"Destroying the card protects you and the customer," the rep continues.

"But…."

"Thank you for calling the Credit Card Company. Have a nice day."

Click.

Gerald comes back up to the hostess stand.

"Were you able to get a hold of her?" he asks.

"I called the credit card company and they canceled the card."

"Why didn't you call information and try and get her number?"

Now why didn't I think of that? Maybe because I'm exhausted.

"Too late now," I say.

"Try anyway."

I call information. The name on the card is unique. Of course they have her number. I ring her up.

"Hello," a professional voice answers.

"This is %*&%* at The Bistro. You left your credit card here."

"Oh yes I know."

"I'm sorry but I tried to have the credit card company contact you and they invalidated the card."

"WHAT!!!!!!" the woman shrieks, "I just got that card!"

"I'm sorry. I should've tried to call information and find you. But my first impulse was to call the credit card company."

"THAT WAS THE WRONG IMPULSE!" the woman yells.

"Well it's been deactivated for your protection."

"You're really stupid," the woman huffs.

"Well madam," I reply angrily, "you left your card here, didn’t sign the bill, and forgot to leave the waiter a tip. I don't know you. What would you have me do?"

"Now I have to get a brand new card!" the woman moans ignoring my tirade.

I look at the name embossed on the card. It has the letters Ph.D on the end.

"Pardon me," I ask, "are you a psychologist?"

"I'm a therapist," she says, "Why?"

"Just satisfying my curiosity," I murmur.

The woman hangs up violently. I hope she wasn't with a patient. Then again I feel bad for anyone she's treating. I cut up the card into tiny pieces and dispose of it.

Gerald returns. "So what happened?" I tell him.

"So I don't get a tip?" he asks.

"Something tells me you weren't getting one anyway," I reply.

Gerald laughs. "Fuck her."

I echo the sentiment and return to my paper. I look at the clock. Monday will be my first day off after eleven double shifts. I can't wait. Phone calls like this don't help. I'm burnt out. I start praying for a blackout so I can close early.

Of course it doesn't happen. I'm not gonna make it three more days.

I better get some Prozac soon. They should start putting it in Red Bull.

Hmmmm. Now there's a million dollar idea.

Attention! Waiter Rant has moved to www.waiterrant.net!

2005-07-28T11:36:00.000-04:00

Attention Loyal Waiter Rant Readers!

Waiter Rant is going to be down for maintenance for a short time today. The changes I hinted at earlier are coming soon. I have worked 70 hours so far this week without a day off. After I get some rest (and time to write) I'll post more new stories.

2005-07-25T01:57:00.000-04:00

Baby Bucks

I'm tired.

Fluvio went on vacation and I'm stuck minding the store. I've got seven more double shifts till he comes back. I'm worried. It's only Sunday and I'm already punchy. There are bags under my eyes and my cheeks ache from maintaining the customer friendly smile. My feet hurt. Every customer is becoming an obstacle to overcome. I dread the phone. Waiters constantly harass me with problems. By the end of the week I'll probably be psychotic.

The Sunday rush ends. The last tables are finishing their espressos. Soon the Bistro will be empty. I look at the clock. Fifteen minutes till closing. Thank God. I want to be in bed before midnight. I start doing my cashout.

I'm wondering why the drawer is short ten bucks when the door chimes. A youngish guy stands in the doorway. Damn.

"Can I help you sir?" I say cheerily, but my heart isn't in it.

"Can I get a drink and some take out?" the man asks.

The guy looks familiar. I spin through my mental rolodex of faces. Ah, there he is. Dan something or other. Cute wife. He proposed to her in my section two years ago. I stuck the ring on a piece of tiramisu. Now they're expecting their first child. Tempus Fugit.

"How's your lovely wife sir?" I ask, smiling at the memory of his spouse, laden with child, sweating like a pig in the July heat.

"She had the baby earlier this evening," he replies with a wan smile.

"Congratulations!" I offer.

"Thanks."

I can’t help but notice this guy doesn't look entirely happy.

"Mother and baby are both well?" I ask carefully.

"Yeah they're both ok. Jen was in labor for twenty four hours."

"Yikes"

"Now she wants Porcini Risotto from her favorite place," he says.

I groan inwardly and pull out my dupe pad. I have to let this guy get some food or my soul will burn in hell. The kitchen guys are gonna be pissed.

"So one Porcini Risotto. Anything for you sir?"

"Just a Ketel One on the rocks."

"Coming right up."

I put the risotto order in over protest and get the guy his drink.

"Here you go," I say handing the man a frosted highball glass. He scarfs the vodka down greedily.

"Want another?" I chuckle. If I just had a kid I'd drink too.

After a short pause New Dad replies, "No I'm good."

"Well it'll be twenty minutes until your entrée's ready. If you want another let me know," I offer as I return to the cash drawer to find my missing ten bucks.

I start counting but stop. Something's not right. Even with my back turned I can feel the tension coming off this guy in waves. I'm emotionally attenuated I guess. Chalk it up to my years working in a psychiatric hospital.

I turn around. New Dad's knee is bopping up and down nervously. His discomfort is making me anxious. I decide to intervene.

"So did you have a boy or a girl?" I ask.

"A girl."

"You poor man," I say winking.

"Tell me about it," the man sighs.

"God has an exquisite sense of justice sometimes doesn't he?"

That provokes a laugh. "You're right," the guy agrees.

Now you might think my comment's inappropriate but it isn't. Whenever men undergo a major life event, like getting married or having a baby, we guys tend to respond with a certain gallows humor. For example, my brother, on his wedding day, had to walk down a long dimly lit corridor to reach the main part of the church. As we groomsmen walked behind him, ostensibly to keep him from running away, I was reminded of a line from a movie. I couldn't help myself.

"Dead man walking!" I cried out.

The guys cracked up. The minister cracked up. My brother smiled nervously and walked to the altar to await his bride.

Now he's married and sipping beer on some beach in Maui with his beautiful wife.

My point? Sometimes a little ribbing helps soothe a guy's anxiety and snaps everything into proper perspective. Usually.

"And then there's dating. Oh man…." I continue saying to New Dad.

The guy's laugh's smaller this time. Actually he looks like he's about to throw up.

Ok, so maybe gallows humor isn't the way to go.

A quiet minute passes. The guy stares at the floor. He take a deep breath like he's about to say something. He doesn't. The clock ticks. I see moisture in his eyes.

"You'll be fine," I say gently.

The guy wipes his face quickly. "Yeah I know," he says, "but there's so much to worry about. I mean summer camp, private school, college. You know what college is gonna cost in eighteen years?"

"No idea."

"A million bucks!" he explodes.

"That much?" I wonder skeptically.

"And then there's braces, toys, broken arms," New Dad gushes as if a dam burst from within

I recognize what's happening. When New Dad held his baby for the first time the enormity of what's happening hit him. He's trying to process it all at once. I don't have kids of my own but I have friends who do. I've seen how they've handled it. I know what to say. I hope someone says it to me when my time comes.

"It's a lot of stuff but you'll break it down into small steps and it'll come together," I offer quietly.

"I guess," New Dad says.

"Think about everything at once and you'll go nuts," I say, "just remember, one day at a time."

"Your right," New Dad exhales.

"Enjoy your little girl. She's only a baby once."

I finally see a real smile. "She's beautiful," he says.

"I'll bet she is."

"You have kids?" New Dad asks.

"Me? Hell no. I just have joint custody of a dog."

"You'd be a good father."

I feel myself blushing. "Thank you sir."

"How old are you?"

"Thirty seven," I reply. New Dad is about ten years my junior.

"Well, be sure you have them before it's too late…"

"Sir," I say clasping my hand on New Dad's shoulder, "one of the great things about being a guy is we can still make babies twenty minutes after we're dead."

New Dad emits a soul cleansing laugh.

"I have plenty of time," I reassure him.

"You're a funny guy," New Dad says.

"I try sir."

The food's ready. I slip a tiramisu, gratis, into the bag, run the check, and take the order to New Dad.

"All set sir," I say, "and since your wife likes tiramisu so much I threw one in on the house."

"Thank you," New Dad says shaking my hand.

"You're very welcome."

The guy signs the check and leaves. I watch him walk off into the night his life changed forever. That kid's gonna be all right.

When I open the checkbook and my exhaustion dissipates. On a thirty dollar check the guy tipped me fifty bucks. Totally unexpected.

As I close up the Bistro I can't wipe the grin off my face. Baby bucks!

Ka-Ching.

I hope this guy has lots of babies.

Attention! Waiter Rant has moved to www.waiterrant.net! Please update your bookmarks and links to www.waiterrant.net

2005-07-22T13:07:00.000-04:00

To the Rescue!

I've received a couple of aggrieved emails lamenting that I haven't written many posts this week. I'm grateful to have readers that eagerly await each post. The readers, as you can see by the comments, are one of the major reasons why Waiter Rant's traffic has steadily risen over the past months. Thank you!

Normally I post two to three times per week. This past week has been especially crazy for me. My brother got married over the weekend. Now, "Fluvio," my boss, is going on vacation and I'm going to be living at the Bistro for the next twelve days. That's right – I'm gonna have to drag my laptop to work!

Right now, this instant, I'm sitting to write a post when Fluvio calls.

"Hello?"

"Get over here. Gwen is throwing up all over the place."

Oh, that's appetizing.

I groan and look at the clock. It's too early to be hearing this shit.

"So what do you want me to do?" I ask.

"The restaurant is full and I have no one to work," Fluvio says. I can hear the near panic rising in his voice.

"Can Gwen hold on till I get there?" I ask.

"I don't think so."

I sigh deeply. I wanted to post today. But I've got a job to do. I've got to go now.

"I'm on my way boss," I say. Off to the rescue. Again.

"Thanks!" Fluvio says hanging up.

Folks - I've got to go! I'm a waiter after all!

Have a nice weekend. New stories next week!

Attention! Waiter Rant has moved to www.waiterrant.net. Please change your links and bookmarks to www.waiterrant.net. Thanks!

2005-07-20T13:25:00.000-04:00

Lawyer Blog

"It is the trade of lawyers to question everything, yield nothing, and to talk by the hour." - Thomas Jefferson

Over the past couple of weeks I've been reading Opinionistas, a blog written by a young female lawyer in NYC. In addition to her describing life as an indentured billable hour servant, replete with grueling hours and impossible workloads, she also describes colleagues sloughing off their youthful idealism as they struggle inside the pressure cooker environment of a major law firm. I particularly liked this entry - Casting That Stone. It’s about how some women seem to abandon their hard earned professional lives in pursuit of safe, boring, marriageable men. Opinionista wonders if women have evolved, if at all, during the past sixty years of feminist awareness.

But what I really like about this blog is that you get the sense the author is in the midst of a psychological struggle of her own. In her world of high priced graduate schools, expensed lunches, and status hungry sycophants; everyone is constantly comparing themselves to everybody else. Do I make enough money? Am I more successful? Why is she married and not me? Who's got a corner office? Why did that associate get the deal? It can be a toxic soul eroding landscape that not everyone survives with decency intact.

Its obvious Opinionista has second thoughts about being a lawyer. Her ambivalence permeates the entire blog and you wonder what she'll end up doing. Will she chuck her expensive law school degree? Or will she make whatever accommodations she needs to make within herself to remain a lawyer? It's a process all professionals struggle with when they realize the career they've dreamed about since high school isn't all it's cracked up to be.

Well written and humorous - I recommend you check Opinionista out. The author does "question everything" but yields insights into a slice of life we might otherwise have never known about.

Go read!

2005-07-19T13:47:00.000-04:00

My Name is Clark Kent

Now that I'm thirty-seven I need glasses in order to read. Not prescription eyewear, just a good set of readers you can pick up at any pharmacy. Years of reading books, peering into computer monitors, and working in low lighting have taken their toll. At least the glasses lend me a professorial air.

I'm constantly taking the glasses on and off. I'm always reading something – a dupe pad, the POS monitor, or an order form. Sometimes I'm wearing them tableside. Sometimes I'm not. This occasionally leads to confusion….

A four top sits in my section. I'm wearing my glasses. I go to the table, special, cocktail them, and take their order.

When I deliver the apps I've taken the glasses off.

"Excuse me," a rather distinguished looking man says, "Could you ask our waiter to come over here?"

Huh? I am the waiter.

"I beg your pardon sir?" I ask.

"Could you get the waiter with the glasses?"

I stifle a laugh. Without my spectacles this guy thinks I'm a completely different person.

"Right away sir," I reply.

I duck out of sight and put my glasses back on. I return to the table.

"How can I help you sir?"

"I’d like another Manhattan please," the man asks.

I make a little bow and go to make the man's drink. I take my glasses off and deliver the cocktail to him.

"Who wanted the Manhattan?" I call out.

"It’s for me," the man signals.

As I place the drink in front of him he peers at me intently.

"Hey, you’re the same guy!" the man yelps.

"Actually my evil twin works here too. I guess you've met him," I reply winking.

The table busts out laughing.

"Arthur it's always been the same guy. You’re the one who needs glasses," his wife teases.

Chagrined the man take a sip of his drink. "Your other brother is the handsome one," he says.

Touche my brother. Touché.

I put my glasses back on. The table's cracking up. "So I look better with the glasses on?" I ask.

"Actually nothing can improve your mug," the man ripostes. I like this guy. He's customer you can screw with.

An optometrist eats in our bistro almost every day. He's left us a pile of business cards. I leave the table and go and fetch one. Returning I hand the card to Arthur the Blind.

"Call this guy. He can help you pick out a nice pair," I say triumphantly.

"Ok, ok," the man says waving his hands in surrender.

"If I may say sir, you desperately need them," I continue. The table is in stitches.

"I like your other brother better," Arthur laughs.

"Make sure you leave him a nice tip," I counter.

Arthur's wife turns to me and says, "You are the first waiter to ever give it back to him. Good for you."

Lady, I'm letting him off easy.

"For everything there is a first time," I say.

The table finishes dinner. I hand the check to Arthur sans spectacles.

"Here you go sir. Please don't be mad at my brother. He's a bad, bad waiter."

The man chuckles and takes the checkbook. When I return the book is stuffed with cash.

"That's all for you," Arthur says smiling.

"Thank you sir,"

I move out of sight and count out the bills. On a $200 check I get fifty bucks. Righteous.

The table gets up to leave. I thank the man for his generosity.

"You're a good sport sir," I say.

You really threw me with the glasses."

"Well sir," I say opening the door for him, "now I know how Clark Kent got away with it for so long."

The man roars with laughter and walks out into the humid night.

As I watch him go I realize Clark Kent and I have a lot in common. Like the reporter from the Daily Planet I too have a secret identity to protect.

Mild mannered waiter by day – Superblogger by night! Hey, I've always wanted to be a superhero. I think I'll indulge myself in that delusion for a while.

Just call me Clark Kent.

Now where's a phone booth?

2005-07-14T13:05:00.000-04:00

Because I'm Pretty?

A while back we had a waitress I'll call Sue. Initially she seemed like a good worker, but, after a few weeks, her true work ethic became glaringly apparent. Unwilling to work her way up the totem pole, she felt she was entitled to the best shifts, always came late, did minimal side work, and somehow managed to leave before everyone else. But when Sue was on the floor she made a bundle in tips. Why?

Sue was twenty-two and drop dead gorgeous.

I'm not talking run of the mill cute. Sue was Playboy Bunny/pornstar/supermodel amazing looking. Her sex appeal was a living breathing palpable force. Ernesto, one of the sous chefs, turned into a quivering lump of guacamole whenever she entered the kitchen. Sue could transform grown men into eager to please little boys and subdue women into awestruck silence. Well aware of her "assets," Sue used them to the utmost.

One day during the summer, at the start of the shift, Sue comes up to me.

"Can I leave early tonight?"

"Why?" I ask warily.

"Because I'm going to the shore with (Insert rich guys name here) and he wants to get there by 10pm," Sue explains.

"We're busy tonight. I'll probably need you," I say.

"But he really wants to pick me up early."

"Good for him," I snort.

"Please," Sue pouts.

"We'll see."

Sue puts her purse on the table. "But I've already packed my bag," she says with a mischievous smile.

"You put all your stuff in that thing?" I ask in amazement.

Sue reaches into her bag and pulls out an electric blue bikini, a slinky one piece miniskirt, a thong, and a pair of high heels.

"You see I'm all ready to go," she whispers slyly.

Goddamn. This girl packed all her stuff into a small purse. I'm not immune to Sue's charms. The thought of her in that bikini gets my mind racing. But then again that's exactly the effect she was going for.

"Talk to me later," I say excusing myself. I need a cold shower.

The night is, of course, crazy busy. Sue works the floor and makes a ton of cash. Around nine o'clock she comes up to me again.

"My boyfriend's outside. Can you finish up my last table so I can go?"

I look out the window. Her "boyfriend" is in his forties and drives a Porsche.

I glance at my watch. Truth be told, the other waiters are hungry for cash and wouldn't mind picking up her slack. I have no reason to keep her here.

"What's going on with your last table?" I ask.

"Oh it's a bunch of guys. They're almost finished." Sue says.

"Ok you can go."

Sue happily runs downstairs to change. I go over to the POS computer. The check on Sue's last table is $300. I transfer it to my number.

When Sue returns she's in her miniskirt and high heels. The effect is stunning.

"Well have a nice time," I say appreciatively.

"Thanks," she replies, "You can give me that table's tip the next time I see you."

??????????

"I'm sorry what did you say?" I ask dumbfounded.

"You can give me the tip from those guys on Monday." she clarifies.

"Uh – no."

"What?" Sue stammers in disbelief.

"If you leave early the tip's mine," I tell her.

"But those guys are gonna leave me a big tip." Sue protests.

"Thanks for the money," I reply, "Appreciate it."

"You can't do that," Sue exclaims.

"Nothing in this world's free darling."

"But……"

I hold out my hands like a scale and weigh out her options. "Boyfriend or money?" I tease.

Sue's face flushes a deep red.

"Money or boyfriend? I say moving my hands up and down. I start to hum the tune from Jeopardy. I know, I know – I can be a real prick sometimes.

The boyfriend impatiently raps on the window and points at his watch.

Sue pulls on her lower lip. Looking at me seductively she says, "You're just kidding. I know you'll give me the tip."

I cross my arms and stare into her big blue eyes.

"Why on earth should I let you leave early and still give you the tip from that table?" I ask.

Sue thinks about that for a moment. She's struggles to find an answer. Finally she says,

"Because I'm pretty?"

I can hear Betty Friedan rolling in her grave. I laugh out loud.

"You've got to be shitting me."

Sue's face hardens into a brittle mask. Suddenly she's not pretty anymore.

"I'll tell Fluvio you're stealing my tips," she hisses.

"Fluvio will give me your tip himself," I shoot back.

'That's not fair," she yelps.

"Life's not fair babe."

"And I thought you were a nice guy," she says.

"You shouldn't confuse being a nice with being a tool."

"I can't believe your taking my money," she stammers.

"Sue, to be honest, I'm tired of your bullshit," I say, "and your social life is your problem."

Sue storms out.

I finish Sue's table. The guys leave her, or rather me, $100.

"Make sure the girl gets that," one of the men burbles.

"But of course sir," I say slipping the C Note into my pocket.

After the work the staff pile into a bar for drinks. Thanks to Sue's largesse the drinks are on her. I explain to Fluvio what happened.

"If she asks me for that tip she's in for big surprise," he says.

"She's cute but she's a pain in the ass," I say sipping my beer.

"She's never happy with her schedule," Fluvio ruminates.

"Since she's so busy at night why don't you assign her to lunch shifts?" I ask.

Fluvio smiles. Lunch shifts are a waiter's death sentence.

"Permanently," I add.

"I think I will" Fluvio agrees. We toast each other.

Sue quit the next week. Ernesto was miserable.

Whether you're a boy or a girl – looks can only take you so far.

And I am not a tool.

2005-07-12T14:26:00.000-04:00

Check Please

Ah, the check – my favorite part of your meal.

I know this is the part of the dining experience most people could do without. But it's when I get paid! A lot of people are idiots when it comes to the simple act of paying for services rendered so I've compiled a little tutorial to make the whole currency exchange a little smoother.

1. Know when it's time to leave. Are you finished? Plates cleared? Dessert and coffee gone? Are there twenty customers waiting by front door for a table? Is the waiter hovering nervously around your table? Did the hostess offer to get your coats? That's probably because the restaurant needs the table. It's our fault we overbooked the restaurant you say? Not so fast. 15% of reservations never show up! What are we supposed to do? Lose that money? No – so we overbook Take the hint and get out. I know that attitude ticks people off but a restaurant is a BUSINESS - not an extension of your living room. It's time to pay the bill.

2. Ask for the check. Sounds simple right? It's considered rude for a waiter to drop a check without the customer asking first. Some people are unaware of that convention so they sit around pissed off wondering why the waiter hasn't produced the checkbook. We're not psychic! A sure fire way to discreetly ask for the bill is to put your credit card or wallet on the table. We can figure out you want to leave. (However, if you do get the bill before asking for it that's waiter speak for "get out." A tactic usually employed when a waiter's under pressure from management to turn tables and increase revenue. Or the waiter just wants to go home- usually the later.)

3. Don’t fight over who's paying the bill. Sometimes your friend wants to pay for dinner. I say let them. However, if you anticipate a "fight" over whose the more generous party please keep the waiter out of it. We always lose out. Go to the waiter at the start of the meal and hand him your credit card. If there's still a disagreement the waiter will follow the following rules to avoid dropping the check on the table like a hockey puck and letting you scramble over it:

a. Will give check to the regular customer of he or she demands it.
b. Will give check to person who made the reservation.
c. Will give check to person he or she knows is the better tipper.
d. Hand the check to the five year old and crack everyone up.

I've had people chase me and try and take their friend's credit card out of my hand so they could pay the bill. Don't make a scene. Grab something out of my hand and you'll have more than the bill to worry about.

4. Don't fight over who's not paying the bill. Sadly this is the reverse of Rule # 3 – no one wants to pay the bill. Every waiter recognizes this situation. You've dropped the check and no one make a move to pay it. Passive aggressiveness all around. This usually happens with adults eating with grown children or excessively parsimonious middle aged yuppies. Occasionally they get into shouting matches. Someone had better pay – and fast.

5. Sticker Shock. Can't believe how high the bill is? Well the prices are posted on the menu. Did you ask the server how much that Osso Buco on special was? No? Caveat emptor pal. Don't complain to me about the prices because I don't set them. It's your responsibility to keep track of what you're spending not mine. My job? I'm like a stripper. It's my job to separate you from as much of your money as possible.

6. Let your server know the check is ready. Don't leave the checkbook lying forgotten in the middle of the table while you're having your "my son/daughter is more successful than yours/I make more than money than you/I live in a nicer building/I'm thinner/I have a better job than you" conversation. The waiter has things to do. He can't hover over your table waiting to see if you placed cash or a credit card in the checkbook. You have to let the server know it's ready to be picked up. We hate going to the table and asking "can I take that for you?" when you haven't even looked at it. Ways to avoid any unpleasantness are:

a. If you're paying in cash make sure the bills are peeking out of the checkbook.
b. If you're paying by credit card use the old stand by – set the checkbook upright on the table with the credit card sticking out.
c. For the love of God don't put the bill in your lap, under a napkin, or, my favorite, lean on it with your elbows. That's some passive aggressive shit. It screams that you don't want to part with your cash. Don't look like a cheap bastard. Just give me the friggin check.

7. Splitting the bill. That's easy. Most restaurants' computer systems can split a bill four or five ways. If it's a mix of credit cards and cash explain how you would like me to process the bill. Separate checks? Unless you asked at the beginning of the meal for separate checks you ain't getting 'em. There is no way I can remember who got what two hours later. Fuck you and your expense account.

8. PAY IN CASH! – If at all possible pay in cash. The owner will love you. The waiter will love you. Why? Credit card companies charge a fee for every transaction. (Some unscrupulous owners take the transaction fee out of a waiter's tips. It's illegal but it happens.) Now I don't always pay in cash when I go out. I'm not unreasonable. But leaving the TIP in cash will always make you the waiter's friend.

9. Dine and Dash – Thinking about skipping out on the bill? Don't even think about it. I will chase you down like a dog and hold you till the cops arrive. You ain't doing dishes – you're going to jail. If a customer skips out on the bill it's the WAITER who has to pay for it. I'm sorry but I don't like you that much

10. Credit card declined? Nothing warms the cockles of my heart than to tell some Sex in the City wannabe, "I'm sorry but this card is experiencing some difficulty." (Translation? – YOUR CARD'S NO GOOD YOU LIVING BEYOND YOUR MEANS DICKWAD!) Don't argue with me either because I've run the card several times. That's why there's a bunch of declined slips in your checkbook! And don't get on your cell phone and fight with your credit card company. It makes you look like an asshole. Just give me a card you haven't maxed out at the Sharper Image.

11. No money? Hey it happens. People occasionally leave their wallet or purse at home. If you're a regular, no sweat, we'll get you the next time. But if I don't know you? I'm taking hostages. Leave your wife or girlfriend behind as a bargaining chip while you go and secure funding. If you don't come back? You'll have given your companion a date she'll never forget.

(It also helps to leave your cell phone, PDA, Rolex, or youngest child with the waiter until you come back with the money. Don't worry. We'll take good care of them.)

12. Don't subsidize your friend's meal. This has happened to all of us. You get a salad and a bowl of pasta. Your friend gets the rack of lamb and several martinis. When the bill comes he or she says. "Let's split it." That's bullshit. Grow some balls and stand up for yourself. Make them pay for what they ate.

13. THE TIP What do I need to say that I haven't said already? You know what to do. 15% and up.

14. Automatic gratuity. Most places add a mandatory 18% gratuity or service charge on parties of six or more. Language is important here. If it's listed as a gratuity you're under no legal obligation to pay that amount. (You will, however, discover you'll have a tough time getting reservations in the future) If it says "service charge" you're legally obligated to pay it. Don't like it? Cry me a river. I can dial 911 really fast. The French Laundry adds an 18% service charge to EVERY bill so give me a break.

15. The Double Tip. Now here's where reading Waiter Rant pays off for you the consumer. Beware of the Double Tip! Sometimes customers, often drunk, are unaware the gratuity is added to the bill so they TIP ON TOP OF IT! Example:

Bill - $100
Mandatory Gratuity - $18 (figured pre tax)
Total $118

Customer stupidly leaves $141.

That's $23 extra bucks! Now some waiters will be pissed that I'm telling you about this little secret but tough shit. It’s dishonest and I'd rather you come back to my bistro and give me money over the long haul. It doesn't pay to alienate customers with petty thievery. That being said – if the customer's a complete asshole my ethics might get compromised real fast.

16. Don't bitch to me about the taxes on the bill. Do I look like the governor? Write your assemblymen.

17. Making sure you did the right thing. Most waiter manuals say its bad form to take a paid check of the table before the customer leaves. That's crazy. I always check the bill before a customer walks out the door. Why? To make sure there are no problems. I can't tell you how many times the customer has taken BOTH credit card slips. It also helps to embarrass the shit out of some tightwad who's stiffed me on the tip. I position myself at the front door when they leave and say "Oh thank you for the nice tip sir!." Asshole. Don't come back.

18. Don't think the check is the credit card slip! Customers, usually smashed out of their minds, think they've handed me their plastic and sign the bill thinking it's the credit card receipt. Hold on! I need the credit card FIRST Einstein. Don't make me chase you!

19. Repeat after me. The yellow copy's yours. The white one's mine. The yellow copy's yours. The white one's mine.

20. I say "Thank You." You say "You're welcome."

21. Problems with the bill? Ask for a manager. Since I'm the manager at my place pray I'm in a good mood. Your rights as a customer?

a. Bill should be clearly itemized and legible. (Does not apply at Dim Sum restaurants)
b. Never pay for what you didn't order.
c. If you see something on the bill you don't understand you have every right to have the matter explained courteously to you.
d. If an establishment says it takes a certain credit card on the door than they have to take it. I ate at a French place once and paid with Amex. The waiter said, "We prefer Visa." I said I saw an Amex logo on the door. "We still prefer Visa," he said. "Well I prefer American Express," I replied handing him the card. He ran it grudgingly. Tough shit pal. Some waiters can be assholes.

22. Paid up? Go home.

If you have any additional guidelines I didn't think of feel free to leave your suggestions in the comments section.

Addendum

Ask for change. If you hand me a checkbook filled with cash tell me if you want money back. Sometimes this isn't a problem. If you hand me two hundred dollar bills and the check's $130 that's a no-brainer. However, if you hand me a hundred dollar bill and the bill's $80 am I assume you're a great tipper? Should I keep it? Let your server know.

2005-07-07T10:49:00.000-04:00

London 7/07/05

"The way was long and weary, But gallantly they strode, A country lad and lassie, Along the heavy road. The night was dark and stormy, But blithe of heart were they, For shining in the distance The lights of London lay. O gleaming lights of London, that gem of the city's crown; What fortunes be within you, O Lights of London Town!" - George Robert Sims

Hang in there guys. Our thoughts are with you.

The lights of London shall always burn bright!

2005-07-07T00:01:00.000-04:00

Special People

It's Sunday afternoon and the Bistro's packed with retarded people.

No, I'm not dissing Yuppies again. The customers are all part of a tour group. With the exception of a few staff members, the entire crowd consists of "differently abled" or "special" people. Since Sunday's are usually slow Fluvio booked the party and gave them a moderately priced package. Eating at the Bistro is a real change for these people. I know. Years ago I ran a group home for developmentally disabled adults. Going to IHOP was the norm.

"I want cheesecake!" one of the customers shouts. He hasn’t even gotten his salad yet.

"Don't you be worried. You'll get your cheesecake," Fluvio says smiling.

"I want it now!" the man yells.

"Hey, I cook for you and you don't want it?" Fluvio teases jokingly.

"Sorry," the man replies.

I look at Fluvio. He's managing this beautifully. Occasionally he gets flustered with customers but today he's the soul of patience.

"You're handling this really well," I tell him.

"Someone in my family is like these people," he replies.

Ah I think to myself. Just when you think you know someone they surprise you.

"Well I used to work with these people so I'm impressed."

"Thanks," Fluvio says.

I survey the crowd. Like people in general, retarded people have a variety of personalities. Some are rambunctious. Others are quiet. I note most of the people say "please" and "thank you." A couple sits together holding hands. She's wearing a simple dress. The man's wearing a suit twenty years out of style. They seem to enjoy each others company.

"Excuse me sir," another woman calls out.

"Yes madam?" I reply.

"I don't have any money," she says opening her empty purse for emphasis.

"I think it's already taken care of madam." The staff's probably holding the money.

"Ok," she says eyes downcast.

"Enjoy you dinner Madam."

The entrée's come out and the customers tuck into it with gusto. The staff retires to the coffee machine for a break

"So you used to work with these people?" Beth asks me.

"Jeez," I say shaking my head, "that was like fourteen years ago." Time flies.

"Did you enjoy it?"

"It was hands down the hardest job I ever had."

"How long did you work there?"

"One year."

"That's not a long time."

"It was all I could take."

"Sounds rough," Beth says.

I smile. "Beth, let me tell you a story……..

I'm twenty-three, unemployed, and living at home. That's, to put it mildly, putting a crimp in my social life. One day I see an ad in the help wanted section.

Wanted
Residential Group Home Manager for
Developmentally Disabled Adults
$22,000 a year Studio Apartment included.

The pay sucks but at least I'd be out of my parent's house. I have a BA in Psych. I apply for the job and get it.

The job turns out to be incredibly hard. Most of the residents are severely autistic. I'm basically the primary caregiver because the rest of the staff at the home are a bunch of lazy shiftless bastards. They eat, sleep, watch TV, and collect a paycheck. I fire all of them.

Within three months I find a new staff. After some fits and starts the home starts to run like a well oiled machine. The residents seem happier. In my spare time I turn my studio apartment into a swinging bachelor pad. Attached to the group home it has a private entrance but can be accessed through a door in the residents' living room. It's small but it's mine. I even buy a new bed.

I'm eager to break it in – if you know what I mean.

Sure enough nature takes its course and late one night I bring a young woman back to my "place." As I pull in the driveway I see a big moon face peer out the window. It’s Tony. He's twenty five years old, two hundred and thirty pounds, and autistic. He's my toughest client.

I wave to Tony. His face disappears behind the curtain. He never sleeps. He prowls around the house all night talking to himself. The doctor's are trying to titer his medication to a therapeutic level. So far no luck.

The girl and I enter through the private entrance. I told her the deal with my apartment. She didn't seem to care.

Once inside she turns to me.

"Cute place."

"Thanks"

"I have to use the bathroom. Why don't you put on some music?" she asks slyly.

"Right away."

I light some candles and put my cool new Enigma CD into the stereo. The girl returns from the bathroom.

"Nice music,' she says.

"Yeah aren't they great?" (Hey, I'm only 23)

"Come here," she purrs.

Soon we're making out. Her shirt comes off. I pull her towards my bed. I reach around to undo her bra.

I fumble with the clasp. Ah Waiter - you smooth operator you.

"Let me help you," the girl says breathily. She reached back and undoes the clasp easily. Her bra starts to slip off. I'm salivating.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Someone's banging on the door from inside the group home. A strange disembodied voice cries out,

"HELP! HELP! DON"T YOU HURT HER! DON'T HURT HER! MISSES HEALY? MISSES HEALY? I'M YOU'RE FRIEND. YES. BOOOOWEEEEEOPPPP!"

Oh God, it’s Tony. He's having an episode.

"Who the hell is that?" the girl says clutching me in terror.

"One of the residents. Don't worry about it," I say eager to see her goodies.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

"Don't you think you should see what's up?" the girl says putting her bra back on.

Aggravated I go to the door and open it.

Tony stands naked in the door. He has an erection. He's masturbating furiously.

"Jesus!" the girl shrieks.

The irony that I also have an erection is not lost on me.

"DON’T YOU HURT HER!" Tony yells at me.

Just great.

I gently guide Tony back into the house. The overnight staff and I put him to bed. We remind Tony that if he wants to masturbate he needs to do it in PRIVATE.

"Ok," he says.

"Good night Tony."

I return to my apartment. The girl's fully dressed with her purse in her hand.

"I want to go home.'

"But…."

"Now." Her tone brooks no disagreement.

I take the girl home. It's the last time I see her……

"Oh my God. That's too funny," Beth laughs, "What happened to Tony?"

"Oh the story gets better," I reply, "The next morning he hit me in the head with a frying pan. When I tried to take it away from him he bit me on the arm. I had to go to the hospital."

"Wow," Beth says shaking her head.

"Tony was heading for a crisis. He's just picked the night I was trying to get laid to flip out."

"No wonder you didn't last long," Beth chuckles.

"But it was a good experience," I say.

"Why?"

I look out upon our crowd of retarded customers and smile, "Because if I got cockblocked, hit with a fry pan, and bit in a twenty four period I think I can handle anything some Yuppie customer throws at me."

"True," Beth concurs.

"Besides," I say, "these guys are a really nice group of people."

"The people out there are better behaved than half our regular customers," Beth says.

I burst out laughing.

"At least they say please and thank you!"

"You're right."

The dinner ends and the special people leave happy. They leave us a nice tip. Go figure. .....

Ok. Ok.

So I dissed the Yuppies a little bit.

And no - I never figured out who "Misses Healy" was.

2005-07-06T14:15:00.000-04:00

My Sister's Keeper

I'm sitting in a bar after work with Beth and Arlene. It was a long night and we're rewarding ourselves with some post shift libations.

Beth's drinking a beer. I'm finishing up a dirty martini. Arlene, who is almost seven months pregnant, is sipping her single disciplined glass of wine.

I signal to the bartender for another drink. Arlene looks at me forlornly.

"Hey that's not fair," she says, "I can only have one."

"When you're in the recovery room I'll bring a pitcher of martinis instead of flowers," I quip.

"I still can't have it. I'll be breastfeeding," Arlene replies tartly.

I laugh. "I guess you're drinking days are behind you Mommy."

Arlene smiles. She just turned thirty. This is her first child. Her entire life is about to change.

The bartender sets a fresh drink in front of me. I take a sip. Mmmm. Ice cold.

"Hey look over there," Beth says nudging me.

"What is it?"

"Another pregnant lady at the bar," she giggles.

A very large pregnant woman struggles onto a bar stool. The bartender goes up to her. She orders a Jack & Coke.

"Jesus – that's a bit much," I remark.

The barman deposits the drink in front of her. She sucks it down in under a minute. Wiping her mouth she gets up and waddles outside onto the patio. She lights up a cigarette.

"Can you believe that?" Arlene says in horror.

"I'm afraid I do," I reply sadly.

We watch the woman as she returns to the bar and proceeds to drink herself into a stupor. Some of her running buddies join her. They start to get loud.

"I don't think I can see anymore of this," Arlene says rubbing her tummy nervously.

"Yeah, let's get out of here," Beth agrees.

I look over at the woman. She's having a good time, laughing uproariously at her friend's jokes, oblivious to the life growing inside her.

"Let's go," I say polishing off my drink.

We ask the barman for the bill. He brings it too us.

"Thirty bucks," he says. I reach for my wallet. Drinks are on me tonight.

"Hey! I want another drink," the pregnant lady calls out.

"Just a sec lady," the barman snaps.

As I count out the bills I whisper, "Don't you think that lady's had enough?"

The bartender stares at me blankly. "Not my problem," he replies.

"Yeah, but she's pregnant."

The bartender glances over at Arlene. She only drank half her wine. "I'm not my sister's keeper," he says shrugging.

I push the pile of bills towards him. "I guess you aren't," I mutter softly. The barman snatches up the cash and walks away.

"Ok, let's go," I sigh.

We walk out the French doors onto the patio. The air is thick with tobacco smoke. The pregnant woman comes up behind us with her fresh drink and lights up a cigarette. Arlene moves away from her.

The woman goes over to one of the outside tables and sits down. She starts talking to a young girl with dreadlocked hair and arms covered in tattoos. Off to her side is a little girl, maybe two years old, fast asleep in her baby carriage. She clutches a plush toy close to her chest.

My heart plummets. It's one in the morning.

"Jesus, those ladies are never going win Mother of the Year," Arlene says angrily.

"Who brings a little girl to a bar this late?" Beth asks.

I look at the little girl. I look at the pregnant woman.

"People who are angry at having kids," I reply.

Beth looks at me quizzically.

"Sometimes people are angry they have to grow up and get their shit together - so they take it out on their kids."

"Maybe," Beth says.

"The funny thing is most of the anger is subconscious. If you asked them they would tell you that their kid is the most important thing in the world."

"Well they're not acting like it," Beth replies.

"Those women shouldn't have kids," Arlene says throwing in her two cents.

"Probably not," I sigh.

We walk Arlene to her car and say our farewells. I go home. I can't get the little girl in the carriage out of my head.

A couple of days later I've got a pregnant woman in my section. She orders a glass of Merlot. No big deal. After she finishes her appetizer she orders another. I bring it reluctantly.

The woman finishes her entrée. The table is cleared. I bring the dessert menus.

The woman waves me off. "No dessert for me," she says, "But I'll have another glass of wine." I notice she's slurring her words slightly.

I remember the alcoholic pregnant lady from a few nights ago. I think about the little girl in her baby carriage.

"I'm sorry madam," I reply, "I cannot bring you another drink."

The woman stares at me in surprise. "Why not?" she asks.

"I just can't."

Our eyes lock. A few seconds pass. The woman starts to say something but reconsiders. She knows why I won't serve her.

"I make a mean cappuccino," I offer in conciliation.

"That's probably a good idea honey," her husband chimes in. Great pal. Now you decide to find your balls.

The woman lets out a deep breath. "Ok. Just make it decaf."

I win.

"Thank you madam," I reply gratefully.

The man and woman finish their desserts and leave. The tip's 15%. I'm lucky these people didn't make a scene.

The night ends. I go into the bathroom to wash my hands and face. As I'm toweling off I look my reflection.

My father once told me that if you're ashamed of what you see in the mirror you're in trouble.

I think about my pregnant customer. Sometimes we are our sister's keeper.

The man in the mirror smiles back at me. I'm not in trouble.

At least not yet.

2005-07-05T01:45:00.000-04:00

Animal Cop

It's Sunday morning and I'm hurting.

My brother's bachelor party was Friday night and I'm still trying to shake off the after effects. My pounding headache morphed into fatigue about the same time my joints began to throb. Goddamn that scantily clad shooter girl and her $2 tubes of poison. Why did she pour that stuff down my throat? Oh that's right – I asked her to. Things are still kinda of hazy.

I hole up behind the hostess stand with a newspaper and an extra large cup of coffee. My eyes feel like the inside of an empty beer bottle. I've got to be on the floor twelve hours today. I have no idea how I'm going to make it. I turn to the paper and start reading about the lusty fight brewing over Sandra Day O' Conner's replacement. I remember when she was appointed.

Engrossed in thrilling reading about Originalist versus Deferential Judicial Conservatism I begin to forget how much pain I'm in. The Bistro's slow. Everyone's away for the holiday. I take a sip of my coffee and settle in for a slow afternoon. I pray no one bothers me.

Suddenly a shadow falls across my paper. God's seems to be ignoring me today.

"Excuse me how long has that dog been there?" a female voice says.

I look up. An intense looking middle aged woman hovers over me.

"I'm sorry. What did you say?" I ask painfully.

"I said how long has that dog been in that car?" the lady says pointing towards the street.

I look outside. A little dog is sitting inside a Mercedes Benz.

"I don't know Madam."

"Well it's been cooped up there since we've been here," the lady huffs.

"And how long have you been here?" I inquire.

"Half an hour."

"So what's the problem?"

The woman glares at me. "You shouldn't leave a dog inside a hot car."

"But Madam, it's not hot out."

"Look at the poor thing. He's suffering," she says oblivious to me.

I look back at the dog. His tail's wagging.

"He seems alright to me."

"I can't enjoy my meal with this going on," the woman pouts.

The woman's a kook. The dog's fine. What do I look like? The ASPCA?

"Madam, if it appears the dog's in distress I'll call the cops," I say trying to humor her.

The woman shakes her head and returns to her window table. I turn back to my paper.

Five minutes later the woman comes back.

"Did you call the cops?" she asks.

"No Madam."

"Why not?"

"The dog's fine."

"How do you know?" she counters harshly.

I reluctantly put down my paper and go outside. The temperature's a pleasant 76 degrees. I walk up to the luxury automobile. The car's parked in the shade and the windows are open halfway. I reach inside. The dog licks my hand. His nose is cold and wet. He waves his tail excitedly. The interior of the car is cool. No problems. I walk back inside.

The woman is back at her table. I go over to reassure her.

"Madam, the inside of the car is cool. Everything's fine. Enjoy your lunch."

"You see Rachel," the woman's husband says, "the dog's ok."

"It's still wrong Bob," she counters.

"The waiter will keep on eye on him," Bob says.

Thanks for the promotion Bob. Now I'm the dogcatcher.

"I can't stand when people mistreat animals," Mrs. ASPCA growls cutting into her $25 hunk of charred animal flesh.

I smile to myself. That dog's chilling in a $100,000 car. The bovine she's eating wasn't so lucky. The last thing that went through its mind was a stainless steel bolt.

"Enjoy your steak madam," I say returning to the hostess stand.

I have a little dog. I take good care of him. If the pooch in the Benz was suffering I'd call the cops in a heartbeat. But there's no abuse going on here - just an overwrought woman whose passion has no connection to reality other than her need to indulge in some gratuitous self righteous anger. I turn back to my paper.

The door chimes. A pleasant looking lady comes in to order some takeout. As I'm writing down her order I notice the owner of the Mercedes has returned. His little girl's contentedly eating an ice cream cone. The dog tries to sneak in a lick. The girl giggles.

Suddenly Mrs. ASPCA runs out the front door almost running my takeout customer over.

"What's her problem?" Takeout Lady asks alarmed.

"I think she's seen one too many episodes of Animal Cops."

Ms. ASPCA goes up to the owner of the Benz and sticks her finger in his face. I can't hear what's she's saying through the window but it can't be good.

The man flushes with anger, but to his credit, makes a quick recovery. He talks to his accuser in what seems to be an even manner. The man's daughter looks frightened.

Meanwhile the little dog barks angrily at Mrs. ASPCA.

"I'll bet there's an interesting story behind all this," Takeout Lady remarks. I fill her in on the details.

"I love my dog too," she sighs, "but that lady's an idiot."

The Mercedes Benz pulls away. Mrs. ASPCA storms back inside.

"I want to leave Robert," she barks at her hapless mate.

"Let me pay bill first for Chrissakes," her husband growls. His wife returns outside to wait for him – her face contorted in a rictus of seething anger.

The husband asks for the bill. I ring it up for him and he pays it. He shakes his head.

"I'm sorry for the scene," he says quietly.

"What can I say? She likes animals," I reply.

The man smiles ruefully and leaves.

"That poor man," Takeout Lady says.

"Something tells me his wife loves her dog more than him," I reply.

"Well - you know what they call a female dog?" Takeout Lady asks grinning.

"Indeed I do madam," I chuckle

I hand the lady her order and wish her a nice day.

"Don't let this place go to the dogs," she laughs.

You ain't kidding," I reply.

Takeout Lady leaves. I turn back to my paper.

"Please God," I whisper, "no more lunatics today."

I hope He listens to me this time.

2005-07-01T09:30:00.000-04:00

Holiday Weekend

Hi everyone.

I'm sorry for the lack of posts this week. I've been really busy. My brother is getting married and tonight I'm dragging him out for his bachelor party. Of course, I have to wait tables the next evening! Working hung-over? That'll be fun. Pass the aspirin.

I'll be in no condition to write anything until Monday. Don't worry – I have plenty of stories. Some funny stuff happened at the Bistro this week.

Have a Happy July 4th Weekend!

2005-06-29T11:46:00.000-04:00

Smacking Saroya

It's a busy night. As I dash into the kitchen Saroya walks out with a plate of tiramisu in each hand. I'm not watching where I'm going. My shoulder catches her in the left eye.

"Owwww!" Saroya yelps almost dropping her desserts.

"I'm so sorry!" I apologize taking the plates out of her hands.

"My eye!"

"Let's go put some ice on it," I say pulling her over to the ice machine. I wrap a wet cloth around some ice and apply it to her eye socket.

"That hurt!" Saroya moans.

"Well it looks like you're ok. You didn’t smack into me hard. You're not going to get a black eye." I offer soothingly.

"My boyfriend is going to beat you up," Saroya whispers mischievously.

Saroya has been dating Armando, our assistant chef, for two years. They're moving into together next month. Armando is a BIG guy.

"Well," I sigh, "if I'm gonna get my ass kicked I might as well really pop you one,"

Saroya laughs, "You'd like that."

Saroya and I have worked together for four years. We're the top money makers at the Bistro. We've always had a mildly antagonistic, teasing, friendly relationship.

"You stay here with the ice and I'll go run your food." I say.

"Thanks."

I go into the kitchen and deliver Saroya's food to her tables. When I finish I explain to Armando what happened.

"No dinner for you," he says grinning.

"I'm sorry. It was an accident," I say.

"Don't worry about it."

Relieved that I've been spared physical retribution I go back to work.

A short while later I notice Saroya is fine. Her eye didn't swell up. I apologize again.

"Since you banged into me you're gonna have to pay the obstetrician bill," she pouts.

(Waiter turns to audience and grins.)

"If I banged into you Saroya and you needed an obstetrician, I think Armando would definitely kick my ass," I say.

"Huh?"

"Saroya an obstetrician is a doctor who delivers BABIES. An opthalmologist is an eye doctor. "

"Ooops!" Saroya says covering her mouth in embarrassment. She's originally from Honduras. While her English is excellent she still trips up on a few words.

"You don't want to mix those doctors up," I say.

"How do you say it? Optha…..?"

"Opthalmologist."

"Yes Armando would beat you up if I had to go to the obstetrician!"

"Everyday for nine months," I say ruefully

Saroya laughs evilly

"Be a beautiful baby though," I quip

Saroya mock slaps me on the arm, "You're a very bad man!" she gushes.

"No kidding," I reply.

Laughing softly to herself Saroya goes into the kitchen. Soon she and Armando are nuzzling sweetly in the corner.

Ah, I think to myself, love is blind. There's no opthalmologist in the world that can quantify what the heart sees. I look at Armando and Saroya. They're nice people. I hope everything works out for them. Who knows? Maybe they'll get married.

Then they'll really need an obstetrician.

2005-06-24T02:36:00.000-04:00

Gringo Cracker

We need a new dishwasher. Fluvio places an ad in the paper. We’re soon inundated with applicants.

Throughout the morning an onslaught of applicants trudge through the front door. They’re all Hispanic men. Hailing from places like Ecuador, El Salvador, and Mexico - eager to take the jobs Anglos turn their noses up at.

Most of the applicants don’t speak English. That’s a problem filling out the paperwork. My Spanish is terrible. That’s a shame since I’ve worked around Spanish speakers for several years. I should’ve learned. I ask Julia, one of our bi-lingual busgirls, to help me fill out the applications. It’s time consuming. I feel bad. Only one of these guys are going to get the job.

By noon the men stop coming. I’ve got a stack of applications. Flipping through them I notice most of the guy’s left only phone numbers. No addresses. Worried about La Migra I guess.

As I shuffle through the paperwork the door chimes. I look up. A young Hispanic looking guy is standing in the vestibule. Surly faced, pants hanging off his hips, he looks about twenty years old.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

No response.

“Can I help you?” I repeat.

The young man stares at me. He says nothing. Maybe he doesn’t speak English.

“Are you here about the dishwasher position?” I ask.

The kid looks at me angrily.

“What did you say?” he hisses.

“I was wondering if you were here about the job,” I ask.

“That’s fucked up man. Fucked up,” the kid mutters angrily.

Now I’m getting aggravated. Why’s this kid pissed off? Not a good way to look for a job.

“Listen, I don’t know why you’re getting mad at me…….” I start to say when the door opens.

In walk the kid’s parents. The mother’s white. The father’s black. This kid isn’t Hispanic.

Oh shit.

“Hey Dad this cracker thinks I’m here for a job!” the young man shouts.

“What?” the father says surprised.

Looking at me the kid barks, “You thought because I’m black I’m here to get a job - not to eat. Didn’t you?

I want to say “But I thought you were Hispanic” but think the better of it.

The father turns to me. Gulp.

“Sir, we’re looking for a new dishwasher and I’ve been talking to applicants all day….,”

“You’re an asshole,” the kid sneers.

“That’s enough William,” the father says sternly.

I feel my face getting red. “I apologize for my assumption sir,” I say contritely.

“Well I don’t accept your apology,” William pouts.

The mother puts two and two together. “He didn’t mean anything by it William,” she says.

“An honest mistake sir,” I entreat.

We’re all quiet for a moment. I pray for the earth to swallow me up.

“Well, I’m hungry. A table for three please,” the father says finally.

I grab some menus. “Right this way sir,”

I’d better not wait on this table. I get one of the other waiters to cover it. When I see Fluvio I explain what happened.

“Good move,” he says when I finish.

“I have no excuse. I screwed up.”

‘That’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever done.”

“I know.”

Fluvio sighs and goes to the table to make nice nice. The kid’s still angry. The parents say they understand. They order their lunch.

The kid doesn’t miss an opportunity to glare at me. I hide behind the hostess stand.

I’m embarrassed. I think I made an honest mistake. Fifty Spanish guys came looking for jobs this morning. The kid, who turns out to be a BIG fifteen year old, looked like all the other guys searching for work. How was I to know he was black? Or is he white?

Oh man my head hurts.

“I’m not a racist. I’m not a racist,” I chant to myself, trying to reassure myself that my mind filled in the blanks with the information I had on hand. I made a false assumption. That’s all

I’m not a cracker.

Or am I?

When I was in the seminary I heard a story, maybe it’s apocryphal, about a white nun who worked in the inner city for forty years. Most of the people she ministered to were black. She was considered a saint.

She’s driving to work one day when some black guys jump in front of her car screaming at her to stop.

What does the nun do? She thinks they’re carjackers. She guns the engine trying to get away.

And ends up busting up her car in gigantic pothole.

The black guys waving her down weren’t trying to carjack her.

They were trying to save her.

The men pull the nun out of the car. She goes to the hospital. Luckily, her injuries aren’t serious.

The nun is shaken up and not by the accident. She’s shaken by the knowledge if those guys had been white she would have stopped the car. Forty years of service in the black community and she still had prejudice in her heart. It was an eye opening experience.

If I’m honest with myself – that’s exactly what happened with this kid.

I thought because he looked Hispanic he was looking for work – not lunch. So what if a hundred Hispanic guys came looking for a job? I was wrong. It was an assumption wrapped within a stereotype.

The kid? Well he’s a teenager. Teenagers are quick to anger and keen to expose hypocrisy. He got confused because he thought I was making an assumption based on his racial background

Right idea kid. Wrong ethnicity.

I take a deep breath. Despite my education and experience, my good intentions and egalitarian ideals - I struggle with race and ethnicty like everyone else.

I’m not perfect. Far from it.

The trio finishes their lunch. The kid walks stonily past me. The father and mother follow him.

“I’m sorry for what happened earlier,” I say.

The father graciously offers his hand. I take it.

“We all make mistakes,” he intones solemnly.

“Thank you sir,” I say appreciatively.

The mother smiles at me and they go outside. The father says a few words to his son. The kid heads back inside.

“I’m sorry I called you an asshole,” he says.

“Maybe I deserved it,” I reply.

The kid smiles.

“Maybe you did.”

“Good day sir,” I say.

I watch the family walk down the street. I shake my head. What a day.

The lunch shift ends. Ernesto makes us something to eat. I sit down with my compadres and dig in. I look around the table. These people have been like my family for five years.

And I’m still a gringo cracker.

But I’m trying.

The staff eats their lunch.

I eat my crow.

2005-06-21T15:18:00.000-04:00

Nunc Dimittis

Three priests walk into my bistro.

No, this isn’t a setup for some awful joke – three padres sit in my section. They’re dressed in civilian clothes but I make them instantly. Former Catholic seminarians can spot priests a mile away. Perhaps it’s the clothes; the standard off duty Dockers and conservative button down shirts. Maybe it’s the odor of sanctity about them. Perhaps it’s because they’re always slightly uptight in public. God forbid someone sees them acting out of character; tell a dirty joke or have too much to drink.

“Hello Fathers” I say merrily.

The eldest of the trio smiles broadly. They’re busted.

“How did you know?” he says.

“Once a Catholic…..” I shrug.

“Well you’re very perceptive.”

“Thanks Father.”

The two younger guys order gin and tonics. The eldest orders a club soda. I’ll wager he’s a recovering drunk - uses grape juice instead of wine at Mass. It would make sense. Alcoholism is an occupational hazard for priests.

Come to think of it, it’s an occupational hazard for waiters too.

The priests order off the menu. They say please and thank you. They’re dream customers.

After I deliver their entrees I stand off to the side and listen in on their conversation. They discuss their jobs in the verbal shorthand priests use when they talk to each other in public. Having been in that subculture I understand every word.

I listen to them talk shop. Not much has changed since I left the seminary in 1990. But then again people and their problems never change.

I walk to the back and pour myself a short espresso. Seeing these guys reminds me about the time I studied for the priesthood. I was eighteen when I joined up - an idealistic firebrand who gloried in debating the finer points of theology and philosophy.

But the priesthood, and ministry in general, is not about that stuff. Not really. It’s about dealing with the passions and fears of flesh and blood people in the here and now.

Angels dancing on the head of a pin dissolve into nothingness at the bedside of a dying child.

When looking death in the face things get very real very quickly……..

I’m twenty one and doing a stint as a chaplain’s aide in a large gritty urban hospital.

Part of my job is to bring Communion to people dying in the AIDS ward. Most of the people wasting away in their beds are uninsured junkies or prostitutes. This is long before antiretroviral therapy. AIDS is poorly understood. Some people still wear masks out of fear of contagion.

Many of the people dying in this place are wracked with guilt. Remember how people used to say AIDS was God’s punishment for sinners? That’s not an abstract concept for many of these people. A lot of them made disastrous life choices - the consequences of which are now, remorselessly, killing them.

I’m too young and emotionally under equipped to be any real help to these people. I just try and listen. That’s hard. Some patients scream at me, driven insane by secondary infections that are rotting their brains. Others are stonily silent – not wanting help from anybody. Occasionally people find peace but that's rare. They cry, they bargain, they pray. All the things people do as they rage against the dying of the light.

Maria is a drug addict. She got AIDS from years of mainlining heroin. Her baby, the result of exchanging sex for drugs, died of AIDS. She has no family or friends. She lies dying alone in a small room overlooking the hospital’s air conditioning plant. She hasn’t had a bath in days. The sweet sour smell of the unwashed is over powering.

“Hi Maria. I brought you Communion,” I whisper.

She looks at me weakly.

“Can I have some water?” she asks. She’s near the end.

“Sure.”

I look for her water bottle. There is none.

“Where’s your water bottle?”

“The nurses won’t let me drink water,” she says.

Must be something going on with her kidneys. Stupid doctors. The woman's dying.

“Let me go ask the nurse what we can do,” I say.

“Thank you.”

I walk to the nurse’s station. A large woman sits behind the desk yakking on the phone with what seems to her girlfriend. She looks at me with complete disinterest.

I wait patiently for her to finish. She doesn’t.

I wait some more.

“Pardon me, Maria wants some water. Can I give her some?” I interrupt.

“Can’t you see I’m on the phone?” the nurse yells.

“Yes but….”

“I’ll be with you when I’m finished!”

So I wait. The nurse ends her call.

“Now, what do you want?” she says angrily.

“Can I give Maria some water?”

“She’s on restricted fluids you can’t.”

“How about some ice chips then? I think she has dry mouth.” I ask innocently.

The nurse throws her hands up in the air in frustration. “Yeah, go get the girl some ice chips for what good it'll do her. You can get them on the next unit.”

“Thank you,” I say.

I go over to the neighboring unit and fill a Styrofoam cup with ice. I walk back to Maria’s room.

“Maria I got you some ice chips.”

No response.

“Maria?”

I walk over to the bed. She’s dead.

A wave of incredible anger sweeps over me. All this poor girl wanted was a drink of water. It turned out to be her last request

Even this small thing was denied her.

I crush the cup in my hands. Ice scatters on the floor. Hot tears run down my face. This girl had nothing – less than nothing. She died thirsty and alone.

It was then my innocence was taken.

I march out to the nurse’s station. The nurse is on the phone again. When she sees me a look of annoyance crosses her face. “Now wha….”

I slam my hand down on the counter. “MARIA IS DEAD!”

The nurse jumps out of her chair.

“DON’T YOU GIVE A SHIT YOU LAZY BITCH? SHE’S DEAD!” I bellow.

All hell breaks loose. A code is called. Security is called.

The attending shows up. There’s a do not resuscitate order. He pronounces Maria dead.

Security guards escort me to the pastoral care office where the Chaplin waits for me.

Instead of yelling at me for losing my temper he sits me down on his couch. He hands me a cup of coffee.

“What happened?” he asks gently.

I tell him everything.

A small smile crosses his face. “That nurse is a lazy bitch,” he says.

I laugh harshly.

“This is hard work son,” he says.

“I had no idea how hard.”

We’re quiet. I listen to the wall clock tick.

“When you were looking at Maria in that bed were you thinking about yourself?” the priest says suddenly.

The tears come again.

“Yes.”

“What were you feeling?”

“That I never want to be alone like that.”

“Do you feel that alone?”

A truth I had been hiding from myself came bubbling up from the depths.

“Yes,” I start to sob.

The priest gets up and sits next to me. He gently and puts his arm around me. I cry till I feel like I’m going to shake apart.

When I finish the Chaplain says, “If you’re honest - trying to help people makes you confront the darkness in yourself.”

“Yeah,”

“Maybe you should work on feeling alone,” he adds.

“Kind of tough when you want to be a priest,” I reply.

“Maybe you should think about that.”

I’ve given my heart and soul to being a priest for four years. I’m supposed to go abroad to study theology next year. Now, for the first time, I realize it isn’t going to work out.

“God doesn’t want you to be unhappy,” the priest says.

“Then why drag me here and put me through all this for nothing?” I whisper.

“I don’t know.”

“God’s a real asshole sometimes isn’t he?” I say sadly.

The priest leans back and smiles. “A gigantic asshole.”

We both laugh.

A few months later I quit. ………….

Now, fifteen years later, I look at the priests sitting in my section. I smile.

I’m no longer that young seminarian from long ago.

I changed. I grew.

I’m still growing.

But I’ll never forget the kindness and wisdom that priest afforded me on that terrible day.

I buy my priests some dessert.

“Thank you!” the eldest says as I set down the tiramisu.

“Just trying to shave time off in purgatory Padre,” I chuckle.

“Well, none for me,” the younger priest says throwing up his hands.

He’s about my age. I look him in the eye.

“Faith is tempered in the fires of desire.” I say.

He considers that for a moment.

“Well maybe just this once,” he says grabbing a spoon.

They polish off dessert and leave a nice tip. The night ends. I go home.

I drive home thinking about the priests, Maria, and my time in seminary. When I get home I pull an old leather book of the shelf.

It’s my old breviary from seminary. I still have it.

The binding is loose. The pages are worn. I open it.

The one priestly habit I never lost was to slip important things inside my breviary. The book is stuffed with funeral cards, birth announcements, and love letters; pictures of friends dead and gone.

I pull one picture out. It’s a Polaroid of my brother and I when we were teenagers. We look so awkward. He’s getting married next month. Soon I’ll put a photo of him and his lovely bride in this book – the repository of memories.

I turn the pages till I get to Night Prayer. There’s a prayer there called the Nunc Dimittis.

I silently read the words I chanted years ago.

“Lord let your servant go in peace;
your word has been fulfilled;

my own eyes have seen the salvation
which you have prepared in the sight of every people.

A light to reveal you to the nations
and the glory of your people Israel.”

I close the book.

Now, years later, God and I sometimes get along.

I’m strangely peaceful.

I turn off the light and go to bed.

2005-06-20T12:05:00.000-04:00

Gay Friendly

A young woman walks into the Bistro.

“Is your restaurant gay friendly?” she asks.

“Yes Madam,” I reply. I’ve gotten this question before.

“I want to take my partner out for her birthday. We only patronize gay friendly establishments,” she says.

Wow. Militant.

“You come to the right place,” I say.

“Are you listed in any directories as gay friendly?” she queries.

“Yes.” I tell her which ones.

Satisfied the woman asks, “Can I have a table for two this Saturday at 7pm?”

“No problem,” I say. I take down the lady’s information.

“Can I have that nice table in the window?” she presses, “it’s the first birthday we’re celebrating together and I want to make it special.”

I juggle some things in the computer. “The table’s all yours.”

“Can you tell the waiter it’s a special occasion?” she asks.

“Madam I’ll take care of you myself.”

The woman smiles, “Thanks for your help.”

“You're welcome.”

Saturday night rolls around. The ladies come in and sit at their romantic table. I pull out all the stops. I put a candle in the woman’s dessert and even sing happy birthday. They hold hands and talk quietly as they linger over liquors.

No one bothers giving them a second look.

I sigh contently.

Love is love. It comes in all shapes, sizes, and orientations. There’s not enough of it in the world.

The ladies signal for their check. I ring it up. The woman signs the bill. They get up to leave.

“Happy Birthday madam,” I say cheerfully as they depart.

“Thanks for a wonderful evening,” the woman gushes.

“It was my pleasure.”

After they depart I retrieve the bill folder from the table and open it.

On a ninety dollar bill they left me eight bucks.

Shocked I walk towards the back of the restaurant.

“Check this shit out,” I say waving the check in front of Louis.

“Ouch that hurts,” he says.

“I can’t believe it. I was so nice to them.”

“Was that the two lesbians?”

“Yeah.”

“Figures,” Louis replies, “Lesbians are horrible tippers.”

“That’s a tad stereotypical,” I counter.

“It’s true,” Louis shrugs, “I’m gay so I know.”

I don’t say anything. I’ve gotten good tips from lesbians before. I can’t figure out why these ladies were so cheap.

I sigh.

Assholes are assholes. They come in all shapes, sizes, and orientations. And there are more than enough of them in the world.

I close out the bill. I’m more hurt than angry.

We’re gay friendly. Not cheapskate friendly.

I’ll remember those ladies the next time around.

2005-06-17T11:05:00.000-04:00

Let me clear something up

In my post "Gristle" I alluded to the fact I was working on a book. That's true. However, it is still in the embryonic stage and I have not committed to anyone or anything. Judging from the comments and emails I've received I think some people are under the impression that the book will be hitting the shelves tomorrow. That is not the case.

I am talking informally to some very nice people who have taken a kind interest in my writing. Many thanks to them! I am currently trying to figure out how to write a book and cobble together a winning proposal. So you see folks - a book is still a long way off. I apologize if I didn't explain myself clearly. A book will happen eventually!

Thanks to all the readers for their words of encouragement and criticisms. It is appreciated!

Any ideas? Throw 'em my way! Got a cousin in the publishing biz? Let me know!

Oh, in response to a question - yes the comments section is priceless. I'm gonna have to figure a way to include some of the quips my readers have written!

Hope that clears things up! Have a nice weekend everybody.

2005-06-15T13:43:00.000-04:00

What’s a Yuppie?

I’ve gotten a couple of emails and comments from people who are upset by my use of the term “Yuppie.” So I’ve decided to explain what I mean when I employ that word. If you’re easily offended or have a shaky self image I suggest you skip this post.

Still here? Ok.

Let’s start with a definition. I searched around the web. This one from Nationmaster.com I like best.

"Yuppie," short for "Young Urban Professional," describes a demographic of people generally between their late twenties and early thirties. Yuppies tend to hold jobs in the professional sector, with incomes that place them in the upper-middle economic class.

The term "Yuppie" emerged in the 1980s as an echo of the earlier "hippies" and "yippies" who had rejected the materialistically-oriented values of the business community. Syndicated newspaper columnist Bob Greene is generally credited having coined the term "Yuppie" in one of his columns in the early 1980s.

Events and trends The 1980s marked an abrupt shift towards more conservative lifestyles after the momentous cultural revolutions which took place in the 1960s and 1970s and the definition of the AIDS virus in 1981. ...

The term is often used pejoratively, with an emphasis on the connotations of "yuppies" as selfish and superficial. ………………

That’s pretty good. Now here’s my definition – emphasis on pejorative.

“Yuppie,” Originally meant “Young Upcoming Urban Professional.” Now denotes a group of people, irrespective of age, politics, or class, who demonstrate the following characteristics.

1. If they ever worked a day in their life - they forgot all about it.

2. More interested in the quality of their chardonnay than the quality of their public schools.

3. Pore over the Sharper Image catalog and others like it as if it’s devotional reading. (Full disclosure: the Sharper Image catalog is on top of my toilet tank.)

4. Anyone who stopped drinking Merlot after seeing “Sideways.”

5. Take from the community but never give back. Yuppies think paying taxes fulfills their obligations as citizens. Most commonly seen in gentrified neighborhoods.

6. Over schedule their children’s lives and treat the little tykes as accessories or barometers of their own self worth.

7. Think money is the answer to everything.

8. Spiritual Masturbators. Pursue spirituality disconnected from any social responsibility. (Spiritual navel gazing while people are starving around you) They flock to gurus or new age con artists who recycle older traditions and tell them what they WANT to hear - not what they NEED to hear. If your spiritual guide, whatever his or her denomination, doesn’t say something every once in a while that pisses you off, – they’re only interested in your money!

9. Name branders. It has to be Grey Goose or Stella Artois. Now, I like that stuff too. But if all they have is Bud I can deal.

10. Treat people as if they’re disposable items. (Waiters, sex partners, colleagues, coat check girls, etc.)

11. Are only nice to people when they want something.

12. Never say “please” or “thank you.”

13. RUDE!

14. They always want the “big” wine glasses. Even for the cheap stuff. (Only waiters will understand that one.)

15. Expect the best table on Saturday night without a reservation.

16. Talk incessantly about money, what they have, and what they want.

17. Will sue, or threaten litigation, at the drop of a hat.

18. Know their stock portfolio better than their second wife or husband.

19. Their house is TOO clean.

20. Buy trendy books they never read.

21. Think NYC is the center of the known universe. It isn’t.

22. Assume anyone who didn’t finish college is stupid. (Hey, Bill Gates dropped out of Harvard!)

23. Think nice people are suckers.

24. Claim to be honest but cheat on their spouses, taxes, exams, and cynically take credit for other people’s ideas.

25. Know the price of everything and the value of nothing.

Some caveats:

1. Just because a person’s rich or upwardly mobile doesn’t mean they’re a Yuppie. There are plenty of wealthy people who are kind, polite, generous, and take interest in other people and their community.

2. Ambition, competitiveness, and invention are good things so long as long as they are not pursued solely for their own sake.

3. We all, myself included, have indulged in the some of the behaviors and actions described above. Some of us are recovering Yuppies.

4. You don’t have to be rich to be a Yuppie. But it helps.

5. Yuppies can change and often do. Time is a brutal teacher.

So, in short I define a yuppie as a: rude, brand name dropping, self centered, impatient, spiritually stunted, obsessive catalog reading, materialistic, emotional dwarf who doesn’t care an iota how other people feel or think.

I hope that clear things up.

But if you read this and it pissed you off – too bad. I’m not here to blow sunshine off your ass.

Some people take the stuff they read in my blog WAY to personally.

2005-06-14T10:20:00.000-04:00

"Your Powers Are Weak Old Man"

I’m reciting the specials to a two top by the window. In typical yuppie fashion they don’t make eye contact. Sick of talking to these social misfits my eyes begin to wander. A pretty girl walks past the restaurant with her dog. I take an appreciative look.

I glance back at my table. Nope, still not looking at me. I look out the window again.

People of all shapes and sizes walk by on this hot day. I’m just getting around to the fish specials when I see HIM.

I blink my eyes.

No it can’t be.

Lumbering towards the restaurant, in all his dreadful majesty, is the infamous Dark Lord of the Sith.

Darth Vader.

“Excuse me one sec,” I say to my customers.

I run out the front door. Openmouthed I watch Vader approach. Funny -he looks a lot taller in the movies.

“Hi,” I say in amazement.

“Hello there,” Darth Vader replies pleasantly.

“Must be hot as hell in that suit.”

“You ain’t kidding," Vader says walking past me.

I stand and watch the Dark Lord go around the corner. The pretty girl with the dog comes next to me. She’s chuckling softly.

“Tell me I wasn’t seeing things,” I ask her.

“You weren’t,” she laughs.

“For a moment there I thought I had to go back on the meds.”

“No – you really saw Darth Vader walking down the street,” she says.

“He must be sweating bullets in that outfit.”

“I think he’s going to a costume party somewhere.”

“God I hope so.”

“You know those Star Wars fans….” the girl says shrugging.

I thank the girl and walk back inside.

Of course the yuppies are looking at me now.

“Sorry folks but Darth Vader just walked by.” I say happily.

The couple looks at me like I'm smoking crack.

“Well, that’s not something you see everyday,” I add weakly.

“We’re ready to order now,” the man says flatly.

I guess some people have no sense of humor.

The man and woman tell me what they want. Without saying thank you they dismiss me by carelessly thrusting their menus in my face. I feel a sudden hot spurt of anger.

I reach out with the Force and wrap it’s dark tendrils round the couple's throats. It would be fun to see them sputter and choke. I squeeze.

Nothing happens.

I mentally squeeze harder.

Still nothing.

The man looks at me quizzically. “We’re done here waiter,” he says.

“Very good sir,” I say disappointedly. Taking their menus I head to the back. Gerald, another waiter, is sitting by the POS computer mopping his brow. Even inside the Bistro the heat’s oppressive.

“You’ll never guess who I saw outside,” I say entering the order.

“Who?” Gerald asks.

“Darth Vader.”

“Really?” Gerald says, his face brightening.

“Must be a costume party somewhere.”

“Guy dressed up as Vader in this heat? He’s crazy.”

“I should have asked him if he wanted a job here,” I sigh.

“Can you imagine that? He’d choke the shit out of all the customers,” Gerald laughs.

“Wouldn’t it be cool if you could do that? I wanted to mentally strangle those rude yuppies on table twenty-six. Too bad I can’t do it.

Gerald’s eyes widen. “Your powers are weak old man,” he says.

“Screw you Gerald.”

Gerald walks away laughing.

I angrily watch table twenty-six. Some people go out to eat because they’re hungry. Others eat out because they’re too lazy to cook. But some people frequent restaurants to indulge a false sense of superiority.

I really wish I could force choke those bastards.

Oh well.

I guess I have to spend more time in my meditation chamber.

Now where did I put my lightsaber? That'll fix 'em.

2005-06-13T10:16:00.000-04:00

I'm a Waiter - Not a Psychic Dietician

“You’ve got an outside table!” the hostess yells at me over the din.

I’m swamped. It’s Saturday night and my section’s hopping.

“Can someone else take it?” I beg

“It’s your turn,” the hostess barks while juggling two phones.

I sigh and head outside. Al Fresco diners, as I might’ve said before, are a pain in the ass.

This table proves to be no exception.

The middle aged couple starts out friendly. I smile. They smile. I rattle off the specials and they listen patiently. The man decisively orders the snapper.

I look at the man’s wife. Her lips are pursed. Consternation creases her brow.

“Can I help you make a selection?” I ask.

“Do you have anything light?”

Uh oh. Here we go.

“Madam?”

“I’m on a diet.”

“Which diet are you on?” I inquire. It’s a valid question.

“I don’t know. I just want to lose weight.”

Having known lots of women I can make a fair guess at what’s happening. This lady got on the scale today and didn’t like what she saw. She made one of those forgotten tomorrow resolutions to trim the fat and her anxiety's now bubbling to the surface.

“Might I recommend the tuna with the tomato mango salsa?” I say, “It’s light on the carbs.”

“I don’t like tuna.”

“Then might I suggest the chicken sautéed in white wine and artichoke hearts?”

“I don’t feel like chicken.”

The husband shifts uncomfortably in his chair. He looks at me. “What the hell am I supposed to do?” I telepath him.

“Perhaps the steak?”

“I don’t eat meat.”

An off color comment comes to mind. Running out of options I suggest some pasta dishes.

“Well the Spaghetti Gamberi looks nice,” she says.

Ah, a personal favorite of mine - plump juicy shrimp with spaghetti in a spicy pepper oil and garlic sauce. Delicious.

“An excellent dish madam,” I reply.

“Ok, I’ll take that with no spaghetti.”

“Pardon?” I say surprised.

“Give me the dish with all the seasonings but without the pasta.”

I look through the window into the bistro. My other table’s drinks are getting low. I know I have to deliver entrees. I need to detach myself from this table NOW.

“Very well madam,” I say. I run inside, enter the order, and attend to my other, less troublesome, tables.

“The chef wants to talk to you,” another waiter says as she walks past me. I head into the kitchen.

“Spaghetti Gamberi without the spaghetti?” Armando says waving the ticket in disbelief.

“That’s what she wants.”

“Atkins?”

“Who knows? Just give it to her.” I say exasperatedly.

Armando shrugs and throws the shrimp in the pan.

A short while later I deliver the entrees. The man’s eyes widen with anticipation when he sees his snapper, lovingly prepared, with leeks, fresh tomato, and cannelloni beans.

I set the lady’s entrée down. Armando did a nice job with the presentation. He carefully arranged the shrimp in a bowl - artfully placing a sprig of basil on top.

“I can’t eat this,” the woman says instantly.

The husband groans.

“Is something the matter?” I ask warily.

“Look at this! The shrimp is swimming in oil! How am I going to lose weight eating this?’

“But…”

“This is not what I ordered,” she says petulantly.

Somewhere in our employee handbook it says, “The customer is always right.”

Now is not one of those times.

“Madam you asked for the spaghetti shrimp without the spaghetti,” I say.

“I didn’t want this – this oil!”

“Madam, you said you wanted the dish with all the seasonings and none of the pasta.”

“Well, it isn’t what I wanted,” she pouts.

“Marjorie I think you ordered it that way,” the woman’s husband says carefully.

The wife throws her husband a withering stare.

“I’m on a diet!” she says with a hint of menace.

What can I get you instead madam?” I ask plaintively.

“Just get me a plate of steamed broccoli.”

“Yes madam.”

I return the woman’s shrimp to the kitchen. Fluvio walks in after me.

“What the hell is that?” he says pointing to the dish.

“Spaghetti shrimp with out the spaghetti,” I say shrugging.

“What’s the matter with it?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why?......”

“Lady on a diet,” I say simply.

Fluvio throws up his hands and leaves the kitchen. I feel for him. The Bistro is not a hospital kitchen. We try out best to accommodate people’s dietary requests but people like this lady are just off the wall. I can’t tell you how much profit Fluvio’s lost to finicky eaters over the years. But it’s probably enough to buy a small boat.

“Hey everybody!” I announce holding up the shrimp, “Got some free shrimp here. Help yourselves.”

The wait staff descends upon it like a pack of ravenous wolves. I’m lucky I don’t lose a finger.

The pickup bell rings. I deliver the lady her broccoli. She stares at it glumly.

“I can’t believe you don’t have anything for dieters,” she says reproachfully.

We do. But it’s too late to argue now.

“I took the shrimp off your bill sir,” I say turning to the husband.

“Thank you,” he says wearing an “I’m sorry for this shit” expression.

The woman picks at her vegetables. The man happily eats his fish. I go back inside.

I feel for the woman. I really do. I’ve got a few pounds to lose too. But that’s my responsibility – not a restaurant’s.

Restaurants specialize in combing salt, fat, and sugar into an astounding myriad of combinations. Why do you think the food tastes so good when you eat out? Oh sure, we have healthy stuff but they’re not big sellers. People come for the artery clogging stuff. The Bistro has probably provided enough patients to pay off some cardiologist kid’s college tuition.

If you’re on a diet, examine the restaurant’s menu before you go in. See if there’s something you can eat. Don’t assume the waiter is a psychic dietician. You’re setting yourself up for disappointment.

And please - check your neuroses about food at the door.

2005-06-12T12:15:00.000-04:00

Hit and Run - Follow Up

A few months ago I wrote a post entitled "Hit and Run." It was about Jairo Gonzalez-Romero, a young immigrant restaurant worker in NJ who was killed by a hit and run driver.

After two months, a person has been arrested and charged in this case. The full story in appears here in the Bergen Record.

I was also gratified to see that $4000 has been raised to help cover Jairo's funeral expenses and send money home to his family. I know Waiter Rant readers have donated a portion of that money.

To all the readers who generously contributed to Jairo and his family you have my heartfelt thanks.

2005-06-11T13:05:00.000-04:00

Pay Pal

I took the PayPal Donation button down temporarily. It was compromising my anonymity. As soon as I figure a work around it'll be back. Don't worry!

Many thanks to the kind persons who dropped some cash in my jar the past year. It was, and still is, very much appreciated!

2005-06-10T14:49:00.000-04:00

Gone to the Dogs

I was sitting down writing a new post for my blog this morning when my ex girlfriend called. Our dog, with whom we share custody, (I know, I know - snicker all you want) was shaking, lethargic, and throwing up. So I shut down my computer and drove to meet her at the vet’s office. Luckily nothing’s seriously wrong with the little guy. He has to be on antibiotics for two weeks until his infection clears up. He was back to his old self as soon as he sauntered out of the vet's office. He’ll be ok. $180 bucks! Damn pets are expensive!

Sorry. I’ll have some new posts next week.

Hey we hit 400,000 yesterday! Is any one still interested in the t-shirt thing? Let me know! I’ll see what I can put together!

Have a nice weekend everyone. Don’t forget to tip your server!

2005-06-08T15:16:00.000-04:00

Hannibal

“Say, did you see Hannibal last night?” Fluvio asks me.

“Yeah, it was on TBS. You saw it too?”

"I was up late.”

I laugh. Fluvio and I spend a lot of time working together. So when we go home what do we do? We end up watching the same movie at the same time. It’s like we’re joined at the psychic hip or something.

“What a great movie,” Fluvio adds.

“I love the part where Lecter flambéed that guy’s brain tableside,” I say.

For those of you unfamiliar with the film I’m referring to the lovely scene where the cannibalistic serial killer gourmand, Dr. Hannibal Lecter, pops open a man’s skull and proceeds to sauté parts of his hapless victim’s brain tableside – while he’s still alive.

Fluvio looks at me suddenly.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he asks.

There’s a short pause

“Cooking class!” we blurt out simultaneously.

Fluvio holds private cooking shows every couple of months. We set up a cooking station in the front of the bistro and Fluvio demonstrates, step by step, how to prepare an elegant five course meal. The classes are very popular. They’re sold out almost a year in advance.

‘What an outstanding idea,” I crow, clapping my hands delightedly.

“Can you imagine the looks on the customers faces when I tell them what the main course is gonna be?”

“Fucking pricless.”

“Which customer’s brain could we cook up?” Fluvio asks grinning.

“Oh god – the list is endless.”

We go over a few potential victims.

“How about Mr. X?” Fluvio asks.

“Not him,” I reply, “He’d complain his brain is undercooked.”

“Yeah, he’d want to send it back.”

“Which could be problematic.”

“Be fun though.”

“Remove half his brain and no one’d notice anyway.”

A vision of Fluvio and I dressed in tuxedos, merrily scooping out some yuppie’s brainpan like a melon, pops into my head. The image warms the cockles of my cold dark heart.

“How would you cook it?” I inquire.

“I think sautéing it in truffle oil and porcini mushrooms would be tasty.”

“Hey, people eat cow brains,” I say

“So it wouldn’t be such a big leap.”

Fluvio and I chuckle evilly. If the customers around us knew what we were talking about they’d run like hell.

A short while later I’m tableside with some arrogant yuppie. You know the type. He doesn’t say please or thank you. He tugs on my sleeve to get my attention. I’m surprised he doesn’t start snapping his fingers.

While I repeat the specials for the third time a faint smile appears on my lips. Recalling my conversation with Fluvio I find myself carefully examining the yuppie’s head.

It’s about the right size. Hmmm.

He’s bald so that’ll make the part with the cranial saw so much easier.

I peer into the man’s eyeballs as I parrot the specials. All I need now are some fava beans and a nice Chianti.

"He’ll do,” I think to myself.

Yes.

He’ll do nicely.

2005-06-07T13:54:00.000-04:00

E-Zine

Many thanks to Sofia and the students and faculty at NYU for writing about me in their Digital Journalism Class magazine "THISISNOTABLOG." You can read about my interview here.

Thanks again guys!

2005-06-06T03:07:00.000-04:00

Two Dollars!

“Hey Arlene, thanks for the shit you put me through this morning,” Fluvio growls.

“What did I do now?” Arlene, our very pregnant waitress, exclaims.

“You added two bucks to a tip and the customer called to complain.”

“I did not!” Arlene says angrily.

Fluvio hands her credit card slip in question. The check is eighty dollars. The tip on the credit card slip is a hastily crawled number. It could be a ten or a twelve.

“I adjusted the check for twelve,” Arlene protests.

“Well the lady says the tip’s ten bucks.”

“Cheap bitch,” Arlene huffs.

“The lady called me from Florida to complain. She made me send her a check for two dollars,” Fluvio says.

“She called to complain about two bucks?”

“Yeah.”

“She must be from Miami Beach,” Arlene snorts.

“Oh that’s nice Arlene. Feeling a tad hormonal today?” I chuckle, joining the conversation.

“Fuck you,” Arlene shoots back.

(Anti-Semitism and sexism in the space of two seconds. How about that!)

“And I lost 37 cents on the stamp!” Fluvio interjects.

“Oh, don’t you start,” I moan.

“What kind of person quibbles over two lousy dollars?” Arlene asks.

“People who really look at their credit card statements,” Fluvio says.

“They should,” I say, “My credit card company is always trying to screw me with bogus late fees. They even signed me up for an insurance plan without my ok.”

“Really?” Arlene says.

“Yeah, I caught it and they refunded the whole amount.”

“Those bastards,” Arlene says, “I should double check my statements.”

“Money’s money.” Fluvio sighs.

"But to bitch about two dollars?" Arlene asks rhetorically.

We’re quiet for a moment.

“You know this conversation suddenly reminds me of a great movie,” I say.

“Which one?” Fluvio asks.

“I WANT MY TWO DOLLARS!” I grumble evilly.

“Better Off Dead!” Arlene shrieks in recognition.

“That’s a real shame when folks be throwin away a perfectly good white boy like that!” I laugh.

“Huh?” Fluvio says befuddled,

“TWO DOLLARS. I WANT MY TWOOOO DOLLARS!” Arlene giggles.

“What the hell are you guys talking about?” Fluvio yelps. He hates not being in on a joke.

“Better Off Dead was a film from the Eighties Fluvio,” Arlene explains laughing, “A crazy a paper boy goes psycho trying to collect two dollars from John Cusack.”

“What?”

“Forget it Fluvio. I think you were in Italy when the movie came out.” I say.

“Oh.”

“I can just imagine this little old lady rapping her cane on our window screaming for her two dollars.” Arlene says.

“I wouldn’t put it past her,” I admit.

Arlene and I laugh and go back to work. We promise to give Fluvio a copy of the movie. I wonder if it’s dubbed in Italian.

I haven’t thought about that movie in years. What a great flick.

Sigh

I know people. Money’s money.

But come on - its two dollars.

2005-06-03T13:13:00.000-04:00

Puke

I’m driving to work when a wave of nausea hits me.

I break into a cold clammy sweat. Every bump and swell in the road threatens to propel the contents of my stomach on to the dashboard. I have to throw up NOW.

I pull my car into a gas station.

“Where’s your bathroom?” I ask the attendant getting out of the car. I must look green.

The turbaned Sikh thinks I’m drunk at ten in the morning. Shaking his head disapprovingly he hands me a key chained to a hubcap.

I race into the bathroom. As soon as I see the toilet nature takes its course. I’ll spare you the details. Suffice to say I have to change my shirt.

I emerge from the bathroom still shaking from the effort. I hate throwing up. I walk into the small convenience shop attached to the station to buy some gum. Out of the corner of my eye I see the Sikh walk over to the men’s room to inspect the damage. Hey. I cleaned it up.

I get back in my car and head home. Once inside I call Fluvio and tell him I’m sick.

“What’s the matter with you? You pregnant?” Fluvio says. I can almost see him grinning on the other end.

“Must have been the sushi I had last night,” I say.

“Forget working lunch,” Fluvio says, “But can you come in at four? I have to go somewhere tonight.”

I’m sick and tired. I need another day off. The prospect of sitting home and watching old movies while dining on saltines and ginger ale is suddenly very appealing to me. But I can’t.

“I’ll be in at four,” I say hanging up. I go and take a long nap.

Feeling much better I walk into the Bistro at four on the dot. Louis is already there doing prep work. He looks terrible.

“What’s the matter with you?’ I ask

“I don’t feel good,” he replies.

“You too?

“My ulcer’s acting up again.” Louis moans.

“Have you been to the doc?” I ask.

“Yeah, she put me on all sorts of drugs. They’re kicking my ass.”

“Can you work tonight?”

Louis shakes his head, “Negatory,” he says.

Great. Just great.

I tell Louis to go home. I ask Beth, who worked lunch, to stay for dinner.

“What else can go wrong today?” I mutter to myself.

I learn later it’s not wise to tempt the Fates.

Fifteen minutes before closing a drunk guy walks in the door. I curse silently under my breath. A few more minutes and we’d have been home free. The man sits down and immediately wants a drink.

“I’m sorry sir, you’re visibly intoxicated. I’m not allowed to serve you.” I say.

“Whaddaya mean I can’t have a drink?” the man sputters. Telling a drunk he’s cut off can always be a tense moment.

“Sorry sir.”

“Just a small one.”

“No way.”

“Oh fur ch-ch-Chrissakes.”

“Try eating something. You’ll feel better,” I tell him.

Giving up on the drink the man orders some pasta. I deliver it to the table. He eats it slowly, his movements wooden. When he’s finished I go over to the table.

“How was your meal sir?” I ask politely.

The man replies by regurgitating his pasta all over the table.

“That good huh?”

The young couple sitting few tables away looks on in horror. I think the boy’s date is gonna hurl.

Moaning, the man slumps back in his chair, eyes glazed over, looking at no one in particular.

A busboy races over to the table with a garbage can. His cleanup method is simple. Pulling the four corners of the tablecloth together he wraps everything, cups, plates, and vomit, into a bundle which he dumps, dripping, into the trash can. Another busperson brings up the rear with a mop and bucket. In a minute it looks like nothing ever happened.

That is, except for the bile hanging from the guy’s chin.

“Ok, time to go buddy,” I say.

“Uhnnnnh” the man groans.

“You gotta go now.”

The man hands me his wallet. I extract his Amex card and run the bill. He makes his mark on the receipt and stumbles towards the door. I notice he’s fumbling with his car keys.

“Did you drive here buddy?” I ask.

“I drive a Lexus,” the man answers stupidly.

“Not tonight you don’t.” I say taking the keys away from him.

“Hey….” the man protests.

“Where do you live?” I ask. The man tells me.

“I’m calling you a cab.” I dial the number for the car service we use. They’re good for getting drunks, upset girlfriends, and coked out hookers off the premises in a pinch. We’ve used them before.

The cab pulls up and I dump the drunk into the backseat. I pull a few bills out of the man’s wallet and tell the cabbie the address.

“Have a good night pal,” I say tossing the keys and wallet in his lap.

No response - he’s out like a light. I bang on the hood. The cab takes off.

Back inside the bistro I comp the young couple’s dessert and apologize for “the unpleasantness.”

I started my day with puke. I ended my day with puke. Lovely.

I go and retrieve the drunk’s checkbook. Of course – there’s no tip.

Now I feel sick.

Goddamn it.

2005-06-01T12:16:00.000-04:00

Dead Man’s Tie

Its five minutes till my shift starts when I realize I’ve forgotten my tie.

I duck into the thrift store run by some old church ladies down the block. It’s a good spot to grab replacement neckwear in a pinch.

“We’re closing in five minutes!” the harridan manning the door calls after me.

“I’ll just be a sec,” I say rushing inside.

I head over to the tie rack. Not too many choices. Most of them have been donated by newly minted widows cleaning out their husband's closet. I pick out the lesser of the fashion evils; a nifty green and gold number circa 1975. I go to the register and hand the lady a dollar.

“Dontcha have anything smaller?” the wizened cashier barks. The tie costs a quarter.

“Sorry madam,” I say sheepishly.

With an exasperated sigh the woman pops open the register to get my change. As I watch her arthritic hands count out my pennies I finger my purchase and wonder about the tie’s previous owner. The image of an old man lying in his coffin, wearing a plaid blazer and a lopsided grin, fills my mind.

Well, at least his troubles are over.

Walking into the bistro Louis’ eyes light up when he sees my new acquisition

“Nice tie. Going to a fondue party later?” he asks.

“I think Jerry Ford was president the last time this tie was worn,” I reply.

“Very disco,” Louis sniffs.

I start whistling “Do the Hustle.”

“Burn that thing,” Louis says.

“As soon as my shift ends,” I promise.

A short while later a customer walks in the front door.

“How may I help you sir?’ I ask.

“Reservation for two under Martin,” the man says.

I look at the reservation computer. Two people at six. The name’s Steve Martin.

I look up. “You don’t look anything like Steve Martin,” I say in mock surprise.

The man laughs, “I get that a lot.”

“I’ll bet.”

“In the late seventies I never had a problem getting a table,” he chuckles.

“I’m sure you were a wild and crazy guy in the seventies,” I say.

“Yeah. But I never had a tie like the one you’re wearing,” he replies smiling.

“Touché sir.”

I grab two menus and escort the man to his table. A short while later his date arrives.

The woman is a very attractive lady in her late forties. I can tell this is a blind date. She looks like she spent hours primping in front of the mirror. She looks very nervous. I’ll bet she wonders if she’s still pretty. It’s hard to date at her age.

After the introductions are made Mr. Martin orders a bottle of Prosecco - a light sparkling wine.

The brand he ordered is sealed with a bottle cap. Opening the bottle I grin inwardly. I may never get this chance again.

“Would Mousieur like to smell the bottle cap?” I offer.

The man laughs heartily at my reference to “The Jerk.” The woman looks confused.

“The waiter is disappointed I’m not the real Steve Martin,” he explains.

“Yes sir. But your lovely companion has more than made up for my disappointment,” I reply suavely.

“Oh thank you!” the woman burbles delightedly.

“You’re welcome Miss.”

By giving the woman an unexpected compliment I’ve buttressed her shaky sense of desirability. It’s an old waiter trick. Mr. Martin’s evening should proceed smoothly.

Sure enough, after a few hours, Mr. Martin and his date are holding hands and playing footsie under the table. I smile. My tip’s gonna be huge.

I go outside to get some fresh air. As soon as I lean up against the wall a thin, out of sorts looking man rounds the corner.

“Hey man, that’s a nice tie,’ he says.

“Thanks.”

The man stares at me for a few seconds.

“Don’t I know you from Narcotics Anonymous or AA?” he asks.

“Nope,” I reply.

“You look familiar.”

“Well I used to work in a drug rehab years ago.”

“Which one?” he asks. I tell him.

“Naw, I was never there,” he says.

The man is neatly dressed. But his clothes look like they came from the same place I bought my tie. He probably came out of the NA meeting in the church around the corner.

“Well, it was a long time ago.” I say.

“Now you’re a waiter! What’s that about?”

“I found the customers easier to deal with than drug addicts.” I deadpan.

The man smiles suddenly - showing me all three of his teeth.

“Ain’t that the motherfucking truth!” he exclaims.

The man smiles some more. There’s an awkward silence. I wait patiently. I know what’s coming.

“Say, I’m trying to get a bus home and a bite to eat. Could you gimme a couple of dollars?” he finally asks.

I ask where the man lives. He tells me. I know how much the bus fare is. I hand him a couple of bills.

“Thank you sir.” the man mumbles with a trace of embarrassment.

“No problem,” I say watching him walk off.

The man heads into the pizza joint across the street. I see him get a slice.

Goddamn. The man wasn’t lying to me. He really was hungry. I should have given him more.

I head back inside. Mr. Martin asks for the check. They’ve been here four hours. His date's hanging all over him.

I drop off the bill. Mr. Martin counts out some cash and hands the checkbook to me.

“Keep the change,” he says.

“Thank you sir,” I say smiling.

“Nice tie,” his date gurgles.

I go out of sight to count the money. My smile disappears. The bastard gave me 13%.

I guess Mr. Martin really is The Jerk.

After cheapskate and his date stumble drunkenly out the door I close the restaurant. The place is empty. It was a slow night. I start doing my side work.

After I finish I take off my tie and look at it.

After a moment’s consideration I throw it in the trash. It was an ugly tie.

I drop the day’s receipts in the safe and lock the front door. It was a bad night. I didn’t make much money. I walk slowly towards my car.

That’s the last time I ever wear a dead man’s tie.

2005-05-27T12:38:00.000-04:00

Gristle

My friend Lana and I are enjoying cocktails at Nice Matin on West 79th. After dealing with crazed yuppies all week it’s nice to sit down and be taken care of for a change. The place serves Mediterranean French cuisine. Good. I’m sick of Italian food.

After we finish our drinks the waiter comes and takes our order. He’s very smooth and friendly. I feel a twinge of professional envy. The service here is very good. I want to order the Five Napkin Burger with sautéed onions, comte cheese, and aioli but Lana steers me towards the fish. She orders the roast cod. I get the sea bass with artichokes stewed in olive oil. We order some glasses of wine. I get the Sauvignon Blanc. This is a real change of pace for me. I’m more of a pizza and beer guy in civilian life. But hey, change is good sometimes.

I examine the contents of the wine glass carefully.

“The four ounce pour,” I say smiling, “Measured to the last drop.”

“More bang for your buck,” Lana says over her glass.

“Oh well,” I reply taking a sip. The wine is good.

Lana is studying to be an analyst. She used to wait tables with me at the Bistro years ago. We get together every once in a while to catch up on things.

“So how’s head shrinking treating you?” I ask.

“Not to bad,” she replies, “I’m talking about my ex husband in analysis.”

“Sound’s like a load of laughs.”

“Did I ever tell you what happened after my ex moved out?”

“No,” I say.

“After living in that apartment for seven years the neighbors decided to tell me that the previous tenant murdered his wife in our bathroom.”

“Oh shit,” I exclaim.

“It gets better,” Lana continues, “he chopped her up in the bathtub.”

“Now that’s love.”

“Yep.”

I’m silent for a moment.

“Honey,” I suddenly say in a falsetto voice, “Why is the tub stopped up?

Lana starts laughing.

“Oh! Wait a minute. I found the problem! How did a finger get stuck in here?”

“You’re bad," Lana says shaking her head.

“Looks like ya got gristle in your drain little lady,” I say.

“Oh God, I hate that word!” Lana shudders.

“What word?”

“Gristle.’

“Kinda sums it up doesn’t it?” I offer.

Of course the food comes at this point.

“Yum yum,” I say, “Dig in.”

We do. The food is excellent.

After the plates are cleared we order some after dinner drinks. I get Armanagc and coffee. Lana has a café au lait. The conversation is free ranging, covering a myriad of topics. I enjoy talking with Lana. She is very, very smart. Before she was a waiter her previous incarnations included being a teacher, organic chef, and new age health practitioner. Her Dad was a philosopher of some renown. She knows her shit.

“So how’s the book coming?” she asks.

“Well, I’ve been talking informally with a publisher and an agent. But nothing’s signed, nothing definite,” I say. “I’m struggling with how to write it. Sometimes I think a novel is the way to go, other times a memoir. I just don’t know.”

“Writing a book is different than writing a blog,” Lana observes.

“And how,” I say with a twinge of guilt. I’m only twenty pages into my draft.

‘Well I’ve always been a bit psychic,” Lana says,” I sense you’ll do well with it.”

“That’s not very comforting,” I reply.

“Why not?” Lana says befuddled.

“A woman was sliced and diced in the tub you took a shower in every day for seven years. Don’t you think your Jedi powers would have picked up on the psychic gristle?"

“I didn’t think of it that way,” Lana admits laughing.

“Remind me never to let you help me pick out an apartment,” I jest.

Lana may not be psychic but she’s very sensitive and intelligent. She’ll make a good analyst.

“Well in any case – good luck,” Lana offers.

“Thanks,” I say. “Besides the book thing keep an eye out. Changes are coming to the blog.”

“Like what?” she asks. I tell her.

“Very cool.” Lana says.

The bill comes. It’s astronomical. Well, you have to treat yourself every once in a while.

We say our goodbyes. I go home. I’m a bit tipsy. The laptop stares at me. Should I work on the draft? Should I go to bed? Should I post? Hmmm. Let me lie down for a minute.

Just one minute…..

I wake up the next day still in my clothes.

2005-05-27T01:54:00.000-04:00

Sparrow

I’m standing outside. I hear a bird chirping.

I look down. It’s is a baby sparrow. His song is fearful.

A weakling, he’s been tossed out of the nest. His siblings watch from above.

“Better you than me,” they seem to be saying.

I reach down and scoop him up. He’s quiet now.

He looks at me. I look at him.

I’ve got customers. I can’t waste time with a bird.

I place him in the flower bed. Let nature do its thing.

Over the phones, past the traffic, through the glass I still hear him sing.

I go back outside.

He looks at me. I look at him.

I make a phone call. Then another. Someone’ll be right over.

I get a take out cup, something we use for soup, poke a few holes in the top, and put the bird inside.

The clock ticks. People wonder what I’ve got in the cup.

“Nothing,” I say.

The old man comes. Damaged by people he prefers little things.

“Where are you taking him?” I ask. The old man smiles and tells me not to worry.

I open the lid. I look at the bird. He looks at me.

Closing the lid, I hand the cup to the man. He drives off.

The best part of my day goes with him.

I go inside and wash my hands.

2005-05-26T11:27:00.000-04:00

Get Out

“I love you,” the woman says dreamily.

“No, I love you more,” the man replies.

“How much more?” she giggles reaching across the table to take his hand.

“More than anything in the world,” he sighs.

It’s way past closing. The Bistro’s empty. The staff is waiting to break down the restaurant. Many of them have been here since 9 AM and want to go home. The only thing separating me from my post shift Guinness are these two saccharine love birds.

Taking a deep breath, I go over and drop the check.

“We’re not ready for the bill yet,” the man says sharply. The woman looks at me like I shot her cat.

I place the bill gently on the table saying “Whenever you’re ready sir.” (That’s waiterspeak for GET OUT.)

Of course they make no effort to pay. They continue to sit and prattle sweetly. I feel a diabetic attack coming on.

Now if you’re a waiter you’ve run into this situation countless times. What do you do when you have a late table that refuses to leave?

Well, since you asked.....

HOW TO THROW OUT A LATE TABLE

(Wait twenty minutes after table has finished dessert and coffee before implementing.)

1. Ask the table, “Can I get you anything else?” (Also waiterspeak for “GET OUT”)
2. Drop check.
3. After appropriate interval and ask, “May I take that for you sir?”

If they pay and leave - great. If they shoo you away? Well…

4. Take off your apron. A subtle hint.
5. Take off your tie. Less subtle.
6. Take oils and condiments off table for cleaning.
7. Return said condiments. (Aforementioned table leaves at this time)

Still not moving?

8. Slowly turn off house music.
9. Turn UP loud Spanish music in kitchen.
10. Count out your cash in plain sight of the table.

Still not leaving? Sigh….. time to ratchet up the pain.

11. Have the clean up crew carry garbage past offending table. I like to make sure a fish head is peeking out above the rim. A classy touch.
12. Put the chairs up.
13. Have the guys start mopping the floors. Ammonia has a lovely smell.
14. Turn up the lights.

Not budging? Bastards.

15. Put on your coat.
16. Jangle your keys impatiently.
17. If the busgirls have boyfriends or small children waiting outside – bring ‘em in!
18. If you have a pregnant server (and we do) have them clutch their stomach and say, “I feel sick. I want to go home.”
19. Mention you have to get home to your own children. Whether or not you have any is beside the point.

Still no response? – Time for “The Nuclear Options.”

20. Start drinking.
21. Loudly talk about what you did last night and to whom. Details are nice.
22. Let it slip you have a brother, “Doing time.”
23. Perform your waiter with Tourettes impersonation.
24. Talk to yourself. (I’m really good at this one.)
25. Sit and stare at offending table with homicidal gleam in your eye.
26. Hover
27. Finally, go to offending table and say, “You don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here.”

If they still won’t depart, lock them inside the restaurant and leave. Since they like the place so much - they won’t mind.

In all my years as a waiter I’ve never gone past tip # 19.

Feel free to use any of my suggestions.

But if you get fired don’t come crying to me.

2005-05-24T01:19:00.000-04:00

Waiter Axioms

Anyone who wants a table a half hour before closing is an asshole.

If a customer never says “Please” or “thank you” during the course of the meal you’re getting 15% or less.

If a customer pays with the Discover Card – your tips probably gonna be bad.

If the customer says “You’re the best waiter I’ve ever had” – your tip is sure to be shit.

Women with fur coats seldom tip the coat check girl.

A person dining alone is the most likely to skip out on the bill.

Customers can’t tell the difference between Absolut and Grey Goose.

A customer who smells the cork is an amateur.

Serve Decaf – to everybody.

A customer who leaves the tip in cash was probably a waiter once.

The waiter who stays latest makes the most cash.

Pick new staff carefully. You can train a person to wait tables. You can’t untrain an asshole.

Never lose control of your station.

Ask for help.

If the waiters aren’t complaining then something’s wrong.

Coke head waiters work their entire shift. The Potheads always want to leave early. The Crackheads bolt as soon as they get their first cash tip.

Shift drinks are a mistake.

Never get on the bad side of the kitchen staff.

Never shortchange the bus people when you tip out.

A customer that never makes eye contact is a nutjob.

ID everyone who looks younger than you.

If a customer asks your name - it’s not because they want to be your friend.

Bitters and club soda are good for an upset stomach.

Visine does not give people the runs.

Wash your hands constantly.

Hydrate.

Tea drinkers are a pain in the ass.

"Prix-Fixe" customers are a pain in the ass.

Hostesses are a royal pain in the ass. (Not to be confused with "reservation managers")

If don’t have clean pants for work - iron your dirty ones with Febreze.

Hide a spare tie/shirt at work.

Never leave your wine opener lying around.

Remember - the customer will eventually leave.

2005-05-23T12:57:00.000-04:00

Thank God for Aprons

“Waiter what would you recommend? The swordfish or the tuna?” the redhead on table twenty three asks me.

“The swordfish is excellent tonight,” I offer.

“How thick is the swordfish?” Red asks looking up.

Our eyes meet. There’s a spark of electricity between us. We both like what we see.

I measure a space three quarters of an inch between my thumb and forefinger. “About that thick madam,” I say.

Smiling broadly, Red mimics my gesture, “Anything a little thicker?” she says playfully.

“I can ask the kitchen,” I reply grinning.

“And how big is the filet?” Red asks, her voice dropping an octave.

“Madam?”

“Is it this big?” she says, measuring a space between her two hands.

“Oh it’s bigger,” I say making the same movement - but wider.

“Really?” Red says delightedly.

God I love when this happens.

“Really,” I say.

“I like it big,” Red says.

“I believe it will be enough to satisfy you madam.”

Never taking her eyes off me Red purrs, “I’m sure it will.”

Red’s companions, including her husband, are oblivious to the subtext of our culinary discussion.

“Then swordfish it is,” I say.

Order in hand I go over to the POS computer. As I’m entering the entrees Red gets up and walks towards me.

I look at her. She looks at me. She smiles. I smile back.

Now beautiful women in my business are a dime a dozen. But Red is different. She has something. A quality that is rare and wonderful.

Red has smolder.

“I’m know I’m going to like the swordfish,” Red whispers as she wiggles past me on her way to the ladies room.

A palpable heat radiates off of her. I’m afraid loose paper objects might spontaneously combust.

“Indeed you will,” I reply.

Wow.

A short while later I deliver the order and the table tucks into it with gusto. After an appropriate interval I return and ask how everything is.

“Great, great,” Red’s husband says between mouthfuls.

“And Madam how is your swordfish?” I ask.

Red spears a small piece of fish and brings it too her mouth. Lips closing around the fork she looks up at me. Sliding the utensil out languorously - she smiles.

I wait for her to swallow.

“Delicious,” she replies huskily.

Goddamn. I love this job.

“I’m glad you like it,” I say

Red is married. Nothing will happen. But there’s no law against looking at the menu is there?

“So good,” Red says winking. I feel like I need a cigarette.

“Waiter, can I get a martini?” another table beckons interrupting my fun.

“Right away sir,” I say reluctantly.

Departing the table to fetch the man’s drink I transmit a “high five” to the Creator for making women like Red.

But as I’m walk the length of the restaurant towards the bar I become aware I’m should be grateful for something else.

I utter a silent prayer…..

Thank God I’m wearing an apron.

2005-05-22T11:27:00.000-04:00

Call me Elton

“Waiter, has any one ever told you that you look like Elton John?”

“No sir,” I say looking down my nose at the customer.

“I mean a young Elton John,” the man adds quickly, realizing I’m not flattered by the comparison.

“That’s a new one on me sir,” I reply icily.

“I meant it as a compliment,” the man says nervously.

“If you said I looked like Brad Pitt that would be better,” I counter.

The man suddenly looks uncomfortable.

“You should never upset the person who’s handling your food sir,” I say with a faint smile.

The man’s wife laughs. “Oh boy Marv you’re in trouble now!

“You can spit in his food. We won’t mind,” his other friend cackles.

I’m enjoying watching Marvin squirm but I should let him off the hook. He’s here to enjoy himself after all.

“I’ll take it as a compliment. Sir Elton is a very talented and philanthropic individual,” I say.

“Yes. It’s a compliment waiter,” Marvin says.

“I’ve been told I look like Nathan Lane a few times so don’t sweat it sir,” I offer.

“Really?”

"Whenever I get a haircut people tell me that.” I was at the barber this morning.

“Nathan Lane! Another talented individual!” Marvin says beaming.

“Yes sir,” I demur, injecting just enough servility in my voice to make Marv think he’s back in control of the situation.

“You’re a good sport waiter.”

“Thank you sir.”

Marvin feels better. I take the table’s order and head into the kitchen. Louis is there making espressos.

“Louis, do I look like Nathan Lane or Elton John?”

Louis looks me up and down.

“No honey. You don’t.”

“So what’s with all the comparisons to fat gay men?” I ask.

“Well, you are a bit pudgy,” Louis offers laughing.

“Thanks a lot Louis,”

“You asked,” Louis crows exiting the kitchen.

I look at myself in the bar mirror. Time to go back to the gym. Ever since I broke up with my girlfriend I’ve gained a few pounds.

Sigh.

And I guess that’s why they call it the blues.

2005-05-20T11:01:00.000-04:00

Milk Hormones

Gerald and I are conversing by the coffee station at the start of shift.

“My friend’s daughter’s ten and she’s already menstruating,” he says.

“Ten?” I gasp in surprise, “isn’t that a little early?”

“Unbelievable ain’t it?”

“Man, girls are hitting puberty younger and younger,” I say shaking my head. “When I was a kid girls didn’t start till twelve or thirteen.”

“I read somewhere that all the hormones injected into meat and dairy products have something to do with it,” Gerald replies.

“Ten is too young.”

“They think that in twenty years the onset of menstruation could be around six years old.”

My stomach turns. Children should be allowed to be children. What’s this world coming to?

“And you know some six year old will get pregnant.” I say sadly. “When I worked in health care I saw girls knocked up at twelve.”

“Boggles the mind,” Gerald says dryly.

“At least when I have daughters there’ll be some microchip technology so I can track them,” I say.

“You hope.”

“The second some boy tries something the chip calls my cell phone and delivers him a 10,000 volt shock,” I fantasize.

Think I’m twisted? Talk to any guy who has daughters. They’d install one in a second.

“Good thing they didn’t have that back when you were a teenager,” Gerald laughs.

“Yeah,” I say ruefully, “but back then the girls were teenagers too.”

“True.”

Mercifully the door chimes, ending our conversation. I walk up to the hostess stand.

Waiting in the entrance is one of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever seen.

“Hi,’ she says brightly, “Are you looking to hire a hostess?”

Sometimes a girl is so lovely a guy becomes stupid.

“I certainly hope so,” I reply.

The girl smiles winsomely. A trim brunette, dressed in a professional but sexy outfit, she has a face that could launch a thousand ships. She looks to be about twenty two.

I realize that I’m staring.

“Let me get you an application,” I say yanking myself out of my reverie.

“Thanks.”

I leave the girl to fill out the paperwork and grab some more coffee.

“Wow!” I say refilling my cup, “She’s cute.”

“Si, si muy bonita,” Maria, the busgirl, says smiling. She knows I’m a happy guy.

Cup in hand, I waltz back over to the hostess stand to see if the girl needs any help.

“All done,” the girl says handing me the form.

“That was fast,” I say looking over the application.

“I’m seventeen. Is that going to be a problem?” the girl asks.

Suddenly I feel some kind of internal portcullis come crashing down.

“You’re how old?” I ask.

“Seventeen. I just graduated high school.”

“High school?” I blurt.

“I’m worried I can’t work in a place that serves liquor until I’m eighteen.”

I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach. Seventeen? I was TWENTY when this girl was born.

My face betraying nothing I say, “If you’re only a hostess it’s ok. You just can’t serve alcohol.”

“Oh good,” the girl replies.

We chat a few minutes. She’s looking for a small job before she starts UConn in the fall. I tell her the owner will call her if he has something available.

He won’t. She’s too young for the rough and tumble of our bistro. It would be cruel.

The girl thanks me and departs. Normally I cast an appreciative look when a beautiful woman walks out the door.

Not today.

She’s seventeen for Christ’s sake.

Walking dejectedly back into the kitchen I announce,

“That girl was only seventeen!”

“Really?” Gerald says surprised.

“Really.”

“Must be the hormones in the milk,” he observes.

“Hey - you a dirty old man or what?” Maria adds laughing.

I slowly beat my head against the wall. “Seventeen, seventeen,” I groan.

“I hope her Dad had her microchiped,” Gerald quips.

“Thank a lot New Guy,” I reply.

I just turned thirty seven. I feel old. It’s a sensation I’m experiencing more and more.

Something tells me it’s only going to get worse.

2005-05-18T12:02:00.000-04:00

Coffee, Feng Shui, & Hope

It’s a slow lunch. Too kill time, Gwen, the lunch waitress is doing a Feng Shui analysis of my apartment.

“You see here,” Gwen says pointing to my clumsily doodled floor plan, “your creativity corner is strong. But your money and love energies are going out the window.”

“Sounds like the story of my life,” I chuckle.

“You actually don’t even have a love corner in your apartment,” Gwen notes.

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Maybe you could put a mirror in that corner to reflect the energy back. Hmmmm,” Gwen ruminates.

“How about a mirror over the bed?” I say winking.

“In Feng Shui that’s a bad idea. Not to mention tacky,”

“Oh well,” I sigh.

The door chimes. The coffee guy is making his delivery. I get up from the table and help the guys unload the truck. When I return, Gwen is laughing.

“The coffee guy asked me out,” she giggles,

Christ. Mr. Coffee’s at it again - propositioning girls wherever he makes deliveries.

“Is that a good thing?” I ask cautiously.

“Nope, I’m not attracted to him.”

“Well, I hope he takes rejection well,” I say.

“Actually I gave him my phone number,” Gwen says.

“Why did you do that?” I ask.

“Well I didn’t want to lie and say I have a boyfriend when I don’t.”

“So you get the guys hopes up and then what – not answer the phone?”

“I know, I know. I’m really at bad just telling guys no,” Gwen fusses.

“Trust me, being direct is the best thing to do,” I reply.

“What am I going to do when he calls?”

“Just tell him thanks but no thanks.”

“But I gave him my number!”

Women are socialized to be nice to guys. When faced with an unwanted suitor they’re sometimes accommodating just to shine them off. It’s a defensive move. I understand. Women have more experience with unwanted attention.

“Tell him you get nervous in those situations and you hate making people feel bad. Then say no thanks,” I instruct.

“Won’t he get mad?” Gwen wonders

“Let me tell you about Mr. Coffee. He hits on every girl in every restaurant.”

“Really?”

“Before my ex and I hooked up he took her on a date once,” I say.

“How’d it go?”

“He tried to stick his tongue down her throat.”

“On the first date?” Gwen asks.

“Try on the first hour.”

“Yuck,” she says making a face.

“What I’m saying is your rejection ain’t gonna faze him. He’s think he’s a “playa.”"

“Sounds like an asshole,” Gwen muses.

“You’re dodging a bullet,” I conclude.

We’re silent for a minute.

“You know what’s funny?” Gwen says.

“What?”

“I just put an attractor crystal in the love corner of my house.”

“Seems to kinda work,” I offer.

“Not well enough,” Gwen whispers eyes downcast.

Gwen is a beautiful girl with charms of her own. She doesn’t need to rely on trinkets.

“Don’t worry. Your prince will come.” I say.

“I guess.”

“Just get over that saying yes when you mean no thing.”

“I’ll try,” Gwen says smiling.

The next day I’m walking through my neighborhood when I pass by the local New Age store. It’s run by some Wiccan Hippie Chick. I buy my incense there. Impulsively - I go in.

I exit holding a small bag. When I get home I pull a hammer and nail out of the toolbox and get to work.

Finished, I step back and admire my newest decoration.

A love amulet.

If placed it right it’s hanging in the “love corner” of my room.

I don’t exactly believe in all this Feng Shui stuff. Perhaps there are no magical energies. Maybe I just wasted ten bucks.

But you never know. As the Bard once said, “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophies.”

Besides – I need all the help I can get.

The amulet swings slightly, stirred about by the cool spring breeze

Maybe the talisman is just a symbol of hope I think to myself. A reminder that things get better.

Yes. That’s it. Perhaps it’s all about hope.

I smile.

That’s good enough.

2005-05-15T13:34:00.000-04:00

Doomed

“Fluvio wants you,” Maria, the busgirl, shouts.

“Tell him I didn’t do it whatever it is,” I shout over the din, frantically trying to assemble ten cappuccinos.

“He wants to know why your table outside’s pissed off,” Maria continues.

“What?”

“They said you’re a horrible waiter,” Maria giggles. She loves seeing me in trouble.

“Christ. What now?” I moan heading towards the front.

“Boloni you screwed up the table,” Fluvio barks as I arrive at the hostess stand.

“What happened?” I ask.

“The man wanted a chocolate torte and you gave him an apple pie.”

“My bad,” I say, “I’m so busy I had a busgirl run the dessert out. I must’ve handed her the wrong plate.”

In my peripheral vision I see my ten top wondering where their cappuccinos have disappeared to.

“The guy says you’ve been screwing up his table all night,” Fluvio presses.

“That’s bullshit.”

“His date wanted a half order of pasta and you gave her a full order!”

“She ordered a full portion.”

“She says no.”

“It’s right here on the pad man,” I say showing Fluvio my ticket book.

“Whatever. We’ll charge her for a half portion anyway,” Fluvio grunts.

“Fine.”

I head out onto the veranda to smooth things over. When I get to the table the lady starts in on me immediately.

“I ordered a half portion,” she says.

“I’m sorry madam. I must’ve misheard you,” I reply.

“Didn’t you write it down?” she sniffs.

“Yes, I wrote down what I heard,” I say politely.

“Well I’m right and you’re wrong,” she bitches reaching for her fourth chardonnay.

This lady’s a semi regular customer. She’s a well known attorney. Being right all the time is part of her DNA. It’s a shame aging gracefully isn’t. I’ve being watching this woman slowly disintegrate for years. She used to be pretty. But the demons of drink and a high powered lifestyle have exacted their Faustian toll.

“My apologies madam,” I say.

“Whatever,” she sighs dismissively.

Not to be outdone her date, another attorney says, “And my espresso’s cold!” This guy’s had five scotch and sodas.

“Let me get you another sir.”

“And why did you send me an apple pie when I wanted chocolate cake?” he asks. I feel like I’m on the witness stand.

“A simple mistake sir. Easily fixed,” I say soothingly.

“You’re incompetent.”

The real incompetent is the doctor who did this guy’s hair transplant. I decide to keep that observation to myself.

“I’m sorry,” I repeat for the umpteenth time.

“You’ve ruined my entire evening,” Bad Hair pouts.

I’m a little waiter in a little bistro. I wrecked this high powered lawyer’s night. I never realized I wielded such power.

“Desserts on us,” I say. I need to shut these guys down. I have other table waiting.

“Take this,” Bad Hair says shoving his espresso towards me.

“Yes sir.”

I run inside and make the man another espresso. My ten top yells. “Where are our cappuccinos?”

“Coming right up!” I shout back.

I place Bad Hair’s demitasse on the table. He pretends not too see me.

I’m pissed. I don’t like being called incompetent. My mind races with devilish schemes of revenge. But then I look at Bad Hair. His face is pockmarked and the flesh of his nose is starting to spider with busted capillaries. I don’t need to do a thing.

Life’s punishing him far better than I ever could.

I bang out my ten top’s caps and try and catch up on my tables. Through the window I see Bad Hair signaling for his check.

When I deliver the bill he hands me two credit cards. “Spilt it,” he says.

Way to go studly. Make the lady pay for her share.

At the credit card terminal Louis is busying processing a mound of checks.

“Those assholes giving you a hard time?” he asks.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” I reply.

“They’re quite a pair,” he observes.

“They deserve each other.”

“I guess.”

“Those two have been dating for years but they always split the check. What’s that about?” I wonder aloud.

“They split the check so they can submit the charges as a business expense,” Louis says.

“So they’ve been eating here, for years, on the company dime?” I reply.

“Well – they are lawyers.”

“True.”

I return to the outside table. They sign the receipts and get up to leave. I sneak a peek at the checkbook. 16%. It could’ve been worse.

As the legal eagles start walking down the street the woman looks at me over her shoulder.

“I was right about the pasta,” she says drunkenly.

She just can't let it go. Maybe that's why she's such a good lawyer. Maybe it's why she seems so miserable. A person's greatest strength is always their greatest weakness.

Silence seems the best response.

I watch the couple walk down the avenue. I notice they don’t hold hands. They keep a healthy distance between each other. The woman’s heel catches a crack on the pavement and she stumbles slightly. Her date makes no effort to steady her.

I shake my head and go back inside the bistro.

Those two are doomed.

2005-05-10T23:05:00.000-04:00

No Mas

I'm standing on the shore of a tropical island when a beautiful blonde, in a skimpy white bikini, emerges from the surf like Venus Rising from the sea. I admire her long legs as she sashays suggestively towards me.

"Hi," she says breathlessly.

"Hello."

"Aren't you that guy from the Waiter Rant blog?" she asks, beads of water glistening on her ripe full breasts like diamonds.

"Why yes - yes I am," I reply suavely.

"I think bloggers are so sexy," she teases playfully.

I'm at a loss for words.

Leaning forward Venus says, "Come here. I want to tell you something."

I move closer. The girl's eyes hint at mischief and delights beyond.

"You know what?" she whispers, her breath hot on my ear.

"What?" I reply, my voice getting hoarse.

"CAN I HAVE MORE MAPLE SYRUP PLEASE!"

What?

Suddenly I'm yanked off Fantasy Island and thrown back into reality.

I’m working in a restaurant on Mother's Day.

"Excuse me madam?" I say to the overly made up octogenarian on table twelve.

"MORE SYRUP!" she sputters testily.

What a quantum shift from imaginary bikini vixens.

"Right away madam," I blurt.

After I deliver Granny her syrup I walk over to the hostess stand where a throng of people has gathered.

"How may I help you?" I ask - fake smile firmly in place.

"Eight people please," a well dressed woman says.

"Do you have a reservation?"

"No. Do I need one?" She looks surprised.

"Madam, it's Mother's Day."

"You need to find me a table."

"I'm sorry madam but we have nothing available 'til nine o'clock.”

"That's nine hours from now!" the woman gasps.

"I'm sorry.”

"I want a table."

"I'm afraid I cannot accommodate your request," I say

"Well, that's what we need to do," she counters.

I'll bet she learned that phrase in assertiveness training.

"What 'we' need is a reservation," I say with strained politeness.

The woman stares at me icily.

"Might I suggest the French restaurant down the street? They may have space available," I offer.

The woman exits without saying a word. Oh well. If she loved her mother she'd have made a reservation.

I walk back down the aisle surveying the customers. Young mothers, celebrating their first Mother's Day, laugh and pose for pictures with their newborns. The mothers of the teenagers, however, look like they'd rather be someplace else.

On table fourteen a middle aged woman is crying softly. I know the story. Her husband died last week. It's her first Mother's Day without him. Her twenty year old son gently tries to comfort her. He's the man of the house now.

Suddenly a customer, a bald man, grabs me by the elbow.

"Gimme another Heinken," he barks.

Normally being grabbed would elicit a withering stare. But since it's Mother's Day I've braced myself for amateur hour antics.

"But of course sir," I say smiling; my cheeks beginning to hurt.

I return with the beer, the man's sixth, and pour it into his glass. I mentally note that he has a really hairy chest. I also notice he’s not wearing an undershirt. How can I tell? His shirt is unbuttoned to his waist. Classy guy.

(Why do bald men always have so much hair everywhere else? One of life's little cruelties I guess.)

"Excuse me. May I have more champagne?" Hairy's hundred year old mother asks sweetly.

"Right away Miss," I say.

"I'm an old lady. Don't call me Miss," the old mother says winking.

"Why Miss you don't look a day over fifty," I tease. It's a lie. She knows it's a lie. She eats it up anyway.

"Oh thank you," she gushes.

This woman's really old. It might be her last Mother's Day. Next year her son’s carnation may change from red to white.

"Have a lovely Mother's Day. You deserve it," I whisper pouring the bubbly.

"Thank you young man," she says. Savoring her champagne she looks upon her brood and smiles. Maybe she knows something I don't.

Fourteen hours and 250 customers later it's all over. The staff did a tremendous job. We get through the day with no major fuckups.

As I walk down the street, my knees aching, I bypass the Irish pub. I'm gonna treat myself. Tonight I'm heading over to Alain's.

Alain's is the French restaurant down the street. Fluvio and Henri, the owner of Alain's, can't stand each other. But their mutual dislike never stopped the staff from getting along. They serve fresh homemade potato chips instead of pretzels and they have Fischer beer on draft. I like Fischer beer.

"So how was YOUR day," I say mockingly as I sidle up to the copper sheathed bar.

Manny, the Egyptian born barman shakes his head and slides a schooner of beer towards me.

"The worst," he says.

Robert, my opposite number at Alain's, comes and sits next to me. He looks drunk.

"How'd it go?" he asks.

"Did you ever read Heart of Darkness?" I reply.

"No."

"Did you see Apocalypse Now?"

"Yes," Robert says breaking into a smile.

"The horror. The horror!" I moan.

"That good huh?” Robert asks.

"Thank God it’s over," I exhale.

"Say, you didn't send that bitch with the eight top my way this afternoon?"

"Moi?" I reply grinning, "Certainly not."

"Asshole," Robert says without rancor. He'd do the same thing to me.

We stare into our drinks silently for a few minutes.

Suddenly a resolution sparks within me.

"This is the last Mother's Day I'm ever gonna work," I announce.

"You said that last year," Robert laughs.

"Yeah, I know."

"And the year before that."

"I mean it this time," I say.

"Sure."

"Well gentleman," Manny interjects, "we have 365 days to find new jobs."

"Oh God," Robert says pounding his head on the bar. I feel like joining him.

Taking a sip of my beer I catch the reflection of an exhausted waiter in the barroom mirror. He's not old looking - but not quite so young anymore.

"No more Mother's Days," I whisper into my beer

No mas.

I mean it this time.

Really.

2005-05-07T13:09:00.000-04:00

New Guy Continued.....

Fluvio and I are eating lunch at change of shift. It’s payday. The lunch waitress happily counts the day’s take as the dinner staff trickles in.

“Hey Arlene, how was lunch?” Louis asks in greeting.

“$200!” Arlene chirps merrily. She had a great shift.

“Not bad…” Louis murmurs appreciatively.

“Maybe I should grab some lunch shifts,” I interject.

“Don’t even think about it.” Arlene growls.

I laugh softly. Lunch is Arlene’s kingdom.

New Guy walks in the door. Wearing his black and whites, apron rolled tightly in his hands, he looks pensive.

“Can I get my money?” he blurts. No “hello” or “how is everyone?”

“Can’t you see I’m eating?” Fluvio says.

Unfazed New Guy continues, “I need to deposit my check today.”

Mistake. One of the cardinal rules of the bistro is never bother Fluvio while he’s eating. It’s like taking food from a Doberman.

“Wait,” Fluvio mumbles through a mouthful of pasta.

New Guy exhales loudly, “I really need the money.”

Arlene and I exchange glances. We know from experience that a new waiter desperate for cash is trouble.

“Goddammit,” Fluvio says getting up from the table. He goes downstairs to the office to retrieve the checks. When he returns he thrusts them angrily at me.

‘Hand ‘em out.”

I pass out the checks. I get to New Guy, sadistically, last.

New Guy opens his check. He looks disappointed.

“Is this it?” he huffs.

“You only worked a couple of training shifts. Next week you’ll be on the floor and making money,” I reply. He’s lucky. Not every restaurant pays a training wage.

New Guy keeps staring at the check hoping it will suddenly be worth more.

I sigh inwardly. Being a waiter in training sucks. Paired with a veteran, you do all the work and keep none of the tips. Basically you’re my slave for a week.

“Am I taking tables tonight?” New Guy asks.

“Fluvio, how’s New Guy on the floor?” I say.

Fluvio just shrugs.

“We’ll give you a few tables tonight and see how you do,” I reply.

“Will I work Saturday night?” he presses.

I don’t like this guy. “Saturday shifts are assigned by seniority,” I say evenly.

New Guy stares dumbly at me. “Can I go to the bank and deposit my check?”

“Sure.”

After he walks out the door Fluvio says, “He’s not coming back.”

“You think?”

Fluvio pantomimes a junkie mainlining smack. “He’s off to get a fix.”

“Wouldn’t be the first drug addict we’ve come across.”

An hour passes. Sure enough - New Guy doesn’t come back.

“Where do you think he went?” Louis asks.

“He’s probably passed out in an alley with a needle in his arm.” I say.

“That’s mean,” Louis laughs.

“Check the alley. I’ll bet he’s there.”

Louis and I think about that for a moment.

“Well, we thought he wasn’t gonna work out,” Louis says.

Trainees are a pain in the ass. Hungry for money, often to fuel one addiction or another, they want the best shifts irrespective of seniority. Working their way up the totem pole is an alien concept.

“Fuck him.” I reply.

New Guy was an asshole. Good riddance. Yet, another green recruit who stepped on a land mine.

I’m glad I never learned his name.

2005-05-05T13:09:00.000-04:00

Toss Your Cookies

It has come to my attention that WaiterRant’s site statistics are less than transparent. To remedy that situation I have decided to make those statistics public. Click on the StatCounter “counter.” Type “reader” into both the username and password fields and your in!

My reasons for doing this are as follows:

1. Many blogs have easily readable site statistics. Why not mine?

2. I want to give a big shout out to the team at StatCounter for making, what I think, is a superior product.

3. Many people link to WaiterRant and I can't always reciprocate in kind. However, with StatCounter, if you go to the “Came From” page you can see all the great blogs that have referred to me. Please visit them in return.

If any one cares - my counter is set to record a unique visitor at 6 hour intervals. That means you can come to WaiterRant a hundred times in a day but the software will only register you as a unique visitor four times. Interesting huh? Yawn!

If anyone knows how to go straight to the site stats without typing in a password and user name let me know! I am a newbie with this stuff so bear with me!

Pray for me. Mother's Day is coming.

2005-05-04T13:05:00.000-04:00

Five Inches

The service bar in my bistro is a cramped cluttered affair - jammed into a corner next to the coffee machine. Ten varieties of vodka compete with gin and wine bottles for space. Whenever you grab the tequila you risk knocking several bottles to the floor.

I’m making a Cosmopolitan so I’m scrounging for the triple sec. Goddamn it. No one ever puts it back in the same place twice. Spying it in the last row I make a grab for it. My sleeve catches on the pourer of a bottle of Grey Goose, hurtling it to the ground. The $50 bottle bounces off the rubber floor mats and spins into the dining room.

“Fuck!” I yelp chasing after it.

“I hate when that happens,” Louis observes, his arms laden with trays of food.

Frustrated, I ignore him and study the service bar. If it was only a little bigger, a half foot wider, it would solve all our problems.

“What I wouldn’t give for five more inches,” I think aloud.

Louis cracks up.

“Try Extenze brother. It might help you.”

I realize how my statement might have been misconstrued.

“Five more inches would make me a circus freak,” I reply dryly.

“I’ve always liked that young man on the flying trapeze” Louis chuckles.

“I think you mean the flaming trapeze,” I retort.

“Aren’t we bitchy today?” Louis laughs exiting the kitchen.

“Don’t get me started.”

I finish making the Cosmo. Suddenly one of the waitresses sidles up to me.

“Louis says you’re feeling a little inadequate today,” she whispers slyly.

I groan inwardly. Touché Louis.

I’m never gonna live this one down.

2005-05-02T11:48:00.000-04:00

Burying the Dead

I’m sitting in the Irish pub after work hoisting a few pints with my fellow server Beth. You remember her. She’s the one that was still wearing Underoo’s when I graduated college. The beer and the conversation flow freely.

“When I was in the third grade I was mauled by a dog,” she says matter-of-factly.

“Wow,” I say surprised.

“Yeah, he ripped off my eyelid and damaged my eye socket. My eyeball was like exposed,” Beth continues.

I peer closely at her face. There’s no sign of trauma.

“You’d never know it happened,” I say.

Beth smiles, “I had a good plastic surgeon. It took three surgeries to repair the damage.”

Beth is a very pretty girl. She almost wasn’t. The surgeon was very talented.

“Amazing,” I murmur.

“That wasn’t the worst thing that ever happened to me,” she says taking a pull on her beer.

“What was?”

“My best friend Alice was killed in a car accident when I was nineteen,” Beth says.

“I’m sorry.”

“She lived right across the street from me. We grew up together, went through school together. She was so beautiful that she could’ve been a model.”

“I lost a good friend once,” I say mostly to myself.

When I turned eighteen she showed up to my birthday party in her prom dress and sprinkled me with confetti,” she continues.

I smile

“She was my birthday fairy.”

“She sounded like a wonderful person,” I say.

“After she died her parents asked me to pick out her clothes for the funeral. They knew I knew her best - what she’d like to be wearing.”

“Wow,” I reply.

“And then I did her makeup at the funeral home.”

My heart skips a beat.

“Really?” I say in wonderment.

“Alice’s face was bruised from the accident. The mortician had to fix that part but I did the rest. She looked the way she would’ve wanted to look. I even used the sparkles she liked so much. "

My response was honest and totally wrong.

“I don’t know. If you were my daughter I'd be so uncomfortable letting you do that.”

“I know it sounds a bit strange. But you know what? I was honored to do it. I loved her very much.” Beth says.

There’s no sadness in her face – just a kind of serenity.

All of a sudden I’m ashamed of myself. Images flood into my minds eye.

I see my father kissing his mother before her coffin closed forever….

My cousin singing “Ave Maria” in the ER as her mother died….

A couple gently stroking the hair of their dead child while I watch wordlessly from the corner of an intensive care unit a long time ago…

The Pieta….

Sometimes our tenderness is the last gift we can give the departed. I’ve forgotten my catechism. It’s a work of mercy to bury the dead.

“You should be honored,” I say finally, “That was a tremendously kind thing to do.”

“Thanks.”

We’re quiet for a few moments.

“You know what’s strange?” Beth says.

“What?” I say.

“It sounds weird but Alice’s death changed me for the better.”

“It’s probably the truth,” I say.

“After she died I realized what a gift it was to be alive. I can’t waste time with bullshit anymore.”

I take a long look at Beth. She is very young, very courageous, and very wise.

“I’m thirty seven and I still haven’t learned that lesson.” I say.

Beth smiles gently and drinks some more of her beer. “Remind me to show you a picture of her one day,” she says.

“I’d like that.”

An hour later we say our goodbyes and I walk to my car, humbled by the fact that someone younger knows something about life than I don’t.

I fumble with my keys and open the door. Turning the ignition I remember the philosopher’s words, “Ignorance is the beginning of wisdom.”

Despite my “wise daddy shtick,” my experience and background, I don’t know a whole hell of a lot. Beth reminded of me that.

I just hope the seeds of my ignorance blossom into wisdom. Maybe someday.

I drive off into night thinking about tenderness and burying the dead.

2005-05-01T13:00:00.000-04:00

Pale Moon Rising

The woman on table sixteen is a forty year old, slightly drunk, voluptuous peroxide blond.

And her ass is halfway out of her pants.

Leaning forward in animated conversation she’s oblivious that her backside is sliding out of her jeans. I can’t help but notice it’s a nice ass.

I also notice she’s not wearing any underwear.

“Shouldn’t one of you girls go over and say something to her?” I ask my comrade Arlene.

“Why don’t you do it?”

“Cause I’m a guy. I’ll look like a pervert.”

“Listen, it’s her own damn fault she’s looking skanky. Let her deal with it.” Arlene says.

“Man you girls are cold,” I mutter.

Every male waiter, including myself, makes several unnecessary trips down the aisle to sneak a peek. Women at other tables are giggling. Their husbands, faces flushed with effort, are trying not to look. With every passing moment Blondie’s butt is slipping over the horizon.

“Fluvio,” I say to my boss, “Please go tell that woman what’s happening.”

“Me?”

“You’re the owner.”

“Forget it.”

Taking a deep breath I start to walk over to the lady’s table. Chivalry not being completely dead I decide to clue the woman in on her predicament.

As I approach Blondie says, “I have to use the ladies room,” and starts to get up. Oh no.

“Miss......!"

Too late.

Her jeans hit the floor.

“BRAVO!” a male voice shouts.

“Eeeek!” Blondie cries quickly pulling up her pants.

I pretend I don’t see a thing and continue walking.

“Oh my God,” the woman groans, face buried in her hands.

Another table waves me over. They’re laughing hysterically.

“Oh man did you see that?” one of the patrons asks.

Waiter sangfroid firmly in place I reply,

“Must be a full moon tonight.”

2005-04-29T11:59:00.000-04:00

New Guy

We’re training a couple of new waiters. I forget their names. Actually, I don’t want to know their names. They probably won’t last long. Being a waiter is like being a soldier in combat. Veterans don’t want get to know the green recruit. They’re going to get blown up anyway so why waste the time?

Louis and I are sitting around with one of the trainees drinking coffee. He looks lost.

“Hey, you know what we need around here?” Louis says.

“What?” I reply.

“A waiter with Tourette’s Syndrome.”

“That would be sweet,” I agree.

“Huh?” New Guy asks nervously.

“It’s a disorder where people have involuntary facial and vocal tics. Sometimes they curse like a sailor and fling their arms about. They can’t help it,” I explain.

“How on earth is that a good thing in a waiter?” New Guy demands.

“Louis sir,” I say smiling.

“Yes?”

“A demonstration if you please.”

Louis gets up pretending to address a table.

“Good evening Messieurs and Madams. Tonight we have a lovely bing bing BOOP! rack of lamb with a white wine Grrrr SHAKA SHAKA demi glaze.”

The new guy looks horrified.

“Yes Madam? Oh, we can put the sauce on the f-f-f-f-f-FUCKING side, No problem BOOP!

The other waiters are on the floor laughing.

Oui Oui Monsieur I LIKE YOUR WIFE”S RACK VERY MUCH! Merde! I mean your wife would like the rack very much. BOOP!

“Let’s hope they don’t ask about the fish specials,” I whisper to New Guy.

“Madam would like lemon with her Ch- Ch-CHEAPSKATE MOTHERFUCKING water! SNORT! But of course!” Louis yelps.

I wipe a tear form my eye. Louis and I have been doing this Tourettes shtick for years.

My name is Louis WHOOP! and it will be my pleasure to s-s-s-s-serve you BITCHES! tonight. Oh! Pardon Moi.”

“The best part of all this is if we hire a waiter with Tourettes he can’t get fired.” I say

“Why not?” New Guy asks in disbelief.

“American’s with D-d-d-d disabilities Act BING!” Louis spurts.

“No discrimination at this Bistro,” I add.

You guys are crazy,” New Guy says moving rapidly away from us.

“You might be right,” I reply.

Louis sits down exhausted from his little bit of theatre.

“I don’t think the new guy is gonna last,” he says.

“I don’t either. No sense of humor.”

“What his name?’

“I don’t f-f-f-f-fucking remember.”

2005-04-27T12:25:00.000-04:00

Waiter Rant meets Roadhouse

I've only had to physically throw out one customer in all my time as a waiter.

The guy at Clublife gets to do it every night!

An entertaining blog about a bouncer in NYC. Go read!

2005-04-26T00:03:00.000-04:00

Happy Birthday

Waiter Rant is one year old today. Can you believe it?

2005-04-25T12:21:00.000-04:00

Not Getting Any

Twice a week Mr. Escher comes into the bistro to get takeout for his wife.

Twice a week I get to hear how much he hates her.

"Are you married?" Mr. Escher asks me while paying for his order.

"No sir. I'm not."

"Good. Never get married," he says wearily signing the credit card slip.

A smile creeps across my face, "Why does every married guy over 40 tell me the same thing?"

"Because they know."

"Here's your food Mr. Escher," I say sympathetically, "Try and have a nice evening."

"Is everything in order?" he queries suspiciously.

If the food isn't prepared exactly to his wife's specifications she sends it back. To make the process less painful for all concerned we created a special button on the POS computer just for her.

"Just the way she likes it sir," I say smiling, "A pink sauce with more cream than tomato."

"You know why husbands die before their wives don't you?" Escher asks heading for the door.

"Because they want to," I reply finishing the joke.

"Right," Escher smiles grimly.

"Good night sir."

After five years I've never met Mr. Escher's wife. Like Niles Crane's unseen Maris on "Frasier" - she remains a mysterious malevolent harridan.

I watch Mr. Escher walk down the street. Poor bastard.

He's not getting any tonight.

A short while later I'm getting the order from a four top of middle aged yuppies. They're transfixed at the sight of a fifty year old man making out with a much younger blonde a few tables over.

'He's old enough to be her father," one of the matrons exclaims.

"Disgusting. Why can't he find someone his own age?" her companion huffs.

I can't help but notice the husbands are smiling.

"Goddamn Viagra," the matron whines, "Makes old goats think they're 25."

"Why don't they make a Viagra for women?" the other wife laments.

Staring at the canoodling couple her husband sighs, "They've already made something for you girls."

"Oh yeah, what's it called?" his wife shoots back.

"Jewelry."

I stifle a laugh.

"You think that's funny don't you Robert?" his wife hisses.

The husband stares at his spouse with a look born from years of accommodation.

"Yes I do."

His wife stares at him sullenly. I wonder if I'm ever going to get the order.

After a long pause she smiles wanly saying,

"We'll see about that Robert."

Robert shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

Poor bastard I think to myself.

He's not getting any tonight either.

Sigh......

2005-04-20T18:46:00.000-04:00

Gay Reality TV

Louis and I are back by the soda machine shooting the shit.

“Check this out,” Louis says, “Did you hear of that new gay TV network that’s starting up?

“I heard something about it,” I reply

“Well they called me.”

“Really? Why?”

“My twentieth high school reunion is next month. No one in my little New Mexico hometown knows I’m gay. The network wants to fly me and Bill out and film everyone’s reaction at the reunion.”

“To your being gay?”

“Yep. Coming out reality TV.”

I have an uneasy feeling in my gut.

“What’s Bill’s take on this?” I ask.

“He’s not thrilled about the idea.”

“How do you feel about it?”

“I don’t know. It’s an all expenses paid trip plus a speakers fee,” Louis says.

Louis is one of the nicest and funniest waiters I’ve ever worked with. But I know being funny sometimes flows from a wellspring of pain. Louis keeps that part of himself very private. I wonder if him being on TV is the best idea.

“Well, if you want my opinion,” I offer, “I’d take a pass.”

“Why?”

“No matter how tastefully it’s done - TV is TV. Gay network or not, they won’t have your best interests at heart. It’s still about money.”

Louis is quiet for a moment.

While he’s thinking an old Dylan lyric pops into my head,

While one who sings with his tongue on fire
Gargles in the rat race choir
Bent out of shape from society's pliers
Cares not to come up any higher
But rather get you down in the hole
That he's in.

That’s reality TV in a nutshell.

“Don’t whore yourself out for a TV show,” I say gently, “Don’t gargle in the rat race choir.”

“You might be right,” Louis murmurs wistfully.

“So,” I say changing the subject,” what other programming is on this gay network?”

“Lots of Golden Girls reruns.” Louis says.

“Golden Girls?” I bluster, “Can you please tell me why gay men love that show so much?”

“I have no idea,” Louis says shaking his head.

“I mean why do gay guys the world over watch that show? I think some big gay alien is beaming messages directly into your brains.”

Louis laughs.

“YOU WILL WEAR ARGYLE SOCKS AND LOVE SHOWTUNES! I, BEA ARHTUR, COMMAND YOU!” I mock bellow.

“Oh that’s fucked up,” Louis chuckles.

“Why the Golden Girls? Why THAT show?” I wonder aloud.

A sly smile spreads across my face,

“Why not, let’s say oh….. BJ and the Bear?”

Louis stares at me in astonishment.

“Oh man, that has multiple meanings doesn’t it?” I say cracking up.

Wiping the tears from his eyes Louis says, “Brilliant, fucking brilliant.”

“Well they should have the truck driver and the chimp on the gay network,” I hurumph.

Out laughter subsides. We’re quiet.

“I like bears.” Louis says suddenly smiling.

“I’ll bet you do.”

2005-04-18T12:21:00.000-04:00

Gringo Shit

It’s Sunday and we’re mad busy.

Fluvio's home sick so I’m left with the keys to the kingdom. The waiters are all working doubles. The “who gets to go home first” begging ritual is in full swing.

“Oh man I am so tired,” Shlomo says to me. “You can have the rest of my tables and take the cash.”

I’ve been sick for three days. Stoned on antihistamines I’m performing my duties on autopilot. I don’t feel like picking up the slack

“We’re all exhausted,” I reply, “let’s see what happens.”

“Dude pleaseeeee,” Shlomo pleads. He looks crisped around the edges.

“Let me think about it.”

Now Shlomo was out carousing last night. His car broke down on Jerome Ave and he spent all night trying to get a tow truck. He got no sleep. I sympathize. But I have a hard and fast managerial rule I live by…..

What a waiter does the night before is their problem.

Hungover? Detoxing? Burning urination? You should have gotten some one to cover your shift. If you come in and tie on your apron I expect you to do your job. That’s the ethos of working in a restaurant.

I stumble through the rest of my tables and try and remember to smile. When my entrées are delivered I sit on a crate and drink some coffee. It’s the first time I’ve sat all day.

“Someone is at the front door asking about a job,” the hostess says interrupting my rest.

“Is it about the waiter position?”

“Yep.”

“Goddamn it,” I say wearily getting up.

As I walk over to the front I see one of the busgirls wearing a garbage bag over her head like a poncho and latex gloves on her hands.

“What’s with the outfit?” I ask

“Someone mierda all over the bathroom,” Olega replies.

“Huh?” I mumble incomprehensively. That Day Quil is really screwing up my synapses.

“Look cabron,” Olega says gesturing to the ladies room.

I open the door. Mistake.

There’s shit all over the bowl and floor. Someone had a bad case of the runs. The smell is overpowering.

“See?” Olega grins.

Sometimes women don’t want to plant their lily white asses on the bowl so they try and “hover.” Combine alcohol with bad aim and you get a mess.

“I’m so sorry you have to clean this up,” I mutter

“It’s ok. It’s my job,” Olega chirps. Grabbing some bleach she enters the hot zone in her makeshift hazmat suit to clean up gringo shit.

We don’t pay her enough.

When I get to the front door the prospective applicant is waiting. He looks like he stepped out of the pages of GQ.

“Are you the owner?” he asks superciliously.

“No, I’m the manager. How can I help you?”

“I’m here for the waiter position. I’m very experienced,” he says looking me up and down. Suddenly I’m conscious of the tomato sauce stain on my tie.

“Please come back tomorrow between 10 and noon,” I say, “The owner will be in then to conduct interviews.”

“Those times don’t work for me,” the man sniffs.

“Well, you coming in during the evening rush doesn’t work for me either. If you were experienced you would know that,” I retort.

“Oh.”

I hand the man an application and he leaves. He’ll never come back.

I return to the back where Olega has finished her clean up operation. It’s bad enough the busgirls have to scrape slimy plates of half consumed food they can’t afford to buy themselves. But to clean up some Yuppie’s bowel movement? Gimme a break.

I’d love to find the culprit and leave a little post Tex-Mex present in HER bathroom. You know what I'm talking about.

As the night stretches on the waiters begin to squabble angrily over who gets to go home first. I call them into an impromptu huddle.

“Listen. Sometimes this job just sucks. Long hours are part of it. No one is leaving early and that’s that,” I say. If Olega has to clean up shit - they’re all staying.

Shlomo has a gleam in his eye. I think if he had access to a firearm he might use it.

“That’s it people.” I pronounce. Another rush of Yuppies queues up hungrily at the front door.

You would think the waiters would be happy to make all this money but they aren’t. When a server’s tired money ceases to be a motivating factor. When business is slow they bitch about not having enough shifts. When it’s busy they want to leave early. You can never win.

The night grinds on. Not being a complete asshole I take the last rush of tables and let the other guys cashier out. The kitchen crew is close to mutiny. I close the bistro early.

After I complete the night’s paperwork I clock out and head over to the Irish pub. I shouldn’t be drinking with a cold but my knees are killing me.

Lenny pours me a Guinness. While I’m waiting for the pint to settle I admire the expertly drawn shamrock in the foamy head. Suddenly one of the pub waitresses runs up to the bar.

“Some asshole just shit all over the ladies room!” she cries. Talk about being literal.

“Goddamn it,” Lenny and I exclaim in unison.

Lenny disappears to handle the problem. I stare sullenly into my beer.

“Gringo yuppie motherfuckers,” I sigh taking a sip.

It never ends.

2005-04-15T22:50:00.000-04:00

Sick and Tired

Sorry I haven't ben writing more. Very busy week at the Bistro and I'm under the weather. Thank God for Ny Quil!

I'll be back with more tales of horror soon!

Welcome to all the new readers! So you know - this isn't a daily blog. I post on average twice a week.

I'm off to bed. Ugh.

2005-04-11T14:05:00.000-04:00

Hit And Run

On April 8th Maria Nolan, a 45 year old financial planner for Fleet Securities, was crossing the street near Madison Avenue and East 65th Street when she killed by a hit and run driver.

Described in the press as a pretty, well dressed, and petite woman – she lived in a luxury condominium on East 57th street with her husband, John. He must be devastated.

One of the victim's neighbors said, "She was a lovely woman; she was very quiet and unassuming, and she just... it's gonna be a tragic loss... really feel terrible."

Police are blanketing the area with signs and reviewing traffic camera surveillance tapes trying to find the driver of the car.

If you live in the NYC area I’m sure you’ve seen the story. It’s been all over the TV and the newspapers.

But there was another hit and run accident this weekend in New Jersey that didn’t make the front pages or the evening news.

Buried in the back pages of the Bergen Record was this story……

WESTWOOD (NJ) - A restaurant worker riding his bike home from work was killed by a hit-and-run driver Saturday morning.

Jario Gonzalez-Romero, 23, of Cedar Lane in River Vale was riding home about 1:45 a.m. when he was struck and killed near Old Hook Road and Carver Avenue.

Police said they are looking for a dark-colored compact vehicle, based on witness descriptions.

Gonzalez-Romero worked at the Harvest Bistro & Bar in Closter. He would ride a Schwinn bike about three miles between his home and the restaurant, said Detective Robert Saul of the Westwood Police Department.

A friend of mine worked with Jario and emailed me today....

Tonight I was watching the news and saw a piece on a woman who was run down and killed in Manhattan. She was a financial planner. They spent several minutes on the story. Below you will find an article about a young man who worked as a dish washer and prep cook at Harvest. They used a total of 5 sentences and the article was buried on the last page of the local section. Seems fair. He was making next to nothing, couldn't even afford a car so he had to ride a bike. It doesn't even mention (Jario’s friend) , who was riding right next to him when this happened and has decided to go back to Costa Rica because of his feelings of guilt.

I don't know, I guess I'm just pissed and think someone should do something to catch the shit who only stopped for a second before speeding away. I thought maybe if there was more news coverage someone who saw something or someone who knows the guilty person might be persuaded to do something.

……. I'm just trying to deal with a death…..he was a nice guy and he worked hard. It’s just not fair.

It isn’t fair. It never is.

You’ve all seen guys like Jario - working long hours gutting fish; hauling stinking heaps of garbage to the dumpster, and washing dishes so better heeled customers don’t have to. People like him work quietly, backstage, making the theater that is a restaurant become reality.

Maybe when you walk by a restaurant you see one of them - catching a quick smoke while wearily sitting on an empty crate in the back alleys of affluence.

What's their life worth?

My first reaction when I read my friend’s email was anger. Why does the hit and run in New York get broad media coverage while Jario’s death only merits five sentences in a local paper? Was it because Ms. Nolan was affluent and attractive and Jario is only another faceless immigrant? Is Jario somehow less valuable? Less newsworthy?

After my anger cooled I accepted the hard reality that news about people dying on the Upper East Side sells more papers than someone run down in Westwood, NJ. It’s not personal or evil. It’s just the way it is.

I realized something else. Two families are grieving today. One in New York, the other in Costa Rica and New Jersey.

To them Maria and Jario’s lives were treasures beyond price.

At the restaurant where Jario worked they’ve taken up a collection to ship his body back to Central America. People who didn’t even know Jario are volunteering to work in the kitchen so his coworkers can take some time off and mourn. The restaurant owner is pitching in financially to help. Others are contacting the media to ask them to help the police find the car the struck Jario.

Obviously – by the actions of his friends – Jario was valuable.

In New York City, Ms. Nolan’s friends and family gather to grieve. There will be remembrance and tears. She sounded like a nice person. Another valuable life ended too soon.

Similar accidents in two different cities, two lives of equal value cut short - the same aching sense of loss.

My deepest sympathy for Jario and Maria’s families and friends.

To the people that killed them - turn yourselves in.

If you have any knowledge about Ms. Nolan’s death contact the New York City Police Department at (646)-610-5000

If you have any knowledge about Jario’s death contact the Westwood, NJ Police Department at (201) 664-7000.

Donations to help cover Jario’s funeral expenses and provide support to his family are being accepted at this address:

Jario Fund c/o Russell Stern
Harvest Bistro
252 Schraalenburgh Road
Closter, NJ 07624

Make checks payable to Harvest Bistro. Write “Jario Fund” in the notation section.

Thank you.

2005-04-08T12:09:00.000-04:00

A Thousand and One Uses

I’m telling a five top the specials when I feel a hand slide into my pants.

Catching a whiff of perfume I enjoy the sensation of delicate female fingers wriggling around in my pocket. Grasping the hard object she’s looking for she pulls out…..

….. my wine opener.

Nonplussed I continue reciting the specials. Drink order in hand I grab some tumblers and head over to the service bar. I’ve gotta make four chemistry experiments.

As I’m shaking and mixing, Beth, our cute new waitress, comes up to me.

“Sorry to grab your opener but I had to uncork a bottle on table 12,” she says meekly.

I look at Beth. She’s very pretty. I have to remind myself when I graduated college she was still wearing Underoos.

“Not a problem,” I say sliding the tool into my back pocket, “What happened to your opener?”

“I lost it.”

Pulling a spare opener from my apron I place it in Beth’s hand saying,

“Your wine opener is your life young Padawan. Don’t lose it!”

“Oh thank you Obi Wan!” Beth chuckles delightedly, “Don’t you need it?”

“I have a thousand of ‘em at home. I won’t miss it.”

Although a wine opener is one of the most important items a waiter carries – you can bet a night’s tips at least one waiter will forget or lose theirs.

“Thank you,” Beth says heading onto the floor properly equipped.

A little while later I find Louis in the kitchen smelling his corkscrew.

“Now that’s interesting.” I deadpan.

“Smell this,” he says proffering me his opener. Warily I take a sniff. It’s a pungent sweet odor I can’t place. It isn’t wine.

“That’s weird. What is it?” I ask mystified.

“Pot resin.”

“Huh?”

“I cleaned out my bong with the foil blade last night. I guess I forgot to wash it.” Louis says grinning.

“So when a customer smells the cork they catch a whiff of Maui Wowie instead of Merlot?” I ask.

“Actually it’s BC Bud.”

“Whatever. Use the steamer to clean it off.”

Louis laughs and blasts his opener clean with a sterilizing blast of hot water from the espresso machine.

Louis takes the term “Waiter’s Helper” to a whole new level.

Wine openers. They’re not just for wine anymore.

2005-04-07T17:21:00.000-04:00

NY Post Story Killed!

Sorry guys. The Post killed the story on Europeans and tipping.

Maybe next time........

2005-04-06T12:56:00.000-04:00

I knew I liked Blogger for some reason.............

Many thanks to the staff at Blogger for including Waiter Rant as a "Blog of Note." in "Blogs We've Noticed Recently."

You have impeccable taste.

Thanks guys!

In other news......

I just did an interview with the NY Post (again) for an article about Europeans and tipping. It should be in the features section of tomorrow's paper (don't hold me to that date) I'll supply a link when it becomes available.

2005-04-06T11:17:00.000-04:00

Traffic Surge

I've noticed a recent surge in traffic to Waiter Rant. Welcome to all the new readers! My Stat Counter software indicates that several hundred people have come to the site via a Google keyword search. (Keyword - "waiterrant.blogspot.com") Is there a news story out there I don't know about? I'd like to know who my referrer is so I can thank them with a link on my blog!

Almost 200,000 visitors. I should start selling t-shirts.

Thanks for visiting the Bistro!

2005-04-04T01:16:00.000-04:00

Hippie Faux Pas

I’m in the kitchen munching on some fried polenta chips when the hostess interrupts me.

“You’ve got a new table on ten.”

I look at the clock. It’s almost closing.

“Does anyone else want this table?” I ask. It’s a stupid question. The other waiters mentally vacated the place hours ago.

“Hell no,” Louis says eating his dinner.

“Come on Arlene. Remember when I let you leave early last week?” I plead.

“So sorry,” Arlene laughs.

“Shit.”

I walk out to the table. It’s a family of four.

The father’s a no nonsense military looking kind of guy. Seated across from him in the usual soccer mom getup is his wife. Next to her, facing me, a mass of black curls and inexpertly applied makeup, is her teenage daughter. She smiles at me toothily.

The other daughter sits facing away from me - face obscured by a hanging mane of heavy black hair. Her bejeweled fingers tap impatiently on the table top. Probably embarrassed to be seen eating out with her parents.

“Can I get anyone something to drink?” I ask cheerfully.

The man and his wife order some red wine.

“I’ll have a coke,” the first daughter says looking up and down. Yeah, she digs me.

“And what will you have miss?” I ask the other daughter.

The daughter looks up at me from under her hair. Suddenly and I notice “she” has a beard.

“I’m not a girl,” the newly revealed young man sniffs defensively.

Thank God, I think to myself, you’d be one UGLY girl.

“I’m very sorry sir. I need to get a new pair of glasses,” I say trying to cover my surprise.

“He said you were a girllll!” the sister taunts.

“Shut up idiot,” the brother shoots back.

“Enough” the father cuts in, “Tell the man what you want to drink.”

“I’ll have a Coke,” the young man mutters sullenly.

Tip in the toilet I go and fetch their drinks.

They order quickly and are soon tucking into their entrées. While they’re eating the son gets up to go to the bathroom. As he approaches me I can feel the hatred coming off of him like heat off a radiator.

“I’m not a girl,” he hisses looking me in the eye.

“No kidding,” I deadpan.

He’s stops in his tracks and starts to say something.

“Can I help you sir?” I say skewering him with my thousand yard waiter stare. I’m twice his age and outweigh him by fifty pounds.

Saying nothing he shuffles past me. I can’t help but notice he’s headed for the wrong bathroom.

“Sir, that’s the ladies room.”

“I knew that,” he says rapidly changing course.

“Just checking,” I chuckle.

The family finishes their meal. They take a pass on dessert. Dad asks for the check.

“Sorry for the mix up,” I say handing him the bill.

Saying nothing he hands me a credit card. Oh boy.

Check paid the family gets up and heads for the door. I warily look inside the checkbook.

Dad left me a $100 tip.

I run up to the front to thank the man for his generosity.

“That waiter’s a jerk,” I overhear the son saying as he heads out the door.

“It was an honest mistake. Get a haircut!” the father calls out after him.

Catching up to the father I extend my hand.

“Thank you sir!” I say.

With a firm grip he replies,

“No. Thank YOU.”

“Not a problem,” I grin.

“Goddamn hippie,” the father mutters walking out onto the street.

I stand in the doorway a hundred dollars richer.

That was the most profitable faux pas I ever committed.

2005-04-03T01:00:00.000-05:00

Requiscat in Pace Ioannes Paulus PP.II

2005-03-26T13:03:00.000-05:00

Hamburgers and God

I’m heading in for work when my stomach starts to growl. I didn’t eat much of a breakfast so I stop at the local fast food joint and grab a burger to go.

When I arrive at the Bistro I realize I have a few minutes to kill before my shift starts. I pour myself a Diet Coke (who am I kidding?) and tuck into my caloric monstrosity.

“Hey, you can’t eat that!” Erica, a fellow waiter, exclaims.

“Why not?” I mumble though a mouthful of beef.

“It’s Good Friday. You’re not supposed to eat meat!” she chides.

Hmmmm……………………………………………………………………….

Its many years ago and I’m studying for the priesthood. I’m locked up for a Holy Week retreat at this run down monastery in the middle of nowhere. Most of the monks are long dead so they run it as a retreat center for extra income. Believe me when I tell you – it’s in the Styx.

By the time Good Friday arrives, after all praying, chanting, reflecting, and silence; we're close to losing our minds. Guys are sneaking out to their cars to listen to the radio. The only thing that keeps us sane is the retreat master. A former monk who had been pulled out of his monastery to become an assistant bishop for a southern diocese, he is earthy, funny, and very real. To him religion is not about doctrine and ceremony but getting down in the trenches were real people live.

Asked why he became a monk he said, “It beats working for a living.”

The salty old bishop drives our prancing, ceremony obsessed, closet alcoholic, French cuff wearing academe rector up the wall. We love that bishop.

Late on Good Friday night, starving and restless, we break into the monastery kitchen and liberate several cases of beer. Raiding the larders, we grab all the cold cuts we can lay our greedy hands on and start to assemble some monster sandwiches.

Trying to be good, we decide to wait until the stroke of midnight, the end of the fast, before devouring our ill gotten gain. Try and picture twenty really drunk, really hungry guys, sitting around watching the clock, drooling in anticipation of our surreptitious feast.

At a quarter of midnight, Jim, who is now a monsignor somewhere, leaps up onto the counter and pushes the hands of the clock past midnight.

“Let’s eat!” he screams in true John Belushi fashion.

We dive into our sinful hoagies with gusto.

“Hey, what are you guys doing?” a voice calls out.

Standing in the doorway, dressed in a shabby bathrobe, is the bishop. We’re so busted.

We look at him, mouths full, beers in hand, waiting to be excoriated to within an inch of our lives.

The bishop looks at his watch and sighs. He grabs a beer in one hand and a sandwich in the other saying,

“Well boys, nothing tastes better than a hamburger on Good Friday. "

Party on. We really loved that bishop……………………………………………..

“Erica, nothing tastes better then a hamburger on Good Friday,” I say recycling the bishop’s line.

“Ugh,” Erica snorts, “You’re gonna burn in hell.”

“Like a rotisserie chicken babe.”

Erica walks away laughing.

I smile inwardly. I haven’t thought about that retreat in years. When you’re in the “religion business” you tend to get very familiar with the sacred - often to the point of treating it profanely. It’s kind of like cops drinking coffee and telling jokes around a dead body. The same dynamic is at work.

I get sat a four top. They’re regulars I haven’t seen in a while. After I fetch their cocktails one of the husbands says to me,

“Hey waiter, could you do something about the heat? I’m next to the radiator and it feels like my feet are on fire.”

I can’t help myself

“Well, it is Good Friday sir.” I deadpan.

The table bursts out laughing.

“The waiter seems to know where your headed Jim,” the man’s friend says.

I go, turn down the heat, and return to tell them the specials. While they are asking me questions I refill their water glasses with Pellegrino. I commit a minor faux pas. I pour water into one of the ladies white wine glasses.

“Oh, I’m sorry madam,” I apologize.

The husband laughs and says, “Hey, you’re supposed to turn water into wine, not the other way around!”

“I’ve got the multiplying bread thing down but the wine part still needs work,” I reply.

More laughter. I begin to take their orders.

“I know it’s Good Friday but I want the steak – is that all right with you?” the husband asks keeping the gag running.

“I’m responsible for your gustation not your salvation,” I quip. The table cracks up.

I punch in the order and return with the woman’s wine refill.

“Do you need anything else before I ascend into Heaven?” I ask placing the glass on the table. Obviously not evangelicals, they roar with laughter.

I’m slaying ‘em tonight.

As the table leaves the man hands me the checkbook bowing deeply,

“Dinner was a religious experience!”

“Glad you enjoyed it sir.”

As they walk out the door I look at the tip. It’s pretty big.

I love tables that have a sense of humor.

For some strange reason I’m in a happy mood for the rest of the night.

This time, seventeen years ago, I was raiding a monastery kitchen. Now I’m working in a kitchen.

I realize intuitively, somehow, it’s all for the best.

God works in mysterious ways.

2005-03-25T12:23:00.000-05:00

Now I’m a Thief

“Hello, the Bistro. How may I help you?”

“Yeah, I want to talk to the manager,” an angry voice sputters.

“I’m the manager. How can I be of assistance?” I reply sweetly.

“One of your waiters ripped me off last night!” the man yells.

Oh boy.

“Tell me what happened,” I ask bracing myself.

“I ate in your place last night. The check was $100 and I left a $12 tip. I checked my bank balance as soon as I got home and a $120 dollars was taken out of my account. Not $112. $120! The waiter gave himself an extra eight bucks!” he shouts.

“Do you have a copy of the check?” I ask

“Yep, I keep copies of everything,” he crows proudly.

“What kind of card did you use?”

“Visa.”

“Ok, now what’s the name of the server on the bill?”

He tells me. It’s my name. Great

I remember this guy. A cheap affectatious turtleneck wearing wine snob. I remember being pissed at his lame tip. Asshole.

“I was your server last night.” I state.

“You’re a thief!” the man hisses.

I take a deep calming breath. “Sir, did you pay with a check card?”

“Huh?”

“Does your Visa take the funds directly out of your checking account?” I ask

“Yeah, it’s my ATM card too. What does that have to do with anything?”

“When you pay with a check card the bank often holds extra monies aside during processing to cover the gratuity. When the amounts are reconciled the bank will return the extra eight bucks. Your statement will probably read correctly tomorrow,” I explain

“Bullshit!”

“Call your bank sir. They’ll confirm what I’m saying.”

“I’m gonna call them right now. If you’re lying I’ll get you fired.”

“Good, I look forward to your apology.” I say politely.

“What?” he croaks.

“Have a nice day sir,” I say hanging up on him. Prick.

I’ve had several calls regarding bank cards. No one ever called me a thief.

Turtleneck never called back. He probably contacted his bank and they confirmed what I told him. Quick to impugne my honesty he wasn’t so quick to admit when he was wrong.

But I expected nothing less.

What kind of person goes out to eat and checks his bank balance the minute he gets home? A person who can’t really afford to go out to eat?

No. It’s a person constantly in fear of being ripped off.

Turtleneck’s so paranoid that he zealously guards what little he has. Assuming the worst about everyone and everything he immediately arrived at the worst conclusion about my character. Everyone is a threat. Everyone wants what he has. We’re all wolves in sheep’s clothing. He probably treats everyone like that.

Turtleneck must live a lonely existence. Maybe he suffered a trauma that made him that way. Maybe he’s stewing in a hell of his own making.

I recall his date last night couldn’t wait to leave. She fidgeted uncomfortably throughout the meal. Turtleneck went home alone.

Big surprise.

2005-03-22T18:24:00.000-05:00

Tsunami

I’m lying outside on the beach sunning myself. I can hear the surf pound the shore. I take a pull on my beer. I’m relaxed and content. Life is good.

All of a sudden my mother stands over me blocking the sun,

“You’re going to be late for your brother’s wedding,” she says.

“Oh my God. Is it today?” I say

“Hurry or you’ll be late.”

I get up and brush the sand off myself. Children run about with water pistols. A group of boisterous teenagers smack around a volleyball. Shapely women sashay around in bikinis.

“Ok let’s go.” I say gathering my things.

Something catches my mother’s eye. “What’s that?” she asks pointing to the horizon.

Like a giant white tipped cerulean serpent, a massive wave silently uncoils itself out in the distant sea. I know what it is.

It’s a tsunami.

“Mom, this is not a safe place to be. You need to go,” I say turning to her.

“Ok, I’ll meet you at the church. Don’t forget,” she says smiling like she doesn’t have a care in the world.

I watch her get into her car and drive away. Suddenly I’m aware of grass under my feet. I’m standing in the backyard of my boyhood home. My suit is inside the house. I need to find it.

I look back toward the beach. Even though I’m several miles away I can still see the young revelers cavorting on the shore. Some distant part of me realizes all those people are going to die.

I have time before the wave reaches me. I go inside the house to look for my suit. I find it crumpled up in a ball at the bottom of a closet. Damn. I run around the house looking for an iron. I can’t find one.

In the distance I hear a horrible roar. The wave is coming.

I race outside. Now I can’t find my car. I walk around with my suit balled up in my hands.

Like a river of liquid concrete, the first waves consume the houses across the street. Mrs. Anderson, the nice old lady who used to give me chocolates, happily waves from her porch as her house is carried away.

Utilizing a childhood escape route, I run through my neighbor’s backyard to the street behind mine. I hope they don’t see me and tell my Dad. I find my car and drive away.

Driving around my old neighborhood I become aware of how dire my situation has become. All around me people are running for their lives. There are too many cars on the road. I can’t get anywhere.

My godfather sits in the passenger seat. He taps me on my shoulder.

“You can’t be here,” I say to him, “You’re dead.”

Putting on his old Greek fisherman's cap he looks at me lovingly with his cool blue eyes.

“Everything changes,” he says.

With a tremendous roar the tsunami arrives in all its fury. Blue green and glistening it towers hundreds of feet high. I can see the shadows of sharks swimming inside. It heads straight for me. I’m going to die.

“And nothing changes,” my godfather whispers.

The wave hits. I cry out. I’m tumbling in darkness.

My eyes open. I’m awake sitting up in bed. The sun streams though the windows. My little dog licks himself contently. No one is screaming. There are no sirens in the distance. I’m high and dry. Safe.

Driving into work I think about my dream. I’ve been in therapy so long it’s easy to figure out. The tsunami symbolizes change. I hate change. But it’s inevitable.

I walk into the bistro and begin to work, moving without the guidance of thought. I’ve performed these duties so often it’s all physical memory now. Often my head is somewhere else. My coworkers will attest to that.

A tsunami is caused by seismic activity deep within the earth. Deep inside me the tectonics of anxiety and desire are rumbling. Change is coming. I can feel it. Whether it comes with the subtlety of wind eroding rock or the violence of a tidal wave - it’s coming. It’s inexorable. It’s inevitable.

I won’t be a waiter forever. I don’t know what I’ll be doing. The future is in shadow like the sharks swimming in my dream’s wave.

I drop off an entrée to an old man sitting alone. He used to come here with his wife. She died months ago. Through force of habit he still eats at her favorite table. He looks like he’ll soon join her.

I walk to the opposite end of the bistro and take a drink order from a young couple. They look like they’re in love. Their baby squirms in his high chair. From one end of the restaurant to the other I’ve just witnessed the entire arc of life. One day the young couple will be old. Their baby will have babies.

Everything changes. Nothing changes.

“Are you all right?” one of the waitresses asks me.

I look at her. For the first time I realize what beautiful eyes she has.

“I’m fine. I just want to go home.” I reply.

I cashier out early and leave. One day I’ll no longer work here and another guy will take my place. I’ll become just another customer remembering what it was like to serve tables a lifetime ago. I hope I tip well.

Everything changes. Nothing changes.

I walk into the Irish bar down the street and order a pint of Guinness.

“How ya doing mate?” Lenny the bartender asks. Even though it’s an Irish pub all the staff is from New Zealand. Kinda like pizza joints being run by Albanians.

“Ok Lenny. I’m ok.” I reply.

“You look a little down,” he notes.

“Not down just – philosophical,” I say.

‘Well drink this,” he says sliding the pint of stout towards me,” that e’ll help with yer philosophizing."

I propose a toast, “Malt does more than Milton can to justify God's ways to man.”

“Damn straight mate,” Lenny says walking away.

I look into my beer glass. The stout stares back at me.

I think too goddamn much. Somethings never change.

2005-03-22T14:15:00.000-05:00

Come. Join me in my private hell!

A fellow wondered what would happen if he created a tongue in cheek restaurant newsletter in the style of The Onion. The result is Don't Tip the Waiter.

Clever boy.

2005-03-21T12:11:00.000-05:00

It ain’t Shakespeare…….

Most restaurant patrons only see the “front of the house.” The dining room. But if you push on past the hushed tones, obsequious smiles, and culinary kabuki, you’ll find yourself backstage. This is where the real work of a restaurant is done.

A rabbit warren of kitchens, prep areas, and offices; littered with boxes, cabling, and equipment, the “back of the house” is usually a hot, exotic smelling, linguistically varied, and loud place.

Now after reading my blog a lot of you think us waiters spend our time contemplating the mysteries of the universe or waxing philosophically about God and the nature of man.

Wrong.

Here’s a sample of some back of house conversations. Be warned. It ain’t Shakepeare.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Hey, Carlos wants to know how old you were when you lost your virginity.” Armando, translating for Carlos our dishwasher, asks me.

I look at Carlos, a little Guatemalan man sporting a sly little smile, waiting for his answer.

“Tell him I don’t know. But if he asks his Mom she might remember,” I shoot back.

The kitchen guys roar with laughter. Carlos shakes his head. He set himself up for that one.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Hey Boloni,” Fluvio says, beckoning me over to him.

“What?” I reply. (“Boloni” is how Fluvio addresses me when he’s exasperated with something I’ve done - which is basically all the time.)

“The guy on table three is a producer with HBO.”

“So?” I huff. I’m really busy.

“I pitched him on idea for a reality TV show set in a restaurant.” Fluvio continues.

‘It’s been done,” I say loading my arms up with platters of food.

“Yeah, but my show would focus on the waiters not the chef. Why do they do what they do? How do they handle the stress?” he elaborates.

“Drugs, drugs and more drugs,” I reply.

“You think you could write the TV show?” Fluvio asks. He is an avid reader of my blog.

“Sure I can,” I reply confidently.

“Good.” Fluvio snorts.

“One thing though.”

“What?”

“You die in the end,” I say smiling.

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah, you get it in the bunker scene,” I say running away.

“I think I kill you first!” Fluvio calls after me.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Why is there an ice bucket on twenty six?” Fluvio asks. It’s a good question. The couple is drinking an expensive red wine. A 1995 Bertani Amarone.

“Guy said the wine was too warm.” I reply.

“So he put it one ice?” Fluvio asks disgustedly.

“Yep.”

"Amateur. It’s been stored at the perfect temperature.”

I shrug.

“Morons,” Fluvio says walking away.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Did you know that ‘puttanesca sauce’ translates to 'sauce of the whore?'” Shlomo, one of our waiters, asks me.

“I did not know that.” I reply.

“Yeah, the tavernas would make that sauce for the hookers. The smell was supposed to attract male customers and the dish kept the ladies warm on a cold night.”

“You don’t say.”

“It became so popular everyone started eating it, not just the hookers.”

“Hey Armando,” I call over to the sous chef, “Does puttanesca sauce really mean sauce of the whores?” I want confirmation. Armando is from Italy. He’ll know.

“Puttana means whore in Italian, so yes it does,” Armando replies.

Hell, I learn something new every day.

“But if you serve it to the nobility it’s called "Sauce Bella Donna' or 'Sauce for the Pretty Lady',” Armando continues.

“You can’t call the lady of the house a whore,” Shlomo adds.

“I guess not,” I say.

“We could put that dish on the specials.” Armando says grinning.

“Good evening madam. In honor of the getup you’re wearing we have a lovely special – linguine in a sauce for the whore,” I say pretending to address a table.

“You might get fired for that,” Sholmo chuckles.

“You think?” I say walking away. Everyone here is nuts.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ask your mother? Drugs? Calling the customers morons? “Sauce of the whore?”

I told you it wasn’t always iambic pentameter back here.

Stay in the dining room if you know what’s good for you.

If you don’t - the magic will be gone.

2005-03-16T12:26:00.000-05:00

The Madding Crowd

A lot of people think waiters are poster boys for bad behavior. The archetype of the arrogant French waiter is a perfect example. We’re often characterized as mean, patronizing, vindictive, food inseminating malcontents. Well, sometimes that may be true - but it doesn’t hold a candle to the shit customers pull………

It’s a cold February night and business is slow. The other waiter has gone home to his boyfriend and his bong. I have the whole place to myself.

My only table, a three top, has paid their check and is lingering over the last of their drinks. Obviously a business dinner, the trio compulsively typed on their Blackberries, made dozens of cell phone calls, and explored the mysteries of market share throughout their meal. It think they’re in television or something.

The men are silver haired executives. The woman accompanying them is obviously their young go-getter protégé. She’s pretty, blond, and focused –that is, until she starts drinking.

The men downed a bottle of wine apiece. Blondie chugged four Ketel Ones and cranberry. After her second drink I noticed she was getting loud so I watered down the third and fourth rounds. I wondered if I’m doing this lady any favors. She might erroneously conclude she can handle her booze and really get messed up on her next drinking jag. But, since she showed no signs of impairment, I couldn’t refuse to serve her. Besides, they’re my only table and the check is $300. I need the money.

Ah, these little moral dilemmas make life interesting.

The trio wisely decides to sit around and sober up. Their conversation is lively and a bit loud - but nothing over the top.

The door chimes. Two women walk in. I look at my watch. It’s almost closing time. I realize I’m going to be here all night.

“Good evening ladies.”

The first woman, a matronly type wearing a sable coat, wants a quiet table. “Far, far from the madding crowd please,” she asks affectatiously.

I chuckle. “I seem to remember that book didn’t end well for everybody.”

Surprised I caught the literary reference matron scowls, “Quickly please, we’re hungry.”

A quiet table hmmmm… In ten minutes the back of the bistro will be filled the noise of the cleanup crew breaking down the kitchen. Assuming my executive trio will be leaving soon, I seat the women in the front, two tables away from them.

“Our nicest table ladies,” I purr.

They sit and order a spilt Caesar salad and two soups. Great, last of the big time spenders.

“Get me some lemon for my water,” the second woman, a thin shrewish brunette orders.

“Right away madam.”

I deliver the salads. The trio in the window talks animatedly. They’re having a good time.

Overhearing the other table’s chatter the shrewish woman hisses, “This is not a quiet table.”

“I’m sorry madam. I thought they were leaving.” Sensing these women are wound a little tight I whisper conspiratorially, “If you would like I’ll move you to the back,”

“We’re fine here.” Matron says curtly.

“Very well ladies. Enjoy your salads.”

I return to the back of bistro. Ernesto, the sous chef, has prepared our staff dinner. Famished, I tuck into my plate of chicken sautéed with fresh tomatoes, leeks, and white wine. For the first time all day I’m eating sitting down.

Before I finish chewing my second bite I hear a voice screech,

“You’re fucking disgusting! How dare you talk like that!”

I look up to see Matron hovering threateningly over the business people seated by the window. One of the men gently pleads, “Calm down, we’re not bothering anybody.”

I race up to the front. Matron spins toward me, voice trembling with rage, “We’re not eating here. We’re not eating in the same place as these FUCKING disgusting people.”

“Then leave,” I respond pointing towards the door. “If you’re unhappy just leave.”

“Why should we leave? Kick these assholes out,” she screams. I can feel her venomous spittle hot on my face.

The shrewish woman starts yelling at the executive blond. “You’re fucking sick! Do you know that? You’re mentally ill.”

“Madam, these people are sitting calmly and you two are shouting obscenities. You need to calm down now,” I say sternly. “If you’d like I’ll move your table.”

Pointing to Blondie, Matron cries, “She said we must be Jews! We asked them to be quiet and she said we must be Jews! I guess you want us to die in a concentration camp huh?”

“Listen she said you were jealous,” one of the silver haired execs says humorously trying to smooth over the situation. “When you asked us to quiet down she said you must be jealous a woman was sitting with two handsome men like us,”

“No she didn’t! She said we were Jews!”

“We’ve had a little too much too drink, we’re sorry. People say things when they drink. We all say stupid things.” Silver Hair pleads.

“Being drunk is no excuse for anti Semitism.” Matron bellows.

The Shrew now starts yelling at me. “Do I have to sit here and listen to this bitch talk about her parents fucking? Do I have to listen to this shit?”

Please tell me I didn’t just hear that.

“Now wait a minute,” Silver Hair yelps, rising quickly from his chair.

I place a hand gently on his shoulder. “No need to make a bad situation worse sir.” Silver Hair slowly sits back down.

“Fucking sick bitch,” Shrew hisses.

Blondie’s face flushes a deep red. Staring with unfocused eyes at the table she whispers sadly,

“My parents can’t be fucking. They’re dead.”

Oh boy. Jew-baiting and necrophilia all in one night

“Did you hear that? She’s sick. Sick!” Matron screeches. Shrew moves menacingly close to the blond woman. This is getting worse by the second.

“Wait a minute,” I think to myself, “this isn’t my restaurant.” I go over and punch intercom.

“Whuh?” Fluvio, the owner, sleepily answers.

“Fluvio get up here NOW!”

Hearing the tension in my voice he’s upstairs in like half a second.

Now, Fluvio’s has been in the business for years. Working in far flung locales like Pakistan, Egypt, Rome, and New Jersey, he’s seen everything.

Quickly identifying Shrew as the crazier of the two women, Fluvio pulls her to his side in a controlling hug while steering her back to her table.

“Calm down everything is going to be fine,” he says soothingly.

Silver Hair stands up and offers his hand to Fluvio, “We are very sorry for any misunderstanding. Please accept my apologies.”

“Ah, things happen.” Fluvio grins.

The other male exec is escorting Blondie out the door. She walks unsteadily.

“Bye” she titters.

Once she’s outside Silver Hair goes to Matron & Shrew’s table. “I apologize for my colleague. She's had too much to drink.”

Now that the owner, the man who can toss their asses into the street has arrived, the women calm down.

“Just go away,” Matron says flatly.

Sliver Hair turns to leave. He shakes my hand. “Thanks for your help. I’m really sorry.”

“Have a good night sir.” I reply relieved.

Fluvio, meanwhile, is busy mollifying the ladies.

“I’m a very important person,” Matron whines, “I don’t stand for that kind of talk.”

Matron is a secretary for a city councilman.

Fluvio comes over to me. I debrief him on what happened.

“Give them dinner on the house,” he says.

“Good thing their bill is thirty bucks,” I reply.

Smiling Fluvio says, “Even better.”

When Matron and Shrew finish their soup they ask for the bill.

“We apologize for the unpleasantness. Dinner is on the house.” I say.

“We insist on paying.” Matron says sharply.

I know her angle. If she pays she can tell all her friends how shabbily we treated her. By picking up the tab we take the wind out of her story’s sails.

“Absolutely not.” I reply firmly.

Matron and Shrew look at each other. Shrew says, “None of this would have happened if you’d moved our table.”

I seem to recall making that offer. Never mind. I say nothing.

Uncomfortable with my silence they shift nervously in their chairs.

“Well?” Shrew says petulantly.

“Good night ladies,” I say dismissing them. They leave.

The night ends and I count my money. It wasn’t a good night. I don’t get paid enough to deal with idiots like Matron & Shrew. I depart the bistro and go home.

The moral of this story? Stop worrying about what your waiter is doing. Spitting in your food? Overcharging you? Arrogant?

Forget about it.

The customers are crazier than the wait staff will ever be. Worry about the person sitting next to you.

The “Madding Crowd” might be you.

2005-03-11T12:22:00.000-05:00

The Sour and The Cheap

“The computer’s not working,” Arlene informs me.

Ugh. Our state of the art POS system has froze up again. I go over to the touch screen and tap the glass gingerly.

NO INPUT SIGNAL the screen flashes woefully.

“Open the pod bay doors Hal,” I mutter aloud.

NO INPUT SIGNAL

“Hal, open the pod bay doors.” I repeat.

NO INPUT SIGNAL

Arlene, impatient with my little omage to Kubrick says, “I have to run a credit card.”

Resisting the urge to smack the $1000 LCD display I walk to the back and toggle the power switch on the CPU. Turning the thing off and on sometimes works. After a minute the system reboots and all is well.

“Thanks,” Arlene says swiping the credit card.

“No problem,” I reply. The computer chirps along happily. One day it’s going to kill us all.

The door chimes and two ladies enter. In their forties, they’re wearing bohemian chic getups replete with six foot long scarves and knobby boots under denim skirts. Fetching.

“Good afternoon ladies, may I get you something from the bar?” I ask winningly.

“Do you have lemonade?” the kookier looking of the two asks.

“I’m sorry Madam we do not.”

“Hmmm. Could you bring me a large glass of ice water?”

I say I can. Kook’s friend orders a Coke.

As I deposit the drinks on the table Kook asks me, “May I have some sugar please?”

Setting the sugar caddy on the table Kook says, “And now may I have some lemon?”

I know what she’s doing. I bring one slice of lemon.

“Oh no,” she exclaims, “I need more than that.”

I return to the table with a whole lemon and a sharp knife.

“Thank you,” Kook gushes happily.

Kook cuts the lemon in half and squeezes both halves into the ice water. She adds ten packets of sugar, stirs, and garnishes her homemade concoction with the single lemon slice I brought earlier. Voila, lemonade.

Piling the detritus from her labors on a plate she hands it to me without looking up.

“Would you ladies like to order?” I ask balefully holding the plate.

They order two chicken ceaser salads. Ka Ching!

When I set the salads down on the table Kook asks, “You know what I want?”

Grapes, so you can press your own wine? I wonder to myself.

“No madam.”

“More lemon,” she says smiling.

I bring extra lemon. The ladies tuck into their salads. While they’re eating I catch snippets of their conversation.

“The passion is out of our marriage,” Kook’s friend says. Looking at her getup I can understand why.

“All marriages eventually become some sort of arrangement or another,” Kook replies pontifically.

I look at Kook’s ring finger. Nada, zip, zilch, zero. Hmmm.

The ladies finish and want dessert. They order one apple torte to share.

“Waiter, please bring me a kettle of hot water, lemon, and some honey,” Kook orders.

“Would you like to see the tea box madam?” I inquire.

“No I brought my own tea,” she says.

“But of course you have,” I reply.

Ignoring me Kook returns to her conversation.

The ladies finish their dessert. Kook’s friend goes to the bathroom. While her friend is otherwise engaged, Kook calls me over to the table.

“Yes madam?” I say bracing myself.

“I need your advice. My friend ate more than half the dessert. Is it good form to still split the bill evenly?” she asks.

I wince internally. I think of a conversation my ex girlfriend and I had a few days ago. Seems my ex went out to dinner with a friend on Friday night. After the breakup both my ex and I struggled financially. Money’s tight. When my ex and her friend finished dinner my ex only had two dollars in her purse. Her friend suggested they stop at Friendly’s for ice cream. As they walked into the ice cream parlor my ex mentioned she only had a couple of bucks. Her friend, who is wealthy, turned to her and said, “Well how are you going to get ice cream then?”

The advice I gave my ex was the same I would give to Kook’s companion, “Get some new friends.”

I stare at Kook for a second. I’m pissed. I draw a breath and exhale it slowly saying,

“Madam, I would just let this one go.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Kook replies.

The friend returns from the bathroom. They split the bill evenly. Kook leaves me a pile of change as a tip. It adds up to less than 10%.

As they walk out I think to myself how painful it must be for Kook to be Kook. People like her, due to whatever pathology, are terrified to be generous. They zealously guard whatever they have – which in turn drives people away. Its small wonder there’s no wedding ring on her finger.

I think of the old line from scripture, “even the little that he has will be taken away from him.”

I walk over to the computer terminal to close out the bill. I’m in a bad mood. Even though my breakup was for the best I still worry about my ex. I feel bad that she has friends who are parsimonious like Kook. I want her to get new friends and be happy.

The computer screen flickers and goes dark.

NO INPUT SIGNAL

“And fuck you too Hal,” I sigh.

2005-03-08T17:53:00.000-05:00

Vertigo

Larry Mullen, the drummer from the band U2, is a regular at my bistro.

Unassuming, polite, and a good tipper, he comes in with his family whenever he’s in the States. They’re completely normal nice people.

We have a good policy regarding celebrities at the Bistro. We treat ‘em like everyone else. Larry knows we know who he is. I think he likes the fact we don’t make a fuss. The policy is a pain in the ass sometimes. Arlene, another waiter, and I are HUGE U2 fans. We’d love to score tickets to their next area concert. They’re hard to come by. He’d never have to leave a tip again, but we won’t ask him. That’s the deal.

Still, I’m tempted to play a U2 album over the stereo system the next time he comes in.

I read yesterday that Bono, U2’s lead singer, is being considered for the presidency of the World Bank. So that was the coffee station topic of the day.

“The World Bank. Can you believe it?” I remark.

“Do you think a rock star could do the job?” Arlene wonders.

“Well, Vaclav Havel was a playwright and he became the Czech President.” I reply

“But still……”

“He knows a lot about debt relief in Africa. Besides, look at the other guys who had that job. He couldn’t do any worse. Maybe someone totally outside of the banking system could do a better job.” I say.

“So the next time Larry comes in can we ask him to get Bono to front us a loan?” Arlene asks mischievously.

“Be nice.” I agree

“Yeah.”

“If we were a Third World country.”.

“I’ll settle for tickets.” Arlene says.

“Me too.”

We go back to work. The place fills up. It’s crazy. During times like these I play a tune on my mental Ipod to help me focus.

Tonight’s selection is Vertigo.

What else?

The night is full of holes
Those bullets rip the sky Of ink with gold
They twinkle as the boys play rock and roll
They know that they can't dance - At least they know

Rock on boys…………..

2005-03-08T13:04:00.000-05:00

Social Darwinist Dead Enders

I don’t like to talk about politics on my blog. When you’re a waiter you don’t alienate customers (and reduce your tips) by saying you like or dislike any particular political party. My bistro is a bi-partisan affair. The only political figures we like to talk about are the dead ones with their faces on the money.

However, a reader sent me a disturbing bit off news about legislation being proposed in the Senate that could have a direct impact on anyone who works for tips. But first some background……

The State of New York requires restaurant employers to pay wait staff $3.85 per hour. The Federal minimum for tipped workers is $2.12 per hour. New York State’s minimum for tipped workers is higher than the Federal standard. Under current Federal labor law employers have to pay the state minimum if it’s higher than the Federal. But, whatever the standard, the idea is that the combination of $3.85 or $2.12 per hour plus tips will raise my wages to the Federal minimum wage of $5.15 per hour. With me so far?

I make $3.85 per hour PLUS tips. Most waiters take home more than $5.15 per hour. Tips make up the vast bulk of our compensation. No one could live on $3.85 an hour. Come to think of it very few people can live on $5.15 per hour. A person making Federal minimum wage makes $10,700 per year. That’s $5000 below the poverty line if you have a family of three. Hey, even if it’s for one person it sucks. You can’t live in a major metropolitan area like New York on that kind of pay unless you give up some of life’s little pleasures – like eating.

The legislation in the Senate, proposed by Senator Rick Santorum R-PA, would allow, “small and even medium size restaurants and other businesses with tipped employees (to) be exempt from the Federal minimum wage, and state governments would be barred from requiring employers to pay actual wages to tipped workers. Essentially, those workers could be hired for zero dollars and told they had to live only off tips, however little those were." This proposal is being considered in a legislative package to raise the Federal minimum wage. You can read more about it here and here.

Mr. Santorum seems to be saying waiters should no longer get their “waiter pay” of $3.85 per hour or whatever it is in any particular state.

My “waiter pay” adds up to about $150 for a forty hour work week. Most of that money goes to pay the taxes on the tips I earn. If Santorum’s proposal becomes law I might lose my $150 per week. That’s a loss of $600 per month. Quite a chunk of change. If I lost that money I would no longer be able to afford the $400 a month I pay for health insurance. If I’m uninsured and I get sick who pays for my treatment? After I’m hounded into bankruptcy – you, the taxpayer, will. Health insurance is what keeps me in the middle class. If I lose it poverty is fairly inevitable. We all get sick.

I know some of you Ayn Rand dead-enders out there are saying, “Oh poor baby, get another job and make more money.” Well there are about 2-3 million wait staff in restaurants, diners, and truckstops all over this great land of ours. I don’t think we can all get new jobs en masse. Also support staffs that depend on tips: bus people, porters, coat check girls, valets, and bathroom attendants would be drastically affected by Santorum’s proposal. They make much less in tips than waiters do. Most struggle to stay above the poverty line. Not all of them make it. Santorum’s proposal is like kicking them in the balls.

(I am not an economist or political junkie. If any of my facts are in error I welcome corrections. I understand Santorum’s proposal in part of a larger legislative package – I’m just focusing on what's affecting my brethren.)

What really irks me is not the legislation being proposed but the ideology and sentiment behind it.

Why, when Congress, or corporations for that matter, wants to cut costs and trim budgets do they target the weakest members of society? Why stick it to waiters and buspeople? Why take away the little they have? In the larger scheme - why cut drug treatment programs, after school programs, school lunches, and meals on wheels? Why do corporations slash health and retiree benefits, lobby to lift workplace safety regulations, and lay off tens of thousands of workers? Why do they do this but cynically increase the level of their own compensation at the same time? Congress last voted on increasing the minimum wage in 1997 but between 1997 and 2004 they voted to increase their salaries seven times by a total of $28,500. That increase is more than many American’s make in a year. CEO compensation? Its hundreds, sometimes thousands, of times higher than what their employees take home. Why? Here’s my take on the situation.

We live in a country where the phrase “survival of the fittest” threatens to replace “E Pluribus Unum” on the coinage. Every day we’re bombarded by media images telling us what we need to be happy. To achieve happiness we must be: thin, beautiful, young, rich, in shape, popular, wear tasteful clothes, own every gadget imaginable, have fantastic sex three times a day (well, I like that one) and consume products and resources like there’s no tomorrow. Poor? Overweight? Make less than $200,000 a year? Fuck you. You’re a loser and just using up my oxygen. Get out of the way so I can make more money you pathetic drag on society. Ever get the sneaking suspicion you’re not measuring up to some impossibly high ideal? Don’t believe me? Turn on the TV.

This message has taken deep root in our society. It plays out in our politics and our economic policies. Republicans and Democrats are equally to blame. We as a people are to blame. We permit this ideal to run our lives. We pass it on to our children. Now, I’m not saying hard work, entrepanuership, and enjoying the fruits of your labors is bad. Far from it. There just has be enough fruit for everybody. The gap between rich and poor is growing. We are, as Warren Buffet alluded to a few days ago, turning into a “sharecropper society.” He was talking about foreign debt. I’m talking about a cadre of wealthy people, through politics, economics, and media, trying to make us all good little worker bees and pumping our minds full of the social darwinistic spirituality.

This has all happened before. During the “Gilded Age” at the turn of the last century, robber barons accumulated great wealth while riding roughshod over the American worker. Then, as now, they controlled Capitol Hill and the Fourth Estate. In response to flagrant dehumanizing abuses, the Federal Government established safeguards to protect the common man. You know – child labor laws, the FDA, Social Security, minimum wage, unemployment insurance, and protection of unions. Little things like that.

I think we are entering another “Gilded Age.” I hope we have what it takes as a nation to get through it.

The ultimate test of a society is not wealth and power but how it treats its weakest members. No chain is stronger than its weakest link. We’ve lost sight of that fact.

You may snort and dismiss that idea as bullshit. That’s your right. But let me assure you, at one time in your life, whether through illness, age, or economics – you’re going to be that weak link. I guarantee it.

Who will be there to take care of you?

The desire to cut pay from waiters and other tipped workers is only a symptom of a larger and pervasive cancer running through society- that survival of the fittest trumps all.

That’s my opinion. Sorry for rambling on. I’m sure readers will shred this post to pieces.

If you agree with me, write your local representative and tell him or her to protect tipped workers’ basic minimum wage.

I’ll be back with more entertaining stories. I know you all come here for the laughs but every once I while I just gotta say what’s on my mind.

The blog is called Waiter RANT after all.

2005-03-02T00:01:00.000-05:00

CNN

A reader wrote telling me Waiter Rant was mentioned on CNN. It turns out that Jeanne Moos did a story entitled “Wrath of the Waiters” for her program “Making the Moost of It.” She mentioned my website by name and showed a screen shot of the title banner.

The funniest part of the story, for me, was when she asked a waiter, “What things that people ask for really get on your nerves?” The waiter replied, “I think every waiter in the world hates people who order tea.” Moos then goes on to describe all the work involved in preparing this “cheapo beverage” complete with video of saucers slamming, sugar packets crinkling, and scalding water hissing.

She ends the segment by saying, “Got tea? Get your waitress teed off,” while showing a screen shot from my post “Tea Nazi.” Priceless.

I’m sure the tea drinkers will be up in arms over that one.

Sadly the video can only be viewed if you subscribe to Real Player SuperPass. If you have that service goto http://www.cnn.com/video/ and look for Ms. Moos program. If the segment’s not there it might be in her program’s archives.

I want to thank Ms. Moos for including me in her story. If she reads this post I hope she emails me so I can thank her personally.

CNN. How about that?

2005-03-01T19:27:00.000-05:00

The Heimlich Position

Sex is part of the restaurant business. Think about it. Eating and sex are both activities physically linked to the emotion governing limbic system of the brain. How often have you heard someone describe the taste of food as “orgasmic?” Enjoyment of food often leads to the enjoyment of sex. I know this is true because several couples have told me they conceived their children after eating in my bistro.

Just so long as they didn’t conceive the kid in our bistro. That bathroom sink can only take so much.

Every night, waiters the world over lubricate the age old process of boy meets girl, boy buys girl dinner, girl makes boy breakfast. Isn’t it funny that after performing the horizontal rumba what a lot of people do? Eat more food! How many of us have raided the fridge after an evening of libidinal delight? Yes, eating and sex are linked. And if you’re really creative you do both at the same time.

When you go out to eat, getting laid, or the fantasy of getting laid, is often the unspoken desired result of the evening’s festivities. Good waiters know this and try to promote that possibility. When people know they’re hitting the sheets they tend to leave good tips.

But waiters are not immune to the Siren call of carnality that surrounds them. Working in stressful hot cramped quarters, bodies rubbing up against each other, watching customers tango in the dance of seduction, and the sensuality of food insure that us hooking up with one another is not only probable – it’s inevitable.

A few months ago two of my waiters, lets call them Dylan and Erica, did just that. They actually make a cute couple and, gratefully, do a good job of keeping their personal bullshit out of the workplace. (Whenever two waiters hook up - if you have a problem with one you sometimes have a problem with both.) Dylan and Erica seem to be getting serious. I wish them well. Love is priceless in this world.

Of course the other servers couldn’t leave the situation well enough alone.

Before you could say “Brando and butter,” the giggles, laughs, and innuendos started flying. Dylan and Erica took it in fairly good humor. That is until…………………

I arrive early before the dinner shift and clock in. Shlomo, our token Jewish waiter, is counting the days take from lunch. He’s wearing an evil grin.

“Look behind you,” he says smiling.

I turn around. Right next to the POS system hangs one of those “What to do if someone’s choking” posters. You’ve all seen them. By law it’s displayed in a conspicuous place. The poster’s cartoons show the proper technique for applying the Heimlich maneuver. One of the drawings demonstrates what to do if the choking victim loses consciousness. Basically, you lay the poor bastard on the floor, sit astride them, straddling your legs on either side of their lower torso, leveraging your arms to apply sharp upward abdominal thrusts to dislodge a foreign object. On our particular poster the victim is male and the rescuer female. I guess you know where this is heading.

Some miscreants labeled the figures “Dylan” and “Erica” and drew dialogue balloons all over the poster containing a variety of orgasmic vocalizations. Use your imagination.

The piece de la résistance was a cigarette drawn dangling from “Erica’s” mouth accompanied by the caption, “You’re the best Dylan!”

“Well I’ll be damned. The Heimlich Position,” I comment dryly.

“Got to add that one to the Kama Sutra,” Shlomo chirps.

“Somehow I don’t think that’s what Dr. Heimlich had in mind.”

“Well, you know what happens when you talk with your mouth full,” Shlomo guffaws.

Trust Shlomo to take it to the most prurient level. “Who did this?” I ask.

“Don’t look at me,” he shrugs.

The other waiters amble in for work. Dylan and Erica see the poster and are mortified.

“Real mature guys,” Erica bitches.

I give the mandatory “cut this shit out” talk and the waiters chortle silently, promising nothing like this will ever happen again. I’ll bet.

After the meeting breaks up I cover up the dirty bits with a magic marker. We don’t have another poster to replace it. Out of sheer perversity I leave the cigarette dangling from the figure's mouth.

Customers look at the poster and giggle. The kitchen guys pass by, kiss their fingers, and touch the poster as if it’s some shamanic potency enhancer. Dylan and Erica ignore it. I ask Fluvio to get a new poster. One day a customer, or inspector, is going to freak.

Six months later and the poster’s still there - an amateur pornographic testament to waiter lust and the never ending confluence of food and sex. Fluvio keeps promising to get a new one. Someday.

If you choke in my restaurant you might be in for a surprise.

2005-02-28T13:02:00.000-05:00

Man Down!

It’s Saturday night and I’m up front chatting with the new hostess. Whenever she bends down to grab a menu I catch a glimpse of a tattoo stenciled above the cleavage of her rather nice backside.

I’m wondering how I’m going to see the rest that tattoo when I hear a bloodcurdling scream emanate from the back of the restaurant.

“MURRAY! OH MY GOD! MURRAY! HELPPPPPPPPPPPP!”

I run to the back of the bistro to see what the hell’s going on. Standing on the back bench, pressed into the corner like a trapped animal, keening uncontrollably, is an older woman shivering in pure terror. And, slumped unconscious in his chair, drooling from the mouth, is Murray.

Oh shit.

The other couple seated with them are glued to their chairs in shock. I grab Murray’s shoulders to prevent him from falling out of his chair. I shake him gently asking, “Sir, are you all right? Sir, are you all right?” No response.

A million possibilities run through my head. Heart attack, stroke, choking. I put my finger on Murray’s jugular. He has a pulse.

“Was he choking?” I ask the other diners.

“No, he was fine a minute ago,” says the man from the other couple, regaining his senses.

My old emergency training takes over. Establish airway. Establish airway. Call 911.

“Call 911 NOW,” I order the hostess. She runs to place the call.

“We have to get this man on the floor right away. Help me.” I tell Murray’s friend.

“Oh God is he going to be all right! Murrrrayyyy!” the woman, I assume Murray’s wife, cries. Her friend tries to pull her back down into her seat.

I ignore her. I discover I can’t lay the victim flat on the floor. The Bistro is cramped. Table nine and the two rather large gentlemen sitting in it are in the way. I let the other man hold Murray and go to the table.

“I’m sorry gentleman we have an emergency and I’ll have to ask you to move.”

To say the two men at table nine were fat would be a disservice to understatement. These two guys were so massive they warped the fabric of space and time, generating their own gravitational field. I’m surprised cometary debris hadn’t crashed into them yet. They stare at me, mouths full of food, stopped in mid chew.

“You have to move – please.” I repeat.

They blink at me uncomprehendingly.

Are they deaf? Retarded? Don’t speak English? I don’t care. I reach down and grab the table, lifting it up, plates and all, and swing it into the aisle.

I turn back toward the Twin Moons and say, “Move now,” in my best command voice.
They get up reluctantly.

The area cleared we lay Murray gently on the floor. Kneeling next to him I put my cheek next to his mouth to determine his respiration. I feel nothing. I tilt Murray’s head back to open up his airway and try again. I feel something but not much. I start to open Murray’s mouth to look for an obstruction when I hear a voice calmly say,

“I’m a physician. Let me in there.”

I look up to see a youngish bespectacled guy standing over me and quickly trade places with him. I've never been so glad to see a doctor.

The Doc leans in and checks for breath. “He’s breathing,” he comments. Then he slaps Murray gently. “Wake up sir. Wake up.”

Murray’s eyes flutter open. “Whaaaa happened?” he groans.

“I think you fainted sir,” the doc says smiling.

“Murray, Murray, Murray!” the wife sobs.

“I’m alright dear,” he says weakly.

“Doctor is my husband going to be all right?” the wife demands. I note she is still not by her husband’s side.

Malpractice wary the doctor replies, “Well, he needs to go to the ER to be sure.”

“I’m ok. I’m all right,” Murray says trying to get up.

By this time several policeman and an ambulance squad are crowded in back of the bistro. The EMT checks Murray’s blood pressure. He refuses to go to the hospital. After a brief discussion the emergency personnel decide to leave. Radios crackling, hauling a stretcher and medical kits, they depart while fifty restaurant patrons look on nervously. I hope they don’t think it was the food.

I notice the fat guys are standing at their table’s new location – still shoveling the food in like nothing happened.

“What the hell?” Fluvio says making an appearance.

“Guy on table eight passed out.” I reply. “The doc over there helped us out in a big way and it’s under control.”

“Give the doctor's table free dessert,” Fluvio orders relieved.

“Oh my God. Was that guy’s wife gunning for a best actress Oscar or what?” the hostess observes.

“She was just scared.” I say. I’m glad it’s over.

Things go back to normal. The doc’s kids get free gelato. Murray eats his dinner. His wife orders a double scotch. The Twin Moons are parked in their original orbit. I feel bad that I was so brusque with them.

“I’m sorry about the excitement gentleman. Dessert is on the house,” I offer.

The men smile and order two desserts.

Apiece.

2005-02-27T23:49:00.001-05:00

Numa Numa!

This post has nothing to do with waiting tables but bear with me…..

Today I read a NY Times article about Gary Brolsma, a nineteen year old kid from New Jersey, who posted a video of himself singing an obscure Romanian pop song called “Numa Numa” on the internet. I don’t think he figured many people would watch it.

Surprise. Gary's little video has been downloaded by millions of people becoming a mini phenomenon. He’s appeared on Good Morning America and his singing parody was broadcast on CNN and VHI. Gary’s now experiencing the transitory whirlwind of internet stardom and Fame can be a cruel mistress. Embarrassed by the entire furor, he avoids calls from the media and was quoted as saying he just wants all this attention to end.

I saw the video. At first glance it shows a pudgy kid doing the technological equivalent of singing in the shower. He lip syncs the words while waving his arm around in an improvised dance while never getting out of his chair. His facial expressions are priceless.

So I looked around other web sites wondering what others thought of Gary’s little effort. Some of the reactions were negative. “That’s sad” or “pathetic” were comments bandied about. I suspect words like that give Gary grief. Remember, he’s only nineteen. Then again, some people only get pleasure by making fun of others. Shame on them.

While I watched that video I saw what millions of other people saw – a kid who was, for a moment, supremely happy. Haven’t you ever been so caught up in something; a song, a sporting event, a dance, that you lost yourself in the moment? Never sang in the car to the consternation of passersby? Danced like an idiot at a wedding? Not once? You’ve never been alive. (And try telling those fat guys who paint their bellies with team colors while enjoying a football game they’re being pathetic. I dare you.)

Every once in a while we get so absorbed in the moment we step outside of ourselves – not caring what others think. Whether its music, literature, painting, prayer, or athletics, times like that are priceless. They connect us to the joy of being alive.

Truth be told, I sometimes dance around in my underwear while listening to 80’s tunes. You all, I’m sure, do something similar. Admit it.

There’s a lot of crap on the internet. I want to thank Gary for sharing a little of his joy, albeit unwittingly, with the rest of the world. Don’t be embarrassed Gary. Screw the immaturity of your adolescent critics. You brought a smile to the faces of millions of people

Very few of us can make the same claim.

Rock on kid. NUMA NUMA!

2005-02-25T13:26:00.000-05:00

Amputee

A new two top is seated in my section. The girl is pretty. The boy is tall and quiet. They look young. If they order alcohol I’ll have to see ID.

I pat my breast pocket to make sure I have my reading glasses. I need them to read the small print of a license. Time and years working in dim lighting have weakened my eyes. It’s a sign I’m getting older.

I welcome the couple and ask if they’d like a drink. They order a bottle of wine. I ask for identification.

“Sorry, If you look under thirty I have to check,” I say, half jesting, to lighten a potentially tense moment.

“Sure, no problem,” the young man says. Ready to have his age checked, he pulls a license from his shirt pocket. Putting on my glasses I squint at the ID. Date of Birth – 1983. I was a high school sophomore in ’83.

“Thank you sir,” I say handing back the card.

The young woman is not so well prepared. She fumbles nervously through her purse. I notice she’s holding her bag funny. Finally, she produces a license. 1983. Good no problems.

“Thank you Miss,” I say handing her license back. She reaches for it with her left hand. Her right arm moves to open her purse. Then I see it.

The young woman has no right hand.

Usually my customers have all their fingers and toes. Caught of guard my brain performs a hard reset. I stare at the missing limb for one second. It’s one second too long.

The young woman looks at me and jerks her arm back placing it out of sight in her lap. Flushing slightly she looks at her boyfriend. He looks at her. A volume of information is telegraphed between them in a fraction of a second.

I feel the color rush to my face. “Let me get your wine,” I say excusing myself.

“Real smooth moves,” I think, kicking myself in the ass while I grab their Chianti from the wine cellar. I worked in health care for years and saw all sorts of things. Never once was I surprised or shocked. Then again, I haven’t worked in a hospital in ages. My old unconscious professional coping mechanisms have faded with time.

I return to the table and perform the tasting ritual. The young woman’s arm is still in her lap. She’s not looking at me.

“The wine is fine,” her date says looking mildly annoyed.

While I rattle of the specials on autopilot I think about the girl’s hand. She must have lost it in an accident. If it was something she had lived with since birth her reaction might have been less pronounced. Some people with similar injuries develop unconscious habits to cloak their missing appendages and avoid embarrassing gaffes like the one I’d just experienced. I went a whole year living with a college roommate before I discovered he was missing two fingers on his left hand. Dan always had his hand in his pocket or was holding a pen a la Bob Dole. He wasn’t embarrassed by his injury but explained he developed his habits unconsciously as a form of self protection. School children can be cruel I guess.

The young couple places their order. I decide that giving them extra attention or free stuff to repent for my mistake would be make a bad situation worse. Just treat then like everybody else. I thank them and punch their order into the POS system.

A little later I stop by the table and pour some wine into their glasses.

“Are you enjoying your entrees?” I ask.

The young woman looks directly at me and smiles, “Yes, everything is wonderful.”

It seems the girl recovered her equilibrium. “Let me know if you need anything else,” I offer.

“Thank you,” she says graciously.

The rest of their dinner proceeds without incident. They pay their bill and get up to leave. The girl leans forward and plants a kiss on her date’s cheek. They walk out arm in arm.

I pick up the check of the table. The tip is a solid 20%. I guess my screw-up wasn’t as monumental as I thought.

Relieved, I process the rest of my customers and the night draws to a close.

As I’m walk to my car I think about that young woman. I wonder how I would cope if, God forbid, I was in a similar situation. I once knew a coworker who lost both legs above the knee in a car accident. After rehab he became a computer whiz, cashed in on the dot com boom, married a knockout, and lives in a big house in Delaware with a veritable legion of children. He still drives his own car. I also knew a patient who lost a foot to diabetes. He killed himself soon after amputation surgery.

I shake my head. There are a lot of variables to consider. I guess it depends on the person and their prior history. I can’t help but wonder if I’d rally or fold.

I’m grateful that young couple was gracious. I think they remembered I’m only human and it won’t be the last time something like this happens to them. That young woman is going to be all right.

In any case, I wish I could relive that single awkward second.

But I can’t.

I drive home.

2005-02-19T14:03:00.000-05:00

Viva La Revolucion!

Well, it seems more people in the food service industry are jumping on the blogging bandwagon. Here are two blogs I've noticed recently;

Cook Rant (Hmmmmm, sounds familiar) - stories of woe from a line cook.

Manhattan Waitress - tales of a waitroness in NYC.

Eating out will never be the same again.....................

2005-02-19T12:44:00.000-05:00

We Report – You Decide

Yesterday I taped an interview in New York City with Fox News about waiters and blogging.

The segment was produced for the Fox News affiliate in Chicago. The piece should air in the Chicago market on Wednesday. The interview might be used for a Fox New York affiliate show at a later date.

I was filmed in silhouette so my identity remains secure. It was actually kind of funny, all the cloak and dagger – I felt like I was informing on the Mob.

Many thanks to Mark, Hannah, Steve, and all the staff at Fox News for making my interview a painless and fun experience!

If anyone finds a link to the interview please send it to me! Let me know how I “look.”

How about that? Warhol was right about that “fifteen minutes.” In my case it’s anonymous!

2005-02-17T03:03:00.000-05:00

Tea Nazi

Two scruffy bespectacled bohemian guys come through the door. Pausing at the hostess stand they look around, exchange a few words, shrug, and deign to grace us with their presence. They look like pains in the asses.

Of course they’re seated in my section.

“Good evening gentleman. May I get you something from the bar? A glass of wine or a cocktail?” I ask in greeting.

“We’ll have tea,” the thinner of the two sniffs.

Oh great. Tea for an aperitif. I’ve got the last of the big time spenders.

“Do you have lapsang souchong?” the fat one inquires, his lower lip trembling.

“I’m afraid we don’t but we have a nice selection of other teas. I’ll bring the tea box.”

“Mmmmm, no lapsang,” Fatty murmurs sadly.

“Sorry sir.”

“Just fetch the tea box,” Thin orders.

Fetch? I think about emitting a little bark but think the better of it.

Now, any waiter will tell you that serving tea is a monumental pain in the ass. Unlike coffee, tea requires about a dozen accoutrements for its preparation and presentation. First you have to lug out a tea box the size of a cigar humidor, stand around while the patron agonizes over the selection, run back to the kitchen, steep the cup in hot water, assemble saucer, spoon, biscotti, lemon, milk /cream, lemon wedge, sugar bowl (which better have every cancer causing brain cell killing artificial sweetener ever cooked up in a lab), a miniature teapot of scalding water, and, finally, honey. God forbid you forget a single thing.

Imagine doing that for five different tables at the same time and you get a taste of my pain.

I deliver the tea humidor to the Bohemians. There are about a hundred tea packets in the box. They flip through every single one. After what seems like an eternity Fatty pulls out four herbal teas and a bag of Lipton. Thin draws out five herbals and a decaf Lipton. I stand there in confusion. How much tea are they going to drink?

“Well aren’t you going to get us some hot water?” Thin huffs impatiently.

“Sorry sir,” I say, beating a retreat to the kitchen.

When I return, tray laden with supplies, I notice there are only two bags of Lipton tea on the table. The other nine tea bags have vanished.

Steeping their tea they place their order. Two house salads and the cheapest bowl of pasta we have – split for two.

“Can I have more bread?” Fatty asks hopefully.

“Of course sir.”

I go to the computer and place the order.

“Hey Maria,” I ask the busgirl, “Did you take any tea bags off of table twenty-six?”

“No,” she replies, “Why?”

“Forget it,” I murmur, “Just bring them some more bread please.”

Two hours elapse. The men eat their salads and entrees while polishing off four baskets of bread. Plates cleared I go to the table.

“Would you gentleman care for some dessert?” I ask warily.

“More hot water,” Thin says without looking up.

“Very good sir.”

I bring two fresh pots of hot water. The men recycle their cold Lipton bags. The other teas are nowhere to be seen.

I’m steaming. “Ok motherfuckers,” I think to myself, ‘You wanna play? Let’s play.”

After another half hour the Bohemians signal for the check. I happily ring it up.

2 House Salads $ 0.00
1 Penne Pomodoro $ 11.95
Split Charge $ 1.00
2 Regular Teas $ 3.00
9 Herbal Teas $ 22.50

Total (Pre tax) $ 38.45

I drop off the bill with a friendly, “Thank you very much gentleman.”

Thin examines the bill. He looks like he discovered someone put sand in his Vaseline.

“Waiter, come here.” he yelps.

“Yes sir?”

“Why are you charging us $25 for tea? We only had two!”

“But you gentleman took nine herbal teas and they’re $2.50 each.”

“We gave them back,” Thin argues. Liar

“No sir, you didn’t,” I reply, putting some steel in my voice.

“Well, we’re not paying for it.”

I look away from Thin and fix my gaze at a point on some imaginary horizon. After a long pause I say softly,

“I would hate to involve the police in this conversation.”

I look back down. Fatty’s lip is trembling in overdrive.

Thin looks at me venomously. He’s probably pulled this shit a million times and gotten away with it. Not tonight. He’s come face to face with the Tea Nazi.

The men pull the tea packets out of their pockets and place them on the table.

“Happy now?” Thin snorts.

“Thank you sir.”

I readjust the check, process the credit card, and hand the check back to Thin. He writes a prominent zero in the tip section.

“Very generous sir,” I deadpan.

“We are never coming back here,” Thin sputters looking at Fatty, “Are we?”

Fatty just nods.

“Good.” I reply simply.

Thin looks positively livid.

“And we are telling all our friends not to come here either,”

“If they’re anything like you we don’t want them here either,” I reply in a dead even voice.

“Fuck you,” Thin hisses. He jumps from his seat and barrels out the door.

Fatty, who can’t move as fast, is still in his seat.

“I’m sorry,” he says in a small voice. He looks terrified.

I look at Fatty. I feel sorry for him. Something tells me Thin is the only friend he has.

Fatty pulls out $5 and hands it to me.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats.

I purse my lips and think for a moment. I put my hand on Fatty’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry too.”

Fatty gets up and shuffles out the door.

Walking back to the kitchen I hand the busgirl the $5 bill.

“What’s that for?” she asks.

“Don’t worry about it.”

I don’t feel victorious. Just sad. All this over tea.

Fatty’s trembling face will haunt me for the rest of the night

2005-02-13T14:13:00.000-05:00

Fart

It's the Saturday night before Valentine's Day and the Bistro is packed with couples who couldn't get a reservation for Monday's cupidinal shakedown party. All the tables are two tops. It's loud. It's crazy. Smelling revenue, Fluvio has 'em packed in like sardines.

I'm standing in the small space between two tables telling a couple the specials when I feel a rumbling deep in my stomach. Damn. I knew I shouldn't have had that farro and red bean soup at the start of shift.

As I'm mindlessly reciting the specials I feel a bolus of gas materialize at the entrance of my large intestine. It can't seem to decide if it wants to travel north or south. After teasing me for a minute it plunges downward.

Uh oh.

I feel a sharp pain in my gut. I wince in pain. If you've ever had bad gas you can relate.

"Waiter, which Chardonnay is the most oakey in flavor?" my customer asks innocently.

"Try the special Chardonnay from California. I think you'll like it," I reply in a strained voice. I'm grateful the ambient noise is overwhelming the tectonic sounds of activity in my GI tract.

"Hmmmm," she says gazing at the wine list.

The gas cloud has worked its way through the small intestine. Things are going from bad to worse.

"What about the Italian chardonnay?" she asks.

"Not oakey," I grunt. I can't speak in complete sentences now.

"Just give me a sec," she says scanning the extensive list.

I have to fart - NOW.

I run through my options. I could make a break for the door - but that would be rude. I could just let it fly but in cramped quarters that could be disastrous. I try and remember if the Yuppie behind me ever stiffed me on the tip.

"Ok, we'll have the Sauvignon Blanc," the customer pronounces.

"Very good madam," I acknowledge. I grab the wine list from her hand and make a beeline for the door.

I barely make it outside when nature takes it course. The resultant explosion is so loud it startles a man walking across the street. He looks over at me. I try and look casual.

When the pedestrian rounds the corner I dive back inside the restaurant with an evident look of relief on my face. I run over to the computer, enter the order, and duck into the kitchen.

I grab a box of baking soda off the shelf and mix some into a glass of water. Poor man's Alka Seltzer.

"Feeling all right?" Louis, our token gay waiter, asks.

"Oh man, I have some bad gas. I thought I was gonna fart at the table."

"I hate when that happens," he replies sympathetically.

"That would deep six a tip for sure," I continue.

"It's not like you can pass it off on someone else," Louis muses.

"Right," I say, greedily drinking my homespun medication.

Then out of nowhere Louis says, "You know I've this recurrent fantasy that I'm wearing an adult diaper, Depends or something, and I just pee in my pants while taking a table's order."

I laugh so hard sodium bicarbonate spews out my nose.

"Just pee."

Convulsed with laughter I steady myself on the counter. "That's so fucked up," I exclaim.

Egged on by my response Louis adopts a bad French accent, "And how would madam like her steak cooked? Oh! Pardon moi for a second."

He stares up at the ceiling for a minute.

"Ah," he exhales.

I'm on the floor in hysterics.

"Ok Madam, would you like the steak rare or medium rare?"

Louis' adolescent age regressive Monty Phytonesque toilet humor is priceless sometimes.

"I'm glad you didn't go number two," I remark, my laughter subsiding.

Louis grabs his pants and starts adjusting them like he's uncomfortable. "Oh man! Mommy! I made something for you!"

We're laughing so hard Fluvio comes in the kitchen to shut us up.

"What's so funny?" he asks.

We tell him.

Fluvio smiles, shakes his head, and runs away. Louis and I go back to work.

If the customers ever knew what we talked about - they would never stop throwing up.

2005-02-11T13:52:00.000-05:00

Deep Throat

The article in the Washington Pos t appeared today. Yes, you have to register to see it. Many thanks to Amy Joyce for writing an excellent article. I was happy to contribute. (I'm mentioned on the last page.)

Could someone send me a permalink to the story like we did for the NY Times? Beth help! :)

Oh, you thought this post was about something else?

Perverts

2005-02-09T02:03:00.000-05:00

Things you never want a chef to talk about…..

It's 3:30 in the afternoon. We have an hour to ourselves before the doors open for dinner. Armando, the sous chef, made something special for us today - steak tagliate; simply dressed with arugula, fresh tomatoes, and superb olive oil. It’s delicious.

Having already polished off my lunch I'm sipping espresso and reading the paper. The bus people are just sitting down, liberally pouring Tabasco sauce on their meals. Not the condiment I would suggest - but then again they put would put hot sauce on a Twinkie.

"Hey Maria, do you put Tabasco in the baby formula?" I say peering over the top of the Times.

Our newest mother smiles, "Of course Gringo."

"Ay mamacita caliente!" I yelp.

"Silencio cabron," Maria chides gently. The kitchen men laugh. It’s an old bistro joke between Mexicanos and Anglos.

Armando emerges from the kitchen holding a cappuccino. He sits down across from me.

"Thanks for lunch Armando, that was excellent," I say.

"Of course it was," he replies modestly.

I chuckle and turn back to the Dining Out section.

"Anything interesting in the paper?" Armando asks.

"Same shit, different day," I sigh.

Armando takes a sip of his cappuccino, wiping the foam from his upper lip.

"You know when I was in the gym yesterday I read a really interesting magazine article about bourgers." he says.

Sometimes Armando has trouble pronouncing English words. "Bourgers? Like in Big Macs?" I ask in clarification.

He shakes his head, "No, bourgers, the things that come out of your nose."

"You mean boogers don't you?"

He snaps his fingers, "Yes. Boogers, that’s it. Si. "

"What about them?" I ask warily.

"A doctor said that it's healthy to eat boogers. Somehow it helps keep you from getting sick," he says.

"Really?"

"He said it helps stimulate your, your….what is the word?"

"Immune system?" I offer.

"Si, immune system," Armando says triumphantly.

"Well it makes sense. We've all picked our nose. It's natural. We are probably ingesting dead bacteria giving us some sort of immunity," I muse.

"That's what the article said."

"When you think about it there were no seasonings in caveman days," I reason.

"Yes, they probably thought it was tasty," Armando replies. Remember this guy is the chef.

"Could you guys talk about something else please," a lunch waiter bitches, "I'm eating."

"Sorry," Armando and I say simultaneously.

Armando polishes off his coffee. "Hey, I made shortcake with crème fraiche for dessert."

"Yummy," I say. Small wonder my pants are too tight.

"Let me get it," Armando says rising from his seat.

"Armando!" I call after him.

He pauses at the door, "Yes?"

"Wash your hands."

2005-02-08T01:18:00.000-05:00

6.8 %

It's Saturday afternoon. I'm standing at the reservation terminal listening to the owner's latest scheme to become the next Emeril.

"This could be big - real big," Fluvio announces

"Which pasta company are you gonna be the spokesman for?" I ask.

He tells me.

"Never heard of 'em. Do we even use their pasta?"

"We do now," Fluvio replies, grinning.

"When do you film the commercial?"

"Next month," he says expansively, "Mario Batali better watch his ass."

I have a vision of a gigantic Fluvio staring down at me from a Times Square billboard. Hey, it could happen.

"God, if you become famous you'll be even more insufferable," I quip.

Fluvio chuckles evilly. The phone rings.

"Hello, The Bistro, how may I help you?" I chirp brightly.

"I want to make a reservation for February 14th," a slightly accented voice demands.

"Let me just get over to that day sir," I say turning to the reservation computer.

"That's Valentine's day," the voice huffs. No shit Einstein.

"What time would you like to make the reservation.?" I ask.

"Seven o'clock. I want a window table for two."

Since most guys make Valentine's Day plans at the last minute we have plenty of open tables.

"And your name, sir?"

"Dr. Zamir."

Zamir, Zamir, hmmmmm. I flip through my mental Rolodex of bad tippers. Ah, here we are.

Five months ago, Dr. Zamir left me $12 on a $175 check - 6.8%. I remember him. My memory is long. My patience for justice - infinite.

Time to bring the pain.

"I'm sorry Dr. Zamir, my first available table is at 9 o'clock." I offer sweetly.

"9 o'clock?" Zamir sputters, "that's way too late!"

"It is Valentine's Day and those slots filled up early," I lie.

"Can't you do something for me?" he begs.

"I'm so sorry sir."

Giving me a "what the hell?" look Fluvio points to the open seven o'clock slots on the monitor.

I lower the phone, extend my middle finger towards the mouthpiece, and rotate it for emphasis.

As Fluvio starts to protest I call up Zamir's client history. He's been a no show for several reservations.

Fluvio smiles broadly.

Looking through the window a casual passerby would have seen two grown men hopping up and down, Italian saluting a phone, gleefully mouthing the words "fuck you, fuck you," a dozen times.

I put the receiver back to my ear smiling, "I'm sorry sir but that's all we have at this time."

"Ok," Zamir sighs, “I’ll take it. But I want the window."

"We'll do our best sir," I reply, putting the doctor in a lovely seat by the men's room.

"if any earlier tables open up you'll call me right.?"

"Of course Doctor," I lie again, typing "do not move to earlier time" in the notation field.

"Ok bye," Zamir says hanging up abruptly.

"Happy Valentine's Day asshole," I say into the silent handset.

"Isn't Dr. Zamir a proctologist? Fluvio muses.

"I don't know. In a perfect world he would be."

"Figures," Fluvio grunts walking away..........

Some people emailed me after the NY Times article that, even for good service, waiters didn't deserve more than a few pennies. "Shit skills, shit job," was their attitude. This story is for you.

Bad tippers shouldn't be surprised when requests for nice tables on important days go ignored. We save those tables for nice people who know the deal.

You can figure it out. Shit tips - shit tables.

Hey, at least I gave the doctor a table. I have a heart.

But tippers like Dr Zamir only get 6.8% of it.

Have a nice day.

2005-02-05T13:19:00.000-05:00

I told you those Oompa Loompas gave me the creeps!

Goto http://www.dribbleglass.com/articles/wonka-scandal.htm

That's so delightfully twisted!

2005-02-05T02:04:00.000-05:00

Oompa Loompas, Chocolate, and the Question of Evil

It’s a really slow shift. I mean its species are evolving around us slow. I wonder if my little toe will disappear before the night ends.

We are doing what waiters hate to do – wait.

Louis, our token gay waiter, stands near the bar debating if we should start dipping into the booze.

“Hey if you mix the vodka with Sprite who’s gonna know?” Louis suggests wistfully.

“Or Jack Daniels in ginger ale,” I offer.

“We should,” he says grinning.

“No, we shouldn’t.”

Louis and I never drink on shift and it would be a bad idea to start now. Boredom combining with alcohol could have catastrophic consequences.

We talk about movies to distract us from the multicolored containers of temptation shining in the barroom light.

“Hey, I heard Johnny Depp might play Willy Wonka in the remake,” Louis remarks.

“Really I heard it was Marilyn Manson.”

“No he dropped out.”

“Too bad,” I say, “Manson woulda been perfect for that part. He’s a scary bastard. I mean Willy Wonka was really fucked up for a kid’s movie when you think about it.”

“True, kids getting shrunken, drowning in chocolate,” Louis recalls.

“The Oompa Loompas still give me the creeps,” I shudder.

Overhearing us Shlomo, our token Jewish waiter, walks over joining the conversation.

“Actually Willy Wonka is all about the Hebrew idea of God and the nature of Evil,” he announces.

“Huh?” Louis gapes openmouthed.

Now I was a divinity student long ago. I studied the scriptures. I don’t remember the professors mentioning a mad chocolatier.

“Ok Rabbi,” I counter incredulously, my eyebrows arching, “Explain this one to me.”

“Do you remember when Charlie got the golden ticket for a chance to win a lifetime of chocolate?” Shlomo asks.

“Yes.”

“Then an evil looking guy named Slugworth tries to tempt Charlie into selling it to him?”

“Yeah and the kid told him to take a hike,” I say trying to remember the details.

“Right, right,” Shlomo puffs professorially, “and the kids go to the candy factory where they exhibit all the sins of humanity; greed, anger, selfishness, and are gleefully dispatched by Willy Wonka.”

“Oompa loompa doompety doo,” Louis says giggling.

Shlomo shoots him a dirty look. “Well the whole movie is a religious allegory. Willy Wonka is God and Slugworth is the tempting Devil. The chocolate prize is eternal life with God.”

“Ok,” I nod, “I’m following you.”

“Do you remember the end of the movie?” Shlomo queries.

“Wonka says Charlie and his Grandpa stole some floating fizzy drink so he throws Charlie out telling him he didn’t win the prize. The kid gives back his everlasting gobstopper and Wonka relents giving him the prize anyway.”

“That’s about right,” Shlomo says,” but do you remember Slugworth appearing at end?”

‘Yeah, Slugworth appears, Charlie gets scared but Wonka says he works for him.”

“EXACTLY!” our rabbi cries.

“I don’t follow you.”

“Slugworth tried to tempt Charlie. Slugworth is the Devil. Slugworth works for Wonka. If Wonka is God - then Satan works for God.”

“And we think we have problems with our boss.” Louis interjects.

“It’s a very Hebraic idea. Satan is God’s agent. He only does what God wants done.” Shlomo prognosticates.

“And that is?”

“Satan provides a choice. Without choice there could be no free will. If there is no free will than loving God would be meaningless. Satan tempts man so he can have a choice and love God freely.”

“God is kinda like a guy wondering if a girl loves him only for his money.” Louis titters.

“Actually that’s not a bad comparison," Shlomo admits.

I have a flash of remembrance, “Lucifer is the Angel of Light that God sent to test Job.”

“And God created Satan to give man free will. Without the devil we wouldn’t be human.”

“Oh my God,” Louis groans, “This conversation’s giving me a headache. I’m gonna go in the alley and smoke a joint.”

In two minutes we went from booze to Oompa Loompas to the nature of Evil and the human condition. My head’s swimming.

“Some people would say that makes God a manipulative bastard,” I wonder aloud.

‘Yes, but manipulative only to our perception of reality. Maybe there’s a greater reality we can’t see and evil is an essential part of it.” Shlomo says.

Now my head hurts.

“Are you sure that’s the kosher Jewish view?” I ask.

“What the fuck do I know," Shlomo shrugs, “it’s been years since I set foot in temple. Hey Louis, wait up man!”

I shake my head. I’ve been thinking a lot about light and dark lately. I write about it in my blog. I’ve always thought concepts like Satan and God were actually literary diffractions of one and the same reality. There’s a darkness to what we call “God." We’re uncomfortable with that ambivalence so we divide the Divine into two separate and distinct entities - God and Lucifer. It makes it easier to wrap our minds around the question of Evil.

Man’s search for the divine brings him into contact with both light and dark. The thirst for God has created scholarship, learning, feats of heroism, compassion, and deep philosophical insight. It also brought us the Crusades, intolerance, and 9/11. Then again maybe there is no God, no golden ticket for endless supplies of chocolate– only a great yawning cloud of insensate electrons. Maybe I’m thinking too much.

“Excuse me waiter,” a customer beckons.

“Yes madam.”

“I’m want dessert,” she moans fluttering her lashes, “What do you have in chocolate?”

I almost laugh aloud.

“We have a lovely dark chocolate torte,” I reply.

“Mmmmmm gimme.” she says clapping her hands excitedly.

I bring her the torte. She tucks into it with gusto.

I walk over to the front and gaze out the window. Outside lovers wander arm in arm. Kids talk excitedly in front of Starbucks. An old man walks his dog. Mr. Smooth, our neighborhood registered sex offender, is hanging out on the corner. A police car drives slowly by. He walks away. It’s a snapshot of existence. Yes darkness is part of humanity.

The night ends. The customers leave.

I’m left alone in an empty bistro contemplating the Darkness of God.

Oompa loompa doompety doo!

2005-02-04T13:25:00.000-05:00

Interview

A reporter from a foodie magazine wrote and asked, "How can a customer get the waitstaff to remember his/her name? Are there particularly nice ways a customer can go about making sure to get personal service, or get a reservation the next time around?"

My answer:

Dear Reporter:

Well there are many factors that would lead a waiter to remember a patron's name.

Being a good tipper :)
Being a bad tipper :(

Unfortunately here are some other reasons why I remember a customer's name

1. Customer's a drunk
2. Customer stiffed me on the entire bill
3. Customer physically abusive to spouse/kids
4. Customer vomited on me or table
5. Customer/s had sex in bathroom and broke sink (Happened swear to God in a friend's place)
6. Customer overdosed in bathroom had we had to call the ambulance
7. Customer tells me at dessert she wants to commit suicide. That was fun!
8. Customer gets into fistfight with another customer. Yo ref!
9, Customer is an insufferable asshole.

Some good reasons to remember a customer's name

1. Customer is cute and gives you her/his number
2. Customer remembers my name and repeats theirs in case I forgot (I see so many people it's hard to keep track. I remember faces)
3. Customer writes owner and tells him/her what a great waiter I am.
4, Customer requests me as their exclusive server
5. Customers asks non invasive but polite questions (How are you, how's your dog?)
6. If customer comes just before closing they're aware we need to close and skip dessert.
7. Customer says hi to you on the street and doesn't treat you like the help.
8. Customer is polite
9. Did I mention they leave a big tip?
10. Customer remembers you at Christmas $$$$
11. Customer tells all her/his friends what a great waiter you are and has their friends request you as a server.

Those people I remember. Hope this helps. Good luck with your article! :)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I threw this into the blog because so many people are screaming at me to post something. Actually I post once or twice a week. This is not a daily blog. Look for a new story over the weekend. Thanks again for all your kind emails!

If you have a question email me directly. Many of you don't leave a valid email address in the comments section. I respond to all emails. At least right now!

2005-02-03T11:23:00.000-05:00

Dear Readers

Since the article in the NY Times I’ve been inundated with email and comments. I will answer all your emails and questions as soon as I can. I’m working a bunch of doubles at the Bistro so I don’t have time to respond quickly.

I appreciate all the warm words of encouragement and support! Most of your responses have been very complimentary. Of course, there were some comments like “you’re an asshat,” “a miserable human being,” “whiner,” “loser, and “entitled prick.”

“Asshat” is my favorite! Hey you writes the blog you takes the heat.

I appreciate the comments – even the negative ones. If you left an email address with your posting I will respond to you individually.

Just a quick note - I think 15% is the minimum for a tip – not 20%. No, if the waiter is a jerk you don’t have to tip heavy. Just try and remember he or she is a human being too. We all have bad days!

Sorry – in the US waiters are not paid a salary. We depend on tips. Maybe that situation will change one day. I doubt it.

Man did my posting on tipping strike a nerve! It’s obvious it’s a hot button topic that generates a lot of emotion – from waiters and customers. I look forward to reading more of your comments!

I have to run. More stories are coming.

Thanks again for all the kind words everybody! - Waiter

2005-02-02T10:42:00.000-05:00

NY Times Link / Housekeeping Details

Here is the link to the NY Times article where I'm mentioned. You may have to log in to read the article. Don't sweat it - registration is free.

Does any one know how to convert the Times feed for this story into a permanent URL? In a few weeks the article will go into the archives and be unavailable.

Many thanks to Julia Moskin for writing a fantastic article. I was honored that my voice was included.

A note to readers using Macintosh - many of you have written to tell me that my blog is filled with weird &*%$ symbols that interfere with your reading pleasure. I apologize. I do write my stuff in Word and cut and paste it into Blogger. I am open to any suggestions on using a different program to edit my stuff where this doesn't happen.

In the meantime you can read Waiter Rant at Bloglines - there are no formatting issues there!

Many thanks to all the people who emailed me. I reply to every missive. Just give me some time!

2005-02-01T21:10:00.000-05:00

Cheap Bastards

I was thinking about writing this long involved essay on tipping. I struggled with it for hours and then gave up. You know why? Because most of you are smart enough to know a waiter is supposed to get at least a 15% gratuity. Just let the following horror stories speak for themselves…………………

1. A table’s bill is $208.85. It’s a four top. They have a $100 gift certificate. They ask me to deduct the gift amount and split the remainder between two credit cards. I present the men with credit card slips for $54.42 and $54.43. The tips are $8.16 and $8.17 respectively. They screw me down to the penny.

2. An Italian national. His check is $55.00. His tip? A lousy $4. You’re in America now paisan.

3. Four Israelis. The check is $140. The tip’s a measly $14. Next time eat at the Tel Aviv McDonalds. Oy Vey!

4. A waitress has a table with a $44 dollar check. She gets $4 stuck inside a religious pamphlet telling her that Jesus loves her.

“Hey Eternal Salvation is a nice tip when you think about it,” I say

“Fuck that” the waitress replies, “I want the cash. Jesus doesn’t pay the rent”

Those customers are going straight to hell.

5. Two Sex in the City Wanabees. Their check is $108. They pay cash and race out the door leaving the poor waitress nothing. If you spend all your money on Jimmy Choos and designer handbags and can’t afford to leave a tip - you can’t afford to eat out. Sorry to mess up your Candace Bushnell fantasy. Might I suggest you dine at Château Blanc next time? Live within your means bitches.

6. A couple’s on a first date. The check is $150. The man leaves me $12. I’m pissed. His date passes me on the way to the ladies room.

“Just out of curiosity what did he leave you as a tip?” she asks.

I happily show her the credit card slip.

“What a cheap fuck,” she exclaims. She goes back to the table and angrily tells her date what a cheapskate he is. I guess he’s not getting lucky tonight. Come to think of it I saw her at the bar alone later…………..

7. A man leaves $5 on a $100 check. His wife yells at him telling him he’s being cheap. Smiling the man says, “I’m not giving them my money. Let them go out and get real jobs.”

Ok you Social Darwinist Ayn Rander puke………

A few weeks later he comes in again. I remember him. When he tries to pay the bill his credit card comes up declined.

“Trust me I have the money,” he says nervously.

“Don’t worry you can do a real job washing dishes in the back,” I deadpan.

8. My all time favorite. A Birkenstock shod hippie couple’s check is $55. I present them with the bill.

“Waiter we don’t tip because we believe that would force owners to pay you a living wage,” Deadhead proclaims proudly.

I stare at him silently. My look says, “And you should tip me if you want to keep on living.” He squirms uncomfortably.

“Well maybe just this once” he says counting out a few bills.

“Thank you sir.”

It’s not easy being a waiter. 3.8 million Americans work in restaurants. The vast majority of their income is from tips. Support the economy and tip heavy! At the very least take pity us.

2005-01-31T14:59:00.000-05:00

All the News That's Fit to Print

Be sure to pick up a copy of the NY Times this Wednesday. The Dining Out Section will contain an article about "waiter rage" in NYC. My blog is supposed to be mentioned and quoted. I'll post the URL when it becomes available.

I was also interviewed by the Washington Post. I was the "Deep Throat" for waiters! I have no idea when that article will be published. I will also provide that link when the article comes out.

My many thanks to the reporters who were kind enough to interview me for their respective organizations.

Hey I finally got into the Times and it's not a mug shot or an obituary!

2005-01-26T01:56:00.000-05:00

Therapeutic Jujitsu

It’s a slow Monday night and I snag my first table. Seated is a hirsute middle aged man projecting an air of superiority that makes me want to pull out my pepper mill and club him over the head like a baby seal.

Hirsute says a shade too politely, “And how are you today young man?”

“I’m fine sir and how are you?” I reply. I look at his wife. She sports a blank expression.

Nodding his head solemnly he says. “What a shame you are working on such a slow night. You can’t really be making much money. That’s got to be tough for you.” There's a faux therapeutic quality to his speech.

In a flash I have this guy’s number. Having spent years in analysis he’s adopted the “I see all and know all” mannerisms of his shrink because he desperately lacks a personality of his own. Therapy junkies are bad customers. They therapize every situation and try and use what they learn on the couch to manipulate the people around them. Pointing out our age difference and remarking on the night’s economics is his way of establishing dominance.

Surprise asshole – I was in analysis too. Luckily my therapist wasn’t the “suck Woody Allen dry” variety that infests Manhattan. Marty was one of the good guys and he taught me all the tricks.

“The night is what it is sir,” I reply keeping my face neutral. I give him no room to maneuver.

Realizing his domination attempt’s been blunted he tries a different approach. Pointing to the wine menu he asks, “What kind of grape is in the Barolo?”

“Nebbiolo sir.”

“Yes but it’s a blend of grapes. Can you name the others?”

It’s a trick question. “Barolo is made only from Nebbiolo grapes sir.”

“Are you sure?” he asks.

“Well I’m a beer guy but I’m sure about the Barolo,” I reply smiling. Humor is another neutralizing tactic.

“I think you’re wrong.” he ripostes.

“Well that’s where we’re at,” I reply simply

Hirsute looks confused. He is supposed to be controlling the situation with whatever crap he learned through years of navel gazing on the couch. I’m not getting flustered or angry – just shutting his bullshit down with some verbal jujitsu.

“Well I’ll have a beer in any case,” he says. What a surprise. He probably can’t afford Barolo after his therapist’s through billing him.

“But of course sir.”

I take their orders. They devour the appetizers and I bring out the entrees. Sesame encrusted yellowfin tuna in a sweet balsamic reduction sauce. Yummy.

“Waiter this tuna is cold,” Hirsute crows happily. Finally he thinks he has some leverage.

“Freezing,” his wife chimes in.

They ordered it rare.

Smiling painfully I say no problem and take the entrées back to the kitchen.

After the chef gets over his disbelief he reheats and plates the entrées.

“You didn’t microwave this did you?” Hirsute inquires when I return.

“We don’t have a microwave sir,” I lie.

He fixes me with a patronizing smile. I give him the thousand yard waiter stare. He blinks first.

They finish their entrées and order two cognacs. When I deliver the drinks to the table Hirsute tries doing a little therapy on me.

“Aren’t you angry that the night is so slow?”

“Can’t be angry over the weather sir.”

“But it must really eat at you,” he presses.

“Sir we’re not here to talk about me," I say mocking his Freudian accent, "You're here so you can enjoy dinner with your lovely wife."

“But I’m interested in what you have to say.”

No Sigmund, I’m not interested in being on your couch.

“Concentrate on your own happiness tonight sir,” I say politely. “Enjoy your brandy.” I turn and walk away.

That’s what the therapists call a “bitch slap.”

The Bistro empties and most of the staff goes home. The owner swings by Hirsute’s table to ask how everything was. He complains that the tuna was cold. He wants another cognac on the house.

“Get it for them,” Fluvio growls.

Bringing the second round Hirsute smiles at me triumphantly saying, “Sorry we’re keeping you here all night.” More passive aggressive bullshit.

“That’s the job sir.” I say.

No answer

I eat dinner and complete my sidework. Fluvio and I sit and talk. We laugh. Hirsute looks annoyed. He thought I would be sitting glumly waiting for him to finish. Guess again.

Finally they ask for the check. Time to go home and count the navel lint.

“I was really disappointed about the tuna,” he says nodding his head while mouthing the remains of dinner out of his beard.

His wife nods in agreement. Whatever personality she once possessed was subsumed by years of living with a guy who thinks he’s everyone’s intellectual and emotional superior.

“I wish it were different sir,” I counter with another verbal jujitsu move. JUDO CHOP!

Hirsute looks up sharply and for the first time I see anger flash in his eyes. He thought he could manipulate me into giving him more free stuff. He probably gets over on a lot of people like that. No such luck.

“Feel the rage pal,” I think to myself.

They were my first table. They were my last table. On a bill of $124.95 they leave me a $12 tip.

I watch them walk away. The fail to answer when I say goodnight. Not very emotionally enlightened of them. I notice the guy's wearing Birkenstocks with socks. It’s like five degrees out. What an idiot.

I got a bad tip and stayed late so you might think Hirsute won. Not really. Therapy junkies don’t like it when someone calls them on their shit. It screws with their view of reality causing an unpleasant dissonance. Hirsute will never come back to the Bistro.

Good riddance. Part of being a good waiter is knowing what customers you don’t want in your establishment.

And my diagnosis of Hirsute?

Severe chronic assholisim. Probably terminal.

2005-01-23T01:46:00.000-05:00

Baby it’s Cold Outside

When I left work last night we had a hundred reservations on the books. When I checked in late this morning we were down to thirty. Goddamn snow.

“So whatcha gonna do?” I ask Fluvio, the owner.

“Close,” he replies glumly.

I sigh - losing a Saturday night is a major hit in the wallet for both of us.

“Well it’s better to close than stay open for a couple of tables,” I offer.

“I guess,” he exhales. “I called the reservations we had left and told them we were closing. Some of them were pissed.”

“So we’re gonna risk death so some Yuppie can have his pappardelle chingale? Screw them.” I retort.

Some of our kitchen staff commutes from New Jersey. I wouldn’t want to drive tonight.

“Yeah screw ‘em.” Fluvio agrees.

“Look on the bright side,” I say, “You can stay home and play in the snow with your kid.”

His voice brightens. “Yeah that’s true.” His son is three.

“Ok we’ll see what tomorrow brings. Perhaps Sunday will be a banner day.”

“I hope so,” Fluvio says hanging up.

Wonderful. I finally have a Saturday night off but I’m trapped in my apartment.

I walk down to the convenience store to get supplies. The place is mobbed. You would think Armageddon is around the corner. According to the weatherman on TV - it is. I snatch the last loaf of bread and buy a small bottle of bourbon. If I’m gonna be holed up I might as well enjoy myself.

By the time I get home several inches has fallen. My landlord is ill so I shovel the walk. Covered in snow I walk back in the house and put a pot of coffee on. I shower, change into some comfortable clothes and select an old favorite off the bookshelf. I pour myself some coffee, add bourbon, flip on some jazz, and settle into my easy chair for some serious reading. Ray Charles sings “Baby it’s Cold Outside.” I smile.

Hours pass. The snow blows outside. My dog is sleeping on my lap and I’m near the end of my book. Two “coffees” later I’m feeling no pain. Suddenly my dog jumps off my lap and starts barking. He’s looks at the ceiling and growls.

Now some dogs can sniff out C-4 explosive in the labyrinthine fuselage of a plane. Others can find cocaine in a pile of luggage or a lost child in the woods. My dog’s particular expertise?

He can smell booty.

My dog knows when anyone is getting their groove on in the apartments next to mine. The couple upstairs are newlyweds. They’re trapped like me. They have nothing to do so they do what comes naturally. It’s the second time today.

I lower the radio and sure enough I can hear the creaking of bed springs. Having lived below them for a couple of years I know the routine pretty well. Slow, fast, slow, fast, frenetic, bang, crash, silence. The girl is rather operatic.

The dog barks louder. I click the radio back on and turn it up. The dog calms down. Then above the radio I hear the tremendous climax and I’m not talking about the drum set. I lift up my cup and offer a toast to the happy couple.

“At least someone is getting laid around here,” I say to my dog. He looks at me rather oddly.

I finish my book and zone out with the TV. The weatherman delights in telling us how miserable it is outside. I think about the homeless people in my neighborhood. I hope they got a place to bunk for the night. I think about my warm apartment and the food and bourbon in my belly. The wind howls outside for added emphasis.

Around midnight, feeling a little foggy, I go to bed. My little dog sleeps next to me. I can feel his heart beating. He whimpers slightly. I know he’s chasing something in his dreams. I start to drift off.

Then I hear a bang, a laugh, and the familiar creak of bedsprings. The dog wakes up and starts barking. I gotta hand it to those kids – they have stamina.

It’s going to be a long winter’s night.

2005-01-19T20:32:00.000-05:00

Tapestry

It’s Saturday night. The first round of tables is seated and eating. That means there’s a lull until the dessert madness begins. Everyone takes a breather.

I’m standing by the beverage dispenser hydrating myself with club soda. Saskia, one of the new busgirls, comes by and pours herself a Coke. She smiles at me. I smile back.

Saskia is about eighteen. Her mother is Japanese; her father’s rich, white, and important. The result of their union is a young woman who is rapidly developing into an exotic beauty. In a few more years she’ll be breaking hearts. Perhaps she is already.

A senior in high school, dating a famous actor’s son, she’s won early acceptance to Cornell. Her father, a self made man, used to work in a restaurant and wants his daughter to experience “how the other half lives.” He made a few calls and now she works for us. Like I said - he’s important.

She’s chatting, as young girls do, about her boyfriend. Being older and invisible I nod and make all the polite noises. She’s in love, eighteen going on forty, and knows everything.

Ernesto, the sous chef, pops out of the kitchen, and pours himself a Sprite.

“How’s it going Poppy?” I ask

“Same shit different day cabron,” he replies.

“Siempre mierda,” I say smiling.

“Si,” Ernesto sighs heading back into the kitchen.

“Later amigo,” I call after him.

“What a sad little man,” Saskia says when Ernesto’s out of earshot.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because all he’s ever going to be is a cook. What a limited existence. I mean there is so much of the world to discover and he’s never going to see any of it.”

Her comment pisses me off.

I want to tell Saskia that Ernesto WALKED a good part of the way from Nicaragua to live in the US. He’s worked thousands of hours to get money to bring over the rest of his family. While the other busgirls take a bus home to a tenement, Saskia hails a cab and returns to a palatial abode.

I’m about to say, “You’re young and don’t know shit,” when suddenly I remember somebody I used to know.

He’s a young man, a divinity student, not much older than Saskia. Floating in a cloud of incense and tradition, he possesses very definite ideas of how the world ought to be. Excelling academically in theology and philosophy he understands nothing about how real people move and live and have their being. Looking at the world through stained glass windows he’s rigid, analytical and arrogant. A good kid, don’t get me wrong, idealistic and compassionate, he struggles unconsciously to find his identity. He doesn’t have a clue.

That young man used to be me.

God and I had a lover’s quarrel. The stained glass window shattered long ago. So much happened.... An intense love was joyously found then lost. Friends were cut down in their prime by disease and circumstance. People I assumed irretrievably lost found redemption; the sick were made whole, evil men triumphed, babies were born, and the world made less and less sense. I passed from certitude into the cloud of unknowing.

I look at Saskia and my wounding comment dies in my throat. For the first time I understand what my elders mean when they say “youth is wasted on the young.” Saskia is arrogant but then again that’s the way it should be. Time will be her teacher.

“You’re a nice girl Saskia but in twenty years I’ll bet your opinion of Ernesto will change.” I say instead.

Saskia stares at me blankly.

“You’ll feel differently when you’re older,“ I add gently for emphasis.

“Thanks Obi-Wan. Coming from a waiter in his thirties that means a lot,” she says sarcastically.

Ouch.

Saskia and I don’t speak much after that.

Four years later…………………………………………………………………………..

I’m sitting in a bar appreciating a perfectly poured Guinness Stout when I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn.

It’s Saskia. My prediction was on target. She’s turned into a ravishing beauty. She’s graduated from Cornell.

“You know I want to apologize to you.” she says.

“Why?” I ask confusedly.

She reminds me of what she said about Ernesto four years ago and what she said to me. I had forgotten all about it until that moment.

“I never forgot what you said to me,” she says. “And you were right.”

“Don’t sweat it,” I say, “I’m learning more about how little I know everyday.”

We share a pint. She’s going to law school. She’s broken some hearts and had it broken in return. There’s some hard won wisdom in her eyes that wasn’t there four years ago.

I drive home. Four years! I’m amazed that Saskia remembered my comment. You never know what effect you’re gonna have on people. Serendipity? Or is there a larger plan at work?

My thoughts drift back to a time when my godfather and I were in a museum. We’re looking at a medieval tapestry. He’s intently studying the back of it. Puzzled I join him.

“What do you see here?” he asks me.

The back of the tapestry is rough and frayed; betraying the handiwork of the person who made it. The colors are mottled and muted. There’s a lot of darkness.

“A mess,” I reply.

“Yes,” he smiles. “I like looking at the back of the tapestry because it’s a lot like real life. A mess. It makes no sense, there seems to be no order or beauty.”

Then, his arms on my shoulders, he moves me to the front of the tapestry. I look at it. Undimmed by the centuries - it’s gorgeous.

“But every once in a while God gives you a glimpse of the other side and it all begins to make sense.” he says gently.

I’m silent. I know something important has happened but I’m too young to understand.

I look at my godfather. He’s a Byzantine Catholic priest. With his beard and flowing robes he really looks like an Obi-Wan – except he’s the real thing.

“No one is unimportant. We all play a part in designing life’s tapestry. You never know what your effect on people is going to be. When you think the world is ugly, makes no sense, remember there is always another side. If you’re lucky God will grant you a peek.”

“Uh-huh” I nod.

“Remember life is beautiful – even when you can’t always see it.”

Recalling that moment my eyes tear up. My godfather was right. My response to Saskia, unbeknownst to me, had a profound effect. Another stitch in the cosmic tapestry.

I don’t know where my life is headed or what its purpose is. But tonight Saskia gave me a glimpse of life’s interconnectedness. I think of my parents and family, of friends and mentors long gone. I think of the cast of characters I’ve encountered; Fluvio, Claude, Ernesto, Mr. Smooth, my coworkers - yes even the customers.

We’re all part of the tapestry my Obi Wan talked about it. On this frigid night driving home I catch a peek of the other side

And it’s beautiful.

2005-01-19T13:36:00.000-05:00

Update

Sorry I haven’t posted in a while everybody but I’ve been busy

When I got home from work Monday night I found my dog acting strangely He was shaking uncontrollably, didn’t want to be touched, and whimpering. When I picked him up he howled in pain. He never acted that way before. It frightened me.

Luckily my parents were visiting. At one in the morning we bundled up my precious cargo and ventured into the frigid night, driving to the 24 hour Emergency Veterinary Clinic.

To make a long story short there was nothing seriously wrong with the dog. The vet said he probably sprained his hind leg. He gave him a shot and I took my stoned little pooch home. The next day I followed up with my regular vet and she prescribed him some canine Advil and cage rest.

The grand total for all this medical care? $200.00! Pets are expensive!

Many thanks to my parents for driving me to the vet! I could have done it myself but it was nice to have the help.

I also found a roommate! Thank you Craigslist! After sorting through the nuttier housing proposals (One girl offered sex in lieu of rent, hmmmmm) I settled on a nice fellow who’s a computer engineer. He’s moving in next month. Now I don’t have to move. I’m sure this situation is familiar to a lot of my readers. Finding a nice affordable apartment that’s not a crackhouse in this area is well nigh impossible.

So the dog and my need for shelter have been consuming my time and energy. I have more stories bouncing around in my head – don’t worry.

See ya all soon.

Waiter

2005-01-13T01:17:00.000-05:00

The Maltese Falcon – sort of

It’s lunch. I’m managing the floor but the new waiter is overwhelmed. I have to leave my beloved NY Times behind and actually do some work. Now I’m in a foul mood.

I target the most impatient looking table. Two middle aged businessman. They’re doing the “where the hell is the waiter?” bobblehead thing.

I recite the specials. The fat one peers at me with porcine eyes.

“Waiter is all the pasta homemade?” he inquires.

I reply that some pasta, like the ravioli, gnocchi, and pappardelle are handmade. The spaghetti is out of the box.

“All the pasta should be homemade daily,” the man harrumphs.

Oh great. I’ve got a gourmand on my hands.

“Well I’ll have the Spaghetti Gamberi,” he says. Mmmm. One of my favs. Spaghetti with plump shrimp in an oil and garlic sauce with peppers and chilies. Delicious.

“Would you like your dish spicy or mild?” I inquire.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” the man retorts

“I’m sorry sir did I say something wrong?” I reply confused.

“If you have to ask if I want the dish spicy or mild then the chef doesn’t know what he’s doing. That’s not a good sign.”

I wonder if now’s a good time to tell fatso about his resemblance to Sydney Greenstreet.

“Sir it’s just about giving the customers what they want.” I say.

“Well they’re all idiots,” he shoots back.

“Yes sir. Some people have uneducated palates and manners.” I comment dryly.

My dig is lost on Sydney. But then again I imagine a lot is lost on Sydney.

“I want my dish spicy. Not like everyone else has it,” he crows.

“Not a problem sir,” I say smiling. I turn on my heel and go into the kitchen.

Our fab sexy Italian import sous chef Armando is cooking up a storm. He’s a nice guy.

“Hey Armando! I’ve got a guy who told me that if I have to ask him if he wants the Gamberi spicy or mild YOU don’t know how to cook.” I yell

“Oh really?” Armando grins evily.

“He wants it spicy.” I say.

“Does he?” Armando says.

I point smiling to the crushed red pepper and intone slowly in my best deep evil voice,

“KILL HIM!”

Armando grabs the hot stuff and pours it liberally into the sauté pan.

A few minutes later I deliver Sydney’s entrée. The mere smell is making my eyes water.

He tucks into it greedily. Armando applied the spice perfectly. The heat doesn’t hit Sydney right away but sneaks up on him slowly. Sweat beads on his fleshy forehead.

“How’s your pasta sir?” I inquire sweetly.

“Spicy,” he croaks.

“Is it too hot? I can take it back if you want.”

“No” he says shaking his mammoth head, “Just the way I like it.” Yeah sure.

“More water sir?”

“Please.”

To my surprise Sydney eats the whole dish. He downs copious amounts of H2o.

When they finish I ask if they want dessert.

“Ice cream,” is Sydney’s brief desperate reply.

The eat dessert and pay the bill. The tip is sub optimal as I knew it would be.

“Come on Rick we have too get back to the office,” Sydney says mopping his forehead.

I stifle a laugh. Rick? You can’t make this stuff up.

Sydney waddles out. In an hour he’ll be sitting on the bowl, crying like a wild dingo in the outback, dropping a burning dump the size of the Maltese Falcon.

Somehow I don’t think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Never tell the chef he doesn’t know how to cook.