July 18, 2005
As Far As Overstepping Your Boundaries
So my little incident at the spaghetti house isn't the only time I have let my mouth move ahead of my brain. In fact, it isn't even the most spectacular example. Much later in my career I worked at a steak house that was nearby the Symphony Hall. This was the kind of restaurant where you had to pay your dues in the bar and the patio before moving into the back dining room. The irony being, of course, that the bar and patio were much harder sections to work, for less money.
I had worked at that restaurant for over 2 years and had pretty much my pick of back dining room shifts but I took pity on a newbie and picked up a shift on the patio so that she could go do something fun. It was the last night of the Symphony and the beginning of Summer. The place was packed, but because of the symphony the usual first-come-first-served patio was completely reserved. That was a major bonus as it meant a lot more money. When I saw the host come over and start putting tables together to make a six-top (party of six, and no, I have no idea why they don't just say, "table for six" if it made sense, it wouldn't be lingo) I was overjoyed.
I rarely ever used the auto-gratuity option but it was nice to fall back on. Upon seeing the six extremely rich and extremely homosexual men sit down, I knew I wouldn't need it. From the get go, they were awesome. Very lewd, heavy drinking, and quite funny, they knew what they wanted. The kind of table you can give a little sass and not only have them like it, but have it increase your tip. Because of the amount of people in the restaurant and the additional outdoor seating the kitchen was a little slow. Knowing that ahead of time gives you all the power you need, though. (Simply put in the order for the entrees first, knowing you have a 40 minute wait for food, then 5 minutes later, put in the appetizer order and then when the app is almost ready, you put in the salads. Tends to work like magic, and the people never know their food took so long.)
Usually even with the most fun party there is always one diner who is the party pooper. I certainly had mine at this table. He was ordering refills on his drinks when they first arrived at the table and was generally pissy. He waffled over whether to order the prawns or the pepper steak and pretty much held me ransom at the table for a good five minutes while he decided. I told him the prawns were my favorite because of the exquisite saffron, morel mushroom, brandy cream sauce that accompanied them. The sides were usually whatever green was in season and the always lovely mashed potatoes (it is very rare for a kitchen to be able to make an order of mash at 4pm that still tastes good at 9pm, but this one did.). How could anyone resist such mouth-watering food? He went with the prawns.
For the next 30 minutes every time I was near that table the boys ordered another round of call martinis, and Mr. Party Pooper also managed to complain to me about the white linen napkins we used.
"You need to talk to your manager about getting different linen."
Turns out he was wearing black linen slacks and the two like materials had an affinity for one another. "This white linen is getting all over my pants. I want you to go and get me a black linen napkin, this is ridiculous."
What I thought was ridiculous was that someone would actually think that a restaurant should change its linen for one single person. Every server will tell you they have their stock phrases that get them out of sticky situations. I certainly had mine. If told, "I am sorry we didn't order that," when the bill came, I always said back in the most pleasant tone, "It is the one thing that actually comes with the meal." If some old man called me "honey" and felt like he had the right to put his hands on me I always said, "You can just call me Karri, for short." However, when it came to the issue of linen I was just stumped. This man is sitting outside in lovely weather in a city not well known for such a thing, surrounded by good friends, cocktails, and food. He was about to enjoy a lovely cultural experience and all he could think about was the small white threads on his black pants that no one would see once he was in the dark hall.
It just came out. I said, "I happen to know for certain," dramatic pause, "that they use paper napkins at the Old Spaghetti Factory, maybe I could call down there and have them hold you a table." He got bright red in the face while the other five men laughed their asses off.
"She sure got you!" they howled.
Meanwhile, I was shitting my pants and desperately trying to think of a way to backpedal. I looked him dead in the eye and said, "Those better be the best prawns of your life, hadn't they?"
"Damn right! And I don't want to see your face until our food gets here," he told me.
I certainly didn't have to be told twice and skedaddled. Holy SHIT, what was going through my mind? I was not only throwing good money away, I was probably going to get into a butt load of trouble with my boss. I felt sick to my stomach. So, I spent my time making sure the rest of my tables wouldn't also have cause to tell the manager to fire me. Interestingly enough, just a few minutes later Mr. Poopy Pants called me over. "I know I told you not to come back but my friend here really needs another dirty Grey Goose martini, and while you're going to the bar, maybe you could bring one back for me?"
Thankful for the lovely reprieve I was more than happy to do so. Their food came soon after and I was nothing but the biggest ass-kisser you ever saw. Even then, I was sure they were going to stiff me and also ask to speak to the manager on their way out. And rightfully so. Once again lucky, I received a 30% gratuity. I can only surmise that the rest of the cool gents knew what a pain in the arse their friend was and maybe thought he got a little justice.