Shoes Full of Feet

I Now Have Time to Recommend Books!

2009-05-12T15:31:00.003-04:00

It's rare for me to go and buy a brand new book. Usually I'll borrow from my parents' bookshelves, go to the library on a recommendation, or periodically browse my favourite used book shops. (She Said Boom on College St. often has new releases in excellent condition, at used prices!) But when I read an excerpt from Stacey May Fowles' Fear of Fighting this winter, I knew I had to have it.

Fowles, born in Scarborough, and currently living in Toronto, hones in on the nuances of relationships in an absolutely convincing and endearing way. Fear of Fighting brings up boyfriend-related scenarios and encounters that are utterly familiar, but her dialogue and descriptions are so hilarious, original and absurdly truthful:

'Before you know it, you go out for Chinese food and he’s ordering jelly fish salad and preserved pork just to piss you off. He asks you if you want green beans even though he knows you don’t like green beans, and when you remind him he says, “What kind of fucking person doesn’t like green beans?”'

The novel is packed with witty gems like these, some so true to life that it's astonishing - a collective Canadian female experience?? I invited a friend over for some wine, and the two of us read out loud to each other from this book. It was Saturday night, and the two of us were nearly in tears laughing at the genius of this author. Reading aloud...Canadian author...Saturday night....move over, Atwood!

It's My Party...

2009-05-11T23:44:00.007-04:00

Let's say you were having a party. A party about shoes. Shoes made by respected, talented artists and designers. A launch party for Canada's only alternative fashion journal's shoe issue. With 300 people invited. At a world-class museum devoted to shoes. A party that was your responsibility to make successful, fun and memorable.

What shoes do you wear to this party??

And, if you can't even figure out what to wear on your feet, how are you supposed to dress the rest? (especially if the shoes you covet are worth two months rent...)

A Service Industry Diary No More!

2009-05-11T23:27:00.002-04:00

Well, the day has finally come.... I have a day job! And as many restaurant-related stories as I have left to tell, there are so many other things I'd rather rant about. And rave about! Lots of great changes going on, and being introduced to so much more than taking orders, setting tables, pouring wine (Only for myself now!!).

Devoted readers, stay tuned!

It's in the Details

2009-03-30T23:15:00.002-04:00

For once, I am in a fine dining restaurant and I'm not serving anyone. A alarmingly knowledgeable and well-composed lady is doing what I normally do. Tonight, I get to be the annoying girl who asks all the questions about the menu and hedges, needing more time to decide. But this is not the point. The point is that I came to a realization: I am a mediocre server, at least compared to this lady.

This lady is so good at her job, that she knows what I want before I know I want it. She has a 25% tip in the bag before the first course even arrives. This is what she does. She notices that I am chewing gum. She slyly places a little plate with a fancy cocktail napkin beside me, and I don't even notice. So when I'm ready to get rid of the gum, I don't even have to briefly consider defiling the expensive cloth napkins - she's two steps ahead of me with the solution.

This is amazing to me. She is a smart lady. I'm totally gonna steal her trick.

Baby, what's your sign?

2009-03-02T11:29:00.003-05:00

My posts have been lacking lately because I've been working so few shifts that I've got minimal material to work with. It's been nice in a way because I've got plenty of time to focus on other important things. My mom has taken great pity on me, and has been popping around every corner with some version of a motivational speech. "Stop moping, you're a Leo, get yourself out there, take more vitamins, use these coupons I clipped for you."

She clips the horoscope out of three newspapers daily and will mail them to me with highlighted phrases and her own commentary on the side. I am supposed to wear my astrological sign like a badge of honour, never betray it, draw strength from it and manage my hair like a lion's mane.

Well, the other night after work, a few of us sat around chatting over drinks. The conversation had turned to astrology, and one of the chefs was giggling and calling himself "Le Bra" because he's a Libra. He asked me what my sign was and said, "Dude, you're a Leo? I would never have guessed that!" To which of course, I inwardly bristled. Having been conditioned since birth to think that I was a privileged, superior sign (or maybe that's a Leo trait in itself), I was aghast to think that no one would peg me as such.

He then went on to ask our boss (the owner, of whom I live in awe and fear) what sign she thought I was. And she said, "Hmm...I don't know. Cancer, probably." I smiled sweetly and replied, "Well, I am on the cusp!"

This exchange really magnified how much I've been compromising for this job. For example, at every other workplace, I've always loudly and consistently corrected those who misspell my name. Here, I've never uttered a protest. And it's spelled incorrectly on the POS, the schedule, and my paycheques.

I will apologize on six different occasions for some minimal mistake, say thank you repeatedly for someone who cleared an empty bread basket from one of my tables, blurt, "What? What's wrong?" when someone says, "Come here for a second." I am meek, demure, overly sensitive and smile to the point of creeping myself out.

But this is the only way I can get through it. I'm stifling all my instincts, because otherwise I'll probably walk out. I'm aware of how futile it is to argue, point out a flaw, assert myself, or reveal my actual personality. There is so much bullshit, tattle tales, critical judgement, and competitiveness that I don't trust myself to say a contrary word. I put in my time, wearing my chameleon suit. They can spell my name in Wingdings and call me a Capricorn, as long as I get paid.

It's Icing Sugar, I Swear!

2009-02-13T10:04:00.003-05:00

I pass my co-worker in the dining room as he's carrying plates to a table. My eyes widen, but my hands are full and I can't stop him.

I pull him aside by the bar. "Hey, you have something on your face. Under your nose..."

Another colleague whisks by, chuckling as he overhears me - "Is it white, or is it red?"

He dashes to the bathroom to check out the situation. Returning, nose clean, he assures me that it was only icing sugar - he'd been munching on desserts. I nod skeptically at the man who has been on a diet since January.

Two nights later, I notice the same problem again. I don't bother to say anything this time.

I Won't Succumb

2009-02-09T19:05:00.002-05:00

My best friend has always been a little disappointed in how easily I give in to certain types of peer pressure - in particular, smoking. Primarily a problem after I've had several cocktails, I've always been tempted to have a smoke with the others. Usually a cute boy would say, "Join me for a smoke?" and I could never resist. Sometimes I'd just like to hold it in my hand, occasionally bring it to my lips and pretend that I was Lauren Bacall. I was one of those kids who puffed on her Popeye cigarettes, creating a fanciful imaginary character for herself. (The most recurring character was a harried single mom carrying her baby on the subway, late for an appointment with my editor. I was seven, the baby was my dog. I was also an only child.)

Working in the service industry has only heightened my exposure to cigarette smoking. As a general rule, it repulses me. It also annoys me that these smokers have the privilege of disappearing periodically for a smoke break. The fact that they disappear is the key. I can't sit around in the back with a bottle of mineral water, going, "Back in five. I'm on a Pellegrino break." I would also look ridiculous standing outside with the same bottle of water, taking swigs alongside their puffs. So I'm always the one to watch the section while they go for a smoke, given the job of running to fetch my coworker if the table starts to leave. I'm never in the position of frantically spraying Axe or choking down mints before dashing back to say goodbye to the customers.

But the other night, I decided that I was going to have a cigarette. It had been a busy, stressful week, and almost everybody lights up after work. "Hey, give me one of those," I said to the hostess, who looked at me suspiciously. "I'm serious. Please?" She slowly handed it to me like she was about to corrupt my virginal innocence. I don't see how it's any worse than blowing into my face half the time, but of course I smiled sweetly and said, "Thanks, got a light?" And I smoked the whole thing. I didn't even pretend to inhale like I normally do. The next day I kind of wanted another one and kept asking my roommates, "Do you think it's the nicotine invading my body already? Should I have another one?"

I did resist - smoking is an expensive and stinky habit. But for some reason, imaginary or not, that one cigarette was enough to calm me down as we sat around and made fun of certain customers and rehashed the pace of the kitchen. But I sipped my wine and smoked my cigarette and realized that it didn't make me any cooler. I thought of my roommate, who sounds like he's hacking up a lung in the shower and drank catnip tea for a week to try and break up the phlegm. I thought of boys I'd kissed who really did taste like ashtrays. I thought of the way my clothes and hair smell after a night out with smokers. And I put that darn thing out and super-sized my glass of wine instead. We all have our vices.

How Do You Say, "I hate ironing" in French?

2009-01-28T12:57:00.002-05:00

I'm all for the little details, for nice touches that equal perfection. I really am. That being said, I'd rather not spend forty-five minutes ironing every single table cloth in the dining room. Especially when that means we can't set anything on the tables until that job is done. I guess it's the restaurant's version of a New Year's resolution. Maybe they think that by smoothing out the creases on the linen, the creases in our own service will somehow improve as well.

I have enough trouble ironing my own shirt properly. There's always some crease that I can't get out, some wrinkly patch that I'll inevitably miss. Half the time I'm creating creases where there were none, or burning myself with the steam button. (Even though I kind of like the noise it makes, a friendly little hiss.) I tried to explain this to my co-worker when he got all huffy after I said, "You're not done with that yet? Hurry up, I need to set this section!" and he passed the iron my way in a "Let's see if you can do it faster, then." kind of challenge.

I attempted to avert the chore with a feminist argument (Just because I'm a woman, you think I'll be good at the ironing??) but he was having none of it.

"Who do I look like, the Iron Woman!?"

"Sorry, I have some other pressing issues to attend to..."

I stated my past history of all things heated - the scar on my neck from the curling iron, the blister on my hand from the straightener, a somewhat exaggerated mishap with the sandwich press - but by this time I was actually just talking to myself.

Choosing to strike while the iron was hot, I smoothed things out with my co-worker.

Bar Mitzvah: Emphasis on the Bar

2009-01-19T14:30:00.003-05:00

To get to the off-site catering venue, I take the subway further north than I ever have. I polish an annoying amount of rented plates and try to feel grateful for having a job. We force the Austrian busboy to go to McDonalds, because the kitchen guys are too busy to feed us.

When the guests start arriving, I want to puke because I haven`t eaten McDonalds in a year. I cross my fingers that a grimace will pass for a smile, and grab a plate of canapes. Luckily, I don't even have to circulate the room. A swarm of twelve year old, curly haired boys surrounds me, eager for skewered quail and coconut shrimp. Someone tells the Austrian busboy that the dip for the crab cakes is called `STD sauce` and steers him towards Bubbe and her friends.

I try to pass off the last mini cups of cauliflower froth with caviar - "It's really tasty. You're gonna love it," I coo at one kid. He wrinkles his nose. I push my tray towards him. "Just try it!" He glares, saying "Don't force me!" before running away. My arm is getting sore and I want to go home. At least there's an awesome band and a few hot men to check out. And the teenage girls are amazingly well dressed. I spot three Coach clutches and a boob job during one round of clearing empty glasses.

One of the security guards (yes, bouncers at a bar mitzvah!) points out that there are a few important people in the room. "Look, there's that guy from Kenny and Benny." If I thought I was popular with a tray of kosher chicken skewers, then this local celebrity is a rock star. "You mean Kenny vs. Spenny?" He shrugs and continues to scan the room, as the kids clamber to get their photo taken with him.

At one point, the chef sends me into the blizzard with $45 and an order to get as much chicken bouillon as possible. I contemplate not returning, but I think I`ve flirted enough with the bartender to have secured some free alcohol if I go back. Plus there`s a huge tray of cheese that I need to make friends with. I relieve the grocery store of their bouillon reserves and trudge back.

When the end of the night arrives, I load up a garbage bag with at least six loaves of bread that would actually end up in the dumpster, and lug it home with me on the subway instead. Mazeltov.

Iron Chef = Iron Less?

2009-01-16T00:26:00.004-05:00

When I read that the ladies of Comrags were collaborating with Susur Lee to create uniforms for his new Manhattan Restaurant, Shang, I genuinely wanted to throw away my stained-in-weird-places-but-i'm-too-cheap-to-buy-new-ones white blouses and go work for him in NYC. Not that I didn't have the desire to live in New York City already. And not that I wouldn't have worked for him in Toronto, but I'd prefer we didn't dwell on that point.

The truth is that I really respect an establishment that would a) hire Canadian designers for their New York restaurant b) afford to have them made and c) care enough about this kind of aesthetic. Plus, the servers are allowed and encouraged to include details that would personalize their outfits just a bit. And apparently, the uniforms look better the more you wash them. What kind of a genius freak idea is this? No drycleaning or handwashing only stipulations for your designer server dress shirt? Now that's incentive to wash my work clothes more than once a month.

Blind Wine Tasting - No, not drink until you're blind.

2009-01-14T19:09:00.005-05:00

I think it's good to build rapport with co-workers. Important to spend time together and bond. Or maybe I'm just lonely.Most of my motivation for the ridiculous things I do involves an "I just want them to like me!" or a "I just want to fit in..." mentality. Hence, spending over $50 on a bottle of wine to bring to a party and pretending to smell things like darkly roasted unfair trade coffee or leather from a 2 year old dressage saddle.

I wandered the Vintages section of the LCBO, scanning the price tags. For once, my heart didn't leap with joy at colourful label designs, labels with quirky mammals, or something under $8.75. No, the pressure was on to find something that might impress my colleagues, or at least trick them into thinking it was from Cote du Rhone, not Chianti. "Oooh, this'll get 'em," piped up my helpful liquor store friend. "100% nebbiolo...they'll think it's Barolo. But really...it's Barbaresco." I nodded knowingly. "Nice, great pick, love it." I murmured, resisting the urge to high five.

I returned home with my choice, keen to hide the label with creative collage skills. Finally, me in tasteful floral and my bottle in leopard print and a Tommy Hilfiger ad, we were ready. Arriving, I eagerly pulled my bottle from the paper bag, to show off my decorative finesse. "Non!" shrieked the Frenchman. "You mustn't show us anything! Even the bottle's shape can give it away!" Inwardly rolling my eyes, but outwardly nodding and smiling, "Just kidding, Pierre! Only trying to psych you out." I hid my well dressed bottle dejectedly, but was quickly soothed by the sight of rabbit terrine and truffle oil on the table. Let the drinking commence!

Turns out there's this big wheel with all sorts of things you might find yourself tasting or smelling in your wine. My personal favourites include: wet dog, sauerkraut, soy sauce and filter pad. Luckily, none of the bottles at this party reeked like any such thing. Rather, we had freshly cut grass, lavender, touches of caramel, even some blue cheese. I won big points for sniffing out some pine needles.

While I may have been rather far from selecting the right grape or region, I did get pretty drunk. Bottles of Fifty or $50 plus bottles of wine - that, my friends, is indeed the best way to build rapport with your co-workers.

SOL: A Tale of Staff Bathrooms

2009-01-07T14:48:00.005-05:00

Buzzing flies, empty soap dispenser, no toilet paper, piles of shoes and dirty aprons. Why is the staff bathroom always the most depressing place in the restaurant? Currently, we don't even have a staff bathroom because the toilet is completely dismantled. If a staff debris room was what we craved, we couldn't ask for a better one. And it might be okay if we were allowed to use the customer bathroom. But if a customer comes, we cannot go. If you see what I'm saying.

I suspect the boys must be sneak a leak in the alley. But as one of three women who work in the establishment, we're SOL. Ahem. The debris room has a mirror, so I can put on lipstick or smooth my frizz but that's about all it's good for. And so we wait. I try to limit my liquid consumption - usually I'm too busy to hydrate anyway - but, still.

It's not just peeing that's the issue. The debris in the debris room prevents the door from closing, so you can't change in there. And the, "Oooh, I followed you in here just to see you in your underwear" joke has really gotten old. Or so the guys are telling me.

"Do you want to improve your style?"

2009-01-04T20:36:00.004-05:00

"Hey, bring a tray over here when you have a minute," my colleague said to me. This Quebecois co-worker wanted to teach me a trick. He wanted me to add some flair to my style - beer-pouring style that is. We only sell bottled beer, and an extremely high price. I cringed to ring in Coor's Light at $7 a pop. That being the case, I guess I should at least be providing some entertainment while pouring his ridiculously overpriced beverage.

The trick goes like this: You hold the beer glass against the tray with your thumb (only works for glasses with a slight stem and base), and pour the beer on that angle. The same angle that you'd pour a beer right into the glass to minimize the head. But at the table, and on a tray. Insert 'oohs and ahhs.' Truthfully, it looks kind of cool, sort of like a magic trick. Here's the catch.

"Now, make sure you didn't just stick your thumb in some butter by accident. Or that the base of the glass isn't wet at all." In essence, this is not a trick for people with hyperhydrosis. A sweaty handed server is not going to pull this off at someone's table. I have little desire to mention this to my co-worker. But now he's taught me the trick and probably wants to see it in action. Maybe on a good, dry day it'll happen. Even so, now I have to be the show-off who pours beer that way. If it will get me five extra dollars I'll probably do it. But if someone poured my beer that way, I'd likely be thinking, "Who does that jerk think he is?" I guess I'll just have to decide what kind of style I want to have, and how much I want to improve it.

Twist the bottle, not the cork?

2008-12-31T11:55:00.004-05:00

This is partly a pep talk to myself, as I prepare to work the joy that is New Year's Eve in a fine dining restaurant. A nine course tasting menu sans designated seating times...I'll try to maintain my sanity with a secret stash of sparkling wine, to be sipped at regular intervals with a straw. That way, if the timing's off, if the food is cold, if I drip too many drops of red wine on the white table cloths, I'll be too buzzed on bubbly to mind too much.

Here's hoping that the tips are generous, the people are gracious and that come midnight, I won't be aiming any champagne bottles at anyone's eye. Wishing a prosperous and joy-filled 2009 for all.

Certainly with a smile

2008-12-29T20:42:00.002-05:00

This fall, I was thrilled to discover that I was not the only one who, all smiles and happy nods, used the phrase "Certainly!" when they really meant "You stupid jerk/screw you/you demanding wench." Etc.

I'd been recounting a story of some really bitchy group of women, and when I came to the part where I said, "Ceeeertainly," my colleague piped up, "Ha! I say that too! It means 'fuck you!'" Before this, I hadn't really been aware of how often I said this word, and how I usually meant something else. It's my little way of coping, of maintaining some insanity when a customer astonishes me with ignorance or impoliteness.

Only once did I suspect a customer was on to me. The "lyyyyy" lingered for five seconds and my token accommodating servant smile crossed into utterly insincere, betraying my dismay at this rude, intolerable woman's demands and criticisms of the menu. She stared at me as if I had actually cursed, and I knew I was found out. And I was glad.

I'm certain I'm not the only one who has this kind of secret synonym - maybe behind all the "My pleasure"s, "Right away"s, and "Of course,"s you've got a cornucopia of cursewords designed to relieve some of the pressure of high demands and unreasonable requests that are so common in restaurants, cafes. It's why I try hard to be liberal with saying "please, if you wouldn't mind, is it at all possible, sorry to bother you, thank you." Seems obvious, but surprisingly lacking a lot of the time. You know you're in trouble if someone replies "Certainly" with a suspiciously toothy grin.

What's in a schedule?

2008-12-28T22:12:00.003-05:00

There are seven days in the week. At worst, I'll have to work for five of them. But when it's Sunday night, and I don't know which five days those might be for the coming week, I get kind of annoyed.

It sorta makes a girl feel like she's sitting around the house waiting for a boy to call for a date, but that boy doesn't really respect her enough to give her advance notice of when that might be, or what time she should meet him. In this case, it's a date she's getting paid to go on, but still....Is it only in the restaurant industry that your schedule's not made until the last possible minute? At previous places of employment, the schedule for the next week would come on Friday, and I thought that was bad. It's frustrating to have to put off making other plans because I'm waiting around to know what days I have to show up at work. Not that I have other plans, really. But that's not the point!

If only dating was actually my full time job. But I hear the tips aren't very good in that line of work.

Sullivan Nod? More like Sullivan Fraud.

2008-12-09T20:42:00.002-05:00

I have yet to master this so-called Sullivan nod. People look at me strangely and ask if I have a pain in my neck. Or suggest getting my bangs trimmed. Or become suspicious if I'm on drugs or have a random tick.

Yes, the subtle ten to fifteen degree nod that is supposed to subconsciously encourage customers to purchase a more expensive item from a list, I really need to work on.

My "Tap water or would you prefer sparkling mineral water?" I ask with a shifty eyed head swivel.

"Absolut martini, Stoli martini, or Greeey Goooose?" ends with me resting my chin in my chest like a snoozing pigeon and their request to sit at the bar after all.

I read the daily specials, punctuating the pricy duck confit with a crafty head twitch. Everyone orders pasta.

I've had enough of this bobble-head routine.

Sullivan, whoever you are, I think you're full of it.

I Shall Withold the Pickle

2008-12-07T23:56:00.008-05:00

There is a man named Bob Farrell and he makes instructional videos for the service industry. I want to make this man go away. He is old and grinning and moaning, "Give emmm the pickle! Just give em the pickle!" and I despise him. The pickle is some metaphor for giving people what they want, the little extras make all the difference, blah blah.

In addition to loosely handing out pickles for all, Bob Farrell wants to "Make serving people your number one priority." As if this is some kind of holy revelation that will inspire servers, who serve people, to really rethink the true meaning of their jobs. He then proceeds to tell an anecdote about terrifying a bank teller by ripping the chained pen off of the desk when she explains that because people steal pens they have to permanently affix them. Receives hearty chuckle for whipping out a pen dangling from its chain and holder.

I bet you anything Bob Farrell only tips twelve percent on a good day.

www.dailymotion.com/video/x3dnb_give-em-the-pickle_business

Typso on Menus

2008-12-03T12:49:00.002-05:00

Recently I was reminded of my intense dislike for people who print menus that have been insufficiently spell-checked. And it's not even like I looked at this menu once, sneered, and don't have to look at it again. I can't, because it's at my new job.

As the new girl at a place where early December is proving to be quite slow, I use gazing at the menu as a way to justify leaning against the bar. I am memorizing, I am learning the items. Occasionally I'll ask a question about substitutions or allergies. But what I really want to know is how the heck do you not get someone to proofread the final copy before laminating your menus?

Spelling errors look unprofessional, highlight a lack of attention to detail and suggest a level of incompetence. It doesn't matter that probably one person was responsible for the mistake - do you want someone unprofessional and incompetent who overlooks details to bring you food and ring your credit card through?

Every time I practice my "new girl learning the menu" routine, I can't help but glance at the misspelled words and cringe. The offending mistakes? "Vodak" and "Anitpasto"

I Need A Goddamn Pen

2008-11-08T00:59:00.003-05:00

There are never enough pens. I've started guarding my pens ferociously, because I despise that panicky feeling when I have to return someone's credit card slip and there's not a writing utensil to be found. I also think it's really tacky to give an ugly pen, a coloured pen, or a pencil as the object which is probably going to record my tip.

But why are there never enough? The pens we have kicking around are not snazzy enough to steal. I usually get the pen back that I gave. But then where does it go? Some freaky pen void, apparently. I also hate pens without lids. I kept finding pen lids in the garbage, and flipping out about it. Finally the offending lid disposer confronted me, saying she hated pens with lids. Infuriating to discover 17 discarded lids and no pens.

Someone made a trip to the dollar store and loaded up on pens. These hastily exploded on my hands, and stopped writing after two usages. Some wouldn't write at all. Someone posted a pen incentive: free breakfast for the one who scrounged up the most pens. A handful of matching pens appeared, but the clicky mechanisms all broke and the pens were rendered useless.

I need to eliminate this pen stress. Pending a solution...I'll start memorizing all orders, and customers will only leave cash. I'll have to pensively consider this dilemma a little further. Any pen puns are appreciated.

Don't Let Grandma Pay

2008-10-06T00:26:00.003-04:00

Maybe Grandma's spoiled you for your entire life. Or maybe she's never been nice and is finally trying to show some generosity by taking you and your family out for a lovely dinner. This should not be allowed to happen, unless the following conditions apply:

Grandma can foot the bill, but the gratuity must be supervised. A subtle peek to ensure that the minimum 15% has been applied will do. If you're on close terms, you can remind her that the going rate for tipping has in fact changed since WWII.
Make sure you bring cash with you to the dinner. This is essential when you have to slip the server a crisp bill when Grandma has provided nothing over 10%.

Truth be told, you really shouldn't be letting your grandmother pay for anything at all. She's had a long, difficult life and she deserves to be treated a lot more than you do. Conversely, if you do wave away her credit card, make sure she doesn't get away with saying, "Well I'll take care of the tip then, dear." Unacceptable - unless she's a liberal 20% tipping kind of grandmother, of course.

Dear Hostess

2008-09-29T20:54:00.003-04:00

Dear Hostess,

When I said I didn't want to seat a deuce at my open table of four, I didn't mean that I wanted two parents, a newborn and a two year old to sit there.

My section has six tables. Is it really necessary to fill four of them within five minutes? And why must you say my name when you give them the menus? Couldn't you at least make up a fake one? I don't need them screaming my name across the dining room.

When I give you my subtle death stare, it means, "I served those two at lunch, don't you dare sit them in my section for dinner." It can also mean, "Don't you dare let those four switch tables. Tell them the window is reserved, tell them it's drafty, say anything at all but DON'T sit them in my section now."

When you answer the phone, be sure to tell that party of eight that an eighteen percent gratuity is automatically added for parties of six or more. I don't want any surprises when they show up, and I certainly don't want to deal with any 12%, separate check, high maintenance crap.

Also, you're showing too much cleavage.

Love,

Your Server

On Tipping

2008-09-29T19:50:00.006-04:00

I was on a second date at one of my favourite bars. We called it a night after two drinks, and the bill was only $21. I left some cash while he paid the entirety on his credit card. My stomach heaved as I sneaked a peek. The tip? Two dollars. I feigned a bathroom break and pressed $5 into the hand of our server's colleague. "Make sure she gets this," I whispered, blushing. "I don't think he left enough." This episode was enough to turn me off for good. Here is a compilation of my fervent tipping beliefs.

Ten percent is an insult. So is tipping before the tax. A server has to tip out the runners and the house, so a ten percent tip can mean not even seven percent in their pocket.

If your bill is $60.12, why not leave $12? What's with $11.88? Seriously.

If you can't afford to leave a 15% gratuity, you can't afford the meal you've ordered.

The most common and despised tips: $9 on anything between $61 and $69. $10 on anything between $71-79. $12 on $81-89. An extra two dollars can mean a lot. $11 instead of $9, $17 instead of $15. Not a huge difference to you, but adds up over a night and is greatly appreciated.

A sincere thank you and goodbye means nothing to me if you can't show your appreciation on your credit card. My heart always sinks to hear "We really enjoyed ourselves. That was great. Thank you so much!" and get a firm handshake. That handshake and genuine thanks isn't going to pay off my student loan or heating bill.

The gift certificate - it is essential to tip on the total of your bill, before the deduction of the certificate amount. You got that much of your meal for free anyway, how can your conscience let you skimp on the tip?

The fight for the bill - We've all seen those two couples out together, one loud and boisterous gentleman insisting he'll take the check while the other snatches it from his hand, making for an awkward episode as the server backs away hesitantly, hoping it will be resolved. If you are the winning check-payer, you also have the won the responsibility of leaving an appropriate gratuity.

A drunk maid of honour once threatened me with a slurred "I know where to find you..." after her friend refused to let her pay for the bride's drinks. A man grabbed my wrist, insisting, "That bill is ours, young lady." Let's not abuse or neglect the service staff in a mission for generousity or an attempt to show off for our friends.

Understanding Rien Avant

2008-09-29T18:22:00.004-04:00

Just water, please. No, nothing to start. I like it well done. Miss, we have a show to catch. Excuse me! More coffee! Can I have something else instead of potato?

If you've ever worked in a restaurant, you'll know what I'm trying to say. You understand the delicate balance of trying to please the customer, avoid agitating the chef and refrain from throwing red wine in someone's face. Working in the service industry allows you to see the truth of a person's soul. You can measure the generosity, compassion, understanding and patience of a person by how they behave in a restaurant and treat the server. It is appalling to see how some people will speak to a server. The server is essentially a stranger, and yet a customer feels entitled to address them in a way they would never consider speaking to any other stranger.

Rien avant is not necessarily a simple lack of an appetizer. Rien avant is often accompanied by: water with lemon and lots of ice, refills of coffee before and during the meal, requests for extra bread, no dessert, and a ten percent tip. This creates the most work for the server with undeniably the least reward. Often, a rien avant type of person will ask your name, constantly make lame jokes with you, sometimes trick you into a false sense of security and rapport. They will mislead you into thinking they like you, appreciate your service, and pretend to leave you with an acceptable gratuity.

However, this is not to say rien avant will always leave you with a sense of deep resentment and confusion. Rien avant can mean no appetizers, but a cocktail to start and then a bottle of wine. These people may like to savour only one course, but the extras add up to remind you that some people do have class, respect and a polite attitude when dining in public.

At any rate, the service industry is definitely challenging, tiring, frustrating and demeaning. It can also be financially worthwhile, hilarious, interesting and rewarding. Rien Avant is about spreading compassion, humour and understanding for the hardworking souls who bring your drinks, serve your food, clear your plates and wipe your tables.