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.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Monday, March 2, 2009
Baby, what's your sign?
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.
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.
Friday, February 13, 2009
It's Icing Sugar, I Swear!
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 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.
Monday, February 9, 2009
I Won't Succumb
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
How Do You Say, "I hate ironing" in French?
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.
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.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Bar Mitzvah: Emphasis on the Bar
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.
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.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Iron Chef = Iron Less?
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.
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.
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