Suspended

Last Monday during a closing shift an old friend of mine sent me a text saying that she was in town and wanted to see me. I told her I was working, but that she could come in and hang out for a bit, so she came, and brought with her another very close friend that I hadn't seen in a few months.

I casually asked them if they wanted something to drink, while flashing them the "of course I won't charge you" smile. One had a Pepsi while the other had a raspberry lemonade. As many of you are probably aware, to have food made, or a bar drink poured you must ring it into the computer because the kitchen/bartender cannot make anything unless they have a ticket. There are only a few things that servers have complete control over, and fountain drinks are one of them. It is because of this, that I didn't charge my friends for their drinks.

I took their order, and rang in their food. I sat and chatted for a bit while they ate, then I collected their money for the bill, and then hugged them as they left.

About ten minutes later, I made a stupid mistake on a new order and needed a manager to void off an item. We laughed about how I was a total bonehead, always making silly mistakes when she looked at me and said...

"You know, you're only a real bone-head if you forgot to charge your friends for their drinks."

Oh shit...Panic mode kicked in, so what did I do?

I looked my manager straight in the eye, and lied. Completely forgetting that she had the ability to open up a closed tickets to see exactly what was rung in.

I told her I hadn't charged them because I paid for them myself, So she smiled sweetly and dropped the subject.

I spent the next 3 days stressed out that she knew the truth, or that I would get fired.

Thursday evening I headed into work for another closing shift. When I arrived I noticed my name was not on the seating chart, so I fearfully approached the managers office. When I got there I was asked to sit so that we could have a "chat."

Manager C informed me that she had checked my nightly report and found no sign of my friends drinks. She reminded me that stealing was grounds for termination, and she asked me once again if I had meant to charge my friends.

I had two choices. I could either admit that I purposely gave my friends free drinks, then lied about it, and face certain termination, Or lie again and say that I intended to charge them, but must have forgotten, look like a total airhead, but still have a job.

Can you guess what I did?

I lied again. I said that I must have spaced it, but that I meant to ring it in. I apologized for my ignorance, and whipped out a $10 to pay for the drinks.

I was then scolded for making stupid mistakes, and suspended for 2 days.

So, I am not proud of the situation. If anything, I am embarrassed. I feel and looked like a total idiot, and It is all my fault. I deserve to be fired. But now that all is said and done, and we are moving forward, I have to ask my readers and fellow servers a question. Feel free to leave comments anonymously if you prefer nobody find out, but please, I would like as much feedback as possible.

Have you ever hooked up a friend? Have you ever slipped them a freebie while you were working, just because it was easy, and you wouldn't get away with it? Was giving them a free drink OK, but only crossing the line because I lied about it?

Please be honest... I was.

Gall Bladder Removal.

One Saturday Elvira was keeled over in the bar holding her stomach in excruciating pain. She was sent home early because eventually she couldn't even hold herself upright. She called in sick the next three shifts. Nobody knew what the hell was going on, so on her fourth missed shift Manager C told her she needed a doctors note. Upon visiting the doctor she learned she had cholesterol gallstones, and would need a Cholecystectomy (gallbladder removal).

Prior to the surgery, she had some lab work done, as is a common practice. She had a tox screen, a UA, and a CBC. After reviewing the results, the doctor warned Elvira about the dangers of her particular habits. To which she replied "It's my life, I will do what I want."
Classy Elvira, classy.

Post surgery Elvira was in a recovery consultation. She was once again urged to discontinue all drug, tobacco, and alcohol usage, as these could dramatically effect her rehabilitation. She once again irresponsibly declined.

As their meeting was drawing to a close, he quickly wrote her a prescription for 1000mg Ibuprofen. She immediately announced that she wanted something stronger, to which he replied that she would not be in much pain, and that anything stronger then the ibuprofen could possibly do more damage to her digestive system.

Frantically she tried again, demanding that she absolutely HAD to have something stronger for the pain. Leaning back in his chair, he removed his glasses, and said...


"You're clearly an alcoholic, you reek of stale pot, and your uncontrollable jitters and grumpiness would suggest that the last two days without a cigarette have been anything but delightful. I will NOT be giving you anything stronger. You really think its wise to get addicted to another substance?"

Kudos on your bed-side manners Dr. House, I'm sure you wont be to surprised to find out she's working on a case to sue your honest ass. I know I wasn't.

Rapetopia

While working my clinical hours I encounter a vast assortment of people. I have learned to detest the human body and all of the filthy and disgusting things it is capable of. I have also learned to detest most humans for all of the awful and harming things they are capable of doing to themselves and others. It is not uncommon for me to help suture up a stab victim, or to scrub asphalt out of a drunk driver, who just killed three people in a head on collision.

One afternoon my charge nurse and I entered an isolated room. After suiting up with gowns, gloves and masks, I asked for some information on the patient. He had AIDS, and was coughing up blood. The man was young, in his 40's. He laid curled in the fetal position, clutching his stomach as he violently coughed while simultaneously shitting himself.

Several weeks after the incident hubby and I were watching some good ol' Dane Cook in his Rough Around the Edges tour, when the bit came on about a website where you could find out if any sexual predators lived in your neighborhood, so for fun we decided to check it out. Within 2 miles of our house, there were 20 registered sex offenders, and under each name there was a picture, and a list of sexual felony "stats", like a rapist baseball card. This would have been a good time for us to log out, and forget everything we had seen, but we decided to check each picture to see if we recognized anyone.

And then I saw him. My AIDS patient. Staring into the camera with his cold eyes.

I was horrified. Not only did he live just up the street from us, but he also had 4 counts of child sodomization. My heart immediately broke for the young children that this monster had brutalized, raped, and then gave AIDS to.

For the record, if you read my blog and think that I seem a bit cold, withdrawn, and detached from society, this is why. The exasperation and hopelessness I feel towards mankind is because of shit like this.

Cooking Burns and Stripper Poles

Elvira is scandalous. The more I work with her, the more I feel the need to come home and disinfect everything I own. It started subtly. A naughty comment here, a blow job in the walk-in there. Before I knew it she was describing to me vivid sex-dreams in intimate details.

She wants to fuck 90% of the male employees at the steakhouse, and would probably have a go at most of the ladies to. She's been warned about making off-colored remarks because sound echos in the kitchen, and the front half of the restaurant can usually hear everything that is said, however most of the time she comes to work to drunk, hungover, or to strung out to care.

One evening this week she came to work with her arm bandaged up, and tucked safely in a sling. She said she burnt her arm pretty badly while cooking, when the always witty and clever BB said loudly,

"Right...It's probably a friction burn from your stripper pole."

Everyone laughed hysterically, and Elvira blushed as she replied,

"I wish I knew how to pole dance."

Several hours later BB and I happened to be back in the dish pit when he said,

"Seems weird thinking of her burning herself cooking. It just doesn't fit, Elvira....cooking...?!!"

To which I replied,

"Yeah...Cooking Meth maybe?"

A Bucket of Lard, and a Sneaky Bastard

Growing up, my oldest sister had a serious eating disorder. The knowledge of this made me feel like a pregnant hippopotamus because she was always so much thinner then I was, and nothing boosted my self esteem more then a petite, beautiful blond standing 5'9, with a perfect rack telling me she was utterly repulsive.
One Christmas she was home from college, and over a few to many margaritas she began confessing to me terrible things she had done to her friends, just to make her feel better about herself. She told me about how she would dump out her roommate's diet soda, and refill it with regular soda. She would crack the seal of her skinny friend's Splenda, replace it with regular sugar, and glue the edges back together. She would offer to cook, and use pure lard. She even made "health-shake" for her model friends using whole sticks of butter.
At the time, I had a few laughs about it. I found myself justifying her actions, I even thought of all the ways her little scheme could have benefited me in the past. Just like LiLo with the energy bars in Mean Girls, I though about all the hot girls whose bodies I could have have watched bloat up with Lard and butter, as I laughed and kept on feeding them. How their misery, and self-hatred would somehow make me feel better and help with my own validation. And then I sobered up.

I haven't thought much about my sister's shenanigans since then, I have even gained an appreciation, and have learned to be happy with myself the way that I am.

But then the other day I was at Starbucks. My Barista was a heavy set teenage boy, who stood cowering and meek, almost as if he was uncomfortable in his own skin. When I asked for a small sugar-free nonfat iced mocha, he rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath,

"Nonfat, sure...make fun of me...just like everyone else.."


I chose not to respond. There was nothing I could have done or said that would have made feel any better about himself, nor was my nonfat drink in anyway a representation of what I thought, or felt about him. So I remained silent, but I watched him closely as he made my drink. I watched as he pumped 5 squirts of REGULAR Mocha syrup into my drink, and as he
sneakily added a squirt and a half of Classic Syrup (liquid sugar).

Barista: "Nonfat Mocha..."

GH: "Thanks..."
Taking one sip so he could see me, I scrunched my face and said,
"Are you sure this is sugar free?"

Barista: "Yes, It is..."

GH: "Uh, OK. Thanks."

Upon leaving the building I dropped the drink into the nearest trash can. Luckily I had payed with a gift card that much to my surprise still had $20 dollars remaining.

I was really annoyed by the whole ordeal, yet having to dump the drink was the least of my concerns. I was pissed that he was dishonest, that he would purposely sabotage a stranger who unintentionally offended him. I understand low self-esteem. I struggled with it all through junior high and high school. But does he honestly think that just because he is miserable, everyone else should be too? That since he is fat and unhappy, everyone else should join him in self-loathing.

We make our own happiness. We may not like our weight, our hair, or our clothes, but we shouldn't treat everyone else like shit because we are unsatisfied. We should change our attitudes, and treat people with love and respect, only then will we learn to love the person trapped underneath the extra weight, a bad hair-cut, or shabby clothes.

Cold by Definition

When asked how you would like your steak cooked, the obvious choices are rare, medium rare, medium, medium well, and well done. Each choice has a corresponding internal temperature, and this is how a cook can tell when the steak is cooked exactly how it's ordered.

There are, however, a few other ways to order a steak. You may not be familiar with them, as I certainly was not until I began working at the Steakhouse. One of those ways is called Pittsburgh Style, also called Blue-Rare, meaning it is so rare, that it looks almost blue inside.

I seldom, if ever have anyone order their steak this way, either because they are not familiar with it, or because it is absolutely disgusting. But, either way, if it is ordered, the cooks will make it.

The other night I had a table of two. They were unhappy throughout their entire meal. Her Rum and Coke was to strong, even though it was Malibu Rum, which is like liquid candy. His salad tasted old, even though it was the first scoop out a new bag, and the dressing and croutons were hand-made that afternoon. And their bread was cold and stale, even though it was a fresh batch right out of the oven. I got the feeling early that they just wanted to complain, so I acted interested in all of their shenanigans, and nodded my head with implied concern, but had mentally tuned them out, and was in my head enjoying a Malibu Rum and Coke of my very own.

He ordered the Prime Rib, and wanted it very rare. I let him know it would be more like Medium rare, as the Prime Roast is kept in the oven all night, and the later it gets, inevitably the more it is cooked. He was annoyed, but ordered it anyways.
When I brought out their dinner, they said everything was fine, so I left them to eat. Five to ten minutes later I stopped by to see if everything was still going well, they said it was, so again I left them to eat. Only seconds after I walked away and stopped by another table, the man half stood, and began violently flailing his arms to get my attention. I shot him a "Wait your fucking turn" look, and he sat back down. When I had a moment, I returned to his table to see what had happened in the 14 seconds since he told me things were going good.

Man: "The Prime is cold."

GH: "Of course it is, its been out here on your table for ten minutes"

Man: "No, I mean it was cold when you brought it out to me. "

GH: What I said- "Oh I'm sorry can I get you a new piece?" What I meant- "Then why the hell did you tell me twice that everything was fine?"

Man: "Yes, I want a new piece...could you make it RARE this time please. If you knew better you wouldn't mess with me"

GH: "I'll see what I can do"

Upon returning to the kitchen I was informed we were 86 Prime, as the last piece had just been sold. My manager told me to offer to heat it up, give him a Rib-Eye, or a piece of dessert on the house.

He said I would ruin the Medium Rare if I heated it up, he hated Rib-eye (even though Rib-eye IS Prime Rib) and he had no appetite for dessert. And then he just stared at me....for minutes....without saying anything. My manager saw what was going on from across the floor and came to my rescue. She finally got him to speak. He said he would take the Rib-Eye but wanted it Blue Rare, charred for only 45 seconds on each side. So that's exactly what he got.

A few minutes later, I was introducing myself to a new table when the man stood and yelled my name across the restaurant. I ignored him at first but after three consecutive yells, I looked back and said "Wait your turn Sir!"
This asshole was challenging me and I was not in the mood, so I put on my game face and went back to his table.

Man: "This Rib-eye is awful. It's colder then the Prime. Don't you guys know how to serve a properly heated steak. What the hell is wrong with you."

GH: "Well sir, before the steak was put on the grill it was in the fridge, which is somewhere around 35 degrees. We did as you asked and only grilled the steak for 45 seconds each side, and last time I checked, a minute and a half is certainly not enough time to bring up the temperature of something so cold. If you wanted a warm steak, you should have asked for Well Done, because Blue-Rare is cold by definition. Now you can enjoy this steak the way you ordered it, or I can microwave it for you. Those are your only options.

The man looked dumbfounded, as if I had just shot him in the neck with a metaphorical stun gun. Swallowing his pride, he puffed up his chest and demanded to talk to a manager. So I waved one over, and listened as he implored her to comp his entire meal. He played every card in the book, and even threatened to tell his "Gun Club" buddies how terrible he had been treated if he was not compensated somehow. She said she would not be comping any of his meal, and then she asked him to kindly Fuck off.

I was so elated. People will do anything for a free meal, and apparently my manager wasn't in the mood to be fucked with either. A few minutes later she went out for a smoke, and I followed her to thank her for not letting him get away with such tomfoolery's. She had had it up to her ears with doucherockets for the night, and started ranting. Right at the point of "What an asshole!!I hope him and his damn gun club friends never set foot in this Restaurant again," the man walked around the corner to his car. He looked back towards her, and half joking, half serious she said,

"Goodnight Sir, you're sure lucky we don't spit in peoples food here."

Kill Whitey!

After having nearly two weeks off the only thing that sounded worse to me than working, was to die slowly by having red-hot iron rods inserted into my anus. But such is life.

I dug my still dirty work shirt out of the laundry and forced myself to put it on, while nearly gagging at the stale grease stench, I made a mental note to buy a new work shirt.

I was pretty bored the majority of the evening, and tried to keep myself busy while going through the motions and spouting off random bits of information like a robot on auto-pilot. And then I received my first big-top of the evening. An elderly man asked to pick up the tab, so I kept my eye on him and made sure to give him a little extra attention. When his Medium Rare Rib-eye came out Rare I wasted no time bringing it back to the kitchen for a quick fix.

Elderly man: "Don't overcook it...just throw it on the grill for a minute"

GH: "Absolutely sir."

Man: "I'm serious...if you bring it back Medium I'm walking out."

GH: "I'll watch the clock myself sir, you have nothing to worry about."

Two minutes, and a perfect Medium Rare later, I returned to the table and watched as the elderly man morphed into a fit of unnecessary rage.

Man: "God Damn It!! I said Medium Rare, not Medium...I told you...I knew they would overcook it!!! Who is back there cooking? It's some stupid white guy? Get the Mexicans...they know how to cook it right... * Mumbles* Fucking whiteys....always fucking up my steak."

GH: "Sir, this is a family restaurant, please lower your voice. I can get a manager if you would like."

Man: "Get me the stupid white cook. He needs cooking lessons."

After ten more minutes of degrading ramblings the man was finally asked to leave. I found it humorous that before he left he asked for a to-go box for his steak.

I'm sure I'll get shit for saying this, but I couldn't shake the feeling of racial stereotyping. If the man had screamed that a "fucking Mexican ruined his steak" he would have been publicly crucified. Why is it such a crime against society to so much as mumble a racial slur against an African American, an Asian, or an Indian, but have free range at Whitey? It just doesn't make sense to me.