The Sweaty Silverware

Last night was my first day back from my bullshit suspension. Though I walked in feeling completely awkward and uncomfortable, both mangers did a good job pretending nothing happened, while whispers of "I thought she was fired," and "I hear she's been stealing for months" were overheard from fellow employees throughout the night.
It was a remarkably uneventful shift, spent avoiding confrontation of any sort. It was ridiculously slow, and we were asked to start small cleaning projects. I opted to roll hundreds and hundreds of silverware, as it beats the hell out of scrubbing crusted cheese, and layers of spilled sauce under the salad bar.

I think it may be the law anyway, but my steakhouse is what you might consider an equal opportunity employer. This usually means non-biased hiring towards sex, race, or religion. However we have often hired mentally handicapped people as well. Now, please don't leave nasty comments because I will have none of it. My Aunt had down syndrome, and I have a soft spot in my heart for the mentally challenged. I do not, however, think that they belong working in a stressful position like those offered at a restaurant. Our newest hired busser is handicapped. He is very friendly, and does what he is told, problem is it takes him 5 times as long to get it done, and he forgets important parts of each task, which usually takes someone else to clean up, or sort out.

Last night, I thought I would teach him to roll silverware, and smiled as his eyes filled with joy at learning the new skill. We spent about ten minutes together rolling silverware, when he was asked to empty all the trash cans. He returned from the job to continue with silverware, and was completely drenched with sweat. I assumed he had washed his hands, so we continued rolling. We made small talk until I caught him wiping drips of sweat from his forehead with his bare hands. At first I was unsure of what to tell him, so I just watched as he scratched his nose, rubbed his sweaty neck, and returned his hands to silverware rolling. I gagged a bit, and then I reminded him that anytime he touched his face he needed to wash his hands. He nodded agreeably, and took off to do so.

While he was gone, Manager C (the one to suspend me) walked by with her manager meal, said she would be in the office eating dinner if anyone needed her, and reached forward to grab the nearest silverware.

Of course she grabbed the one Busser had just snotted, and sweat all over. And of course I didn't tell her. I just snickered to myself, and told her to enjoy her meal.

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."

A Deal With The Devil

Tonight was pure insanity. I'm not even sure why? There wasn't anything special going on, but for some unknown reason, the entire community felt that they needed to eat at the steakhouse, and also felt like being ridiculously generous and charitable. No complaints on my part, though around 8:45 pm I would have given anything to be at home, in my pj's curled up with a bowl of ice cream and a good book.

So I made a deal with the devil.

Figuratively.

I had a reservation for a 25 top at 9pm. I was totally dreading the large party since it would take up all of my time, and put me really far behind on all my closing duties. I knew that they wouldn't be out of the restaurant until 10:30, which would mean I would be stuck there until 11 or later.
I asked everyone, with hopes that I could get someone to switch and take it. And of course nobody wanted to. I sighed, and mumbled some choice words under my breath in frustration.
When suddenly, pregnant bitches husband skips up to me and says "Hey! You still want someone to take your big top!?!"

I tell him that nothing would make me happier, and he accepts and says he'll take it, no problem. I breathed a breath of relief.

He turns to leave, but stops in his tracks. Turning back towards me with a crooked smile painted on his stupid face he says "Oh, under one condition"

I assume he'll ask me to clean his tables, take out his trash, or finish up his side work.

GH: "Sure anything, I'll do it, just take the damn table."

PBH: "Work for me tomorrow morning."

GH: "Done."

This is a perfect example of immediate gratification. The thing my mother warned me about growing up. "Having sex with your boyfriend will only feel good now, you'll regret it later." She was right, and I did. "Cheating on your math homework may get you through the assignments, but if you don't learn the material, your gonna bomb the test. " Again she was right, and I did.
Such a wise woman, that I clearly still have much to learn from.

About an hour later, as I was wiping down my last table, the reality of the situation sunk in, but it was to late. PBH was basking in the glory of his $50 tip from my big party, while I was realizing that I would be working an opening morning shift, and a closing night shift.

Last Call

I've mentioned in the past my dislike of spineless managers. One's that cower at the sign of slightest discontent, and cave at every mention of dissatisfaction, in order to avoid unpleasant confrontation.
But then there are my managers.
Tonight was a weird night, where several miscommunications with the "teenage hostess" ended up in a reservation for 15 people at 9:45pm. This normally would be fine, but seeing as we close at 10pm, there were several annoyed servers, and one furious closer.
To me, this seemed like an easy fix. Call them up, let them know of the miscommunication, apologize sweetly, and suggest they come in at 9pm instead. But this would have been much to simple for my spineless manager. For fear of either rejection, or having to actually face someone in a situation that might result in conflict, my spineless manager decided to avoid the situation completely.
So the group started trickling in around 9:35. I had hoped that they would all arrive together and punctual, but that would have been much to simple, and stress free.
At 10pm the party was still waiting on 8 people, so I asked my manager what she wanted me to do. Do I remind them that we are now closed, do I suggest they order for their friends as the kitchen is shutting down, or do I wait.
And so.....I waited.

And waited.

And to make matters worse, my manager decided that since she was keeping two kitchen guys, a waitress, a dishwasher and a busser all on for an extra hour after closing for just one table, we might as well let anyone else in that happens to stop by.

So I had a full blown second rush of the night, and when the initial assclowns finally showed up it was almost 11pm. I should have already been home, showered, fed, and blogging by then.

I guess I just don't understand something. Why have rules if they aren't enforced? Why have a close time if its optional. Why let people walk all over you, and never stand up for yourself because you to much of a chicken shit to say something. How did you climb your way into management when you clearly have no administrative authority.

My advice to the spineless manager...Grow a pair, or get the hell out.

The Fat Old Hag

Husband and I have always functioned with one car. Our schedules worked perfectly, and we never had any problems, but he has just started a new (much better paying) job and this has drastically shifted his schedule. At first we just dealt with the inconvenience of it all, but after he was forced to show up a hour late during his second week because I got held over a bit in class, we decided it was time to invest in a new car. Yesterday we both had the day off, so we got up early, put our haggling hats on, and set out on a hunt.

After hours and hours of dealer bull shit, we found a car we both liked. Ironically the same make and model of two prior cars I have totaled. (A sign not to get it??) It was listed at a totally reasonable price, but husband got them to drop it a grand and a half, so we took the offer. It was 5:15, and we figured we had plenty of time to get to the bank. We decided to put half down, and get a loan for the rest... easy peasy.

When we got to our bank, we were met by the cold eyes of a fat old hag, lets call her Ida. Her glares burnt through the back of my skull. She made several attempts to turn towards the clock and sigh heavily, as if to say she didn't want to deal with us so close to closing. She said she would help us, but what she really meant was that she wished we would go fuck ourselves.
She asked us a series of questions, and things were going fine until her computer "allegedly" lost all of our progress around 5:45, that's when she snapped. As we were going through round two of the same questions she made it a point to add a snide little comment to everything we said, letting me know how she disapproved of my "career" at the Steakhouse. She even sorted with laughter at my estimated monthly income, and when I said "That's not including tips" I heard her mumble "like it matters" under her breath.

Now here's the thing, at the steakhouse if someone shows up 1 minute before we close, I will serve them. I may not be overjoyed about it, and I may even bitch about it to the cooks in the back, but when I am staring at the customer, I am all smiles and rainbows and unicorns because for all I fucking know, it could be a secret shopper, or a big tipper.
Looking back, I am only bothered because of the way she she judged me. How her sickeningly obese eye looked down on me with disgust because of my "career" or my income. She doesn't know me. I am a student first. Waitressing is simply getting me through, a means to an end if you will. Whatever though, I'll let her have her laughs. I'll let her go home thinking how much better off she is then me because of her fancy desk job, her business cards and her plus size ergonomic office chair, although I secretly know one day she'll be my patient, begging for her life as I put her on dialysis for fucking up her kidneys with one to many cheeseburgers.

Who will be judging who then?

Eating at the Steakhouse

As I have mentioned in the past, The Steakhouse use to be my favorite restaurant in town, as well as my husbands. It was in fact the place where we went on our first date, and so over the past few years we would frequent it together on special occasions. However since I began working there, our visits became less and less. The problem being, once I begin working somewhere as a server, I feel strange and awkward coming in as a guest to eat. I feel that I am never given proper service, as the waiters and waitresses become my friends, and the novelties of special things that are now at my daily disposal lose there value and are therefore not interesting to me anymore. ( The yeast rolls and honey butter, the peanuts on the floor...and so on)
Well, last night was the hub's birthday so naturally I allowed him to pick the restaurant. He chose the steakhouse, as it's still his favorite and he hasn't gone in once since I began employment. I agreed, and so we went in to have dinner.
Dolly was our waitress, so I expected we'd be taken care of. Much to my dismay she pretended like she didn't even know us, almost as if we were first time guests. She proceeded to try and hard sell us everything from add cheese and bacon, to top shelf liquor. I was a bit annoyed throughout the meal, mostly because I know the menu, I know my options, and I did not want any thing except exactly what I ordered.
After we finished eating she came to us offering dessert. I said no, and she tried again saying "are you sure you don't even want a piece of cheesecake??" I said no thanks, and she tried one more time saying that we just had to try the chocolate cake. I was so annoyed and just wanted her to leave us the hell alone when I said "No dessert. Its my husbands birthday and we have two cakes and two gallons of ice cream at home waiting for us." She stepped back looking shocked, and said "So, nothing then?!?" I just looked at her and shook my head. How dense.

I picked up the bill and noticed she had charged me for my iced tea. Now, i'm all open for discussion on this topic, but I never charge a fellow team member for any soft drink/tea/coffee. I also noticed she had added small charges to my husbands meal for slight modifications. I thought at this point I couldn't be any more frustrated with her, until I saw her dumb smiling face walking around the corner ringing the cow bell and hollering with the entire crew coming to sing the birthday song for my husband.

I have never wanted to stiff a waitress more then I did then.

Meet the Staff Part 3.

The Co-Workers
Part 2

6. Elvira- With even bigger hair and absurd amounts of make up, this bartender looks worse then the Mistress herself. She's a very sweet hearted gal, but as a woman living in the 21st century, I cannot figure out her sense of fashion and style. Working with her makes everyday feel like Halloween, and I left my costume at home.


7. Crippled Vet- This douche-tank is my least favorite person at the Steakhouse. He's been around almost as long as Crack Whore, and is the biggest baby I have ever met. He is in his early 30's, and spent like 10 minutes in Iraq a few years ago, and he wines and complains every single shift about his war injury's, and mental distress even though we all know he was discharged for sleep-talking. Now, don't get me wrong, I respect and honor our war veterans, but this guy is hardly one, he just claims so to get out of doing side-work, rolling silverware, or bussing his own tables. (and No, we do not have a busser, he makes the Host do it.)


8. Tween Surprise-These lovely teenage ass wipes (mentioned here) are the newest members at the Steakhouse. They all bring with them a plethora of high school drama bullshit, and won't shut up about boyfriends, pep ralleys, and there first time giving a blow job. They are incredibly excited about life, and are oblivious to the reality of becoming an adult. Often overheard bragging about spending there last $60 dollar paycheck on a new Ipod, and an Abercrombie mini skirt, these retards annoy me simply because I know for a fact I wasn't like that at 17.

Meet the Staff Part 2.

The Co-Workers
Part 1

1. Crack Whore-Crack whore has worked at the Steakhouse since before it was the steakhouse, and longer then everyone including the managers, which automatically gives her the right to act like she owns the place. Having lost more then 90 pounds in less then 3 months, and having more men ask for her section then a Prostitute on a busy night in Vegas, we all know her secret.


2.Pregnant Bitch- (Also known as the vicious table thieving K.B) She's having a rough pregnancy, I get that, but don't take you morning sickness, ass cramps, and headaches out on me. She's the real nasty fighter type to. The key your car, stab your tires and sleep with your boyfriend if you cross her type.

3. Pregnant Bitch's Husband- This is the funniest, most sarcastic fucking guy I have ever met. and one of my favorite people to work with, unless his wife is working.

4. Pregnant Bitch's Husband's Sister- Have I told you yet that almost every person here is related in some form. Sister is pretty decent however. She trained me, and taught me all the half-assed ways to skimp on everything from side-work, to paying my checkout at night. She's also as witty and sarcastic as her brother, making for an interesting and entertaining combination for the rest of us when they get into an argument.


5. Dolly Parton-5 Time divorcee, is always looking for a new sugar daddy. With an age guess of about 60, she is always getting gifts from numerous men whom she brags about sleeping with. She claims to be plastic surgery free, but the woman looks like a mix between Dolly/Joan River and the creepy Cat Lady but She is a great server, as expected since she's been doing it for the last 45 years.

Hi there.

I’m your server. I know you think that I would just love to refill up your Pepsi 149 times. That it fulfills my wildest dreams to bring you a to-go box, that you will eventually just leave on the table, or throw in the trash. Or that when I say… “Is there Anything else I can get you??” I want nothing more then for you to wait until I leave and come back, just to send me on more ridiculous errands…

But I don’t…I hate it.

I also hate how you alienate me, talk down to me, and disrespect me. For years, I have dealt with your shitty tips, your bad manners, and your rude comments, and taken it with a smile, and a “Yes mam, Yes sir”

Not anymore. I'm here to air your dirty laundry. I'm here to tell everyone just how shitty you tip, or just how ridiculous you sound complaining that the blue cheese isn't blue cheesy enough.