Adventures in Waitressing, Part III

Adventures In Waitressing

“What is this salad dressing? Is it Caesar??” asked the young woman, flagging me down.

I looked at her salad, not able to remember what she had ordered based on her face. “Oh! Yes, the tuna salad is a honey-mustard Caesar dressing.”

She glared up at me, as if blaming me for the whole dressing mishap. “Maybe you could get me the salad with just some balsamic vinegar then.” She said tightly, shoving the salad bowl back into my hands.

It wasn’t a problem. I told my managers, I punched in another salad, it took some time because it was a Sunday afternoon, but whatever- if you send it back, you have to be prepared to wait, right? ….wrong. I brought the new, improved salad to the table (in a record time, all things considered) and the young woman looked at the salad and then looked at me and said, “Could you cancel it? I don’t want it anymore.”

I looked at the food in my hands and then back at the customer. “It’s a little late to cancel the order.” I said, trying to appear apologetic.

“But she’s already finished eating!” the customer complained, gesturing to her mother (who had vacuumed up the stirfry she had ordered.)

“Well….” I replied, motioning with the salad to convey that perhaps her mother shouldn’t have scarfed her dinner so quickly, and also if one wanted to eat with one’s mother they wouldn’t send back their dinner during the rush at the restaurant.

Of course I got it cancelled. Their bill was negligible. The fact they paid to the penny lets me know just how big of assholes they were. OBVIOUSLY it was my fault the dressing was wrong. OBVIOUSLY it was my fault the salad wasn’t ready before her gluttonous mother was finished. And OBVIOUSLY everything was my fault, and I should be made to pay for the wonderful privilege of serving these people. (Just a reminder- I pay a “tip-out” on my sales not my tips, therefore if you don’t like the food or the hostess, and you don’t tip because of that, your server still pays. And depending on your bill, they pay a lot. They pay to serve your stupid ass. So the next time you hide a dollar fifty under the coffee cup and tell your server they did a great job, just think if that dollar fifty is worth your server’s time.) (Chances are, it’s not.)

I heave a great sigh, check my apron (already filthy from hoisin sauce and sour cream) and head to a station to get a drink. The night’s almost over, I just have to do the side duties and get it all over with.

Reflections on a Banana Tree

When I was eleven, I planted a banana tree. I got the seed from my teacher (we had done a unit on plant life and everyone had built a terrarium and as it turns out, at the time, I had a gift for growing plants) and the seed quickly flourished into a tall, vibrant plant.

It grew strong and lush, always with bright green leaves. I proudly worked with it as it graduated from a small pot to a medium pot to a large pot. Happy were the sunshine days of summer when we could set the plant outside on the deck, to bask in the warm rays.

Sadly, my banana tree was never able to conceive fruit. Being raised indoors in Canada, it never felt the joy of being heavy with yellow fruit, the true cycle of the seasons... But I like to think it was happy in its life. I watered it diligently, I protected it from our pet dogs and cats, I kept its leaves free of dust and I cared for it when other house plants were stricken with aphids.

Tragically, one day my banana tree met an unfortunate accident when it was on the receiving end of a two-year-old's temper tantrum. Its tall vibrancy was shattered. Its soil spilled across the carpet like a grisly murder scene.

But it wasn't over! My banana tree wasn't completely unrooted- there was still hope! I carefully packed it back into its pot, whispering encouragement. I ensured it was in the best spot to catch sun but not too much sun, I watered it carefully, but my banana tree was never the same. Soon it simply gave up and withered away.

Perhaps its brush with death had made it long for the tropic temperatures of its homeland. Perhaps the realization that it would never feel those temperatures caused depression. Perhaps, feeling depressed, homesick and a shell of what it had once been, my banana tree simply gave up on life. My mother discovered its body- the once-green leaves now brown, dry and desiccated. No amount of water or fancy pot soil could save it this time. I like to think it's in a better place, now. A place where the sun is hot and the humidity is high. Or maybe it's been reincarnated as some other plant with better luck. Wherever it is, I hope it's happy (or at least fulfilling its plant duties of photosynthesis and whatnot).

...This is why I think gardening is fun.

In a side note, the two-year-old has flourished and successfully reached the age of 12. Apparently Humans: 1 and Plants: 0

Goodbye to Another Comedy Legend...

As everybody knows, on November 28th Leslie Nielsen passed away. Like most people my age, I grew up with Airplane! and the Naked Gun movies. I also grew up with the episode of SNL Mr. Nielsen hosted (repeat viewings were possible as my parents had taped it, being unable, even in those days, to stay up late enough to watch the show.) Needless to say, Mr. Nielsen and his comedic work made a huge impact on me (and proved that there are some forms of comedy best performed by dramatic actors). In honour of one of Canada's most awesome exports, here's my top 10 Leslie Nielsen lines:

(Truthfully, because it's late and I'm tired, the order isn't important except for number 1. Because it truly is one of the few lines that makes me laugh uncontrollably every single time I hear it. It also makes me giggle if I happen to think of it randomly. Leslie Nielsen, you will be sorely missed.)

10. Like a blind man at an orgy, I was going to have to feel things out.

9. The life of everyone on board depends upon just one thing: finding someone back there who can not only fly this plane, but who didn't have fish for dinner.

8. I say unfunny things in an unfunny way. Somehow, it ends up funny.

7. I've been swimming in raw sewage. I love it. ...I LOVE IT!

6. It's like eating a spoonful of Drano; sure, it'll clean you out, but it'll leave you hollow inside.

5. ...Diarrhea...

4. I just want to tell you both good luck, we're all counting on you.

3. Oh, and one more thing... I faked every orgasm!

2. Uh, so many are cold, shivering in the night, so I say, butcher those cats, skin them! Use their fur to keep hundreds warm!

1. I haven't had this much sex since I was a boy scout leader! ....Um, at the time, I was dating... a lot...

Adventures in Waitressing, Part II

“Excuse me!” I heard faintly as I left my section, a load of heavy, dirty plates in my arms. I kept going. My arms were full, the voice was coming from a table I wasn’t serving, I figured they could wait till I got back, or their server returned.

“EXCUSE ME!” came a scream from that same table.

I turned, a look of consternation and inconvenience on my face. I didn’t care- it was getting late, I was exhausted and I was also clearly busy. But, I went to the table. “Yes?” I asked, trying to be polite.

“Sorry, but we’ve been trying to get someone here for a while now.” The young woman explained unapolagetically. (Ok folks. Saying sorry only really works if you at least sound like you mean it. Or, if you’re me, it works if you’re dripping with sincerity while you imagine the person you’re apologizing to getting shipped to Albania in a crate.)

“So what can I do for you?” I asked, shrugging my shoulders (as I really couldn’t make any other appeasing gesture.)

The young woman pointed to a page in the menu. “I want to order this drink.”

I looked where she was pointing. It was an advertisement for Absolut Raspberry vodka. “I don’t know what that drink is. That’s an ad for vodka.” I replied.

“But you have it?”

“We have Absolut Raspberry vodka, but I don’t know what that particular mix is in the picture. It’s just an ad.” I didn’t know how to make it more clear.

“Yes, but it’s in your menu! Do you have it or not?” She asked prissily. (Newsflash, Peaches: We also have pictures of people enjoying themselves while working in the menu… do you see any of that going on right now?)

“Like I said, that is an ad for vodka. It’s an ad just for raspberry vodka.” I had no idea how to get through to her, but luckily my fellow server, who was in charge of this particular table, joined me and then took over. I tried to warn her- I tried to somehow, without insulting anyone, convey what the situation was, but she took no heed and assured the young woman that we did, indeed, have the drink she wanted.

The next time I saw the server, the bartender was telling her we don’t carry Mike’s Hard Cranberry. I shook my head and tried to explain to her what the customer wanted. At her baffled look, I simply ended the conversation with, “She’s a moron.”

My co-worker nodded with resignation, setting her face to return to the table empty-handed.

This was thankfully near the end of my shift. Of course, at the start I might have handled the whole thing with more grace, but if you ever find yourself looking at something that is clearly an advertisement (and the drink in question, because it’s an ad, is water and food colouring) please don’t try to order it. If you’re stuck on what you want to drink, ask your server. If she’s me, she’ll give you some lackadaisical suggestions before you finally ignore them all and go with a virgin daiquiri, and if she’s someone who values her work, she’ll talk up the drink special of the day. Either way, you save yourself from appearing to be amazingly dumb and completely obtuse.

My Weekend of Firsts

This adventure took place a couple of weeks ago: That grand first weekend in October! The first of October, the start of a weekend of Firsts for me!

First thing #1: I partook in a meatball & mashed potato dinner at the Ikea restaurant. Oh, you don’t think that’s a big deal? For your information, I love going to Ikea. I’ve been shopping there for years (not really to buy things, though it’s shocking the amount of Ikea stuff I have, but just for the experience of wandering through the displays and hitting up the “Swedish Marketplace” because I love the candy) but I have never once stopped in at the restaurant for a meal and a break from the modern European space-saving furniture. Friday night, it was different. My friends and I stashed the items we planned on purchasing in a nearby container of children’s hangers and set off to peruse the menu.

After some deliberation, I went with my first instinct. I chose the 15 meatball meal with mashed potatoes, gravy, and lindonberry jelly. To drink, I had a veggie cocktail. (I try to strike a balance between healthy and terrible when I go out. Sometimes.)

The verdict? Well, I have to admit, my enjoyment of Ikea has increased. There’s something about a simple, kind of greasy meal of meatballs swimming in that light Swedish gravy that makes you feel much more confident in your ability to navigate the store. Plus: cheap food! The next time I want to go to Ikea, I’ll make it an Event.

First thing #2: Slot machines. As my friends and I departed Ikea (we were forced out because it was closing...), we pondered what to do next. One of us suggested Woodbine. I had never been there and then I admitted I had never played a slot machine before. It was decided: We would go to Woodbine and gamble.

After some confusing turns and a stop to ask for directions, we were there. My ID was inspected suspiciously, but I was let in. The flashing lights, the loud cartoonish noises, people sitting listlessly in front of whirring machines- the slots were everything I imagined them to be! I withdrew some money, allowing myself twenty dollars to play with. We stuck to the quarter slots, except for some nickel and dollar plays. I briefly became addicted to an “Enchanted Unicorn” machine, which was where I ended up losing most of my money. I won approximately $4, so though I started with $20 and left with nothing, I like to think I only really lost $16.

The verdict? Slot machines are a lot of fun. With their bright lights, cheerful noise and overall shininess, they seem to be made especially for me. But as those gambling addiction ads say, know your limit. Because I know I could easily lose all of my precious little money in 25 cent increments.

First thing #3: Korean food in a Korean restaurant, in Koreatown. This came as a surprise even to me. Korean food? I’ve been living in Toronto for the past seven years! Of course I’ve had Korean food! Wait... well, I’ve never had Kimchee, um... what are other Korean dishes, again? ....I am filled with disappointment and shame: I have never eaten in a Korean restaurant. Before this, the last time I was in Koreatown, I went to the Irish pub. And that’s just sad. Because Korean food is DELICIOUS! Beyond what we ate, I was looking at the other tables with envious and greedy eyes. Pork Bone Soup? I’m there. Cooking my meal at the table? Sold! A rice dish that involves cooking an egg after it’s been served? Beyond awesome.

The verdict? I was scrambling to come up with ways to justify going to a Korean restaurant for my family’s Thanksgiving dinner.

And Then You Stop and Think...

So there you are. You’re sitting alone, in the privacy of your apartment. Something you see on television, for some reason, makes you think “Hm. I wonder if I know all the words to ‘God Save the Queen’?”

Before you even realize what you’re doing, you suddenly find yourself standing in the kitchen, hands either folded primly at your waist or making some dramatic gesture while you’re singing ‘God Save the Queen’. The pros? Well, you just proved that you do know all the words to the English national anthem, for some reason. The cons? You just stood in your kitchen all alone singing a national anthem. Even worse, this was on your day off: this was how you ended up spending a portion of your free time. That’s even more embarrassing then dancing around your apartment singing show tunes. At least a scene like that sometimes happens in rom-coms. And dancing around singing mainstream music? Thanks to ‘Glee’, people might judge you for NOT doing it.

But no. You chose ‘God Save the Queen’. Whether this shows you’re secretly a monarchist, or simply have an uncanny memory from all those Remembrance Day services you’ve attended, we’ll never know.

To make a long story short, I had a very uneventful Saturday.

Adventures in Waitressing, Part I

“Um... Miss, this isn’t what I wanted.” the older woman remarked, holding up her appetizer-sized Greek salad and regarding me with disappointment.

I frowned in confusion. “You ordered a Greek salad to start, right?” I asked.

“Yes, but I meant a bigger one!” she exclaimed, as if I was a moron for misunderstanding.

“Ohh, you wanted a MEAL-SIZED Greek salad to start, then?” I asked, not caring if she thought me rude- perhaps the next time she goes to a restaurant, she’ll be more clear with her orders.

She nodded slowly, looking at me as if I was a mentally challenged six year old. I apologized, taking the offending salad away from her. I returned to the kitchen, contemplating murder as I ordered her the large salad- dressing on the side, of course. Meanwhile, the group’s meals (having already been sent back to sit under the lights because of the salad debacle- the gentleman just cannot eat his meal before he has eaten his salad, you know) are ready and waiting. I beg the kitchen staff to put fresh fries on the plates and to re-grill the meat. If this table sent back anymore meals, I would snap. (And snapping on the elderly? Not only bad for karma, but not the best way for me to end my illustrious serving career.)

I apologized to the woman on the salad line, and requested a rush on the salad I just punched in. She rolled her eyes, but complied.

I brought the salad back to the table, knowing in my gut that something else would be wrong. The woman looked flatly at the huge salad, then back at me. “Could we have some extra plates for this, please?” she asked.

My eyes couldn’t help but dart to the four side plates already on the table- brought with their rudely demanded bread. However, it’s not my job to argue. I nodded and left them. I took a moment to check in on my other six tables, hoping to get back to my usual multi-tasking self. I collected some dirty plates, printed a couple bills, grabbed a refill and two small bowls and headed back to my section. As I returned to the offensive table, salad bowls in hand, I saw the woman had already made use of the sideplates. She gazed at my offering sadly. “It’s too late. Really, Miss, tonight your timing has been... less than impeccable.”

Having two bills to drop off and some meals waiting in the kitchen, all I could do was mumble incoherently about the size of the restaurant and how she wasn’t my only customer before running away. I dealt with my leaving tables and both of them stiffed me. What a wonderful night. I decided to just drop off the main meals of the rude people and be done with it- once they had everything I could just ignore them.

I could feel a nervous twitch starting up in my left eyebrow. If I had to take much more abuse, I wouldn’t be able to keep myself from snapping. I took some deep breaths and stood in the kitchen, waiting for the meals for my final table to pop up. It was then, standing there, sipping Diet Coke, that I realized: in all my rushing around for a certain other customer, I had forgotten to punch in my last table’s order.

Attempting to stay calm, I ordered their food and stalled by dropping off starter salads, as if this long of wait was normal. Once all the meals were dropped off, I was given a welcome reprieve in the form of a lull in business- I had no new tables. I huddled in the back station of the restaurant, out of sight of my customers, sipping Diet Coke. I wished I had something stronger. I wished I had nicer customers to interact with. I wished I wasn’t a waitress. I wished I was at home.

Then, suddenly, the night was over. Sure, I was still working- I had a few more tables, there was my side duty and roll-ups to do, but all difficult customers had paid and departed. The rush was over. I took a moment to breathe- a moment where I wished I had cigarettes: the perfect excuse to go outside and take a few minutes to yourself. But though I was without an excuse to go outside, I was done dealing with people. I could be myself.