the perils of hard butter

I arrived in an inexplicably good mood. It was Friday night, I was prepared to be busy, I was ready to make some money.

When I first arrive to the restaurant for my shift, I have something of a ritual - a routine that keeps me on track and ready for the onslaught, whatever that may entail. I check the dry-erase board to update myself on what we are out of, which seafood is starring in the seafood salad that eve, and find out what the soup of the day happens to be.

Then I do some fact checking.

If the board declares that our soup is presently green split pea with ham but, when I open the lid of the soup vat, it more closely resembles clam chowder, then I must do some editing as well. When this is the case, I then taste the soup (ok, yeah, sometimes I taste the soup even when it does resemble what it's rumored to be...quality control, you know?). I let my tastebuds determine the flavor and then I seek out assistance from the kitchen staff to confirm my assumptions. Often, I must inquire of several different folks in checkered pants before I find one who is able to name that soup. It doesn't end there, though. I also find out if the soup contains any meat or any dairy and, if so, how much and what kind. Trust me, I think I've met every "food issue" on the planet.

As I leave the kitchen feeling pretty well-informed about what is coming out of the kitchen doors, I head to the host podium to scan that night's reservations and learn more about what will be coming through the front doors.

"Maaaaaaaaammmmm."

I believe I am being summoned. Being called "ma'am" isn't such a horrible thing (oh, I've been called worse), but something in the voice just had this certain...I dunno...hint of desperation or something. So instead of reviewing that night's reservations, I head to table 27 (which "belongs" to the closing lunch server, Drew, for the record) and find myself face-to-face with a woman in her late 60s/early 70s sporting the most disgruntled look on her face. Uh-oh, this is not the picture of a happy camper. And whatever has her so upset is about to become my problem.

"May I help you?" I offer, with some reluctance that - hopefully - remains undetected.

"Can I get some butter that isn't hard?" the woman barks - more of a demand than a question.

"Actually, all of our butter is hard like that - we keep it refridgerated. I'm sorry."

People make this request on occasion and are typically understanding when I explain the situation to them. If I have the time and I like the people, I will show them my trick of placing the ramekin of hard butter on top of an unlidded teapot - this will soften butter in about ten minutes, but something told me not to go there this time.

"Well, then bring me some more butter," the Charmer on table 27 demanded.

"Sure, no problem."

I began to count my blessings that she wasn't my table and that my interaction with her would be only temporary. I return with another ramekin containing one pat of butter and placed it next to the ramekin already on her table that held a half pat of butter still. The Charmer looks at the ramekin with disdain.

"That's all you brought me?"

This is a trap. I can tell. Refusing to fall for such an obvious set-up, I sidestep the bait.

"Would you like me to bring you some more?" I offer politely.

"Well, I just don't understand why you bring it to me in these little bits!"

For the record, "these little bits" consisted of single tablespoon-sized squares of solid fat. The Charmer's face was reddening - she was actually getting really angry about this!

"Honestly? We don't want to waste it. So we're happy to bring you more if you intend to use it, but think it foolish and wasteful to bring a lot at each request."

I knew that I was playing Russian Roulette here. Sometimes it works in your favor to explain the rationale to a customer and sometimes not. It's about a fifty/fifty shot, but it's so gratifying when, upon explaining the whys of something that doesn't make sense to someone, they get it and calm down. I should have known that I'd be playing with fire to try to make sense of anything to the Charmer.

"Ohhhhhhh, you don't want to WASTE any of it, huh? Well, in that case, forget it. I don't want it."

And the Academy Award for best meltdown over butter goes to...The Charmer!!!!! [raging applause]

The Charmer jerks her head to the left, refusing to look in my direction, as if to punctuate her retracted request. I want to laugh out loud, but I don't. As I'm walking away from the table, the oh boy from inside my head somehow is uttered audibly from my mouth. Out of prinicple and professionalism, I hope the Charmer didn't hear me.

I return to the kitchen, fill a ramekin with as much butter as will fit, and return to table 27 where Charmer, who sees me approaching with about 1/3 cup of butter, turns her head away again, refusing to watch me honoring her initial request. Knowing it won't make any difference at this point, I politely inform her that if she needs more, just to let me know. I notice that she has since acquired a dining companion and a walker.

As luck would have it, Drew needs me to take over table 27 so he can get off the clock and run errands before his dinner shift begins. Somehow I knew this would happen. After the Charmer's grievances regarding her takeout order, I was thoroughly convinced that the Charmer just liked to hear herself when she becomes exasperated. There was no amount of kindness or additional service to appease this woman. I watched them from afar while I conducted my opening sidework and ventured near table 27 only when necessary. At my offer of a bag for her to-go boxes (into which she'd placed all of the butter I'd brought her), the Charmer grabbed the plastic bag out of my hand saying, "give me that," while handing me the guest check presenter and saying, "you take this."

After scraping every dust bunny from my wallet to make change for her hundred dollar bill on her $30 tab, I approached the table with a smile (yay! they're leaving soon!), told them thank you and placed the change tray on the table. As I was about to make a mad dash as far away from this toxic woman as possible, she says to me, but without really looking at me, "Help him with his coat. He can't get his arm into the hole."

Noooooooooooooooooooooooooo my mind and body are screaming.

But, in retrospect, Dining Companion has done nothing wrong aside from having lunch with the wicked witch of the west. He looks helpless and frustrated trying repeatedly to get his arm to coincide with his jacket pocket without success. As much as I don't want to do this, I gingerly reach for his jacket and try and scoot the armhole closer to his actual arm. Naturally this feat requires more than merely holding the jacket still. After resituating the position of his jacket on his opposite shoulder and doing something of a six-point turn, then holding the armhole still with my left hand and practically holding hands with the old man with my right, I was finally able to steer his arm into his jacket. Not sure what to do next and receiving no verbal feedback from either Charmer or D.C., I happen to notice that the walker is more than arm's length from the gentleman. Apparently desperate to end this transaction on a positive note, I gesture to the walker and ask the man, "Do you need this moved closer to you?"

Silence.

As tempted as I am to just bolt away, I don't. I repeat my question, uncertain as to whether or not D.C. is even capable of hearing me. Realizing that it's been a full eight minutes since she'd had an outburst, Charmer barks at me, "He can get that himself."