well, that didn't take long...

Little did I know, that a mere eight hours after I wrote this post, Skylar left my bar after enjoying one Paulaner Thomasbrau and joined up with some friends at a different bar, where he proceeded to have four drinks.

The following night (which was last night), he sat up at my bar after his shift and I asked him if he'd like a Paulaner. He looks up and says, "Actually, I'm going to throw you for a loop."

"Oh really? What kind of a loop?" (and in my head I was willing him to ask for an Italian Soda).

"I'd like to have a Terminal Gravity IPA," Skylar tells me.

"You sure about that?" I venture, hating being in this position, "You know the peeps are going to razz you for this, right?"

"Oh, I know," he confirms.

"Okay, well, as long as you know what you're getting yourself into."

I feel like such a hypocrite engaging in this discourse. I'm a drinker. I don't want anyone trying to attempt to regulate my drinking and I feel like an ass questioning him without just serving him. He's an adult and can make his own decisions; if he makes bad decisions, that's not my problem, my fault or my business. My job is to make and serve drinks, not to question people about their drinking (unless it becomes excessive - in one sitting). But my questions come from a place of concern, not a place of judgment. Still, he deserves to be treated like anyone else who sits at my bar and wants a drink.

Not long after he's enjoying what I'm assuming is his first post-sobriety cerveza (I later learn that he'd imbibed the night before), our resident alcoholic, Janelle, bellies up alongside him and starts in on her first one of what will likely be around eleventy drinks before she calls it a night. They start in chatting and sharing "wasted" stories. My back is to them, as I'm on my computer running reports and getting ready to do my end-of-the-night books. I can overhear every word they're saying (one of the pluses - and minuses - about being a bartender). Skylar is feeding Janelle some hoo-ha about how some alcoholics can go back to drinking without losing control and some can't and that in AA they tell you that the only way to find out if you can learn to drink lightly or moderately is to "experiment" and see if you lose control or not.

Janelle giggles and offers up some of her stories of lost control. Skylar proceeds to tell her "his story." His realization that he was an alcoholic came after a multitude of drunken blackouts (an almost nightly occurrence for Janelle) and his realization that he drank just to get drunk, and not for any other reason. Which is why, he rationalized, he drank crappy beer then and why he is drinking "good beer" now. It was three and a half years ago that he climbed aboard the wagon and hadn't even fallen off.

Until now.

Now, he is conducting an "experiment."

Here I am, still wanting Calgon to take me away. I so don't want to be a part of any of this. Even though I've known my fair share of people who have fallen off the wagon, I don't think I've ever knowingly served them while they eased into this transition. I'm surprised at how uncomfortable I am in this role. Overhearing Skylar and Janelle's conversation, I find myself feeing really sad for them and about them.

It's so difficult to listen to Skylar rationalize his drinking, almost as though he is performing a rehearsed speech. After having two beers last night and two tonight (before seeking adventure elsewhere - as my barback, he knows how I feel about employees overindulging at my bar and staying long past their welcome), I'm certain that this will now become a nightly habit...not THAT big of a deal, I suppose, as it's a nightly habit for many (myself included), but I know that his track record of not getting sloppy is not so great and that he is currently nursing some serious pain - it's just not a very great combo for a break in over three years sobriety. I just have a feeling that this could get really ugly.

I hope I'm wrong.

The Wobbly Wagon

I've got a little dilemma on my hands at work.

There is this guy, Skylar, who started as a busser and now works as a barback and, occasionally, as a waiter. He started working there at the same time as his fiancee, Kat, shortly after the two of them moved to Portland from the bay area about six months ago. They both had a very solid work ethic, were dependable and took direction well. They both learned quickly and were able to move from bussing positions to working as lunch waiters in a matter of three months or so.

Kat was extremely likable - very friendly, warm and with a very mellow demeanor. Skylar, while very bright and hardworking, was intensely serious and a little bit cocky. You can't take yourself too seriously when you work in restaurants. You just can't.

Both Kat and Skylar are clean and sober, Kat having been "a major stoner" (her words) and Skylar says that he had a serious alcohol problem and that his drug use couldn't exactly be described as dabbling.

Skylar attends the local community college and is pursuing a degree in substance abuse counseling and even volunteers a local substance abuse clinic. He is very adamant about this pursuit, with a fervor resembling that of a religious belief, and is frequently overheard spewing "facts about alcoholism" to other employees, solicited and otherwise.

Kat and Sylar had been a couple for nearly five years, found Buddhism together and went on the wagon together. While I've heard them tell some stories of their wild lives and their antics prior to life on the wagon, I don't recall them ever mentioning when exactly they hopped aboard the wagon or how difficult is was for either one of them to stay there. Often, at the end of their shifts, they would join other employees who were sitting up at my bar enjoying their "shift drink" (it's very common in restaurants for employees to get 1-3 free or reduced-price drinks at the end of a shift). Kat and Skylar would just drink water (and tons of it) while they conversed with others. Skylar has been known to initiate conversations about substance abuse while sitting at my bar alongside an employee who is happily enjoying a cold beer. I can see that this makes people uncomfortable despite their friendly smiles and nods.

Just less than a month ago, Kat broke up with Skylar and made the decision to move back to the bay area. Suffice to say, Skylar was devastated over this loss. A few nights later, Skylar decided to try an alcohol-free beer for the first time. He deemed it not so bad - we serve Paulaner Thomasbrau. By the following week, he was having two - instead of one - post-shift Paulaner. Some of the employees called him on this and he began to spew facts about alcohol-free beer and the crazy high number of them he'd need to consume in order to get legally drunk. A few days ago, Skylar was enjoying three Paulaners before calling it a day.

Skylar is very judgmental of those who drink, particularly of those who drink excessively. Although he is a very hard worker, I don't really enjoy having him work as a barback, as his judgmental energy permeates my bar and he is too serious to be working in the bar, where customers tend to be a little bit more laid back and appreciate a sense of humor or a quick wit. Alas, my favorite barback ever, Andy, is moving up in the restaurant world and getting more wait shifts. I miss Andy whenever Skylar is working - Andy sings while he is working and I never have to give him direction...he can practically read my mind - and that is an excellent quality in a barback.

Yesterday was the day that Kat left for San Francisco and Skylar showed up at work red-eyed and on the verge of slipping back into the sobs that had clearly consumed the earlier part of his day. When asked how he was doing, he replied, "not well." Prior to the start of his shift, he sat at my bar eating some soup and drinking a gallon of water. The piped in music played the song Baby Come Back by Player could be heard overhead. I wanted Calgon to take me away and, when it didn't, I found tasks I needed to complete that could be done away from the bar. I just really didn't want to get sucked into this sad, spiralling downward of yuck. Call me unsympathetic. Call me a bitch. I just don't have the space for it right now, particularly with regard to someone I barely feel lukewarm about.

Somehow, Skylar made it through his shift last night without a complete breakdown. Strong willed, that Skylar. All night, I was fearing his eventual plunk at one of my barstools and dreading that he'd up the ante and order a real beer instead of a near beer. Despite mentally willing him not to do this, I had to ponder in my head what I would do if this situation were to arise. Should I serve him the drink as I would anyone else? Should I refuse him? Or something in between? Or would that seem cowardly and wishywashy?

I eventually decided upon this: if he asks me for a drink, I will ask him if he's sure (but not in a judging way, more in a light-hearted way) and, if he says yes, I will serve him. After all, he is an adult; I am not his parent; I'm not really even a friend of his; if he's going to drink, he's going to drink and my denying him this right is not going to stop him altogether. It still made me feel uncomfortable.

Having worked in restaurants for many years, I've known a lot of people - both on and off the wagon and some who made a habit of hopping back and forth - who struggle with their own alcohol consumption and it's hard to watch them fuck up and it's hard to watch them struggle. I've watched folks give up alcohol and replace it with a different addiction - usually coffee or cigarettes, sometimes something a little stronger. But it didn't take me long to conclude that, while I was there for them as a friend, I would neither urge them to drink or invite them to a drinking environment (if I knew that they had a hard time being in that environment...some don't), nor would I go to great lengths to talk them out of drinking if they chose to, nor would I rescue their ass every time their drinking got them into personal or financial trouble. And, sadly, I've lost some friendships over this. Generally, though, that meant that we may have had little in common besides alcohol consumption and it was just as well. Others (like LL, whose ass I'd rescued numerous times before I gave that shit up - rescuing asses, not alcohol consumption), I really miss.

Well, much to my delight, Skylar enjoyed one - and only one - Paulaner after his shift last night. However, my hunch that his days on the wagon are numbered still looms. I just don't want to be the bartender who serves him that first drink...I'm hoping he has the smarts to go elsewhere if he must.

If we're gonna play house, I get to be the mom, ok?

So, apparently, at work I am the mother/nurturer figure. Who'da thunk it? After all, in the restaurant biz, 40 is actually pretty old. So, being the oldest one there pretty much sets me up for such a role.

Tonight I came into work, then started bitching about things not being in their proper places in my bar. A couple of hours later, a 20-something waiter(ess - a term I hate, but perhaps the sex of the waiter matters here) came up to me all proud of herself for being assertive with a customer on a power trip. I validated her ability to stand up for herself.

Later in the evening, the owner's son, who is trying to grow his hair long and is a line cook, came to me for assistance with his bandanna/'do rag - he just couldn't get it situated or tied right. I tied the back nice and tight and tucked in the sticky-outy parts. I know how to rock a bandanna.

Then much later, one of our other line cooks, who recently split up with his baby momma and is now dating Ginny, our pasty chef, was having an epic telephone conversation with his ex while I was cleaning up the bar. We were the last ones in the restaurant and, since I still had plenty of work to do, I didn't mind that he was having a lengthy, emotional and very Spanish conversation on the kitchen telephone. He knows that I don't know enough Spanish to decipher what was being said, but I didn't need to - I know enough about his situation to get the gist of his conversation.

I kept working and, as I was in the wine room unloading a new shipment of wine, I saw him heading over toward me. He didn't look so good. I asked him if he was okay and he said no. Then he just hugged me and started sobbing. I held him and told him that it was going to be okay. I told him that he had many friends here at the restaurant and that we cared about him and were there for him. Poor thing - my heart ached for him, as he was clearly ripped apart by the events of his life at the moment. Yet, at the same time, I was so impressed that he wasn't too macho to cry in front of me. I already knew that he was a good guy, but this confirmed it even more.

I offered him a drink and put my work aside in order to sit down with him. Pretty common scenario: Ex loves him and wants him back and is sorry for treating him like shit and vows to change; he wanted out of his relationship with her for a long time, but stuck around because they had a daughter together, who is now five, and because Ex had an older daughter (now 16) and he got on well with her; Ex pulls every guilt trip out of her bag of tricks, including putting each of the kids on the phone to tell him to come home; he feels like he must return to her because she says she'll change, but he started a new life with a new apartment a few months ago and is really happy - he and Ginny are great together and it's not too serious or anything, they're just having fun. He was so distraught. I listened to him and told him that I thought he should think about it for awhile before he makes any decisions about anything. I reminded him that he has many friends who care about him. I don't want to see him hurt by Ex and I don't believe that she'll change.

After he finished his beer and left, I went around the building turning off lights and turning the heat down. I notice that the closing waiter took a few shortcuts and left a stash of dirty dishes in the waiter area. I'll have a talk with him tomorrow.

Next time he does that, he's grounded.

'Twas a dark and stormy night...

While I have no idea if, in other lines of work, one has nightmares in which exaggerated versions of the worst possible things that can go wrong all happen on the same day, I can definitely say that this is common in the restaurant industry. It has been my experience that these nightfrights most frequently haunt waiters, but I wouldn't be surprised to learn that the back-of-the-house is familiar with these terrifying and seemingly real occurrences - they're just too machismo to talk about them.

Interestingly, in all of my years in this business (21, on and off), I have only had "waiter nightmares" and never any of the other varieties corresponding to any of the other positions I've held (host, barback, bartender, oyster bar/appetizer "chef," supervisor, caterer, barista, etc.).

Last night, I had my first "bartender nightmare."

It went something like this: I arrived to work late (something I almost never do anymore) to find that everything in my bar had been rearranged and all of my glassware was mixed up, as opposed to being neatly arranged by type of glass. None of my liquor bottles were in the correct spot and my garnish trays looked forlorn and haphazard. My bar tools (muddler, bar spoon, Guinness spoon, shaker tins, strainer, zester/twist maker, salt/sugar tray for my rims, spindle, cutting board and knife, champagne stopper) were all gone...nowhere to be found.

My bar had filled with people prior to my arrival, but none of them had been helped yet and I had no idea how long they'd been sitting there waiting. The printer that spits out drink orders for the wait staff was loudly regurgitating tickets one after another with no pauses in between. Furthermore, the tickets all had drinks listed on them that I've never heard of. This I found odd because, as a veteran bartender, I know my drinks pretty well and I'm always getting on the case of our novice bartender, Evan, to stop relying on Mr. Boston to save his ass when someone orders a freakin' Rob Roy.

However, when I go to "cheat" and look up the unfamiliar drinks, I notice that our cocktail menu looks different. Initially I am thinking this is good, since I wrote our new cocktail menu about three weeks ago (honestly. regardless of the weather, it's embarrassing to have a hot buttered rum on the menu of specialty cocktails in late March). So I open up the "new menu" which, rather than being a one sheet, is a tri-fold or quad- or quint-fold (I didn't have time to count the panels) that opens into this epic list of made-up cocktails that came from I-don't-know-where and, while the cocktails I'd assembled were on the list recipe-wise, they'd all been given different names and I have no idea how or why this happened.

I'm trying to make the drinks for the waiters and for my customers and, natch, nobody is ordering a draft beer or wine by the glass (and, if they did, there is no doubt that my keg would blow or that I'd pour a fraction of a glass of wine only to discover that there is no more of that wine in the house), yet I'm unable to find the correct glass for the drink and I feel like I'm moving at the pace of, well, super slowly.

I card a customer in the bar and she gives me a driver's license from Illinois in which there is a small inset pic of her as a 7 year-old child and then a larger pic of her as an infant with her dad holding her on his lap. Damn driver's licenses keep changing and hell if I can keep up with the changes, but I've never seen anything quite like this before. Luckily, Sasha, who owns the bar next door had recently brought us an identification manual showing the 2006 versions of the driver's license for each state (this part is true), but of course I can't find the damn thing.

My customers are getting angry because they've waited so long for their drinks and I'm getting more and more frustrated at my own incompetence. As I'm wallowing in my misery and lamenting my sorry-ass lack of skillz, the power goes out - but only in the bar. This, actually, is not such an outlandish thing as, in real life, about once a month, our power goes out in the dishroom only (and always at the most inopportune moments). When this happens, the dishwashers go and get some candles off of vacant tables and continue to wash the dishes by hand, by candlelight. Anywhere else in the restaurant and power outage = freakout. The restaurant is still buzzing with lively activity and the waiters are cruising by my pass-bar looking for their drinks and telling me I need to do comps because the drinks are taking too long. I don't have time to investigate the power outage so I try to keep making the drinks in the dark.

Owner-man John comes in to the bar and I show him the Illinois driver's license and ask him if he thinks I should serve the girl. He pulls out the manual that Sasha gave us and, for him, it was in the spot where it was supposed to be.

People were ordering weird shit like champagne with a shot of whiskey in it and blended concoctions - but not the usual suspects.

I'm looking around my bar and I notice half-made cocktails in glasses full of ice. I don't know who half-made them or how they got there or what is in each. I start sniffing them and sticking a straw in, blocking the top end with my finger, so I can taste the contents and attempt to figure out what partial drink each might be.

I can't identify any of them.

I look over to my tables in the bar and notice that some of my customers have drinks before them, yet I didn't make them or serve them. Where did they come from? I have no idea. One couple who had waited patiently for their drinks, for what may have been an hour or longer, finally gets up to leave. I beg them not to and promise that their drinks will arrive shortly.

I then notice that all of the customers from the restaurant have left and the lights have been dimmed. My customers in the bar are still waiting for their drinks. They're all pissed and I know that none of them will leave me a tip and all will complain to owner-man John about what a shitty bartender I am.

I wake up in a cold sweat with the certain feeling that it was all very real. I suddenly feel very blue. I reach over to my nightstand and put on my glasses; then I open up the book I'm presently reading (Anthony Bourdain's The Nasty Bits) and dive in. J comes upstairs and asks if I'm alright. She brings me coffee and I relive the nightmare aloud. She's laughing hysterically and I join in. Although, somehow, there is a part of this terrifying dream that still haunts me and I fear my subconscious is trying to tell me something.

J knows this, too, but neither of us mention it.

Above the Law

I was at the height of maximum busy-ness when a 40/50-something couple with a child of about seven sat up at my bar. Now, I don't claim to know what the law is everywhere else, but in Oregon, folks must be age 21 or over to sit at a bar. Sometimes bars that are attached to restaurants have a seating area with tables where minors may sit and for the sole purpose of food consumption (the law's words, not mine) and our restaurant is one of those places. However, all of my tables were full and I had three bar stools available, so they just bellied on up.

I'm sure the look on my face was priceless when I turned around to see a second-grader seated at the bar, but then I nicely told dad that I was sorry, but the young man was not permitted to sit at the bar, as per Oregon law. Dude then gestures back to the kitchen and said, "well, he said we could."

This should have been the first red flag that something was not quite right. I asked him who told him that and he said the chef had. (Insert red flag number two) Okay, this just keeps getting weirder because I know for certain that the chef knows the rules. So I nicely tell the man that
I'm sorry that he was told that and the chef must be misinformed. I let him know that I'd be happy to pour them a couple of drinks that they may carry to the lobby and consume there. Seeming to completely ignore the fact that I need that kid off the barstool -STAT- dude tells me that they just want to get a quick dinner, as they are on their way somewhere.

Okay, this hits something of a nerve***, as I have a HUGE prob with folks who come into busy restaurants at 7:30pm and want to have a QUICK dinner. That said, I told these persistant (red flag numero 3) folks that, again, I was really sorry, but I could not serve them dinner at the bar as long as the child was with them. Then, dude tells me that the servers are backed up in the restaurant, but the kitchen isn't too busy so he doesn't see why they can't get a fast dinner. Alright, despite the fact that this is red flag #4, where is he getting this information and why does he know something like this???

Clearly, this was the part of the night in which my brain was malfunctioning, as customers just don't say that sort of thing and I should have realized right then and there that something needed to click. Dude's wife then pointed to an empty table in between the bar and the restaurant and asked if they could sit there. I informed them that there was no server for that table. They asked if I could wait on them at that table and I told them that there would be no way I'd be able to give them the sort of service they deserved (which, at this point, when I say "they deserved," I'm meaning something completely different than what they are presuming I'm meaning). Plus, they clearly wanted preferential treatment (yoohoo! Bad Kitty! it's me, red flag number five!) and I didn't have much confidence that they could be taken care of as quickly as they wanted without the needs of others going unmet.

Dude looks at me and, in a disgruntled voice, says "fine, we'll just go somewhere else then."

Okay by me. One less thing for me to worry about. Or so I thought. I go to chef and try to confirm that he does, indeed, understand the law regarding minors at the bar. He snaps at me and tells me he knows. Clearly, he's fucking busy, despite the kitchen forecast I'd received from rude-dad-at-bar.

Is there a full moon tonight?

Jump forward three hours to owner-man John returning from a catering gig and me asking him a favor. Owner-man John says yes to the favor, but under one condition: that from this point forward I recognize the Butts (not their real name. really, this time) and make sure they get taken care of when they come into the restaurant.

huhhhhhhh?

Owner-man John asks me if I know what they look like. Yeah, I tell him, with the Angelina Jolie lips on the wife, I'm pretty sure I'd recognize them even though I haven't seen them in a really long time. Owner-man John then informs me that it hasn't been that long, as they were sitting at my bar earlier this evening. WTF??? They called owner-man John on his mother-fucking cell phone and ratted me out for not kissing their rude MoFo asses. I now officially hate them even more.

Oh shit.

"Crap," I tell him, "I totally didn't recognize them. They didn't have their daughter with them and I didn't make the connection at all."

"Not even the lips?" owner-man John asks.

"You know, I wasn't even really looking at her. He was the one talking to me and I was looking back at him when I was talking to him. And, besides, okay it was the Butts, but they still can't sit at the bar with the kid, right?"

"Of course, I didn't expect you to let them stay at the bar, but you should have recognized them and told him that you'd try and find a table in the dining room for him."

"But John, he just came from the host stand where they were unable to accommodate him! Am I supposed to override the host and overload one of our servers?"

"In the future, I just want you to find a way to take care of them, even if it means that it takes several people doing different things for them. If I'd been here tonight, they would have been taken care of."

"Yeah, and YOU would have been the one waiting on them," I reminded owner-man John. "You know he's a total asshole," I added.

"Oh, he's a rude fuck, but he's also one of my best catering clients."

"I know. Sorry. I just treated them like I would anyone else in that situation and I should have recognized them. I'm sorry."

At this point, Ginny, who is our pastry chef, chimed in, "I can't believe he doesn't know that he can't sit at the bar with a 7 year-old kid!"

"He doesn't care," owner-man John told her.

This is true. This MoFo, Dr. Butt, is some sort of surgeon and, several years ago, he was at the airport and parked his Mercedes in the zone that is for the immediate loading and unloading of passengers only. Well, he returns to his car to find a parking enforcement officer writing him a ticket, which he refused to accept. Parking enforcement officer tries to get into power struggle with Dr. Butt, who, even then, was under the impression that the law does not apply to him. Long story short, Dr. Butt tells parking enforcement lady that he can "Bye & selll peeple likke ewe." Dr. Butt gets into his car, while parking enforcment lady stands in front of the car trying to bar his escape and force him to accept his citation, and Dr. Butt freakin' runs over parking enforcement lady. Parking enforcement lady sues for a million bucks, wins, and is no longer a parking enforcement lady. Meanwhile, million dollar lost lawsuit doesn't even put a dent in Dr. Butt's holdings and, clearly, he learns nothing from the experience.

Parking enforcement lady should have sued for eleventy gazillion million dollars.

***

1. Food can only cook so fast.
2. What about all the orders who have been put in ahead of yours? Should those folks be expected to wait even longer because you can't manage your time well? And, if so, why do you deserve to have your order bumped up ahead of everyone else's? (trust me, folks in restaurants look around and they know who got there first and they get disgruntled if someone who came in after them gets their food first)
3. Perhaps you do actually manage your time well and this was a fluke...there was an accident on the freeway or whatever. Still, if you only have time for fast food or a deli sandwich, then GET THAT. Or go somewhere that isn't busy. When you go into a busy restaurant needing to get served quickly and get out of there in a less-than-reasonable amount of time (30 minutes or less), it's not fair to the server or the kitchen, but -most of all- it's not fair to the other customers. Furthermore, you might just be screwing yourself over if you're forcing the restaurant into a situation where they will need to take shortcuts in order to adequately accommodate you.
4. If you do, despite all of the above, go into a busy restaurant with only a minimal time to be out of there well-fed and you were accommodated, frakkin' hook that server up with a good tip, because they probably bumped your needs ahead of others and they don't have to do that, but they wanted to please you. A good tip is a lovely way to say thank you.
   

Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dumber

So, manager-dude has reached new heights in stupidity as of late.

First of all, we recently had a wine rep visiting and trying to sell us some of his latest acquisitions, including a dessert wine. Manager-dude felt compelled to stand behind my bar and imbibe in the offerings of the gentle and kind wine rep, who also offered me tastes and solicited my opinion.

Prior to pouring an Oregon-made (evidenced by the name of vineyard and that it said "Willamette Valley" on the label) ice wine, the kindly rep informs us (in case we didn't already know, which we should and which I did) that ice wine is made from a process involving the freezing of wine grapes before fermentation, which renders a very sweet product. After manager-dude and I both taste, he asserts to the rep, "now, all ice wines are from Iceland, right?"

I am barely able to stifle my laughter. Now, admittedly, I don't expect everyone to know that ice wine is typically a German manifestation, but Iceland???? What grows in Iceland? Certainly not wine grapes!!!

I was very embarrassed for him, particularly since the rep had just explained why it is called ice wine, and did my best to nicely point out the label (which was facing us) where it said "Willamette Valley" (and anyone who knows anything about Pacific Northwest wines knows exactly what that means!). He seemed, sadly, unfazed by this, completely oblivious to his faux pas.

Now, if he hadn't previously boasted about his wine expertise, I *may* not have thought much of this...

Furthermore, upon returning to work the Saturday after Thanksgiving, I was mortified to hear Christmas music blaring from our sound system. I felt compelled to approach manager-dude about this. I immediately learned that other employees had complained, but simply because they did not want to spend 4-14 hours a day, every day from now until Christmas, listening to Christmas music. Yet I approached him with a different, less selfish, bent. I asked him: "Do you have any idea as to the demographics of our neighborhood?"

"What do you mean?" he asked, completely perplexed.

"Um, you do realize that we are located near one of the largest synagogues in Portland and that much of our regular clientele is Jewish?"

"So," he quips back.

"So it seems it might be insulting to them or, at the very least, completely disregarding their loyal patronage and disrespectful as a result."

"I don't care."

"Well, you should - why would you want to disrespect our customers?" I ask.

"Okay, fine," his defensiveness is starting to kick in, "find me the Hanukkah station on our music service and we'll play that for awhile."

"I don't think you get it," I tell him.

"Well, how are they going to feel about the thousands of dollars worth of Christmas decorations that we are about to put up?" he quips.

"Probably slighted and marginalized."

"Fine. We'll just be all PC and put up one of those candle things, a Buddha and Kwanzaa decorations as well," he proposed, thinking himself so clever.

He continued, "If you want to be so inclusive and considerate of the diversity of our customers, why don't we just do that, huh?"

Holy cow. There is no reasoning with this clown. I re-explain to him that I wasn't aiming for political correctness or the diversity of our customers, per se, but merely considering the demographics of our existing regulars, a large amount of whom are Jewish. And that, in layman's terms, it just isn't very nice of us to shove Christmas down their throats. I inform him that I have known people, Jewish and otherwise, complain about being told "Merry Christmas" throughout the month of December every time they make grocery purchases, put gas in the car, buy a latte and whatnot.

For what it's worth, he also tried to convince me that, unless the song is about Jesus, it's not a Christmas song, it's a holiday song. Um, hello, I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas, We Wish You a Merry Christmas, It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas, Let it Snow, The Christmas Song (aka Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire), Winter Wonderland, Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, Frosty the Snowman and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Raindeer are not Christmas songs??? Sure, whatever you say, manager-dude.

He gets all huffy and then says, "Well, that's why I don't like gay pride parades."

Whoa?!?!?!? What the hell just happened? How on earth are we now discussing gay pride parades?

"And how does that relate to what we are discussing?" I inquire.

"Well, I think that's just shoving it down people's throats and I don't want to be represented by men in leather and drag queens."

Oh boy. Well I disagree with him entirely on this count, as well, but I really don't want to go there. As I'm looking at him in complete and utter disbelief, he continues.

"Why can't we just have parades with nicely dressed gay men and lesbians in pants and t-shirts holding signs (he raises his arms as if he is holding a sign) that don't offend anyone? And why do we need a parade, anyway? I just want more rights and I don't see what parades have to do with anything."

"You know, our (yes, our, he is a gay man) community owes a hell of a lot to drag queens. Do you have any idea how much we have benefited from the courage of the drag queens at Stonewall, who likely had no qualms about representing the likes of you and me?"

"I'm not talking about Stonewall, I'm talking about now."

Oh my, he really is that stupid. I shake my head and tell him that we are just going to have to agree to disagree. I just can't do this anymore. Calgon, take me away...

A Pig by Any Other Name

As a waiter with a conscience, I am frequently confronted with attending to the various and sundry diet requirements and peculiarities of others and am expected to ensure that narry a tidbit nor a morsel passes into their digestive system.

Most folks with said peculiarities are quite adamant about making their dietetic/allergic/religious restrictions known and expect that they will be honored. I've encountered people who have rattled off lengthy lists of ingredients that they will not eat and those who have handed me typed lists of forbidden ingredients.

Nevermind that I am expected to have a complete understanding of : vegetarianism, veganism, macrobiotics, Atkins, South Beach Diet, gluten-free diets, lactose intolerance, and so on. This includes, but is not limited to, knowing that the pasta bolognese contains the ever so slightest bit of milk in the recipe and that I ought not serve a Hefeweizen to one with a wheat allergy. When our catering director, Anna, began working with us, I had to suggest that she may want to stop suggesting chicken saltimbocca as a potential menu item for those planning bar mitzvahs and bat mitzvahs, as the dish contains proscuitto and many Jewish folks do not eat pork. Anna had wondered why such an otherwise popular dish was always declined for these particular occasions.

But, as Anna learned, pork is not always called pork. It might be bacon or ham or pancetta or proscuitto. And, while I'll help someone avoid this ingredient if I'm aware that it is not permitted within their belief system, when I'm not informed that they would be endangering the potential for the ultimate afterlife, there's not a whole lot I can do.

I don't personally have any food issues (I make up for it in mental/emotional issues!), but I do my best to be pretty sensitive to those who do. At the same time, I am a firm believer of advocating for oneself, particularly in situations such as this.

Enter blond 30-something man, a customer of mine from last week, who was having dinner with what I presumed to be his wife. They both ordered drinks before dining and, when I asked if they had any questions about anything on the menu, they did not and informed me that they were ready to order. The blond 30-something man ordered the mac & cheese (listed as macaroni and cheese with pancetta on the menu - a winter comfort-food favorite) and his companion ordered one of our signature pasta dishes, also containing pancetta. Either of these items could easily be made without the pancetta and neither the man nor the woman chose to ask any questions prior to ordering.

After serving their piping hot entrees, I stopped by the table once they'd had an opportunity to taste their food. Generally, this is one of the easier parts of my job, as our food is pretty good and we seldom experience food-related mishaps. I noticed that the man's mac & cheese had been pushed away from him, toward the center of the table. Sometimes this is merely an indication that folks are sharing their dishes. When I asked how their dinners were, he picked up his fork and and gently pried away a small piece of pancetta onto the tine. Holding it up so that I could get a closer look, he said, "what's this?"

"Oh, that's pancetta." Answering this question is a little bit nerve wracking because there is always a distinct possibility that I will have a problem on my hands that will require a quick fix. And that will usually entail dealing with someone who would rather have not swallowed an oinker.

"What's pancetta?" Uh oh. I see exactly where this is going.

"Pancetta is an Italian bacon." I've found this to be the most user-friendly reply to this query.

"So, it's...pork?" This guy looks really uncomfortable. I inform him that it is, indeed, pork. He tells me that it is against his religion to consume pork and he can't eat it. I ask him if I may bring him something else instead, but he declines my gesture to remedy the situation. I apologize to him for the inconvenience and he assures me that it was his own fault. While this is true, I opt not to acknowledge that, as I deem it irrelevant at the moment. It wouldn't be that difficult to take the mac & cheese off the bill and bring him a different item (even mac & cheese) that does not contain pork. And I was totally willing to do this. Sure, the guy fucked up, but he doesn't deserve to starve for it.

He insists on going without and continues to reiterate that it was his fault. Finally, I tell him that it doesn't really matter whose fault it is and that I'm happy to bring him something else. Dude continues to play martyr and I let it go. Really, what can I do at this point?

I feel bad for the man, as I see him watching his companion eat. When it comes time for the check, I choose to remove the item from the bill and, even though he's still pulling the it's-all-my-fault card, I tell him that he shouldn't have to pay for something that he isn't able to eat and it was the least I could do. He looks at me sheepishly and I then smile and tell him that if he is not happy with that option, he may wish to take it up with the manager on duty and that would be me. He smiles back at me. He then presents me with a moral dilemma.

"It's just that we don't eat pork at all. It's against our religion. I didn't know that pancetta meant pork."

We? Our? I swear he didn't include his companion in his earlier proclamation of no pork. I would have spoken up if he had and reminded her that her dish also contained pancetta. Oh crap. I'd only five minutes prior cleared away her very empty plate. She ate every bit, probably assuming it was something else. Do I speak up and say something at this point? Do I bring her some syrup of ipecac?

I'm torn and I choose not to say anything. I feel a little awful about this, but he seemed so traumatized earlier and I really didn't want to ruin their night. I don't know if they were Jewish or Hindu or Buddhist or some other sect that does not consume pork and, not being fully versed in the minutae of religions of the world, I have no idea what the ramifications are for such consumption. Is the penalty less stern when the pork is consumed unknowingly?

I was an enabler of sin.

I didn't sleep so well that night.

Another form of getting mooned...

Driving home tonight I saw the most gorgeous huge full moon...and then it all made sense.

It was a weird night tonight at work - and not just in my section, either. Although I arrived at 4pm, ready to go, I didn't get my first table until 6:05pm and then we got hit.

Hard.

Within about 10-12 minutes, my entire section was full. Luckily, the first table knew what they wanted so I could get their order in right away, before the onslaught. The entire place was filling rapidly and our timid hostess was having difficulty asking folks to wait 5-10 minutes so that she could pace the waiters a little bit. A 20-top came in and was seated in the lower part of the dining room, adjacent to my section. Jason was going to take them, but asked me to take a couple of tables in his section so that he could manage the large group well. This put me at eight tables, with a ninth coming in 30 minutes. I was a pro and felt confident about picking up the slack. I appreciate that Jason had the good sense to know his limits.

I should have known that table 12 would not be smooth sailing when they asked me for water with no ice. I prefer my water this way, too, although I don't make a point of ordering it like this in restaurants. It's uncanny to me how often there is a direct correlation between those who order water with no ice and those who are high maintenance/demanding/difficult to deal with for whatever reason. Simply. Un. Canny.

And these three women at table 12, each representing a different generation, were no exception. Almost as if on cue with the sort of antics I might expect from such a table, the woman representing the middle generation (who got a B+ in assertiveness training at the local community college) says to me, "I know you're really busy, but is it going to take a long time to get our food after we order it?"

This is a loaded question if there ever was one. Naturally, she wants me to say "no, of course not" or maybe she thinks that, for whatever reason, I'll have the kitchen bump their order to the front because they seem to think that they deserve to eat sooner than the other 65-70 folks who came in the door at almost the exact same time.

There's no way in hell I'm telling them that it isn't likely to take very long. First of all, I have no idea what they intend to order and that will be a primary factor as to how quickly their order is ready. Any one of them orders anything even closely resembling a well-done steak and it's going to be awhile.

I glance over at the large party and notice that Jason has finished taking their order. The woman who is representing the older generation notices my glance. I look at her. She is facing me, but her eyes are all googly and going every which direction and I don't know where to look so I look at her nose.

"That's just horrible - why did you put those people there? They should be in a private room!"

Translated, this means that the large party is being too loud and it's bugging her. I opt to ignore her assertion since I'm certain that it'd be unwise to look at her nose and say, "What the hell do you expect me to do about it?" Her words are angry and it doesn't seem to occur to her that if these 20 folks were in the configuration of five tables of four, and making the same amount of noise, it probably wouldn't bother her. I try to focus on Middle Generation, as she is still waiting for a response from me.

"We're doing our best and - " I'm cut off in the middle of my response to her.

"Oh I know that." She's getting impatient with me.

So, let me get this straight. She knows we're busy. She knows we're doing our best. She is likely well aware that they haven't even hinted to me what they intend to order...and, yet, I'm expected to give her an accurate, yet optimistic, quote on the ETA of their dinners? Knowing full well that this is the perfect time to use the maybe-I-should-be-in-law-school-instead-of-librarian-school phrasing, I walk into her blatant trap.

"Well, it appears that this large group has already ordered and your order will likely follow theirs."

"I asked you a simple question. Can't you just answer it?" Oh jeez, now she's getting all indignant with me. This is never good.

"Ma'am, I did answer your question as honestly as possible. As soon as I take your order, I will give it to the kitchen and then it is out of my hands."

Middle Generation turns to the other two for their input.

"Well, what do you want to do?"

The woman representing Generation X, presumably her daughter, wants to stay and Old Crazy Eyes says something unintelligible. Middle Generation decides that they will, indeed, stay and I'm delighted when they order a salad course before their entrees so their entrees won't seem like they are taking a long time, even if they do. When, six to seven minutes later, I'm setting their soup and salads before them, Old Crazy Eyes turns to me and says, "Good girl! Now that's a good girl!" while her eyes go every which way.

I hate it when elderly people say this to me. I find it so condescending and inappropriate. I'm forty years old and I'm doing my job. And while I don't quite look forty (thankfully), a simple "thank you" will suffice nicely. Interestingly, this was one of the tables that Jason forfeited to me.

There are a lot of crazies in the restaurant tonight, though. A gentleman at one of my tables asked me if the government was eavesdropping on their conversation at the table, I was asked what a calzone was (Kellie Pickler, is that you??), I had someone order a glass of red wine with a splash of cranberry juice, and I had a woman from a table that wasn't even mine grab my arm as I was walking by, with another table's plates of food in my hands, and say, "I want to see what's on your neck" because she was apparently intrigued with one of my tattoos.

While it's true that I can request that the kitchen bump an order up ahead of others, to do so would mean that others will have to wait even longer for their food. And this is not a favor whose welcome I want to wear out, so I use it sparingly and am granted the request every time by our wonderful kitchen staff (who, yes, receives a cut of my tips). If they were regulars, and friendly or good tippers (or, better yet, both!), I'll consider asking this of a busy kitchen. But under these circumstances, I took my chances. As it turned out, they only waited about five minutes after finishing their salads before their entrees arrived. On a busy night, that's golden and I hope they were content with it.

When they were finished and I'd boxed up the uneaten solitary ravioli for table 12, I thanked them as I dropped the check and told them that I would take care of it whenever they were ready.

I kept a close watch and walked by their table, even though it was out of my way, several times to see if they were ready to pay. I suppose I shouldn't have been the least bit surprised when they got up from the table, check in hand, but with no sign of money or credit card on the check tray. I was able to intercept them before they got to the cash register that they seemed to think was stationed near the door and isn't (I don't work at Denny's!).

It all made so much more sense. And I remember thinking to myself, is it a full moon tonight or something???

quenching the thirst of the holy elite

When I used to wait tables and tend bar at Le Glamour Hotel, we had more than our fair share of -shall we say- high society patrons. Many were well behaved and generous, thus making my work all the more worthwhile. However, it was the not-so-well-behaved of the financially elite who could ruin a night in no time flat.

Sometimes, serving several of these folks back-to-back could nearly send a poor waitron over the edge. The phrase "desparate times call for desparate measures" comes immediately to mind as I recall one especially condescending matron who came into the lounge with her well-heeled entourage late one busy holiday eve.

Whenever the symphony would let out, our lounge would go from empty to completely full in just over five minutes flat. And, since guests were not seated by a host, there was virtually no pacing involved in the filling of the tables - I would essentially be sat ten tables pretty much simultaneously. Unfortunately, those placing their derrieres in my section seemed to be completely oblivious of this fact. Worse still, nearly every single one of them would order a Spanish Coffee, which was one of the most time-consuming drinks to make. The trick for me, at this point, would be to get a few of my orders in to the bartender -pronto!- before the other servers' orders came in, so that at least a few of my tables would receive timely service. Nine times out of ten, though, this would backfire as I'd show up at my first-sat table just as their asses were hitting the leather of the chairs, eager to accommodate their beveragely wishes and they'd have a zillion questions to ask of me...or they'd hem and haw a bit, at which point I'd offer to come back so as not to rush them and they'd say "no, stay, we're ready to order!" with desparation in their voices as if they knew that if I left, it could easily be ten minutes before they saw me again. So I'd stay, only to be subjected to "hmmm, well, let me see....I think maybe....oh, tell me a little more about this chardonnay..."

Meanwhile, my section is suddenly full and I am beginning to feel eyes boring into the back of my head. I rattle off a "little more about the chardonnay" while I take a quick scan of the room and seek out patrons who are known to tip well while remaining on the low maintanence side - they are the ones who will see me first. Although, in all honesty, if it were to come down to a mediocre tipper who treats me well and does not attempt to monopolize my time at the expense of others and a good tipper who is rude and demanding, I'm most likely to visit the mediocre tipper first: good behavior trumps good tips, for the most part, in my book.

A couple of the hemmers/hawers ask me for ice water and I seize that opportunity to escape their table, telling them that I'm going to get their ice water while the others decide. I make a quick stop at a table of regulars on my way back to the kitchen - they have the same thing every time and are nice folks who tip well - their order will be the first one in. I then gather enough ice waters for all of the hemmers/hawers because, invariably, if I return to the table with exactly the number of ice waters equalling the number of those who requested them, the power of suggestion will unleash itself and everyone else will want one - I'm better off bringing water to someone who doesn't really want it and saving myself the trip, as time is still key here.

I try to squeeze in an order here, an order there, and gently let people know that I'll be right with them. Really, the best way to handle zero to full in no time flat is to take orders in at least two trips. I've seen neophyte servers start at one end of their section and just start taking orders and then put all the orders into the computer and then wait and wait and wait for all of their drinks to be made because every single one of their orders was submitted last, behind every other server. Then their drinks are all up at once and they panic because it's too much all at once. Poor Lambchop almost had a panic attack one time with just this scenario.

I get my section a little bit better paced and things are calming down. The first table served pays and leaves and I bus their table quickly in hopes of another turn there. I'm making my way through my section offering another round to those who qualify. Thankfully, not everyone drinks at the same rate. The hemmers/hawers can't simply order another round of drinks - they all need to ask a bunch of questions and keep me sequestered at their table until they're good and ready to let me go. I dutifully answer their questions and try to keep things moving in a forward direction. After all, I have hot drinks coming up for some of my lower maintenance tables and I wish to deliver them promptly. I escape with their order just in time.

As I'm delivering their second round, an elegantly dressed 40-something society woman at the hemmer/hawer table slurs to me that she'd asked me for an ice water. Ew boy, somebody hit the bar during intermission at the symphony! I look at the table where each guest has a sweating glass of ice water, most of them barely touched, sitting before them.

"This one is yours," I say, gesturing to the glass that, if it were a snake it would've hissed at her to lay off the sauce. She then looks at the glass, then at me. With an ultra-stern expression on her face (this was before the popularity that is Botox), she condescendingly instructs to me that this (she then points to the glass for emphasis) is not ice water.

Um, okay, it's not? I'm thinking somebody also forgot to take her medication tonight. Where on earth do I go with this one? I really don't want to argue with this woman, but she just told me that ice water is not ice water and clearly wants me to do something about it. Something is very wrong with this picture and it's my job to figure out how to fix it without pissing anyone off. And, unfortunately for me, alcoholic society matrons can be a little bit touchy in times such as these.

Society matron interprets my brief silence and rapid contemplating as complete and utter cluelessness. She picks up the glass in question, holds it up and, raising her slurred words a notch higher, says sternly, "Do you see any ice here???"

The funny thing is that there IS ice in the glass and it's even making a clinking sound as she shakes the glass at me! At least now I know what she wants so I say, "Okay, why don't I take that water and get you some more ice."

As I'm reaching for the glass, she yanks it away, splashing water on the table and continues to hold it with a death-grip.

"No, a fresh glass of ice water. I don't want this glass," she says of the receptacle she is refusing me.

"Sure, okay," the words from my mouth say, while the bubble over my head says, "crazy bitch."

I go back to the kitchen and pull out the rack that holds the clean water glasses. It's empty. Oh crap. I ask the bartender for a bucket glass, all the while thinking that this woman is the type who will flip if I bring her ice water if a different type of glass than before (which also happens to be different from everyone else's at the table). The bartender tells me to hang on and I notice that he has about a dozen or so tickets lined up, all coffee drinks and espressos. Crap, crap, crap. As I'm looking around and trying to think fast, I see the round tray of glassware from the table I'd just recently bussed. My blood still boiling over the humiliation of being yelled at in the middle of my section, I grab a dirty water glass off of the tray and fill it with ice and water. My heart's pounding fast because, even though I've been pushed to the boiling point before by a customer, I'd never done anything quite like this. In fact, such things had never even occurred to me. But I knew that if I didn't get back to Society Matron soon with a new glass of ice water, there'd be more humiliation in store for me and I didn't deserve that. Nor did I have time for it.

I found that once the glass was safely on her table and out of my hands, the pleased look on her face erased any bit of guilt I was feeling. She was happy now, damn it, and -in a way- that was what really mattered. I really wanted to have a cherry on my sundae, so I strolled by the table and asked Society Matron how this glass of ice water was working out for her.

"It's perrrrrfect," she slurred.

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."

The Tipping Point

The next time you're considering deliberately withholding a gratuity from your waiter -or intentionally leaving less than 15%- I ask you to think about a few things first before you embark on this drastic maneuver.

First of all, if you are considering leaving anywhere between 0-14%, there must have been something that went wrong or was not handled well or was not to your liking...Are you certain that whatever has upset you is, indeed, your waiter's fault? Because if not, it's truly unjust to reduce her/his income for something that was completely beyond her/his control. For example, if s/he was incredibly busy and running around, but you think that your food took a long time, it probably wasn't your server's fault. Think about it. Waiters don't make the food, waiters pay attention to what you ordered and communicate that to the kitchen. After that point, it's out of their hands and if the food takes awhile, that most likely = kitchen's fault, not waiter's fault, so don't dock the waiter's pay for that. If they're super busy, then they're very likely doing their best and isn't that good enough? What about when you're really busy at work doing whatever it is that you do and suddenly you find yourself with more work than usual, do you think it's fair when people get upset with you for not being as fast as you usually are? Of course not. Would it be fair to dock your pay if all of your work is not getting done as quickly as usual due to an increase in business (or someone calling in sick and you have to pick up their slack?)? No, of course not. So don't do that to your waiter. They don't deserve it any more than you do. And remember, waiters have to pay taxes on their tips whether they make them or not. That's right. The IRS presumes that waiters are making tips on every table and waiters are expected to pay taxes on a certain percentage of their net sales regardless of how much they actually made. Bear in mind, too, that waiters are required to distribute a portion of their tips to other workers (many of whom never pay taxes on their tips, but that's another rant altogether): bussers, hosts, bartenders, sommelier, expediter, kitchen, etc. These folks expect their due cut (and are entitled to it) no matter what percentage of tips the waiter has accrued.

And what if the service really is lousy and it really is the server's fault? (i.e. you saw your food sitting in the service window while your waiter chatted away with the hostess, all the while oblivious to your cooling food slowly becoming less appetizing while you sat...) Well, this is why restaurants have managers and owners and you should speak to them and let them know what went wrong. Merely leaving a crappy tip will not effectively communicate anything and will certainly not incite a behavioral change on the waiter's behalf.

And remember: if you can't afford to tip, then you can't afford to dine out.

Check, please!

So I have these regular customers, Harry and Mary, who come in to the restaurant about 4-6 times per month, order the exact same extremely modified drinks and the exact same extremely modified food. Never any salad and they barely touch their water. They typically tip about 30% and gave me a $50 "bonus" at Christmas-time. Their generosity is marked by a game that we play upon arrival of the check in which Harry always asks the total and I always say, "I'm not sure. Let's take a look" and then announce the total aloud. Harry then pulls out a wad of large bills and proceeds to make certain that I am aware of his generosity. The first time this happened, I felt uncomfortable and awkward about the situation (although I'm relatively certain that he didn't intend for me to feel this way).

In my many years in the restaurant industry, it has always been my preference to be discreet about the financial exchange and the acceptance of gratuities. One of my least favorite scenarios is the one in which I am about to drop the check in the middle of the table and my check-bearing hand is literally mauled as each guest claws at my hand, forgetting that there is a human attached. Sometimes I yank my hand out of that mess and let the check presenter fall where it may while the feist-fest continues (do they have any idea how ridiculous they look, clawing away at the check presenter like frumpy housewives vying for the very last Cabbage Patch doll?); other times I pull my hand away with the presenter still in my grasp and inform them that I shall return when they have resolved their dispute (this option is generally my preference when I am injured in the process of attempting to leave the check...yes, really). What I really would like to do is say, "Look. I am relatively certain that none of you REALLY wants to pay this tab, that what you really are after here is the notoriety of being the one to pick up the tab - that oneupmanship that will enable you to feel superior over these other guys in suits. Who are you trying to impress? Each other? Yourself? Me? Impress each other by being gentlemanlike when dining out. Impress yourself by knowing that you are being sincere and treating others with respect (yes, this includes me and my mauled hand). And do not, under any circumstances, involve me in determining who will pick up the tab.

And when you do pay, please place the cash or credit card on top of or sticking out the top of the check presenter. Do not place your credit card under the check, as I can not see it there and will not pick up your check and run the card that I can not see. Do not tuck it all inside the presenter and then close the book and leave it in the exact same spot where I left it - I am not as likely to conclude that you are ready to pay when you do this (remember, we are looking for subtle hints that YOU are ready: the check presenter has moved, there is money or a credit card on top or sticking out the top of it, the check presenter is at the edge of the table, that sort of thing). Do not be upset when I stop by and check inside the check presenter to see if you have indeed done any of the aforementioned things I've advised against, as there are so many people who do not understand the value of a subtle hint and expect me to utilize x-ray vision that I do not have to ascertain that they are ready to pay. And please, whatever you do, do not take the check presenter and hold it in your lap (I will very likely bring a new check to you as I will conclude that I have lost my mind thinking I'd dropped a check that appears to be nowhere on the table - this messes with me psychologically and is, thus, cruel). Finally, do not pick up your check presenter and carry it up to the host podium. Do you see a cash register up there? No? Good, then don't bring your check there. The hosts are the people who greet you and seat you. They do not get to take your money unless you see a cash register sitting in front of them. Get with the program, folks. When you are at Denny's and the like, you take your check up front to the cash register, if there is no cash register, you will only look like an idiot walking all over the place with your bill. That, and you might get me in trouble because you did not listen to me when I thanked you and said that I'd take care of that whenever you are ready. C'mon folks, it's not rocket science.

The Thrill of Victory and the Agony of Defeat

I was tending bar the other night and had the TV on the Food Network. I can have whatever channel I want on the TV whenever I am tending bar and have found that when I have the Food Network on, and they are showing the making of some tasty-looking dish, I tend to have higher food sales. But, because I get bored pretty easily with television, I tend to switch it around a bit: CNN, Nick at Night, Seinfeld episodes, Oregon Public Broadcasting, some bizarre Korean game show I found once, old movies, Jeopardy or Who Wants to be a Millionaire, Animal Planet, The Travel Channel, The History Channel, and I tend to only tune in to the sports channels under one of the following conditions: 1) the Olympics are on, 2) there is some hot women’s sporting event on, 3) ESPN is running the bartending championships (yes, somehow, that is considered a sport), 4) the world series/March Madness/NBA championships or some other MAJOR event is on, or 5) a customer nicely requests it. Yet, even though we are not a sports bar by any stretch of the imagination, people seem to expect sports to be on a bar television. In fact, one of our owners (the one who is rarely ever there) insists that we always have sports on the TV.

But do you know what happens when some random football game is on the telly? Well, I’ll tell you. What happens is that most of the men are utterly captivated by it and most of the women who are there with men are bored and irritated because the men aren’t paying any attention to what they are saying. I know, it sounds like a cliche, but it’s true (remember, we’re in the suburbs, so factor that in). Women who are there with other women are engaged in conversation with one another, typically, and tend to not even notice what is on the television. But, since it pains me to see women sitting idly and looking around as if they are bored while their male companions are riveted by each play on the screen, I tend not to have sports on so as not to have my female clientele feeling alienated.

But, still, it is what people inexplicably expect.

So I had the Food Network on and this guy sits up at my bar. I’m in the middle of assembling a take-out order for someone who is waiting, so I say hello to the guy and tell him I’ll be right with him. His acknowledgement in return is “any chance of changing the channel to sports?”

Lovely. I see where this is going (see aforementioned comment regarding the expectation of sports to be on a bar TV regardless).

“Is there a particular game you wanted to watch?” I ask him, even though I already know the answer.

“Nah, just so long as it’s sports,” he says – almost verbatim with my prediction. “I don’t even care if it’s bowling.”

“So let me get this straight,” I venture, dipping my foot into what could be very precariously unwise water, “you want me to turn the channel to sports, but you don’t even care what sport it is or who is playing it, so long as it is sports and not anything else?” (I so do not get this).

He confirms that what I say is correct and I finish up what I’m doing, ask him what he’d like to drink and offer him a dinner menu (hey, business first, right?). After mixing his cocktail, I grab the remote control and turn it to ESPN. I don’t even recall what the featured event was, but it made the guy happy. He then asked me if I was watching the Food Network (and proceeded to inform me that I could change it back after he left…no, pal, I can change it back right now if I please because I’m the one with the remote control and you’re the one who better leave me a decent tip for succumbing to your viewing whims or I’ll remember you and not change the channel next time). I let out a little laugh and told him that no, I wasn’t watching the Food Network, that I was working. He told me that he’d never been into a bar before where they had the Food Network on the TV. So? He allows me to continue a sassy, but friendly banter with him and to treat his request as a ridiculous one. He’s a good sport so I’ll change the channel for him next time he comes in.

Not everyone is such a good sport about it, though. Some are outright demanding and sometimes they aren’t even out of middle school. Yep, that’s right. I recently had a nine-year-old boy tell me to change it to the football game (I had CNN on at the time) and he even followed up his demand with, “sports bars should always have sports on the TV.”

“That’s true,” I confirmed for the self-absorbed tyke, “but this isn’t a sports bar, it’s just a bar.” Unfortunately, our bar allows minors at the tables for dining and restricts them only from sitting at the bar stools. I continue working while the kid cuts away from his table of all-elementary-school kids to the neighboring table where their parents are doing their best to ignore their offspring and rats me out to his dad. The dad then approaches me to explain that the kids (let’s just say that they were not using their indoor voices) would be more “focused” if football were on the TV. Given that the volume of kidnoise was giving me a headache (and that somehow I’m hearing focused=quieter), I said ok and changed the channel. Suddenly, it was as if these boy children were in the stadium with the other screaming fans – they got even louder, those kids!

And it got me thinking back to when I was a kid and there was something I noticed that I didn’t like or wished was different and I only learned to deal with my displeasure of the situation. Never did I learn that I had a voice and that my opinions mattered enough to create change. Is this the product of a new generation or a different style of parenting? Does it serve the kids well to be raised feeling as though they can object and change will occur as a result? Or is it better for kids to learn that they can’t change/control everything and that the world does not revolve around them and that sometimes you need to learn to deal with what you are dealt?

one. two. three. jump!

The other night, my boss’ recently-come-of-age son, B, was bellied up to my bar drinking margaritas, for lack of anything better to do. B is an odd bird. A very odd bird. And not in the cool, interesting, artsy way either. B has horrendous social skills and an ill sense of boundaries. He is also unaware of the physical space he consumes and when he invades the physical space of others. At 21, he still lives at home with “Ma” and “Pa” (yes, he really calls them that), works part-time at the family business and has no aspirations to do otherwise. In other words, he is a little on the green side and, while curious about the world in which he lives, there is a lot out there that he just doesn’t get.

While I already knew this about B, this became even more clear as he attempted to converse with me on the subject of strippers. Now, anyone who knows me, knows that I am very much in favor of the sex industry and firmly believe that women who make a living stripping and such are simply working a job and deserve not to be judged or labeled or presumed about. In my earlier days, I would frequent the neighborhood strip club for a beer after work before heading home. I don’t go so frequently now, but only because of time/money/school and not because of some sort of moral opposition.

Like most American males, B was taken, by his father, to a strip club on his 21st birthday. Naturally, he had a ball and proceeded to spend subsequent evenings at similar clubs. Pretty normal stuff. Imagine my surprise, then, when, upon telling me that his best friend used to strip for four years (this, I already knew), he tells me how much this saddens him because it’s so disturbing to imagine her stripping across the street from where he would shop at the Target with his grandparents. I told him that I wasn’t too clear on what was disturbing about that and asked him how it was any different from if she’d been working at the Burger King across the street (except that she would have made less money at the Burger King).

B proceeded to “explain” to me that women strip because they are “forced into it” and that they “come from bad families” and that if they could take a different job, they would. Wow. What a crock of shit. At this point, I wasn’t certain that this was a conversation I could/should have with him. How can he go into their bars and watch them dance and then regard them as second class citizens with all of these assumptions about their families and their job/intellectual skills? How quick I was to become the angry feminist!

I asked B if he ever considered that perhaps women strip for a living because they want to? Or that perhaps they are paying their own way through school and stripping enables them to make the most amount of money in the least amount of hours worked? Or that they simply enjoy it? I surmise that women strip for quite a variety of reasons, including some not so savory explanations (to attend to a fierce drug habit, because they come from a screwed up family). I just don’t understand the moral backlash against strippers, as I see them as merely doing a job like anyone else. Is it because they are seductive? And isn’t that part of “their job”? It is part of my job to be friendly to folks I might not otherwise give the time of day. And maybe sometimes I may use charm and flirtatiousness to increase my gratuities – does that make me morally bankrupt? Or just a savvy bartender/businesswoman? If I went to watch a stripper dance and she was being all surly and “just going through the motions,” I might conclude that she was not doing her job well (unless I found her surliness and robotic behavior to be appealing, entertaining or somehow engaging). I just long for a time when women will be able to do with their bodies as they see fit and not be judged or construed to be lacking morals, common sense, intellect, personal freedom or otherwise.

sometimes you score a goal, sometimes you're a national champ

Tonight was one of those nights at work that I will refer to again and again in the near and distant future. I went into the situation with some dread, fearing that catering a celebratory party for an ice hockey team (which I later learned was comprised of 9- and 10-year-olds) celebrating their national victory would prove tedious, loud, tiresome and, as our dishwasher would say, “mucho trabajo.” Turns out much of my prediction was correct. In about three and a half hours of tending bar I poured: 30 glasses of wine, 41 beers, 59 cocktails, and over 200 Shirley Temples (yes, that required nearly three full bottles of grenadine). The victorious youngsters were drinking like fish (and boasting about their consumption, as well) and their parents were hardly any different.

The kids were running around, yelling and screaming, blowing out candles, rough housing and making huge messes of their food. A homely girl in an outfit of pale pink was securing the attention of various boys by hitting and kicking them. A curly-headed girl who couldn’t have been a day over five slugged down four kiddie cocktails alone and seemed to be enjoying a fantastic sugar high before the inevitable crash left her sullen and disagreeable. Two preschoolers were egged on by older kids (and adults) to kiss one another.

I overheard many shallow conversations while the parents of these celebratory tweens numbed themselves to the playground sounds that emanated throughout the banquet hall. Grown men allowed their insecurities to be revealed as they, too, pined for attention in unconstructive ways. The coach became disgruntled with me when I asked him to please not reach behind the bar to grab what he was wanting.

Truly, in every way, it seemed no different from whenever any other event celebrating a child’s milestone is held in our facilities.

Enter Grandma C, the hostess of this event, whose grandson was the star player of the winning team. Grandma C was a very kind and accommodating woman, or so it seemed at first. So many hostesses seem sweet and accommodating at first and then Presto! Change-O! They magically transform into Bridezilla. Not so with Grandma C. She remained friendly throughout the duration of the party. She even complimented us on our work. Uh oh. The verbal tip. Sometimes that’s a very bad sign. Sometimes folks feel that if they shower you with kind words about your efforts, they don’t have to tip as much. But when Grandma C was presented with the tab, she asked my co-worker, Whitney, how the tip was distributed. Whitney explained to her that we are required to give a (larger-than-you-would-think) portion to the kitchen as well as to a busser who helped us out and then she and I split the remainder evenly. Grandma C asked permission to write personal checks to Whitney and I in order to give us each a bonus tip. Whitney said “sure” and left Grandma C to her check-writing. Delighted to know that we were receiving a side tip, we continued about our cleaning.

Much to our delight and surprise, Grandma C saw fit to tip us an additional $200. EACH. Suddenly I knew how it felt to be the national champion. This may be the closest I'll ever come to winning the lottery.

burn, baby, burn

On Saturday night, fortunately toward the end of my shift, I had the misfortune of picking up a plate that had been sitting on a burner.

Yes, on a burner.

I then proceeded to let out a "blood curdling" (my boss' words) stream of expletives that could be heard on table 28, quite possibly even table 28 in the restaurant across the street. I then rushed to the sink, basking in the comfort that was the ice cold water cascading over my throbbing, injured thumb. I yelled out to whoever would listen, "Will somebody please get me an Advil?" and requested that the remainder of my hot food somehow find its way out to the appropriate tables.

Meanwhile, my customers at my tables, being the not-so-very-understanding-creatures-that-they-were, became disgruntled at not seeing me in the vicinity tending to their immediate whims for at least seven minutes (hey, I understand, seven minutes can seem like an awfully long time when you want another martini).

To one table, I attempted to explain the discrepency, using phrases such as third-degree burn and severely injured. They then informed me that I "shouldn't tell people about that" because I'm "doing a fine job, despite the injury" and "you can't tell." Not exactly the sypathetic response I was hoping for. Despite having the fortitude of a mail carrier and carrying on with my duties through the injured-waiter-equivalent of sleet and snow, this table of seniors apparently never forgave me for my seven-minute absence and left a mere 12% gratuity as a token of their appreciation.

Now, three days later, my thumb still is completely numb and the skin has a reptilian feel and appearance. My doctor says it will heal (slowly) on its own and there is nothing I can do to facilitate that. And I can't help but wonder, if any of my impatient-with-me customers had injured themselves at work and had to take less than ten minutes away from their duties to tend to their injuries, would their customers be disgruntled with them and would their pay be docked? I'm thinking no. [/pity party]

In other, more positive, news, I am proud to say that I have joined the ranks of thousands (millions?) of other lesbian-Americans and am now the proud owner of a Subaru Outback. It's a 2002 model, shiny blue with charcoal grey interior and tinted windows, and only 38,000 miles. This car has road trip written all over it and I can't wait to take her on one -- even if it is just to Seattle and back again ad nauseum. Bottom line, all of my whining and bitching about how much I hated that Saturn has come to an immediate halt as the Saturn is no longer my problem.

My favorite Saturn-as-trade-in line: (upon the explanation that I am getting money toward the purchase of the new Subaru and the Saturn taken off of my hands) Kira: "is that legal?"