Crisis Central ©2012 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

     I met D back in high school and we've been friends ever since. I still keep in contact with a friend from elementary school so, with that one exception, I've known D longer than anyone I'm not related to. And lucky me because D is a terrific human being and a great guy. Of course, the same as everybody (especially me), he's got his faults. Like, he's a little (not too bad) high maintenance when he goes out to eat, although he's in no way an A-hole about it and tips pretty well. He never waited tables but has several relatives and friends who are or have been in the business. He's got a few other flaws and failings and I've called him out on all of them to his face at one time or another over the years. He could easily call me out on at least as many but he's too nice to do much of that. As a matter of fact, I'm a little upset with D right now about something, which is that about a month ago, D wrapped his car around a tree and died.
     D was always overweight. So was his father, who dropped dead of a heart attack at the age of 40, several years before D and I ever met. D's dad had inheirited the family business and they had money. D's father had some good life insurance and considerable assets he left his family. Still, after a couple of years of the breadwinner being gone, for financial reasons D left private education and started attending the neighborhood public school located in his affluent part of town. Our city had some crazy-ass busing programs in those days (and maybe still does) so I wound up going to that school too.
     After and during high school, we each had several various jobs. I started waiting tables and D became a successful insurance agent. As the years went by, I lost touch with more and more of my high school buddies, except for D. If he didn't hear from me for awhile, he'd call my phone until he did. If that didn't work, he go to my job or show up at my door, probably with a fat bottle of good bourbon. I'm not a recluse or particularlly anti-social—after all, I go to work every day and  that kind of thing—but sometimes I'll sort of go into keeping-to-myself mode and sort of let some friendships drift away. D wouldn't let that shit happen. I'm not sure if I ever told him how much I appreciate it.
     D and I helped each other out a lot over the years. Often, when one of us was hurting, the other was doing well. One time I was having some transportation issues and D let me borrow an extra car he had for almost a month. Sometimes we'd both be doing shitty and at least it was good to have a friend to whine about it to. Plus, no matter how rough life got for him, D always had the best cable television service money could buy and I didn't. D loved to watch TV and I got to go to his house and check out a lot of cool stuff.
     D was married for several years. His wife Cindy was always real nice to me and I never felt less than very welcome in their home. I'm kind of a reticent guy but D would share the shit out of all kinds of his personal information with the one exception of why he and Cindy eventually divorced. Actually, I strongly suspect that D himself never really knew. When his marriage ended, D's life kind of took a downward turn.
     D always smoked a lot of cigarettes and drank a shitload of carbonated beverages, vices he and I had in common. After Cindy left, he stepped up both habits considerably. He also got very into prescription drugs. He had some emotional problems and anxiety issues that he'd always managed to keep at bay but now they started to get the best of him. Everything was a big major fucking deal to D. I once referred to his existance as "Crisis Central." He laughed his ass off at that one and forever after called it that too. I could go on—a lot of shit happened to D for awhile there, most of it not good—but just suffice to say that he wound up on Social Security disability and the methadone program.
     I moved away a few years ago and would usually find the time to visit D whenever I'd get back into town. As the years went by, D became less and less fond of leaving the house and while we often talked about it, he never managed to come up here to visit me. We'd have a nice long phone conversation at least two or three times a month though. He'd usually call me but it wasn't unusual for me to call him either. So after not getting a call or text from D for a couple of weeks or so, I dialed his number. I got his voicemail and left a message.
      He didn't call back. I tried again the next night, same result. I couldn't think of anything I'd done to piss him off, at least nothing in the last decade or so. Another week or two with my unresponded-to phone calls went by. I was hoping maybe D had gotten himself a girlfriend—and please God let it be someone he met at church and not the methadone clinic—but mostly I was a little worried. Was D sick? He was always a little bit of a hypochondriac. Was he in trouble? Of course, he was still alive. He had to be. If he wasn't, surely somehow word would have gotten to me.
     I finally had the bright idea of contacting D's mom. She'd remember me and and could let me know what was up. I got on the internet. She has the same very unusual last name as her son. I found her address and phone. It was late at night, I'd call her the next day. Then I saw another pertinent link. My heart would have sunk even more than it did except that I couldn't believe my eyes. Right there on my computer was D's obituary. He'd been dead almost a month and I was just finding out.

This Might be Something Y'all Might Want to Look Into

www.cineflixproductions.com
     This is an email I received today. You might have already seen this mentioned on some of the other restaurant-centric internet columns (OK, server blogs) but in case you haven't, here it is. And as a special added bonus, exclusively for readers of These American Servers™, tell 'em Joe Sixtop sent ya and they'll look at you like you're absolutely fucking crazy. Good luck!

NEW TV SHOW!  RESTAURANTS WANTED!

Do you OWN or WORK in a RESTAURANT fraught with WORKPLACE DRAMA?
 Is your CHEF HOT-HEADED, OBSESSIVE COMPULSIVE, or of the belief he/she is GOD"S GIFT TO FOOD? Do you have a BICKERING WAITSTAFF?  Are they constantly ARGUING about shifts, days off, and who gets the best tables? Do the FRONT OF THE HOUSE and BACK OF THE HOUSE have so many COMMUNICATION ISSUES it’s amazing anything comes out right at all? Did the BARTENDER and a SERVER break-up and now they REFUSE to speak to each other - even during the Friday night dinner rush?!  If you own or work in a restaurant where staff issues are threatening to spill out into the dining room, a new show from a MAJOR CABLE NETWORK wants to help.   Our experts are ready to take on any issue, from bad communication, jealousy, and fragile egos to the poor multi-tasker who slows everyone down and the line cook who loses his temper over every single substitution. They can take the heat in and out of the kitchen, and they’re eager to test and teach your staff to put their differences aside, respect one another, and work together to make your restaurant the very model of teamwork and efficiency. The show will be EDGY, EMOTIONAL, and HILARIOUS as people confront their issues big and small, and the audience at home will have their eyes opened to all that the people who make and serve their food deal with on top of keeping their fickle customers happy. Please email tvcasting@cineflix.com with your NAME, CONTACT INFO, a recent PHOTO and some information about where you work and what kinds of workplace drama you are dealing with.

Thanks!
Erika Hardin  Casting
ehardin@cineflix.com
161 Avenue of the Americas
5th Floor
New York, NY
10013
T:  212 206 0461 ext 103
F:  646 873 6512
Skype: e.l.hardin
www.cineflixproductions.com

Most Unjustified Customer Complaint Ever ©2012 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

     Most every day, I work with Tracey H. She's young, about 23 I think, and hella good-looking. She's a very pleasant person to work with. She's real good with her tables and everybody likes her. Well, almost everybody.
     Tracey had station three on Tuesday. Nobody's guaranteed the same station every day but it usually works out that way. And as usual, I was working Curveside™ to-go. Inside the restaurant was pretty busy but my to-go wasn't very happening. One of our door whores called in sick so I spent a good chunk of my shift helping the one who'd actually shown up. I bused a few tables but mostly just escorted hungry clients to wherever the real hostess told me to.
     One deuce was a middle-aged couple I brought to table 15 in Tracey's station. They seemed nice from what I could tell by our brief interaction. The only reason I remember them at all is because the nicely dressed woman had some 1980's Duran Duran-looking hair that kind of made an impression. The guy could've been Willard Romney or Lawyer Malloy for all I can recollect about him.
     The next day, Wednesday, the same couple, at least it sure looked like them, came and got seated at the same table—again, in Tracey's section—they'd had 24 hours earlier. I ran their food out to them. I remember this because Tracey later reminded me of it and because of that Spandau Ballet hairstyle. I didn't mention their previous visit. If I had, I would've heard about it later so I know this much is true.
     The duo sat at table 15 on Tuesday, when I seated them, and again on Wednesday, when I delivered their chow. Tracey waited on them both times. On Thursday, I answered the phone. Nothing unusual about that, I do it all the time. The caller was a woman who asked to speak to a manager. I told her I'd hunt her one down and asked who was calling. In a nice, even tone of voice, in which I detected neither rancor or irritation, she said, "This is Mrs. Philastus Hurlbut and I have a complaint." I wracked my brain for a second as to whether I'd recently fucked up a to-go order for anybody with a name like Philastus Hurlbut and couldn't recall such. Then I went and fetched key-hourly manager Veranda B.
     Veranda took the call on "my" phone, the one I take most of the Curveside orders on. I went about my bidniss, walking past Veranda and her discussion a couple of times. I overheard little snippets of the conversation, Veranda saying things like, "um-hmm," and "yes ma'am." After four or five minutes, the call came to an end.
     According to Mrs. Hurlbut, she'd come in on Wednesday with her husband. They'd been enthusiatically greeted and welcomed back by Tracey, who remembered them from the day before. However, on the previous day, the man who'd lunched with Mrs. Hurlbut wasn't her husband but her boyfriend. Apparently, this caused Wednesday's lunch to be a less-than-pleasant experience and later, a bit of dischord at home. Tracey says the two guys sure looked alike to her, mostly just recalling Mrs. Hurlbut's 'do, but upon reflection, she allows as to how the husband was perhaps a little heavier, darker complected, older and maybe a little less attractive than the boyfriend. I remember Mrs. Hurlbut and her Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark hairstyle had a dude with her both days but can't recall anything about him.
     Our company's always harping about how we need more regulars and remembering clients who've visited before and greeting them warmly is strongly encouraged. Tracey did nothing wrong and isn't in any trouble or anything. Mrs. Hurlbut contended that it wasn't any of Tracey's business who'd been in the restaurant the previous day nor her place to say anything about it. What the fuck ever. Tracey says she got a good tip from them on Tuesday and nothing on Wednesday.

Woes of Joe's (repost) ©2012 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

       Hey, I'm kind of in the weeds here. Can one of y'all maybe cruise through station three with a water pitcher? That'd be great. And if you'll get a greet on Table 63 for me, it'll about catch me up. So you're looking for a long-overdue new episode of These American Servers™? Ha ha, good luck with that! Tell ya what, help me get out of the tall grass here and I'll try and have one for ya next week, just in time for ya to have something to be really thankful for. Meanwhile, here's a righteous repost for ya! You're welcome.

     First off, I want to let y’all know that at about a quarter after eleven tonight, when I silently wished the Los Angeles Clippers’ plane would crash on its way back to Cali , I immediately unwished it. I certainly want that to not happen. The only misfortune I want them to suffer is that they lose their next four games, starting Wednesday. That deeply felt but only momentarily yearned-for thought was just that: a thought that popped into my mind after a very disappointing loss in a playoff game by one of the only two teams I’m truly emotionally invested in. I couldn’t help it! My hoops heroes had a huge lead which they proceeded to start blowing right after I got home and tuned in about halfway through the fourth quarter. That’s probably the worst of my recent woes but it ain’t the only one.

     The radio in my car went out. See ya later, George Noory, it looks like I won’t be listening to Coast to Coast AM® on the way home when I get cut after midnight for awhile. Good-bye, (to local alterna-rock DJ) Craven Moorehead (yeah, really).  Now when I’m rolling I only have the choice of listening to compact discs or my own thoughts and if you read the previous paragraph you can probably guess which is the better option. But I can only listen to a CD straight through. The broken Sony® product won’t let me skip around like I like to——a big reason I fell in love with the compact disc format all those years ago——I have to listen from the first track to the last. It’s lucky that I had the volume in a good place when the shit broke ‘cause I can’t adjust it. If I turn off the car with a disc playing, the music will resume where I left off but if I take the CD out or anything, it’s start all over again. So I have to bring records with me that are good all the way through. Yesterday I dug out Nothing’s Shocking by 90’s rockers Jane’s Addiction. It’s one of the first digital discs I ever bought and it’s a hell of a good album. Except right smack in the middle of it is the tediously shitty (to me) “Summertime Rolls,” that I’d forgotten about. It was either seven minutes of that crap or make another listening decision. I chose the second option. This almost-dead stereo has heretofore been pretty good and lasted almost six years. I plan to get a new system soon and I’ll consider a Sony product from Best Buy® again. It’s not the end of the world and could be worse. I’m well aware how fortunate I am; a lot of people are riding the bus and listening to nothing or, like, that shitty Joe Walsh cover by Godsmack or something. Still, it sucks.

     Last night, my first table was teenage daughter, who was cute and nice, and middle-aged mom, who wasn’t. Their bill was $36 and change. I dropped the check and said, “I’ll take that for ya whenever you‘re ready,” Mom immediately started digging in her purse so I smiled and added, “That can be now if you want,’” ‘cause it sure looked like she wanted to negotiate things right away but she gave me a look that I felt was overly stern by a good margin (what the fuck?) and hissed at me that they weren’t ready yet. So I checked back about two minutes later, just in time to see a pair of twenties being inserted into the server book.. “I’ll be right back with your change!” I grinned, thinking surely I’d be informed that wouldn’t be necessary. I’ve gotten shitty tips before, no biggie.

     But no. Mom said, “OK,” so I took the check presenter out of their eyeshot and put the $3.30 in it and dropped It at the table. They thanked me, the daughter pleasantly, the mom a little grudgingly, and left. Shortly after, I looked to see that I’d been left a whole dollar. I’m extremely skeptical about Karma existing but if it does, Ms. Lady might have just purchased herself a nice chunk of it.

     The new restaurant is right next to a large mall.  There’s also a pretty big hotel and a “business campus” (whatever the fuck that is) there. The mall and the other ordeal both had something going on last week on Saturday. On Friday, we were told to park at the mile-away school and ride the employee shuttle that the mall allegedly provides because it was going to be very difficult to get into our parking lot and that mall security would very likely turn area workers away in favor of customers. I went to the school, getting there 30 minutes before my scheduled clock-in time, figuring that’d be plenty of time to get the promised shuttle and be at work a little early, like I like to be. There was exactly ONE other car in the parking lot when I arrived. I didn’t know what to do. I thought for a minute and decided to hoof it. I didn’t want trying to drive over there to cause me any problems. It was a nice day and I could see my destination from where I was. I know how to get to work fine but otherwise don’t know  that area of town real well. I got across the interstate OK but the “business campus” I had to cut through was cock-blocking like it was trying to win the Vezina Trophy or something, with a lot of fences and “DO NOT ENTER” signs and shit like that. I felt like I was in a large maze. I didn’t run, ‘cause fuck that, but I started walking pretty fast. I made it on time but it was hella close. And when I got to work, I saw that the lot was full but not anywhere near totally  full. All of my co-workers just parked like usual. I asked a couple of them and they all just drove over to work when they saw the school’s empty parking lot. I mentioned the situation to a manager and got a story about how they were just telling us what the property’s owners had said to them and a mumbled apology that I felt lacked sufficient sincerity. Then after working a pretty grueling waitshift, I had to walk the mile or so back to my whip

Like Acid and Oil on a Madman's Face ©2012 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

     If you sit in my station or read These American Servers™, you'll experience at least one commonality among the two activities: all you'll perceive are some mediocre results and not how much I put into either endeavor. That isn't to say I put in a lot or anything, just more than people who might momentarily ponder the subject probably think. Not so much today's installment, though. I've always come up with at least one rough draft of each episode before I serve it up to ya and this one's no different. But I'm devoting just a little less time and effort to this baby. There're reasons for that. I'll probably share 'em with y'all in future episodes. Just so ya know.
     ANYWAY, I just started a new PM gig—again, more on that (maybe) in future editions of These American Servers!—my third in that time slot this year. It's cool; I needed a job and they were kind enough to hire me. Like your manager kept saying ad nauseum back in about 2007 or so, it is what it is. You never know what situations &/or opportunities might arise but for now I plan to hang onto this at least 'til midwinter.
     Tonight ended the end of my first full week out of training here. I was assigned what they consider a power station. It's got a fourtop, two deuces and a table that'll easily seat up to ten adults. "Joe," my manager grinned, "do ya think you're ready for that badass section?" I assured her that I did think so and that I'd do my best.
     A 15 rolled in. Eleven of them went to my big table. The other four were put at two deuces in another waiter's station. They should have been seated at my open fourtop but that's not my call to make. The five little children in the party all went to my table. So did the one person in the group I disliked on sight: the scowling individual who looked like ghetto Troy Polamalu with a bad attitude (he turned out to be a pleasant, easy-going sort and my bad for being judgmental).
     Everybody seemed pretty cool. They ran me some but nothing outside of what you should normally expect if you're a server. Nobody was an A-hole and my co-worker who shared the party with me and I were gratified to see that our group seemed to enjoy themselves and their dining experience. Oh yeah, and we were told up front that it'd all be one check.
     When they were done and the ticket was requested, I had to hunt down a manager to consolidate the tables onto one check. This was done. Everything was now on my sever number. The total bill—only one beer was ordered and remember, five of them were kids—was $182.53. I gave the check to the woman who asked for it. She took it to a gentleman who was obviously well into Social Security age and they perused it. From what I overheard, they were looking for mistakes, made by my co-worker or me. I don't have a problem with that; nobody's perfect. Just don't glare up at me like I'm some kind of bad guy out to fuck you over while you're doing your ciphering. They didn't glare or uncover any errors.
     Ms. Lady gave me the presenter with the ticket for $182.53 and two crisp hundred-dollar bills. "I'll be right back with your change," I smiled, thinking I'd at least be told that wouldn't be necessary and pretty hopeful that someone might cough up a couple of fives or something on top of it.
    But instead, she chirped, "OK," so I made the change, put it into the server book and gave it to her, then disappeared into the kitchen. I hadn't discussed it with jones who'd waited on about 30% of the party with me but I'd already decided that, come what may, I'd give him half of whatever we got and just pay all the taxes and tipout myself. Fuck it.
     They slowly got up, stretched, gathered up their stuff and the kids and departed. About that time, I strolled out of the kitchen. The woman who'd paid caught my eye, smiled big and pointed to the server book on the table. A moment later, they were gone. I looked into the check presenter. It contained a whopping eight bucks. It was kind of a slow night and my tentop never got sat again.

Comfortably Dumb ©2012 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

     I was already at work the other night when my work-friend Melanie showed up for her shift. She headed my way. "Hiya!" I said.
     She looked up at me with her big pretty brown eyes and grinned. "I am so stoned!" she whispered.
     I used to come to work with a bad hangover on at least a third of my shifts. I kind of regret how much alcohol I used to consume but oh well. And to this day if there's a can of whipped cream in the kitchen, empty of product but still charged with nitrous oxide, lemme at it! If you woof that shit down, it'll actually get you pretty fucked up but only for less than five minutes. If marijuana made me feel like N²O from food-service brand dessert topping does, I'd be hittin' the bong right now instead of composing the drivel you're currently perusing  (and thanks, btw).
     So other than those two exceptions—one really, since I've dialed back the boozing considerably—I don't consume anything intoxicating before or during my waitshifts. High (ha ha) on the list of fun substances for me to not be on while I'm slinging chow is cannabis and I've never worked a restaurant shift under its influence. Except for the one time I did.
     My friend Reilly and I were waiters at the same independent restaurant. One Tuesday afternoon he showed up at my door a couple of hours before our mutual clock-in time of 5:00. "Can I ride in with you today?" he asked. That was no problem but we still had a good chunk of time to kill before we had to leave. Reilly reached into his ever-present duffel and pulled out a big bag of dank, sticky buds. "Dude!" he exclaimed, "This is like, the best weed I've ever had in my life!" which was an impressive endorsement, coming from an inveterate stoner like Reilly.
     I declined Reilly's offer to partake—remember,I had a shift that night—but my girlfriend didn't. I sat there while they put a nice dent in Reilly's stash. A couple of neighbors showed up, bringing their own badass ganja. I watched as joints and bong hits were enjoyed like it was a 1978 prom night in La Jolla. American Beauty, or maybe it was something by Pink Floyd, played in the background as sweet, funky smoke permeated the tiny apartment.
     When it was time to go, Reilly asked if he could spark up another doobie in my car on the way. America's evil laws being what they are, that's something I never let anyone do ever. But I was in a strange yet pleasant mood, so I told him it was OK, "just this once." When we arrived and I strolled across the parking lot, I realized something: I was pretty fucking high! I'd actually gotten a contact high, which I'd never previously thought was possible. Uh-oh! I knew how to deal if I'd been hung over but this was something new (at work, not in my personal life) that I wasn't ready for at all. I was very apprehensive as I approached the 'staurant but I'm a big grown-up. I'd deal with it and try my best.
     I shouldn't have worried. Even though we were pretty busy and  went on a wait there for awhile, I had one of my three or four best waitshifts ever! All my clients were real nice. I was mellow and chill, yet remarkably efficient. I did almost no fucking up and what little I did I recovered from nicely. It was like playing a video game called Waiting Tables® and kicking its ass! Everyone involved was happy and I made great tips.
     I volunteered to close that night and my contact high was pretty much gone by the time I finally left work. And I've never been high at work since. How come? I'm not really sure; it's just something I don't do and that's that, I guess. But I've got a couple of hours to kill before my shift tonight. If any of y'all are holding and want a ride in, give me a call!

The Mexican Hat ©2012 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

     Conversing with Sid the bartender caused the memories to come flooding back. The shit all went down on a Saturday night. Paula, our main PM bartender, had her kids that weekend so instead of closing on the floor like usual, I got to tend bar. It was pretty busy. I got some nice tippage, all of which I kept throwing into a vessel we lovingly referred to as the Mexican hat, although I'm pretty sure it was really just a Chinese basket.
     It was a long-ass bar, not circular. We had the service well at one end of it, to-go at the other. In between those, my narrow workspace. When I was facing my barflies, I had a wall behind me. On the other side of that wall was the kitchen. There was a little window in the wall that served as a passway. And there was a swinging door to the kitchen as well, right next to the POS register, my till and that aforementioned tip recepticle, the Mexican hat.
     It was a cool shift, I got some good money. The only thing a little out of the ordinary was that we had a new cook working that night. He stuck his head through my swinging door a few times to ask me stuff. Those brief convos seemed kind of unnecessary but really, I didn't give them much thought.We eventually closed. I stocked and cleaned. I did a checkout and turned in my drawer. Even though I was a hard-core partier in those days, I wasn't that night. I clocked out and went straight home. A couple of hours later, I realized I'd forgotten to transfer the money from the Mexican hat to my pocket. Oh fuck!
     I was off lunch the next day but I got up and went in anyway. I went in at 7:00 AM, when I knew the manager and a couple of cooks would be the first to arrive. I went behind the bar with great trepidation and stared into the Mexican hat. It was empty.
     Well, what can ya do? I don't know exactly how much I lost out on but a very conservative estimate would be a hundred bucks. Fortunately, it was the middle of the month and in no way at the time was it make-or-break money for me or anything. Still, it hella sucked.
     I never found out what happened to that cashish. I strongly suspect that the chatty new cook helped himself to it from the Mexican hat after I'd left the store. Hell, maybe he took it before I left. He's the only person on that night's shift with good bar access for whom I can't confidently vouchsafe their honesty. Looking back, he stuck his head through the bar door a lot that evening. A couple of days after the incident, he consumed a shift meal at my bar and told me an unsolicited sad story about how he and his wife were having problems and their daughter has sickle cell and his car was fucking up.
     That Saturday night was a long time ago. I've worked a lot of Saturday nights since then, including this one just past. Not at my usual night job but at my usual day job; I picked up a closing PM waitshift there. Future episodes of These American Servers'll probably tell more about that. Anyway, a pretty good shift for me, decent tips and no major difficulties. Just before I left the building I asked Sid, that evening's closing bartender, if he'd done OK. He hadn't. In fact, due to a shortage in his till that he had to make up, Sid was walking with a negative twelve dollars. He had a good attitude about it, he laughed a little and said, "Oh well."
     I asked if he had any idea what happened. He didn't know for sure but shared a very plausible theory about how he'd been the victim of Dallas, an affable, overweight, kind of slovenly young co-worker of ours who's a major stoner. I don't know Dallas very well—or if he's guilty or not—but my opinion of him just improved slightly. I previously wouldn't have thought him imbued with the cunning and self-motivation necessary to steal anything.

     Are there any unusual tip jars or suspected shyster-ass motherfuckers where you work?

Corporate Picnics ©2012 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

     Did ya see the most recent previous episode of These American Servers™  ("Fun New Drinking Games," September, 2012)? It's a righteous repost. When it originally appeared it showed up in the Google searches of several people who were looking for "monday night football drinking games" and like that. So I decided to rerun it this year when Monday Night Football® came back. This time, you know how many search engine hits it got? Precisely bupkus. Oh well.
     How about the installment immediately preceding it ("Hogging the Parking," August, 2012)? That one did a letter better; a couple of obviously super-cool intelligent people read it and commented! One of them chose to remain anonymous and wanted to know what Corporate Picnics are, I guess being as how that episode mentioned them. Corporate Picnics are when a good-sized work group, like a doctors' office or a passel of attorneys or something, calls in a big to-go order. They're usually one check, thank God, but that gets made up for by oceans of special mods. These things usually get phoned or faxed in during the rush. There tends to be a lot of other bovine cabins accompanying them, like the clients wanting their actual names—instead of just the name of the menu item—on their opaque chow boxes. Once in awhile if it's a slow to-go shift I'll yearn for a Corporate Picnic but usually they happen when I'm already pretty busy and cause me to plunge even deeper into the weeds. On the plus side, most, although certainly not all, of the people who pick these things up are pretty cool and it's rare that I get a less-than-adequate tip on one.
     Incidentally—no brag, just fact—I invented the term "Corporate Picnic," at least so far as I know. I don't recall reading or hearing it anywhere before I ever first said it. My co-workers, and probably you if you work in a restaurant, knew right away what it meant when it premiered and some of them even got a little chuckle out of it.

Fun New Drinking Games ©2011 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

      In honor of ESPN's Monday Night Football, and pro football in general, starting back up, here's a (slightly modified) righteous repost from last year that was kind of popular. And by "kind of popular," I really mean "nobody saw it." If you haven't ever checked it out, it's new to you, right? Enjoy!


     Do you ever play drinking games? For example, there's Monday Night Football. Watch Titans at Chargers, for instance, and every time Joe Buck or Mike Tirico or whoever, says, "First down San Diego!" everybody takes a drink. Then there's Fox News, where every time one of their resident douchebags says "Democrat" when they should have said "Democratic," or disses President Obama, your whole crew has to down a shot. I think it's safe to say that either of these drinking games will get anyone playing it fucked up pretty quick and there are a whole lot of other variations out there.
     I don't play drinking games, even when I'm hanging out with people who are. I binge at my own pace and get wasted just fine, thank you. Neither do I advocate drinking games. I think they encourage individuals who already like over-consuming alcohol to get even more hammered than they would if left to their own devices. But if folks are going to play them anyway, I want some of that market share! So here's an awesome new drinking game called These American Servers™. Play at your own risk.
     Everybody get out their internet-connected device. Log onto your favorite search engine. I like Startpage because of their privacy claims, and Google works pretty well too. Have someone call out a phrase or a title from These American Servers™. The first one to find a  reference to my internet column gets to make everybody else take a drink. Or you can deny the others a drink and have one yourself. Remember, and this is very important, you have to actually click on the link to These American Servers or your win isn't official.
     Try different search engines. If you want an easy, fast-paced game, go with Google Blogs. If you're trying to not get too blitzed too early, see what Yahoo or ixquick have for ya. They're not as friendly to These American Servers as some of the others are. Maybe you could see what Chinese Google has to offer.
     Whatever alcohol you imbibe when playing These American Servers is up to you. Perhaps the Chili's crew in Opelika, Alabama enjoy the game with 40 ounce jugs of Schlitz® Malt Liquor after work and you might have a good time with those. Watch out though. That shit is way more powerful than the weak-ass  "light"  beers that so many people are into these days.
     Please don't operate a motor vehicle if you've been playing These American Servers or while you're playing These American Servers. If you run across any rumors that poor, talented-yet-troubled entertainer Whitney Houston was playing These American Servers this past February 11th, please disregard them because they're probably not true.
     "But Joe," I might be asked if anyone actually read this, "I really want to play These American Servers, but ever since I read your excellent post from December of 2010 entitled "A Righteous Proposal," where you advocate a boycott of adult beverages until America ends its fucktarded "War on Drugs," I've given up drinking. Is there anything that I can do?"
     Well thanks for joining me, my hypothetical brother or sister. Just so you know, I haven't consumed any alcohol since that post went up either and I applaud you for being part of the solution instead of the problem. Together, we can make a difference. As a matter of fact, I do have a couple of suggestions about that. Instead of using Colt 45® say, or bourbon, you could substitute dankity-dank bong hits! Or maybe swap the booze for Caffeiene-Free Diet Pepsi®. Of course, if you go with that last one, you and your friends are probably some irredeemable wussies.

Hogging the Parking ©2012 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

     It was crazy fucking busy at my store a couple of Fridays ago. Like every Friday, I was working Curveside™ to-go. Alone. If you're new to These American Servers™—and these days, who isn't?—Curveside is the gimmick where you phone in your to-go order and I put it together and bring it out to your ride. Most of your full-service, corporate casual dining restaurant-type chains have something similar, by whatever name they call it.
     When I got to work at the usual time, 10:30 AM, there were a lot of Curveside orders already phoned in, written down and stuck to my register—mostly featuring really shitty handwriting—including a couple of massive Corporate Picnics with oceans of special mods. I was getting weeded as soon as I clocked in and we didn't even open for 30 more minutes.
     At this store, I'm lucky to have competent managers who're (whores?) not skittish about jumping into the mix if they're needed and helping out. They help me plenty and I appreciate it. However, a lot of the time, they're busy eating the weeds of other employees or handling various crucial situations and I'm left to play my position as best I can without a lot of assistance from anyone.
     When you're working Curveside, you frequently get those eager motherfuckers who pull up way before their quoted time. It's usually not a big deal but that Friday it was like the trendy, latest thing that all the cool kids were into. Fortunately, everybody was pretty chill. I'd smile and tell them, "Hi! I wasn't expecting you for another 15 (or whatever) minutes," and they'd be OK. Except that by hogging the parking, they were cockblocking hungry motorists whose orders were ready. Most of these victims had the good sense and telecommunications to call and tell me where they'd found parking and I was able to get them taken care of. I dealt with it but all the extra steps ate up precious seconds.
     At one point during the busiest part of the whole ordeal, a nice, pretty attractive blonde, mid-30's, ordered and pulled up at the appointed time. I got her order out to her, negotiated commerce and made her some change. She commenced to johnsoning around with the ones and fives she'd received. It looked like I was in line for some tippage. I was so trying to not crash and burn that I inwardly frowned and said "fuck it" and outwardly smiled and said "thank you!" and hauled my ass back to the kitchen to bag up more orders. I felt really bad when, two or three minutes later, I was hustling out of the kitchen with several satchels of to-go grub and my lady had gotten out of her silver 2008 Hyundai® Elantra® and walked into the store so as to give me four dollars. She's a nice person; her name's Joy. I seriously hope and expect Joy's not reading this but if you are, thank you Joy. That was very kind and you didn't have to do it.

Alleged Fan ©2012 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

     There were three of them, two men and a woman. They got seated up near the front, table 13 I think it was. One of them was clad in a golf-type shirt with his company's logo on it and the other two in more conservative business attire. They had a briefcase open and a lot of paperwork. It was pretty obvious that they were reps, or something like that, for a product called Arizona Iced Tea®.
     Their lunch was some kind of business confab so I played unobtrusive, silent server as much as possible. When they were through enjoying their entrees, they agreed to my suggestion that they share a dessert. After that was finished, they sat and conversed for maybe 15 minutes and then requested the single check. Just a nice, normal table during the slow afternoon. No big deal.
     I ran the plastic and returned with it. I thanked them and invited them to visit us again. I'd seen Arizona Iced Tea displayed at my neighborhood ShittyMart™ although I'd never actually purchased any. Just for fun, I said something like, "Hey, I got a can of that tea the other day," and named the store. "It's really good!" and witnessed three pairs of eyes light up.
     They were an easy table and nice people so I figured I'd be adequately compensated for my efforts but wasn't anticipating anything out of the ordinary. When I returned to bus my trio's vacated table, I looked at the voucher. I'd been left 12 bucks on a $40 check.

     It looks like Willard "Mittens" Romney has selected a running mate. I thought it was going to be Governor Fatass (R-NJ) but instead it's a weaselly Minnesota congressdude and alleged fan of Rage Against The Machine named Paul Ryan. I've thought of a moniker for their unholy pairing, you can use it if you want. I think it'd be great if it caught on with the general public although I'm well aware that, arising as it does from my struggling internet column here, that's very unlikely. Anyway, let call them the "Double Douchebag Ticket!"
     And just in case you're wondering, Arizona Iced Tea offers some diet varieties. I've since tried it and like it pretty well.

Kind of a Close Call ©2012 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

     Hi! Here's a guest post for ya, it's from Joe Sixtop over at These American Servers™. Oh, hang on a second. It's not a guest post. Sorry about that, it's getting to be a habit. The previous pair of episodes immediately prior to this one were guest posts. And I'm really, really glad they were.
     My neighbor, Jakey G, is about to move. Not to another part of town but several states away. He knocks on my door just a little more often than I'd like but otherwise I kind of hate to see him go. He's told me about his plans and frankly, I think they're pretty retarded and I've told him so. He seems not to have amassed sufficient resources for the relo and he's pretty vague about what he's trying to make happen. Even though I fear they won't, I really hope things go well for my friend. If you get a minute to think a good thought for him, that'd be great.
     Anyway, the other night when we were both off from our respective jobs, Jake asked me to help him set up a Craigslist account. Which is kind of like if Helen Keller asked Ray Charles to drive them somewhere but hey, he needs to sell a lot of his stuff and I'll see what I can do. My internet at the crib has been kind of messed up here lately and Jakey G doesn't have the internet at his place at all. So I was like, "Dude. Let's grab my laptop and go over to Mickey D's® and use their wifi."
     Do you have These American Servers set as your homepage? If not, I'm afraid you're not wringing every last drop of golden goodness out of what the internet has to offer you my friend and I encourage you to get with the program. I had it set as mine but not anymore. If you want to keep something a secret, don't let anybody in on it. I knew what my homepage was when I went to grab wifi but I also knew that McDonald's®, like a lot of "free" hotspots, has their little disclaimer pop up when you log on instead of what your computer usually does at home so I was unconcerned about being busted.
     It took several minutes but we set him up an account and placed an ad. But at one point during the ordeal, the page we were after wouldn't load. So I hit "REFRESH." Guess what popped up? That's right: These American Servers. Uh-oh. I acted like it weren't no thing but inside I was like, "Oh fuck!"
     Jakey G looked at the screen before I could navigate away. "These American Servers. What's that? Who's David Hayden?" That being a guest post saved my ass twice. The first time was when I got to serve up something actually, you know, good to y'all instead of the usual crizzap from yours truly and the second was when my name wasn't on it. I casually acted like I didn't know anything or give a rat's ass about it and returned to the task at hand. Whew!
     Jakey G's a good guy and if I asked him to keep things on the DL for me, I'm sure he'd try. Of course, he wouldn't care about my little project here or my anonymity nearly as much as I do. I just vastly prefer that nobody in this town (besides me) is aware of my struggling internet column. If Jake had glimpsed my name, it'd probably have sparked some questions, maybe even a later search engine query or two. As it stands now though, I think you could ask him about it and he probably wouldn't remember the incident at all and if he did, couldn't tell you what website popped up if the correct answer came with a hundred-dollar prize.

     Lucky for me, my buddy obviously doesn't read any server blogs but that's no reason you shouldn't! I highly recommend, for example, that you check what delights Terry Everton has to offer you at  Working Stiff Review and then there's David Hayden, who's been a ginormant help to me and These American Servers but please don't hold that against him. His myriad projects, sheltered beneath the nurturing umbrella that is The Hospitality Formula are required reading for anyone who cares at least a little about our challenging industry. Thanks again, guys!

The People That You Meet ©2012 by David Hayden all rights reserved

     Once again, it's a real good guest post! This one courtesy of David Hayden over at The Hospitality Formula. Thanks, bro!


One of the remarkable things about spending the better part of two decades in the restaurant business is the people you meet along the way.  I have former co-workers who are Doctors, Lawyers, and very successful business owners.  There is something about the restaurant industry that draws people with talent and ambition.  It is always nice to see a former server achieve their aspirations and move ahead in the careers of their choice.  Sometimes you even get a chance to wait on them again.  While it may seem awkward to do so, that feeling is dwarfed be the sense of pride you have in playing some small part in watching their rise to success.

It is the people that remain in the industry that always fascinate me.  I am endlessly inspired by the people who would be successful in any career they choose, but choose to stay in the restaurant industry.  The ones who stay do so out of a passion for the business and the unrivaled ability to make an impact on the lives of others.  Foregoing wealth and status for the ability to put a smile on someone’s face is one of the noblest callings in the world.  Those are the people I truly admire.

People like Penny Shultz.  To say that Penny is beloved is to say that George Washington is mildly respected.  She is the confidant, cheerleader, and counselor to countless regulars at the bar she has called home for over 20 years.  I’ve known Penny for most of those years and she is one of my most cherished friends.  She never forgets a face and nothing makes you feel more special than being welcomed like her best friend when you pull up a stool at her bar.  The compassion she shows for those who bring their problems to her and the excitement she shares with the success of others is remarkable.  At some of the lowest moments of my life, Penny was there to make me feel that everything would be alright and hundreds of other people could say the same thing. 

Then there is Scott Henze.  There might be a few people in Kansas City that don’t know Scott Henze, but I haven’t met many.  I have never asked Scott for the shirt off his back, but I am pretty certain the only delay in him giving it to me would be taking the time to iron it first.  Scott is the most patient server I have ever met and can turn even the gruffest guest into a friend.  His sincerity is easily shown to others.  This is probably why Scott is like the Yelp of the city.  My car recently died.  I had some money set aside, but not enough for anything nice.  I definitely had no time or transportation to go shopping.  Scott made a call and had his friend Pete on the phone.  Two days later Pete was at the restaurant to show me my new convertible.  I would have never imagined I could afford a car that was this nice.  I probably couldn’t have, but Pete knew I was friends with Scott and financed the difference with no interest and no rush on paying it off.  Being a friend of Scott’s comes with credit approval and discounted rates.  This is also something I will always extend to Scott’s friends.  That is all the recommendation a person will ever need.

I really wish everyone in this business could meet Chef Jasper Mirabile.  Jasper loves this business more than anyone I have ever met.  It was like the man was born to be a Chef.  He runs the restaurant named after his father in a manner that must constantly earn him smiles from his first mentor.  He is a tireless cheerleader and advocate for the entire community.  His Facebook page is filled with mentions of other restaurants.  His radio show provides publicity to small restaurants that could never afford it on their own.  He is an advocate for the community and the community loves him in return.  I can imagine that it must be frustrating for his staff to have every guest that comes through the door know the owner.  I don’t think he would have it any other way.  To meet Jasper and encounter his seemingly limitless optimism and enthusiasm makes everyone he meets a new friend.

I am certain that any of these people could have succeeded in any other industry.  They have passion, drive, and the sincere desire to improve the lives of others.  What makes them special to me is that each passed up those opportunities for the ability to keep bringing smiles to the faces of others.  No one ever gets rich in this business, but I am not sure money is any of their primary concerns.  They have a passion for this industry, my industry, and their examples inspire me every day.

     David's got a Restaurant Marketing Plan that'll drive traffic like you won't believe! If you've got anything, especially an independent restaurant, to promote, you owe it to yourself to check it out. You're welcome! 

Crapped Out on the Delayed Postage Front c2012 by Terry Everton all rights reserved

     This is a real good episode of These American Servers. It's a good story, funny and well-written. So it must be a guest post, right? Right! Thanks to Terry over at Working Stiff Review for this one.


 Barney came walking back into the living room from his kitchen holding a sandwich baggie and a bottle of cheap scotch. “I’m gonna teach that fuckin’ post office a thing or two about losin’ peoples unemployment checks, “ he announced.

 He took a pull off the bottle and his entire body trembled as he swallowed. I don’t think he’d been entirely sober since he’d been fired from the restaurant eight weeks ago. He handed the bottle to me and I had a tug off it as well. Nasty shit, but effective. Sometimes being a cheap drunk is the best you can do.

 The whole thing started with a psycho bitch on table 23. It was girl’s night out, and she and her friend had come in for dinner smelling of designer perfume spiked with an air of pretense. No big deal. I dealt with her kind on numerous occasions during any given shift. Pretend that they’re the center of the universe for a couple of hours and they’ll feel like they’ve gotten their money’s worth, leave you a big tip and be on their merry way to torture some unsuspecting hormonal hard-ons at the club across the street.

 Everything started out just fine. After working their way through two overpriced Grey Goose cosmos apiece as well as a Brie appetizer and Caesar salads, they had both settled in to a nice glass of chardonnay while waiting for their entrees to finish cooking. The food runner delivered their food while I was telling a four top about the nightly specials. After writing the four top’s orders down, I turned to make sure everything was okay with the two resident princesses.

 “Ladies, is everything cooked to your satisfaction?”

 Crickets. Nothing. Silence so deafening a pin hitting the ground would have registered on the Richter scale.

 After standing there waiting for a response for what damn near seemed forever,she thrusted her plate in my general direction without looking at me and said, “This is absolutely, positively the most disgusting thing I’ve ever put in my mouth! Tell your chef he’s lucky I’m giving him a second chance.”

 I resisted swinging at the softball she lobbed me regarding the history of what had been in her mouth. “I’m so terribly sorry, Madam,” was what I went with instead, taking the offensive Halibut Buerre Blanc with Haricot Vert Almondine from her and escorting it back to the kitchen.

 Now here’s the deal about sending food back to the kitchen. If we fuck something up, we’ll own it as the day is long. If your New York Strip comes out medium well instead of medium rare, it’s our bad and we’ll fix it no questions asked. Hell, we’ll even throw in a complimentary cocktail as an apology while we recook the damn thing. If, however, you order the escargot and throw a bitch fit when the chef sends out snails, then you basically deserve the taste of the dishwasher’s snot you’re enjoying with your chipotle mayo when the refire hits your table.

 Barney, our executive chef, was in the weeds. Dinner orders were rapid-firing out of the printer faster than the expeditor could get them hung and the entire kitchen crew was beginning to get that deer in the headlights look they wore when they found themselves knee-deep in the shit without waders on. The restaurant was full and we were on an hour wait, which meant the kitchen was walking the tightrope between getting everything out perfectly within a reasonable amount of time or crashing uncontrollably into the abyss of 45-minute cook times and pissed off patrons. It was the critical time you sometimes see in the back of the house when success depends on everyone working in zen-like cohesion, and the slightest unexpected curve ball can potentially capsize us toward comping copious amounts of food and giving away our profits just to keep people happy.
 So I wound up and threw the curve ball.

 “Hey Barney,” I yell over the kitchen chaos. “I need a halibut refire for 23 on the fly!” In restaurant linguistics, “on the fly” means I need the motherfucker as soon as yesterday. It’s the one phrase that invariably sends already-semi-stable line cooks over the edge and takes temperamental chefs to the brink of grabbing butcher knives and running through the front of the house with thoughts of slicing and dicing. On the fly orders cut directly to the front of the production line, meaning that the poor slob who’s already been waiting five minutes too long for his filet mignon gets elbowed back another half step, risking pissing him off as well.

 Barney looked up at me, sweat dripping from his eyelashes. “What the fuck? What the hell was wrong with it?”

 I showed him the partially-picked-at fish. “I dunno, man. Don’t hate the messenger. This chick says it’s the worst thing she’s ever put in her mouth.”

 Barney picked up the halibut, briefly examining it before slapping it back down on the plate, scattering the buerre blanc overboard and splattering onto his chef coat. “Goddamn puta madre! I’ll give the fucking bitch something to put in her mouth!” I write the refire ticket, hand it to the expo, and Barney works his pissed-off magic, getting the new entrée out in record time. The runner gets it to the table, and away we go for round two. As is customary, I wait until she takes the first bite before approaching her to make sure the second time’s a charm.

 “Madam, is everything to your liking this time?” Now, ninety nine percent of the time guests are satisfied with recooks. Whether it’s correcting a genuine kitchen fuck up, a server who ordered the wrong thing or placating a control freak who wasn’t going to be happy with the first thing that came out no matter what, the majority of customers are genuinely appreciative of the second effort and move forward with their dining experience from there.

 Enter the other one percent.

 The air around her was heavy with the whiff of pretense. “I’m not sure where you found your chef, but maybe you should send him back to Denny’s where he came from,” she huffed while holding the second halibut out for me to rescue her from.

 At this point I had to jump in and try and save the poor entitled bitch from herself. “Madam, may I ask what exactly about your meal that isn’t to your liking?”

 She sighed so heavily I was amazed she had any oxygen left to speak with. “My dog eats better than this, that’s what the problem is! You tell your chef I’d be embarrassed if I was him to let this sort of crap come out of my kitchen!”

  “Perhaps I could recommend something else that might be a bit more to your liking,” I suggested.

 Oops. Crossed the line on that one. At that point her face turned bright green, her eyes bulged from their sockets and her head began twirling uncontrollably 360 degrees round and round until it resembled a rickety carnival ride like the ones you find during the summer in the parking lots of discount shopping malls. She spat blood, dripped ooze and puked bile – all in my general direction. “Look here waiter, I know what I want and what I want it to taste like, and this isn’t it! Now you take this back and tell your chef to make me the halibut just like it’s described on your menu. And I don’t intend to pay for it by now, either.”

 “Yes, Madam. Right away.”

 I was about to enter Dante’s lost tenth circle of hell. I walked the second god-forsakenly awful halibut back to the kitchen and deposited it directly in the center of the ring of fire. I knew that the words which were about to exit my mouth were going to have potential brimstonesque ramifications, but I was caught in the purgatory between oh shit and fuck me with a pitchfork with no chance of redemption in sight.

 “Uh, Barney…I gotta refire on 23. She says it tastes like dog food.”

 It took two line cooks and a pantry chef to restrain Barney from going out into the dining room and introducing himself to the ladies on table 23. This was after he had thrown the second returned entrée across the kitchen, shattering the plate it was on against the wall. It was also after he had a meat cleaver wrestled from him and a rolling pin knocked out of his hand. The last thing I remember hearing as I was walking back out into the dining room was, “Tell that goddamn bitch I’m gonna send her out a halibut she’ll never fucking forget!”

 I was refilling the coffees on table 24 when it went down. Right after psycho bitch bit into her third halibut, she let out a scream while spitting her food out on the floor next to her table. I turned around and saw that she had stood up and was pointing down at entrée number three. “OMIGOD THERE’S SPIT IN MY FUCKING FOOD!” She proceeded to throw up over what was left of her food, sending the rest of the diners around her into a standing frenzy of their own wondering if they too had been nibbling on some wayward rogue phlegm. Psycho bitch’s girlfriend started crying and screaming too as her dress was covered in halibut vomit, and several surrounding patrons threw down their napkins on top of their plates in disgust and left without paying while the GM ran around trying to prevent the entire restaurant from going up in flames.

You’ve got to hand it to Barney; he was a man of his word.

 Since his dismissal, he had been calling me several times a week leaving messages on my voicemail stating his desire to get together so he could apologize to me in person. I knew better. What he was really doing was scrounging for juicy tidbits about the state of the restaurant, how the lawsuit with psycho bitch was progressing and whether he was going to be held financially liable for the thousands of dollars it cost the owners to buy off the other patrons that night to keep them from suing as well. Against my better judgment, I finally agreed to meet him one day after work after about two months had passed in the hopes that he’d stop calling me.

 When I showed up at his apartment he answered the door in his boxer shorts and a stained t-shirt. He hadn’t shaved in what looked like a week, and I couldn’t really be sure when he had last set foot in a shower. He was drinking cheap scotch straight from the bottle and was ranting and raving about how the post office kept losing his unemployment checks. Paranoia was closing in on him, sending him a little closer to the edge than he inherently already was.

 He took the plastic baggie into the bathroom, and several loud grunts later emerged with it filled with what appeared to be several freshly birthed turds. “Those bastards think they can go around fuckin’ with people’s unemployment money…Well, I’m gonna teach ‘em a lesson they ain’t never gonna forget, that’s for sure!”
 He opened a drawer in his coffee table and began rummaging around through the disorganization. “Fuck, I know it’s in here somewhere,” he grunted. After several more moments of random shuffling he announced, “Ah ha, found it,” and held up a lint-covered postage stamp. He licked it, lint and all, and stuck it to the poop-filled baggie. “I’ll be back in a sec,” he told me as he headed out the door to the street side mailbox that sat in front of his apartment complex.

 I sat there by myself, not entirely sure how to feel. So I did what any sane man in such a quandary would. I took another pull off the scotch bottle, lifting a silent toast to not having yet gone off the deep end entirely myself as well as to the regularly scheduled five o’clock mail pickup.

- Terry Everton
http://www.terryeverton.net/

She Hate Me! ©2012 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

     The new restaurant had recently opened for business. I was one of the servers who opened it. Although lots of people surely disagree, I feel like I already know how to wait tables. When you start a new server job you kind of have to learn how to wait tables there. So for me, the first week or so at a new gig, there's some trial & errorness going on. I like to have what I'll need with me as much as possible, crap like inkpens, lighters, a table crumber if we're swanky, a server book and a wine opener. The powers-that-be at this company have some of their own requirements. They want dessert menus presented slightly before the clients have quite finished their entrees. They're real big on us dropping the check, in a nice presenter, when dessert is delivered or immediately after it's apparent that no more money can be extracted from the diners.
     So I'm thinking that I can carry all my printed-up tickets in my server book. I'll need another server book to use as a check presenter. And I guess I gotta carry a dessert menu around too. There's not enough room for all that in the shitty aprons we're supplied with. So, just experimenting, I tried something. I stuck a check presenter down my pants. It felt really good when I put it on "vibrate."
     You already know you can't put a check presenter on vibrate! I stuck it down the back of my pants. It's 9 1/2" by 5" ( get your mind out of the gutter about the dimensions of what's in my pants, I'm talking about the check presenter!) and the stuck-in-britches part is only about an inch of that. I got the idea from having seen, over the years, other servers do it, including at least two at this restaurant. It's not crazy comfortable and I'm not too hyped about the way it looks. I was just trying something to see how it'd work. If totally left to my own devices, I'd probably have abandoned the experiment after a couple of shifts, if not sooner.
     So it was a busy night at a new restaurant. I needed something from the salad side of the kitchen. I'd rung it in but several minutes had ticked by and I'd seen no sign of it. I spoke to our salad chef, Dee Dee, about it. She was completely unaware of my order. I expressed how seriously I needed it. There was some urgency in my voice and words but I didn't cuss or get all johnsonskull about it—I know better than to get on the bad side of the kitchen crew—and besides, Dee Dee Ramone (as I've affectionately dubbed her) and I are good work friends and totally cool. She hustled up and got my salad (or whatever it was) out to me with a quickness; I thanked her profusely and all was well.
     Several minutes afterwards I was pulled aside by Assistant Manager Renata. She accompanied her impressive scowl with a very unpleasant tone of voice. "Joe. Three things," she hissed. I was taken to task about the check presenter behind my back. I removed it. What's the big deal? Then she corrected me about the way I had my apron tied, a very minor point of procedure that I hadn't been made aware of in training. Then she told me, "I heard the way you talked to Dee Dee. YOU DON'T TALK TO MY COOKS THAT WAY! EVER!"
     What the fuck? I honestly feel like I didn't talk badly to anyone. I know I didn't cuss or level any personal attacks or anything. I'd stressed how seriously I needed my order (which had been properly turned in and was really important I get) and I make no apologies for that. I sought Dee Dee out later, to make sure we were cool. She was her usual jocular self, smiling and laughing. Everything seemed so OK between us, and has remained so since, that I didn't even ask about our earlier situation or mention Renata.

I Haze Because I Care ©2012 by David Hayden all rights reserved

Back in 1995 I gathered up the courage to walk into a neighborhood bar and grill with my resume in hand and ask for a job.  I applied to be a buser, but the manager decided since my resume was relatively free of errors that I could probably handle being a server.  In the 17 years since I have worked for more lousy chains and swept more peanut shells of the floor than I care to remember.  I have also published a book on serving, write half a dozen or so restaurant blogs, have back-to-back best server awards, and as a result work at a pretty swanky restaurant.  I paid my dues in this industry to get to where I am.

This is why I always find a perverse joy in being asked to train some 20 year old student that my boss feels has “potential.”  My first instinct is to question whether this potential is horizontal or vertical, but I don’t make the hiring decisions.  My job is to turn this wet behind the ears rookie who was serving shots at a college bar last week into a professional server in under a week.  More importantly, I am tasked with bringing them onto the team as a respected peer.

In all reality I was probably cleaning up this new server’s cheerios off the floor of my station when I was their age, so my patience is worn thin by the thought of it.  I will train them because I will be the one cleaning up their messes in the future if they lack the necessary skills to keep up with us.  Earning them the respect of the team is a more daunting task.  This task is most easily achieved with a little hazing.

Now I know some of you are instantly turned off by that word and equate hazing to bullying.  I wouldn’t disagree with you.  I would also say that reaction is exactly the reason why it works.

Personally I have taken a fair amount of joy in watching a new server methodically water all of the fake plants in the restaurant.  It makes me smile to send a server back to grab the “left-handed squeegee sharpener” from a storage closet that doesn’t exist.  The facial expression of the restaurant manager next door has to be priceless when he is asked for a gallon of “beer gas.”  Nothing is better for team morale than standing around watching a clueless trainee try to empty the water from a coffee maker that is hooked up to the water line.  Maybe I am a jerk, but there is a method to my madness.

Two things happen after one of these pranks has been pulled.  The first is that the new staff member can demonstrate that they have a sense of humor and are serious about their job by coming in the next day.  The second is that the rest of the staff feels sorry for the new person that has been “bullied.”  That sympathy rids the staff of animosity and starts the respect building process.   

I’m not calling this a perfect system.  Neither is the system that led me to be training someone who feels classy because they have graduated from Boone's Farm® to White Zinfandel.  In a perfect world, I would have been a cute blonde so I could have “potential” when I was 20.  In the real world, I had to earn respect and so do they.  Even if it means bringing the bacon sifter down from the attic.
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     Author David Hayden is a man of many accomplishments, not the least of which is being the first person in the history of the world to have multiple guest posts on These American Servers™! Actually, now that I think about it, that probably is the least. But he's got a new venture, his Restaurant Marketing Plan, which will be an invaluable resource for anyone who's got a restaurant (or really, anything) to promote and  the good sense to click on the link!

Tedious Prattling ©2012 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

     Before I serve ya the delicious entree that is this episode of These American Servers™ , I'm going to drop off an appetizer of a disclaimer at the computer that is metaphorically your table. It concerns the fact that I've been kind of slack about creating new episodes of my little internet column here. When I was a young boy, my grandmother always used to say, "If yer gonna have a server blog, you need to post something on it from time to time." She said that a lot and she never said anything else. I'm pretty sure it's what ultimately got her sent to "the home." That and the fact that it was 1979 and we had no idea what the fuck she was talking about. Anyway, looking back I realize that her tedious prattling contained some prescient wisdom and I promise to seriously consider the possibility of maybe trying to post something on here a little more often if I can get around to it.

     For almost a year and up until recently I worked nights at an eatery I dubbed the weediest restaurant in America. The company was kind of struggling and they were way too focused on costs. Plus they issued a buttload of coupons, which probably drove traffic some but mostly attracted the cheap-ass contingent in droves. When they added a "Handy Tip Guide" (March, 2012), with fucked-up gratuity per-centages suggested, to the bottom of the guest checks, I knew it was time to bail, so I did.
     I think the concept behind the weediest restaurant in America is fairly strong. Corporate's just way too concerned with not spending any money and it'll be their fault, not that of the cooks, servers, hostesses or managers, if the chain goes under, which is very likely to happen soon as far as I'm concerned. We mostly had pretty good managers at my store, a couple of them were real good and I don't blame them much for the shittiness. I accuse the entire culture of the organization, fostered by the brain trust over at corporate headquarters.
     There were some good things about the weediest restaurant in America too. One being that I got along with the managers and they all seemed to be at least pretty OK with having me on the team. Dale, the assistant manager in charge of servers, a good manager and a good guy, had this to say, and I quote verbatim, as I cashed out on my last shift of my two weeks' notice there: "Joe, you're an awesome guy. We'll miss ya and you can come back anytime." Not trying to brag, but that's the kind of thing I'm used to at my various jobs. That's why, at the new place, it's a little disconcerting to have a manager there that fucking hates my guts.

Here Are Some Suggestions by Laura Marvin

This episode is a guest post.

Anyone who has worked as a server will know that it can be taxing but lucrative work. Whether you are working within fast food outlets, cafes, swanky restaurants or hotel catering, the tips you receive can often eclipse your hourly wage. But it is important to remember that customers will only reward you generously when the service you provide is of a high standard. There is etiquette to serving and waiting so here are some tips on how to do it well and ensure that at the end of the week your tip jar is overflowing:
Be Accurate
Being accurate and well informed is the best way to put customers at ease and convey a professional image of yourself and your establishment. Learn the menu so that if customers ask questions you can have a quick and definite answer. Also take the time to clarify any orders or requests that you take – messing up an order is a sure fire way to ruin a customers dining experience. If you aren’t sure about something, don’t lie or bluff. And if asked to recommend any dishes then give accurate and truthful descriptions rather than simply picking the most expensive thing on the menu – you don’t want your customers to be underwhelmed by your suggestions.
Be Friendly (but not overbearing)
Knowing your boundaries is important in serving, although the level of your friendliness and style of serving will depend greatly on the type of establishment that you work in. Sometimes it is best to let the customer define the boundaries of their contact with you. Some people will want to chat with you whereas others prefer to be left alone. Similarly, some will want speedy service where others will want a slower, more relaxed service and ask you to explain everything. Either way, one of the greatest faux pas within serving is being invasive so you should try and maintain a professional relationship with the customer by avoiding physical contact, over familiar conversation and pestering them – a quick check on their table is important but after that let them signal if they need you.
Be Alert
Using your peripheral vision is key in serving. Sometimes customers will want to attract your attention with a simple nod or wave of the hand. Scanning the room regularly will help you pick up on these signals and avoid the irritation of customers having you rush by when they need your service. You should also make regular circuits of the room to give customers the opportunity to stop you should they need to. Being focused and alert will also avoid any mistakes with orders so in short, do not turn up for work overly tired or hungover!
Be Professional
Knowing the etiquette of dining is important. You should remove used plates, glasses and cutlery after they are finished with as it is unpleasant for customers to be surrounded by dirty dishes for long periods of time. But be aware that you should wait until everyone on the table has finished before removing these. It is considered bad etiquette to remove them sooner as the remaining diners may feel pressured to hurry their meals. If there is food left on the plate but the person looks like they have finished, always ask before attempting to take their dishes away. At the end of the meal always ask if there is anything else you can get for the table before offering the check; you don’t want to look like you are rushing the customers out so that you can get the next party in. Remember, never ask the customer is they want change – just give them it and let them choose if/how much they want to tip you.
Be Positive
Even if you don’t feel it, maintaining a happy, positive attitude and smart appearance is important in serving. Nobody wants to be served by a surly faced waiter/waitress with a bad attitude. If you look like you’re having a great time then there’s a higher chance they will too. Never fight over tables with other waiting staff and leave any bad moods or personal issues at the door. If you find that business is slow and you don’t have many people to wait on then find something else to do – there are always dishes to clean! Being productive will not only make your shift go quickly but will show your employer that you can use your initiative and are eager to work.

Testosterone Replenishment Theory ©2012 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

     I'm going to start off by telling you that everything seems to still work OK, you know, down there. I'm a very privacy-minded individual and I'm only including this disclaimer to quench any prurient curiosity that might have been piqued by the title of today's episode, the reason for which I'll probably meander my way to here in a minute. That's all I'll be serving up about my sex life for now. If you want more on that subject you'll just have to peruse These American Servers After Dark™, my spicy new adult restaurant-centric internet column, set to begin beta testing in late July, 2014. For now, I'll coutinue honoring my pledge to you: that this, the original These American Servers™, remains the most wholesome, family-friendly server blog on the entire motherfucking web!
     ANYWAY, now that we've established what I'm not stressed about, I'll tell ya what does have me majorly worried, and that's up here. I've been scatterbraining at work a lot more than I'm accustomed to here lately and frankly, I'm a little scared. For most of my life now I've yearned for a way to get out of the restaurant business yet still have money. Now I just want to retain enough mental acuity to be able to hang onto my tenuous foothold in the industry.
     Some of y'all might know that at my day job I primarily work Curveside™ To-Go, where clients phone in orders that I bring out to their vehicles. I've been working that position for years, gradually replacing my wait, bar and host shifts with Curveside and, while far from perfect, I've got evidence that I'm pretty good at it. I bust my ass to make sure that my clients get their orders on time and correctly. We get a call or two a week from malcontents who are unhappy with the character of their purchases but that's on the kitchen or the company itself. Several months and sometimes literally years go by between called in complaints about shit that's my fault.
     One day last week I put a Bruschetta Chicken Rigatoni in a bag when it should have been a Southwest Grilled Chicken. The other two-thirds of the order was right. I remember the pair of young, junior executive-type guys who picked it up. We never heard back from them. Perhaps the fuck-up went unnoticed or they didn't care; our rigatoni is real good.
     Then a dude called in two burgers and a sweet tea. He got his proper order but I gave him someone else's similar check for seven dollars more than he should have been charged. I told my boss about it after I realized my error. I volunteered to make up the difference out of my own pocket if she could fix Jones's credit card charge. She tried real hard but couldn't make it happen, which I think is some bullshit on the part of the damn National Cash Register® company. I feel bad about the situation but don't know what else can be done.
     I put the wrong dessert in the sack of chow that I sold to a regular customer who's kind of persnickity but pretty nice and a good tipper. I have her phone number and called it when I realized what had happened and left a voicemail but we haven't heard back from her. I'm mad at myself for screwing up and hope I haven't cost the company a few hundred dollars in annual sales and me some nice tips.
     There've been a few more little brain farts here recently but I can't remember what they were right now, and no, that's not a lame attempt at humor (although I guess it is a little funny). Oh yeah. Now I remember. Three times in the last month my drawer has come up short, each time to the tune of about five or six bucks. My drawers never come up short. If that sounds like a lame pick-up line, well it is, but right now I'm talking about cash handling. Most of my Reaganesque behavior has happened at my day job but early this month at night I was taking care of my three tables I had when my fourth got sat right under my nose and I didn't realize it for several minutes until a co-worker called it to my attention. I blamed the door whores—sorry about that but ya gotta do what ya gotta do—and won the clients over and got a nice tip and all was well but uh-oh!
     ANYHOW, "What's all this got to do with male hormones?" might be the question posed by anyone whose eyes haven't glazed over or wisely clicked the link to Life on a Cocktail Napkin. OK, I'm a kind of regular listener to a late-evening talk radio show called Coast to Coast AM®. The program runs all night and they advertise all kinds of crazy shit on there. Several of their sponsors are currently flogging testosterone like it was a new flavor of Pepsi®. It's not really testosterone, of course. It's some kind of "proprietary blend" that allegedly increases testoserone production in the bodies of men who consume it. The ads mostly claim to boost sexual capabilities and to a lesser extent weight loss but they also promise to increase mental strength and that's right in my wheelhouse just now. It's possible that I got a year's worth of fucking up done in less than a month and that my recent difficulties are just a statistical anomoly. But if they turn out not to be, I might call an 800 number soon and make a purchase. I hope it doesn't come to that, for several reasons, not the least being that right now I can't seem to find my credit card.


     If you're a guy in your 40's (or, really, anybody) and you have some words of wisdom on this subject or want some sympathetic eyes to glom your own forgetful foibles, I'd love to hear from you.

Oh! Those Woes of Joe's ©2012 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

 

     First off, I want to let y’all know that at about a quarter after eleven tonight, when I silently wished the Los Angeles Clippers’ plane would crash on its way back to Cali , I immediately unwished it. I certainly want that to not happen. The only misfortune I want them to suffer is that they lose their next four games, starting Wednesday. That deeply felt but only momentarily yearned-for thought was just that: a thought that popped into my mind after a very disappointing loss in a playoff game by one of the only two teams I’m truly emotionally invested in. I couldn’t help it! My hoops heroes had a huge lead which they proceeded to start blowing right after I got home and tuned in about halfway through the fourth quarter. That’s probably the worst of my recent woes but it ain’t the only one.

     The radio in my car went out. See ya later, George Noory, it looks like I won’t be listening to Coast to Coast AM® on the way home when I get cut after midnight for awhile. Good-bye, (to local alterna-rock DJ) Craven Moorehead (yeah, really).  Now when I’m rolling I only have the choice of listening to compact discs or my own thoughts and if you read the previous paragraph you can probably guess which is the better option. But I can only listen to a CD straight through. The broken Sony® product won’t let me skip around like I like to——a big reason I fell in love with the compact disc format all those years ago——I have to listen from the first track to the last. It’s lucky that I had the volume in a good place when the shit broke ‘cause I can’t adjust it. If I turn off the car with a disc playing, the music will resume where I left off but if I take the CD out or anything, it’s start all over again. So I have to bring records with me that are good all the way through. Yesterday I dug out Nothing’s Shocking by 90’s rockers Jane’s Addiction. It’s one of the first digital discs I ever bought and it’s a hell of a good album. Except right smack in the middle of it is the tediously shitty (to me) “Summertime Rolls,” that I’d forgotten about. It was either seven minutes of that crap or make another listening decision. I chose the second option. This almost-dead stereo has heretofore been pretty good and lasted almost six years. I plan to get a new system soon and I’ll consider a Sony product from Best Buy® again. It’s not the end of the world and could be worse. I’m well aware how fortunate I am; a lot of people are riding the bus and listening to nothing or, like, that shitty Joe Walsh cover by Godsmack or something. Still, it sucks..

     Last night, my first table was teenage daughter, who was cute and nice, and middle-aged mom, who wasn’t. Their bill was $36 and change. I dropped the check and said, “I’ll take that for ya whenever you‘re ready,” Mom immediately started digging in her purse so I smiled and added, “That can be now if you want,’” ‘cause it sure looked like she wanted to negotiate things right away but she gave me a look that I felt was overly stern by a good margin (what the fuck?) and hissed at me that they weren’t ready yet. So I checked back about two minutes later, just in time to see a pair of twenties being inserted into the server book.. “I’ll be right back with your change!” I grinned, thinking surely I’d be informed that wouldn’t be necessary. I’ve gotten shitty tips before, no biggie.

     But no. Mom said, “OK,” so I took the check presenter out of their eyeshot and put the $3.30 in it and dropped It at the table. They thanked me, the daughter pleasantly, the mom a little grudgingly, and left. Shortly after, I looked to see that I’d been left a whole dollar. I’m extremely skeptical about Karma existing but if it does, Ms. Lady might have just purchased herself a nice chunk of it.

     The new restaurant is right next to a large mall.  There’s also a pretty big hotel and a “business campus” (whatever the fuck that is) there. The mall and the other ordeal both had something going on last week on Saturday. On Friday, we were told to park at the mile-away school and ride the employee shuttle that the mall allegedly provides because it was going to be very difficult to get into our parking lot and that mall security would very likely turn area workers away in favor of customers. I went to the school, getting there 30 minutes before my scheduled clock-in time, figuring that’d be plenty of time to get the promised shuttle and be at work a little early, like I like to be. There was exactly ONE other car in the parking lot when I arrived. I didn’t know what to do. I thought for a minute and decided to hoof it. I didn’t want trying to drive over there to cause me any problems. It was a nice day and I could see my destination from where I was. I know how to get to work fine but otherwise don’t know  that area of town real well. I got across the interstate OK but the “business campus” I had to cut through was cock-blocking like it was trying to win the Vezina Trophy or something, with a lot of fences and “DO NOT ENTER” signs and shit like that.. I felt like I was in a large maze. I didn’t run, ‘cause fuck that, but I started walking pretty fast. I made it on time but it was hella close. And when I got to work, I saw that the lot was full but not anywhere near totally  full. All of my co-workers just parked like usual. I asked a couple of them and they all just drove over to work when they saw the school’s empty parking lot. I mentioned the situation to a manager and got a story about how they were just telling us what the property’s owners had said to them and a mumbled apology that I felt lacked sufficient sincerity. Then after working a pretty grueling waitshift, I had to walk the mile or so back to my whip