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.
Showing posts with label The Weediest Restaurant in America. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Weediest Restaurant in America. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Sunday, January 29, 2012
The Weediest Restaurant in America™ ©2012 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved
I used to have them every night, back when I first started waiting tables, 20-plus years ago. No, I'm not talking about hangovers (although I guess I could be); I'm talking about server nightmares. You know, you've got a full station of 79 tables and the floor's covered in Super Glue®. Or the dining room's in a building way across town from the kitchen. Maybe you've had the one where you're sitting in your grandmother's lap and then the train goes through the tunnel. Hey, go ahead and forget I mentioned that last one, OK?
Anyhow, as the years have gone by, I've had fewer and fewer bad restaurant dreams, less than one a year now. Even when I start a new job I usually don't get serving nightmares about it. But I feel like I'm having them all the time here lately—when I'm awake, no less—because I work at the weediest restaurant in America.
It's not the worst restaurant I've ever worked at. I've had jobs that made me unhappier than this one does, some much more so. It's got it's good points. But always if you need something even a little out of the ordinary, and usually if you're after something totally normal, you're fucked. If the soup wells are empty or low and you go back to the Alto-Shaam® for refills, it's empty. Need some tea? The urns will be dry, as will be the pitchers, if you can even find any. If you want lemons for that tea, you're shit out of luck. When the fountain beverages run out, you have to hunt down a manager with a key in order to replenish them. I could go on. And on. And on. But you get the idea.
I joke around with my co-workers about it a lot. I've taken to calling our workplace "the weediest restaurant in America," to the considerable amusement of my fellow sufferers. Sometimes, when I'm back in the kitchen, frantically seeking something I desperately need that we're out of, I'll affect this cheesy, disc jockey kind of voice and say something like, "Thanks for calling WRIA (get it?) rockin' restaurant request line where we're cooking the platters that clatter. You say it, we serve it. Whaddya wanna hear? Full ice bins? Ooohh, sorry. We don't have that one. A manager's help? We're good, but we can't work miracles. I tell ya what, how about a double-shot o' double sat?! Hang on the line and we'll send ya life-size poster of horndog former restaurant industry lobbyist Newt Gingrich wearing nothing but a smile! Thanks for calling WRIA!"
Right now I'm only telling y'all about what it's like when we're fully staffed and the manager's ostensibly keeping an eye on things. When most everyone's cut and the cooks are trying to get a jump on their closing stuff and the MOD's in the office, holding up his life-size poster of nude Gingrich with one hand and doing the five-knuckle shuffle with the other, it gets way, way worse if you're still on. The weediest restaurant in America has two speeds: deadly slow and full-on crash and burn. Do you think your restarant is weedier than mine and feel like telling me about it?
The first week in January of this year, I got out the request book and asked off for Friday, February third through Monday, February sixth. No one else had yet requested those nights off ( I made my request about a month in advance). A couple of days ago, Dale, the manager in charge of the waitstaff at the weediest restaurant in America, approached me unbeckoned and said, "Hey buddy, I got ya those days off you requested." I thanked him very much and went about my bidniss. Tonight, next week's schedule was finally posted, and guess what? I'm on the schedule for both that Friday and Saturday night.
Anyhow, as the years have gone by, I've had fewer and fewer bad restaurant dreams, less than one a year now. Even when I start a new job I usually don't get serving nightmares about it. But I feel like I'm having them all the time here lately—when I'm awake, no less—because I work at the weediest restaurant in America.
It's not the worst restaurant I've ever worked at. I've had jobs that made me unhappier than this one does, some much more so. It's got it's good points. But always if you need something even a little out of the ordinary, and usually if you're after something totally normal, you're fucked. If the soup wells are empty or low and you go back to the Alto-Shaam® for refills, it's empty. Need some tea? The urns will be dry, as will be the pitchers, if you can even find any. If you want lemons for that tea, you're shit out of luck. When the fountain beverages run out, you have to hunt down a manager with a key in order to replenish them. I could go on. And on. And on. But you get the idea.
I joke around with my co-workers about it a lot. I've taken to calling our workplace "the weediest restaurant in America," to the considerable amusement of my fellow sufferers. Sometimes, when I'm back in the kitchen, frantically seeking something I desperately need that we're out of, I'll affect this cheesy, disc jockey kind of voice and say something like, "Thanks for calling WRIA (get it?) rockin' restaurant request line where we're cooking the platters that clatter. You say it, we serve it. Whaddya wanna hear? Full ice bins? Ooohh, sorry. We don't have that one. A manager's help? We're good, but we can't work miracles. I tell ya what, how about a double-shot o' double sat?! Hang on the line and we'll send ya life-size poster of horndog former restaurant industry lobbyist Newt Gingrich wearing nothing but a smile! Thanks for calling WRIA!"
Right now I'm only telling y'all about what it's like when we're fully staffed and the manager's ostensibly keeping an eye on things. When most everyone's cut and the cooks are trying to get a jump on their closing stuff and the MOD's in the office, holding up his life-size poster of nude Gingrich with one hand and doing the five-knuckle shuffle with the other, it gets way, way worse if you're still on. The weediest restaurant in America has two speeds: deadly slow and full-on crash and burn. Do you think your restarant is weedier than mine and feel like telling me about it?
The first week in January of this year, I got out the request book and asked off for Friday, February third through Monday, February sixth. No one else had yet requested those nights off ( I made my request about a month in advance). A couple of days ago, Dale, the manager in charge of the waitstaff at the weediest restaurant in America, approached me unbeckoned and said, "Hey buddy, I got ya those days off you requested." I thanked him very much and went about my bidniss. Tonight, next week's schedule was finally posted, and guess what? I'm on the schedule for both that Friday and Saturday night.
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