This past weekend was one of those weekends when I couldn’t help but ask myself why I became a server. How much disrespect did I have to put up with until I could shove my words down the yelling-person-opposite-me’s throat? How many snapping fingers did I have to put up with until I could mount myself onto one of the table tops and tell everyone to get out? How many veto cards did I get to play when I wanted to refuse servicing a table? How many times did I have to take back perfectly good food until I could charge the table for it anyway?
It’s nine o’clock, our last rush of the night. I look over my shoulder and standing in the doorway is a line up of hungry people that stretches into the parking lot (okay not really, but I can’t see the end of the line). My feet are throbbing; my stomach is growling. I need a break. Bam! My 12 table section is instantly full.
Fast forward to the middle of the rush and the barista station is overflowing. They can’t keep up. Tables are beginning to wait 10 minutes for a latte. Turn the corner and the cooks are sweating but aren’t nearly as busy as the barista’s. Their orders are coming up before the drinks. This isn’t good. I’m basically begging for forgiveness at every table for the wait. Many don’t sympathise. One table of ladies are debating between ordering one or two pizzas. I point to a table in the back corner also eating pizza and say that’s how big one will be. They look. I say if they ordered two pizzas it would be a filling meal and they would have plenty of leftovers. They get excited and agree to leftovers. I bring out their first pizza. Their lips curl up, their eyebrows scrunch together and their noses wrinkle at me as if I’m insane. Oh god; help me now. I can hear them bitching as I walk away. I bring out the second. The second pizza tray doesn’t even graze the table and all three of them are telling me I’m wrong. The attacks keep coming; I don’t even get a chance to remind them of the fact that they saw how big the pizza would be (only ten inches, I can eat a whole one myself) and agreed they wanted to have leftovers. All I hear is you, you! YOU! I take my chance to butt in with an apology for the miscommunication (server rule #1, always take the blame). They ignore me and continue their rant. I’m fuming. With more authority this time I say, with as much control as possible, “So you don’t want this?” Not the best way to say it, but people are staring now. I’ve had it. They are the fourth complaining table of the rush. I don’t even want to confront my manager with another complaint. I do. She’s pissed, but on my side. Sick of discounting bills she confronts the table. They say I offered to take the pizza back – did I really have a choice? They don’t pay for the second pizza.
Luckily, however, the cranky table behind them notices the pizza ladies’ behaviour and becomes patient and friendly. They tip very nicely and one lady at the end even pulls me aside to thank me for my service. I thank her but wonder if she knew how much I appreciated her extra step to thank me after a hellish night.
It’s 11 now and the final announcement that we’re closed goes off. I couldn’t be happier, but I’m cringing at the mess and the realization that I have to stay an extra hour and a half to set up the Sunday brunch. Pizza ladies are one of the last to leave. Their final words: “Well sorry.”
(Ever wonder if you have reason to complain? Check out a Winnipeg server of 25 years’ tips to you in today’s Winnipeg Free Press http://www.winnipegfreepress.com/life/Eat-drink-and-be-contrary-95875814.html.)
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