I had an interesting day at
work. First, it was
boring. No tables. I sat around
shooting the shit with the other
servers and
pizza delivery drivers. While talking to one of the delivery drivers I noticed that he had a new mass of
bandages on his left
hand, making it look like a big, white, boxing
glove.
"Where the
hell did you get
that?"
"Oh. I
burned it."
"Oh." I thought maybe he'd spilled scalding
hot cheese on his hand.
No. He elaborated. He'd been in his car, driving around at
four in the morning, smoking a
cigarette when one of the
ashes fell into the center
console. Normally this is
mostly harmless, but becomes dangerous when your center
console is full of
gunpowder and
magnesium from dismantled
fireworks.
"!!?" I said.
As if he felt having the
stuff in the
car and lighting it on fire in the first place wasn't
stupid enough, he scooped his
bare hand into the burning, glowing
mixture to try and throw it out the window, winning him an
all expense-paid trip to the
hospital.
I figured he already
felt stupid enough without me
pointing it out to him. So I didn't.
Then, finally, the
customers began to appear. We had planned on having a party of 30, reserved a few days in advance, out on the deck. No problem. Only three servers. One of them can handle that and the other two can keep the
dining room in check. Then a party of 25 calls in, one-half hour in advance and now two of the other servers are
occupied, leaving me
everyone else who comes in to handle
by myself.
But running around like a
hamster pumped full of
cocaine didn't stop me from observing the odd events that took place there. One of the
cooks had made a
cheeseburger for the bartender's customers, and forgotten the
cheese. The
general manager pointed this out to him and he laid a slice of
American cheese on the
patty. The manager grumbled that the cheese should be
melted and the cook protested that it was melted. So they argued about it for about two minutes, both of them smiling around the corners of their mouths, before the manager peeled the
slice of cheese from the bun and
adorned the cook's shirt with it.
"You call that melted!?
See! It's not melted! Melt the
cheese! I'll
help you."
The cook and the manager set out to put another slice of cheese on the
burger but found that it had
vanished while they were arguing.
One of the other servers informed them that the
dishwasher had run off with the
burger while they were arguing, and smothered it in
jalapenos. When she asked the dishwasher
why he took the burger. He said, "It's mine." Meanwhile the
bartender began asking about the burger and the manager ran around flapping his arms
freaking out on everyone involved in the burger
incident, trying,
unsuccessfully, not to laugh.
This was somewhat similar to the situation last week when a woman at one of my tables ordered a broiled chicken
breast and they made a plate of
fried chicken for her. So they remade it, and she spent ten minutes watching her
family eat while waiting for it, only for me to go into the kitchen and have the cook tell me he didn't know where it was.
"What? What do you mean
you don't know where it is?! Didn't you make it?"
"Yeah, but Luke came in here and took it. I thought he was taking it for you?"
"What!? Luke? The
bartender Luke?"
"
Yeah.
Him."
I went into the
bar and there he was mowing the
chicken down with his
evil teeth, and I had to
explain to the
woman.
"Uh.
Sorry. They made your
chicken right this time but the
bartender is eating it now. I see your
family is done..would you like to wait another twenty minutes so your
husband can watch you eat while trying to keep your
restless children in check or shall I deny you the
chicken and simply subtract that from your bill my good
madam?"
She didn't take very kindly to the fact that I was snickering as I said this, but I couldn't
help it.
Working in a
privately-owned restaurant gives you a very
unprofessional feeling sometimes...but it's
fun.