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Served: A Busy and Waxy Night

Posted by Hannah Howard, July 1, 2008 at 8:30 AM

I blog by day and wait tables by night. I'm excited to bring you Served, dispatches from the front of the house. Enjoy!

©iStockPhoto.com/DNY59

Last Saturday night started off so slowly that T. and P. unleashed our sidewalk chalk stash. They drew pink bottles of rosé, blue wheels of cheese, and a hopscotch course. “Get pasteurized!” they scrawled in cheery, loopy letters in front of our door. Passersby hopscotched down the sidewalk, unfazed.

Summer in restaurant world often means poky business. So it was nice to get to work a week later and find the place hopping.

I set up behind the bar and got to work. There were wine glasses to fill, plates to be cleared. I slid into my groove.

Accidents Happen

A pair of women perched themselves in front of me. I handed them menus. Somewhere mid hello, a candle, which had been sitting benignly on the bar, ricocheted in slow-mo onto the floor. On its way, it swashed a torrent of hot wax onto my dress, my legs, and my feet.

It got the cook's shoes, too.

"Shit," he said, and then, "sorry."

But it wasn't his fault. The space behind the bar is impossibly tight. The entirety of the kitchen is back there, as is the dishwasher—both machine and person. Add a bartender (that's me) and the whole thing becomes a bizarre dance, or more often, a relentless gridlock punctuated by occasional collision.

"Did I do that?" The cook asked, still apologetic, eyeing the damage.

"I don't think so," I said, "No worries. It happens."

It wasn't the mishap's cause that concerned me, it was its effect. My (new and pretty) black dress was covered with white wax.

But I didn't have time to pout. The women hadn't noticed the candle incident. Or if they had, they were unconcerned. "Can we have some water, no ice?" they chirped, "and how does the cheese work?"

I got them their iceless water and delivered my cheese spiel. I ran some food, greeted some more guests.

When I resurfaced from behind the bar, the wax had hardened into a crusty shell. I had a long night ahead in my sullied attire.

Just For a Second, I Wanted To Cry

"Don't worry," J. said, trying to be encouraging. "It looks like part of the design of the dress. You should spill wax on the other side and make it symmetrical."

"It looks like you're covered in come," T. chimed in. She was right, and I was mortified. She suggested I run to the dry cleaners across the street, where they could work some speedy magic with an iron. But they had closed for the night.

At least I'm working behind the bar, I told myself. There, the damage would be at least partially concealed. But I didn't have time to dwell. The night turned out to be a cranking Saturday, the busiest of busy.

In the Shits, Forever

I love the rhythm of a busy night. My body is one step in front of my brain. I'm asking a couple if they'd like dessert, discussing the unsolvable dilemma of truffles versus chocolate cake, while remembering the list of seven cheeses and five meats the last person I talked to rattled off. I'm punching orders into the computer, running credit cards, setting and resetting tables. I'm on autopilot, trying to keep up. Trying to ride the tide so that it doesn't all come crashing down on me. Time goes by fast.

As if it wasn't crowded enough behind the bar, the owner jumped on the line to help the cook, who was a blur of chopping knives and clanking plates. Pleating a slice of mortadella, he pondered, "How is it possible for so few tables to order this much food?" It was a good question. The tickets kept coming in. And coming.

I know the drill: I need to swig some water, I need to pee, but there is scarcely time to breathe. Just when a long-awaited exhale is looking possible, another deluge. Six people sit down, all wanting to taste different wines. Someone needs their check—now—split five ways. The bathroom and the breath will have to wait.

It was well past midnight when I got a chance to use the bathroom and pour myself a big glass of water and a bigger glass of wine. Picking at my waxy dress proved futile, as did soap and water. Whatever, I was far too exhausted to much care.

I left the cocoon of the bar and sashayed onto the floor to clear tables, by then indifferent to the sorry state of my dress. P. told me she spilled red wine all over her sheer designer shirt last week and worked the whole night in her soiled garb. I'm sure she rocked it. After all, what was her alternative?

Restaurants are messy places. Shit hits the fan; wax hits the dress. There are cuts, burns, bruises, and fights. Things break and go very, very wrong. The show must go on.

But Before I Go

At 2:30 a.m., I sit down to attempt to master the new paperwork system. It's not rocket science, but my math is not adding up. I'm having flashbacks to calc class, the numbers on the page conspiring for my demise. I'm an easy target.

I start over and try again. I don't know if my boss is getting frustrated with me, but I am sure as hell frustrated with myself.

And then, just as I'm on the brink of surrender, or tears, the numbers add up. Hallelujah! I'm still off by a dollar and change—but at this time of night, I call it success.

"I'm sorry I'm so retarded with the paperwork," I tell the owner by way of goodnight.

"We've known you a long time. You've been retarded with the paperwork for a long time. We know that about you—we still love you. Take your waxy dress home."

And that's exactly what I did.

I was covered in wax and inept at paperwork, but I had made it through a crazy night. And like P., I had (mostly) rocked it.

I know that end-of-a-crazy-night-feeling well: a mix of exhaustion, accomplishment, relief. I felt great.

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