Serious Eats
Served: Kids Only, and Lessons Learned
I blog by day and wait tables by night. I'm excited to bring you Served, dispatches from the front of the house. Enjoy!
It’s kids’ night at my restaurant.
“I’ll be back to close,” says our boss B., the owner. He’s on the way to a birthday celebration for D., his friend who works with us. Our other manager is at the birthday party, too.
“We’re going to have our own crazy party while you’re gone,” I tell him.
“That’s what I’m worried about.”
J. and K. are our elders for the evening—they’re both 27. “I always forget that you’re 27,” B. says. He seems to think they’re younger.
As for me, I am the baby. I rang in my 20th birthday at my restaurant. A. made me kickass ice cream sandwiches with almond cookies and homemade buttery peach ice cream. He stuck a candle in the ice cream. I made a wish and we popped some bubbly.
“Whatever,” B. said that night, in regards to my creeping age, “you’ll always be 19 to me.”
Tonight, P. is in charge for the evening. She’s two years my senior.
“It makes the most sense because she’s the best at telling people what to do,” J. explains. Fair enough. Indeed, P. proves herself to be a fabulous manager.
P. and K. both celebrated their birthdays last week, and I will turn 21 on Thursday. Oh my.
Despite B.’s conviction of my eternal youth, I am getting older. And I hope, a bit wiser.
The advent of my favorite season, the anniversary of my birth, and the Jewish New Year make me feel like there are fresh starts and possibilities abound.
I want to embark on them, whatever they may be, with the insight I’ve garnered from the many nights I’ve spent waiting tables. Few of these things can I claim having totally mastered. After all, once you stop learning and growing, then you really are getting old.
Don’t Let them Scare You
When I had just started my waitress gig, A. informed me that the man half of the couple who had just sat down in my section was a Big NYC Restaurant Bigwig.
“Maybe you should take that table, then. I can take that one.” I pointed to some random newcomers in his half of the restaurant.
“No!” refused A., who is quite the expert server. “You’ll be great. What are you afraid of?”
What was I afraid of? If and when I got a wine query I couldn’t answer, A. had my back. Otherwise, I knew what I was doing. So I did it, and they left happy. I’m glad A. didn’t let me wuss out.
I wish I could say I’m over being intimidated. I’m still working on it. Confidence helps with everything—from writing to dealing with the unbearably pretentious, demanding, or rude. Even if I fake it, it starts to feel like the real thing. And then, eventually, it starts to be.
It’s Cool to Say No
I am too much of a people pleaser, and I came to the whole hospitality field with a conception that that is exactly my job: to please people.
Well, kind of. Some people are impossible to please.
Mr. Grumyface was one of our first regulars. He came in several times a week, and ordered the same thing, one of our signature dishes: a Cuban-esque sandwich, with two kinds of pork, two kinds of cheese, homemade pickles, and addictive chipotle aioli. It rocks, no question.
Mr. Grmupyface ordered it all the time. It must have been his hundredth sandwich when he started angrily accusing the chipotle aioli of inadequacy. It was not just a comment, it was a seemingly never-ending aioli rant that spanned the duration of his long meal. I ignored him.
A. had a much more effective approach. He firmly asked Grumpyface to stop complaining and enjoy his food. Presumptuous? Perhaps. Deserved? Totally.
Mr. Grumps did just that. He shut up, never again to grumble about our killer sandwich. He ate many, many more of them, too.
Sometimes, niceness is the appropriate response. Sometimes, it’s all wrong.
Know your Limits
No grown up night meant the staff’s imbibing started well before the sun set.
I am the closing server, so I must perform third grade level mathematical calculations at the end of the night: count the money, make sure the numbers add up. At 3 a.m., this task already taxes my groggy, exhausted brain. Proceeded by many hours of drinking? Forget it.
Also, wine does little to help my clumsy tendencies. I’m trying to break zero burgundy glasses. They are so pretty!
The Best Advice Comes from my Mom
That is: wear comfy shoes. If you’re feet are unhappy, no way can you be happy. If the shoes are just bearable now, they will be excruciating torture devices after standing in them for eight hours.
This doesn’t seem to apply to some of my coworkers, who rock the snazziest heels all night long. I have come to terms that to ensure my agony-free survival, I must save my fashionable footwear for other occasions.
Pockets are good, too, for corkscrews and things people might give you—business cards, or love letters (just kidding).