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Served: Not My Party

Posted by Hannah Howard, September 9, 2008 at 8:45 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!

Vacation over! Back to work.

I get to the restaurant to find a party in full swing. Every once in a while, we close to the public for some sort of private event: a baby shower, an engagement celebration, a business soiree.

“What’s this?” I ask K., a fellow server, as she puts down a plate of untouched hors d'oeuvres, about the people in suits and slinky dresses crowded into our little wine bar. But nobody seems to know (or care) what brand of celebration is going down with our assistance.

I am unloading my purse from my shoulder when a grumpy older gentleman requests another glass of wine and two coffee cups only half full of coffee. Now, please. How does he even know I work here?

It turns out the two half-full coffee drinkers have already asked K. for their coffee, so I have an awkward moment with their extraneous beverages. Good thing I need some caffeine badly. The only waste is dirty cup. And the unhappy man’s unhappy glare.

Parties are often good money—our owner makes sure to include a generous gratuity as part of the party throwing price. I assume they’re lucrative for the business, too. That doesn’t mean they’re fun to work.

Catering Is Another Ballgame

I love my job. I wrote about some of the reasons why: I get to play a part of people having a great night, I get to work with people I respect and love. Perhaps, though, my favorite aspect of what I do is the relationships I get to develop with our customers.

Some become friends. Others are just passing by, and it’s fun to talk to people for even a minute. I get to see a sliver of their lives. Perhaps they are visiting New York and I can point them in the direction of a cool spot. Or maybe they will tell me some strange or wonderful story that will make my night.

I love to share something delicious they’ve never had: an awesome effervescent Favorita "Fallegra" from Piedmont, a peppery Hungarian pinot noir, a cheese made with a layer of a different, fresh, gooey cheese inside. Or let them check out how perfect our chocolate cake is—dense and dark and the tiniest bit crunchy from its cocoa nibbed exterior—paired with a glass of toffee-y, roasty Madeira.

Parties need no curators; they certainly require no boisterous banter from me. So I am left to perform the less glamour table-waiting duties: the filling and refilling of glasses, the delivering of snacks, the removal of dirty dishes, the directing towards the bathroom. (Ours is a tiny Manhattan spot, and there are minimal options as to the bathroom’s potential location. Yet, finding it remains a remarkably difficult task for many!).

Depending on the event, there may be a preponderance of chewed up wads of food stuffed into squished up napkins (gross), or plates full of uneaten cheese that people are “saving.” For what?

Tension

Eating out is often a stressful activity. Are you on a bad first date? Dutifully fulfilling a painful family obligation? Dining with an obnoxious friend of a not-so-close friend? Are you breaking up during dinner? Evicting your houseguest who has overstayed his welcome by a few months? Or were you unaware that your once happily carnivorous burger buddy is now a vegan raw foodist? You are not alone. Restaurants are full of unhappy campers like you.

Parties blow up the awkward dynamics of the table to a much larger scale. The whole room becomes a bad soap opera where everyone has slept with everyone else; or maybe, just a family reunion of a less than idyllic family. After all, all families are less than idyllic. And an abundance of alcohol does not always help the situation (although it certainly can).

Catering, of course, has certain perks. There is a sense of satisfaction when an event comes to an uncatastrophic close. Actually planning a menu, a party, and a night can be a lot of fun. And there tend to be plenty of leftovers to take home.

Party To Go

But the other night, a man who had spent the night darting in-between guests and servers to snap pictures tapped K. on the shoulder.

“What does he want?” I wondered.

Turns out, his request was to take all of the leftovers home. It might be tacky, the owner conceded, but of course we’ll do it. So I outfitted myself in latex gloves, saran wrapped slices of goose breast and baguette and Mimollete, and handed the man his party doggy bag.

By seven, the coffee cups and wine glasses were cleared. The tables were hoisted upstairs from the basement, in the rain, arranged, wiped, and set. As the last party guest ambled out into the wet night, little boxed truffle in hand, the first couple plopped themselves down at the bar.

We talked about Washington, rosé, and the Greenmarket. Ok—I was back in the groove. Party over, the night could proceed.

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