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Served: Social Butterfly Duty

Posted by Hannah Howard, December 16, 2008 at 7:00 AM

"The next time he thanked me with a theatrical bow, I curtseyed back at him."

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

A confession: I am not a full-time server. I am barely a part-time server. I work two nights a week—18 hours, more or less.

I've just finished four nights in a row of work. Forty hours. Countless tables cleared, wiped and reset, water glasses filled and refilled, towering stacks of napkins folded. A great skyscraper of napkins.

I'm exhausted. But it's not so much from running up and down the stairs for more bottles of moscato or from being on my feet all night. It's from being on, all the time. Nice to everyone. I'm tired from having to be funny, witty, bubbly, and relentlessly, uncompromisingly hospitable all night.

And yet, this is a part of my job that I love. I'm an extrovert, definitely happiest surrounded by people. So why does 40 hours of introductions, small talk, and cheese-related banter feel utterly emotionally draining?

Last night, I worked behind the bar. A night behind the bar is made or ruined by the crowd on the other side. If the guests are nice and easygoing, my job is fantastic. If they're not, tough luck. I'm trapped. I have no choice but to listen to them ramble, rant, and bitch. I smile; I nod. I do what I have to do.

Some people want as little to do with me as possible, which is totally understandable and fine by me. I take their order and bring them their food. I say hello, goodbye, and thank you, and (usually) they follow suit. That is the extent of our relationship.

Other people expect a lot from me. They want the story of my life, or at least the story of the life of the restaurant. They want me to listen to the story of their life. This latter type tends to sit at the bar, where the bartender—that's me—is a captive receptacle for their woes and anything and everything else.

It follows that some people are quite interesting and nice, and I'm happy to hear their stories. Maybe, we'll become friends. I get a ping of excitement: a new friend! There's no question that the best part of my job has been all of the truly incredible people I have gotten to know.

Last night, there were familiar and new faces.

Friends and Strangers

Our newish chef's girlfriend came in and had the braised short rib sandwich and a glass of sauvignon blanc. A fun, chatty regular brought in two of her girlfriends for cheese. The chef of a new restaurant and their owner's assistant, who I had recently had dinner with, camped out in the corner of the bar. We reminisced about our crazy night as I served them ricotta crostini and roasted beet salad.

There was our good friend, a guy who owns a restaurant nearby, who came in for rosé with his voice teacher.

There was a group of beautiful actors celebrating the striking redhead's new part in a Broadway musical. They were vegan, so they just had wine. Lots of wine.

Expressive Thanks

A couple cozied up at the bar by the brick wall. I assumed they were married—they wore wedding rings and made their entrance with entangled hands. A few minutes later, a pretty woman joined them. The wife spent the next four (!) hours talking with her while the man flirted, chatted, and flirted some more with me. The wife seemed like she couldn't care less.

I had fun curating their meal: They had several courses paired with several glasses of wine, all of which I selected and all of which they adored. After each one, he put his hands together, as if praying, and bowed deeply.

"How do I respond to that?" I asked J., my friend and fellow server, demonstrating the guy's dancelike move.

"You should curtsey," J. said. We curtsied at each other for practice. Next time he thanked me with a theatrical bow, I curtseyed back at him. He followed suit, curtseying himself. When they left, he gave me a giant hug, many professions of love, and a yucky sloppy kiss on the back of my hand.

The Jokester

There was a guy from San Francisco who caught me leaning back for a brief second, arms crossed, staring into space.

"You look bored!" he accused.

"Then do something about it! Tell me a joke!"

He did just that. Then another. And another. They were fairly raunchy, and also fairly funny. It was my turn to reciprocate. I am a horrible rememberer of jokes, so I asked K. for assistance. She had one, but was unsure of its appropriateness.

"Well," I assured her, "he started it. I think he can handle this one."

I went over and introduced myself, as I needed his name for the punchline, which had to do with the tininess of his member. He took it well. And he laughed heartily.

"The joke was a smashing success," I reported back to K.

And There's More! Many, Many More!

This is but a small fraction of the guests I talked with last night. There was a dude who recited a seemingly endless stream of tedious statistics about Columbia, where I go to school, while staring unabashedly at my chest. There was a woman who wanted a book-report-length description of each cheese (we have about 40), yet ordered not a one. There was a young guy who heard about the mac and cheese's splendor and wanted to try it. He ordered a second one for himself, and promise that he'd be back.

But best of all, there was Erin of Serious Eats fame. She came with a friend of hers, who I hope becomes a friend of mine, and a box of freshly baked gingerbread cookies.

My dinner that night was consumed at 1:30 a.m. behind the cheese case: a big glass of cava, leftover wild-boar cacciatorini slathered in spicy mustard, and Erin's perfect, soft, spicy cookies.

Now that I have a few days off, I'm happy to recharge, read books, write my papers for school, watch movies, and spend time with my friends. Friends I choose. Friends like to spend time with because I love to, not because I'm compelled to.

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