A couple comes into my bar. He is sporting a jaunty hat. She, a major tan. "We've been drinking since noon," he informs me. My watch says it's nearly nine.
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Our restaurant's one year anniversary fell on a busy Saturday night in May. When the crowd dwindled, we popped something special and sparkly and commenced reminiscing.
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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.
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I blog by day and wait tables by night. I'm excited to bring you Served, dispatches from the front of the house. Enjoy! Before I Was a Waitress, I Was a Hostess It's a well-known fact that restaurants are constantly in need of hosts. The hosts, for reasons having to do with tradition and sexism, are typically hostesses. Hostesses are rarely hostesses forever. They come and they go. I remember my interview at what I'll call The Restaurant, an esteemed Manhattan fine-dining French place with grand chandeliers and plush forest-green tapestries on the walls. The interview was in the office, in the back. It was a different planet than the dining room: fluorescent lights, prodigious piles of papers, many people...
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I blog by day and wait tables by night. I'm excited to bring you Served, dispatches from the front of the house. Enjoy! OK. I don't have the best job in the world. I'm not deluded enough to think that waiting tables has anything to do with saving lives or sticking it to the man or changing the world. I'm also not deluded enough to think that every gig waiting tables is as pleasant as mine. That is not to say, either, that my job is painless. (Is any job painless?) You won't hear me singing its praises at 4 a.m., when I am so tired it feels like corkscrews are burrowing into my temples and my blowing out all...
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