Flotsam

Amanda asked which was my best and which was my worst job. This was a remarkably easy question to answer, possibly because I have not had all that many jobs, and possibly because time spent as a waitress invariably inspires strong feelings. For me the feelings are both strong and contradictory–waitressing jobs were both the best and the worst I have had.

I worked as a waitress for five years. I started working at a small diner my junior year of high school, and in my senior year I stopped going to class in order to pick up a few coveted lunch shifts. I was a model employee–I did a lot of cleaning without being asked, and reorganized the entire stockroom. Of course I was on large quantities of speed at the time, which may have had something to do with my diligence. But even after high school, when I had long since quit all of that, I brought a zeal to waitressing that I never mustered for anything else, save writing.
The year after high school I deferred my admission to Sarah Mawr and waited tables full time–10 am to 5pm at my customary diner, then 6pm to 11 at a fancy restaurant across the street. Usually I worked six days a week, but sometimes it was seven.
It was physically exhausting. It was one of the best years of my life.

Curiously, I hated my job at the fancy restaurant: the customers were rude(r) and time consuming and they expected obsequiousness rather than the wisecracking that was the mode d’etre at the diner. The pace was too slow for my taste, and while the individual tips were larger, the tables turned over so rarely that it didn’t matter. I could never get the corks out of the wine bottles, they made us use trays instread of my patented three-plate-per-arm system, and I once accidentally stabbed a fellow waiter with a bread knife. Most importantly, I missed the camaraderie that came with working at a diner where most of my customers were regulars. Eventually I quit my job at Fancy Restaurant, replacing my lost hours with evening shifts at the diner.

So, Fancy Restaurant was my worst job ever. But the diner remains my best. The other lunch rush waitress, Roni, was fifty-ish and had worked there for fifteen years, presumably with the same filthy mouth and laminated prayer card pinned to her apron. We liked each other immensely. After I left for college, she sent me care packages of tea and notebooks. And then there was my favorite regular, Munchie, who brought me flowers on my birthday and always ordered a peach malt with a raw egg in it–and coffee (sweetener, no cream). And Big Mike, the cook who swore violently whenever a customer came in and was better at crossword puzzles than anyone I have ever met. I even miss the horrible coffee. The diner closed a few years after I left, but the bar of the same name (with the same owner) remained open, and absorbed many of my co-workers.
After I returned from New York, and the magazine I worked on here in the Twin Cities had folded, I called up my old manager and got myself a job at the bar, waitressing again. It was during that time that I started a waitressing-themed newsletter. It was sort of a precursor to blogging for me. The full issues are a bit long to post here, but I’ll give you an excerpt:

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THE YOUNG AND THE WAITRESS, VOLUME ONE, ISSUE FOUR.

ASK GLADYS

Dear Gladys,
Last Saturday I was picking up a few aubergines for a little cassoulet I make, when who should spot I near the endives but the girl who waits on on me most Thursdays at this dear little place on Columbus Circle! I tell you, I just about died, I was so embarrassed. Luckily a stock boy had left several dozen crates of Clementines stacked nearby, and I was able to duck behind them before she saw me. Since then, I haven’t left my spacious home! How does one handle these situations?
Truly,
“Stymied in Scarsdale”

Dear “Stymied”,
Take a deep breath. Running in to one’s waitress is not the same as running into one’s therapist or prostitute. You have nothing to be ashamed of–nearly everyone has used the services of a waitress at one time or another, and as long as you paid your bill and tipped appropriately, running into the poor creature should not be a cause for concern. It can be an unsettling moment, to be sure, and I know that there must have been a confusion of thoughts racing through your head. “Where is her apron?” you wondered, and “Who is covering her section?” Remember, though, that most Waitresses do not live where they work, and must even leave their apartments occasionally, to buy pens, or orthopedic shoe-inserts. Next time, smile at your erstwhile server. You may even give a friendly nod, or greet them simply with “hello.”
Regards,
Gladys

Dear Gladys,
Lately, in my more contemplative moments, I have begun to wonder whether I, myself, might be a waitress. I work long hours, can carry up to five plates in my two hands, and wear an aggressively unattractive apron. I hover with a pot of coffee, I offer dessert, I clear tables. However, I have yet to receive a tip. Is this normal? I understand that the accepted tipping rate is 15%. If I am a waitress, what am I doing wrong? And if I am not a waitress, what am I? Could I have latent waitressing tendencies?
Sincerely,
“Waiting(?) In Wichita”

My Dear “Waiting,”
A Waitress without tips is like a rhinoceros sans horn, my dear. It seems more likely that you are some species of Housewife. Ask yourself the following questions:
1) Are you related to your “customers” by either blood or marriage?
2) Do your “customers” address you casually, perhaps as “Darling,” or “Mother?”
If neither of these things are the case, and you receive a paycheck in lieu of tips, you are probably a Common Maid. However, if you answered “No” to both of the above questions, and yet receive NO form of payment whatsoever, you may very well be a slave, and should seek legal advice.
Yours,
Gladys

TIP OF THE DAY:

“Whenever you have time”

“Whenever you have time” is a simple phrase that you, as a customer, may insert after any request.
Examples: “Could I get a side of mayo (whenever you have time)?”
“We’d like an extra plate (whenever you have time).”

Proper use of this phrase is almost certain to win you the devotion of that special waitress you have had your eye on. Waitresses, remember, have much in common with ordinary people. They respond favorably to displays of understanding and appreciation, and while generally alert and able to move at remarkable speeds, you would be surprised at how sluggish and unattentive a Waitress may be when provoked.

DID YOU KNOW…

Contrary to popular belief, studies show that the customer is actually right only 17% of the time.
Consider the following scenario:

“This is Not What I Ordered”
Customer, presented with a Turkey Sandwich (FF, Chips, Salad, or Coleslaw, $5.95), asserts that she, in fact, ordered a Hot Turkey Sandwich (mashed potatoes, gravy, coleslaw, $7.95).
Waitresses are trained to remember orders. This is their job. Also, they write them down for the cooks. A waitress does not just write “Turkey Sandwich” for the fun of it. Usually she has a reason, and usually that reason is that when she asked the customer “What can I get for you?” the customer said “I’ll have a Turkey Sandwich.”
Remember, on a single menu, one might find the following items:
Turkey Sandwich
Turkey Melt
Hot Turkey Sandwich
Ham and Turkey De-lite
Turkey Bacon Club

Now, which is more likely:
A) Customer, pausing a conversation just long enough to order, says “I’ll have a Turkey Sandwich” stupidly supposing that her waitress knows that in fact she does not want a Turkey Sandwich but rather a Turkey Club.
B) Highly trained waitress hears her customer say “I’ll have a Turkey Melt,” but chooses instead, for unfathomable reasons, to write “Turkey Sandwich” on the ticket.

That’s what I thought.

If waitresses were psychic, one could be vague and unspecific when ordering. “I’ll have some beef,” a customer might say, or “Bring me an appetizer.” Unfortunately, all of the information a waitress has about what you would like to eat comes from what you actually say to her. Body language, telepathy, biorhythyms–none of these are effective means of placing an order.
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This post is for Pixie.