Undercover Waitress: An Offer You Can’t Refuse

Mafia fantasies, an epic Halloween shift, making peace with the AGM, and scoring a big unexpected tip, all in a week’s work for our queen

The kitchen gets all the attention, but what about FOH? That’s where worlds collide. Our new anonymous columnist suffers the tribulations of table service for your entertainment, and perhaps enlightenment, too.

THURSDAY

3:25 p.m. Mother Nature has provided us with a perfect Noreaster, a divine act of grace that has permanently closed the outside dining area. As I approach the restaurant, I see an unhoused man has set up shop in front of the door. I decide to use the service entrance rather than start my shift off on that foot. Entering through the kitchen I see leadership huddled across the street. They wave to me — I smile awkwardly back.

3:45 p.m. As I set up the dining room, I am pulled aside by our GM. She promises me I’m not in trouble. My head believes her but my heart is pounding. There is something about being led to the back of the restaurant by your superior that feels mafia-esque, like I’m about to get got in the office.

She leads me out into the dribbling rain where the Chef/Owner (who I guess in this fantasy is ‘The Don’) is dubiously hunched in a trench coat. We huddle close while they covertly ask me about “my experience” with the AGM. I don’t hold back, recounting Napkingate with the strategic threat of tears in my eyes.

3:55 p.m. I skip back to family meal, a big old grin on my face. I make eye contact with a coworker and realize he has just had a similar experience. I grab a plate of rigatoni, pop down next to him and whisper, “it’s beginning.”

4:30 p.m. We learn that The Don will be on the floor tonight, acting as a sommelier and “another set of hands.” This is unprecedented. I am wary, not thrilled to have a looming authority figure on the floor but then I realize: He’s there to keep an eye on the AGM.

5:15 p.m. The coffee station is abuzz with whispers and theories. Do they know they are being watched?

5:25 p.m. Ok yes, they know. But it’s clear their humongous ego has gotten in the way of seeing why. Diligently moving across the floor and up all of our asses, they shoot themselves in the foot. Nitpicking, refolding napkins and aggressively lecturing, truthfully they are unloading rounds. I should feel guilty about how giddy I am watching this play out.

6:00 p.m. The Don congratulates me on outselling him on wine. He flashes a genuine smile at me as I bring up a heavy plate combo that was once a contentious issue at the pass. We are all shocked at how helpful he is and how much kinder and less sweaty he looks not under the fluorescent glow of the kitchen. There’s not a stressed-out neck vein in sight. Maybe this place ain’t so bad!

7:30 p.m. The AGM slides next to a senior server as she slices baguette for a table in her completely flat sat section. Amidst her attempt to keep up, the AGM begins a lecture on the thickness of her bread slices. The AGM is so in her face that she slices her hand with the serrated knife. I go to find her in the office, telling her to make sure the Don sees the blood and thank her for her sacrifice.

9:30 p.m. I have two tables and typically I would have already caused a stink about not being cut, but there is a silent agreement among staff to really let the AGM cook. They are notorious for keeping 15 people working for three tables, and we are all invested in letting The Don see how ridiculous it can get.

10:00 p.m. As those two tables finish their dessert in a nearly empty restaurant being served by five servers, three runners and two bussers — I am finally let go.

“We may have won” I whisper to my coworkers as I do my sidework.

FRIDAY

2:25 p.m. I have 25 minutes to pick a Halloween costume and no ideas. Earlier this week it was revealed to us that for one night and one night only we could ‘wear whatever we wanted’ to work under the guise of a Halloween costume. This is a once in a career opportunity for FOH, as we are typically sentenced to prescriptively sexless outfits designed to keep us devoid of personality or charm. I’m cursing myself for almost wasting it. I panic, tearing my room apart in an attempt to pull something together. Eventually, I just throw on a long black dress and go ham with some black eyeliner.

It’s always been my opinion that the best Halloween costumes are vague and malleable, shifting with the energy of the room. This is also a good philosophy for waitressing. If any tables ask what I am I have a variety of responses. “I’m a person, just like you”, “I’m Bellatrix Lestrange”, “I am whoever you need me to be”, “I am hungover.”

3:25 p.m. Truthfully, I am dismally hungover, suffering through a Clinical case of Open Baritis from the previous night. I’m hopeful the holiday will create space for ample libations on the floor tonight.

4:25 p.m. Lineup is full of corny Halloween jokes, we all laugh desperately, determined to make the most of working the Holiday. It’s also brought to my attention we have hired a bouncer for the night. Seems we learned a lesson during Pride, when the restaurant came under a glittery siege of blackout drunk gays needing to use the bathroom. A bouncer! What a novelty! I have three burning questions I have to ask. 1) Are we tipping him out? 2) What’s his name? 3) Will he be dressed up? All I learn is he will be arriving at 6 p.m.

5:25 p.m. One gulp of Sancerre in and I’m on a mission to make some magic tonight. Sometimes when the mood strikes me, I sincerely want my tables to have a wonderful time. Step one, get ‘em drinking. But my first table is swatting my attempts. A freshman FIT student is sequestered at table 5 with her Two Coastal Elite Parents. “Do you have any drinks with, like, electrolytes in it?” This is not the energy I was looking for. I try to point her to a sparkling lemonade, apologizing that the bar does not have cucumber. Eventually she buys what I’m selling. “That could work. Sorry I’m just super hungover.” It’s nice to know my liver and I are not alone in our disastrous state but I’m going to need her to board my train energetically or else the night could go downhill.

6:00 p.m. The bouncer arrives, his name is Jeremiah and he is not dressed up, we are unsure if he is getting tipped out but its fine I feel safe now <3.

7:00 p.m. The bartenders are dressed as Charlie’s Angels and we’ve created an incredible protocol for what I have now dubbed Angel Shots. No I know, but I’m reclaiming the term. I pretend to get a wine out of the fridge, ducking behind the bar and gulping down some prebatched martini. Not going to lie, it’s electric in here tonight.

7:30 p.m. There are few feelings worse than a true fall from grace. At the height of my waitress magic making, a table of two elderly couples decides to knock me from my waitress pedestal and humble me to my core. “Excuse me, we love the Turbot but I wouldn’t say it’s filleted.” Their glares hit me in the stomach and the whimsical world I built in my section crumbles to the ground. I explain that while yes the bone is on the plate, the fish has been filleted by the chef. They proceed to try and prove to me it’s not. I nod solemnly and walk away, doing a turn in the dining room before standing directly behind them and talking about how much they hate me. Angel Shot.

8:45 p.m. New drink order unlocked. The girlie at Table 23 asks me for a martini “Extra Strong.” I want to whisper to her, “you’re perfect to me.” I feel no need to inform her that because a martini is made up of 100 percent alcohol it is in fact always extra strong.

8:55 p.m. Addendum: I do have to inform her of this fact because soon enough she waves me down. “I asked for my martini extra strong and I’m sorry but this is not extra strong.” I nod, getting ready to explain, but she stops me with, “I would know I was a bartender when I was 21.” I want her to stay exactly how she is. I tell her we will remake it and leave it up to Charlie’s Angels to figure out.

9:15 p.m. Two girls dressed as Native Americans in the year of our lord 2025. They’re ordering shrimp cocktails and leaving a trail of feathers around the dining room. I pick one up. New costume unlocked: I am now a crow.

10:00 p.m. Jeremiah Update: He is feasting at Table 2, we aren’t tipping him out but they are giving him dinner. One of the Angels wants to get a bag. It’s time for me to go to my Halloween Party.

TUESDAY

3:55 p.m. Big mysterious vats covered in tinfoil land at table 43. The dining room is 80 percent set up, it’s time for family meal. My coworker and I play a little game before peeling back the foil. Will it be a terrifying mystery sausage or freaky chicken?

The Linecook who dropped it off, hears our predictions and stands proudly as we discover we are both wrong. He smiles. “It’s Pasta! With Clams!”

… With clams? Death sentence

When it comes to family meal, I’m no idiot. I’ve learned my lesson. Freaky chicken is chicken that has been in the fridge too long to sell, sausage is the cheapest protein they can buy that will feel some type of legal requirement to feed us.

When a surprise ingredient makes its way into one of those vats, you have to ask why.

Where the fuck did these clams come from? The gutter? You found them in the gutter in 2024?

Alas, with at least five miles of steps ahead of me in the next six hours and a really terrifying balance in my bank account, my only choice is to nimbly maneuver the suspicious clams out of the penne.

4:25 p.m. Line up has a different vibe. The one of the nicer Chef De Cuisines is at the pass tonight, he sits down next to me as the AGM calls lineup, looks like we are sitting down tonight. The AGM has been at our sister restaurant for a week or so. I did spread the rumor they were fired but sadly manifestation doesn’t always work how you want it to.

After the CDC returns to the kitchen, The AGM turns to us and begins to repent. I can’t quite look them in the eye because they are suffering through real emotions, remorse, shame, hope. There are tears being blinked back and an earnestness that plants a small seed of respect in my heart for my former (?) enemy. This may be the conclusion of napkingate.

6:30 p.m. There are beautiful evenings where God (well in this case, the Midwestern Twunk) seats nothing but angels in my section. Cozied up at Table 56 is a couple that I have decided are my new parents. As previously mentioned, our waitress outfits are entirely sexless, which makes it difficult to utilize so many classic tip boosting maneuvers. So recently I’ve experimented with pivoting, opting for the Orphan Annie angle instead. Pippi Longstocking braids, oversized everything, and a kind of tragic hope in my eyes.

7:00 p.m. My coworker doesn’t feel so good, there’s fear in his eyes and a small bead of sweat by his temple. He’s a closer and didn’t hear about the clams. Four bowls of pasta bodied by the pass, he and one of the bathrooms are about to be out of commission for a while.

7:45 p.m. Mom and Dad are wrapping up their meal. I send them an ice cream, they’ve invited me to their restaurant in Danbury, shout out Rosie’s Tomorrow off rte 84. They ask me if I’m an artist, I blink my eyes and sheepishly say yes. “We thought so.” They thank me for the hundredth time for a beautiful meal and tip me 40 percent. I miss them now as I write this.

8:45 p.m. The last reservation has been sat and it seems the AGM is really trying to make good on this apology because I get cut at a glorious 8:45 p.m. Does this mean I will make a good $100 dollars less than I anticipated? Yes. Do I have the will to continue for $100? No.

9:00 p.m. I’m saying my goodbyes at the door, when a man returns from a mid-meal smoke. He turns to us with a look that’s a mix of conspiratorial and drunk. “Hey, so… my friend over there is falling in love.” My coworker and I are instantly invested. “... with that silver fish-shaped salt container” We smile awkwardly, unsure where this is going. “What would happen if one of those went missing?”

Before we can answer he slides us both a wad of cash. “It’s yours brotha” I tell him, stuffing the cash in my pocket. He grins, thrilled. My coworker and I look at each other in disbelief, reveling in the fact that someone was stupid enough to pay us to let him steal something he truly could have just pocketed. I walk outside and take the wad of cash out my pocket, in a twist of fate, they are twenties. He gave me $100.

Undercover Waitress: Napkingate

Undercover Waitress