Undercover Waitress: Fired!

Plus: Is Gwyneth Paltrow a good tipper? Find out...

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.

TUESDAY

3:25 p.m. Reality is malleable. This is what I’m telling myself sighingly as I begin setting up the dining room. If I cultivate the love and the light within my soul, perhaps the universe will bless me with a seamless service.

3:55 p.m. Reality may be malleable, but once again, family meal is not. Slimy-looking sausages and peppers will not help morale. I run down the block, speedwalking into Tenichi mart, attempting to salvage both my stomach and the brief window of time I’ll be allowed to sit down in the next six hours.

5:15 p.m. A shift without a sunset… working through the dead of night. I must say that starting service with the sun already down feels horrible. Not only is it affecting my circadian rhythm in a way that I am sure will take years off my life, but it is warping how time passes in a sick and twisted way. Clocks move differently in the darkness.

7:00 p.m. If you hadn’t guessed, the energy in here tonight is incredibly haunted. The spookiness only magnified as I get a closer look at who the host just sat in my section. Tonight’s equivalent of a ghost. Table 56 is now populated by my ex-boyfriend’s old roommate’s friend, who frequently responds to my Instagram stories. He’s on a presumed date with a girl whom I follow on Instagram, but don’t know if I have ever met in real life.

Serving a nodding acquaintance is one of a waitress’s most difficult challenges. It’s a confusing and sloppy social dynamic that forces you to marry your waitress and person personas while attempting to financially benefit off your charms. You suddenly go from girl to servant, friend to employee, enslaved to their whims and wishes, potentially altering the state of your casual relationship forever.

7:15 p.m. After unsuccessfully attempting to pawn them off to another server, I approach the table with dread, preparing for the “Omg! I didn’t know you worked here,” in which I desperately have to play off the amount of time I spend in this god forsaken room in order to feign being way more successful at my creative endeavors. I swiftly usher them to the drink menu, desperately trying to utilize alcohol to smooth out the awkwardness of this interaction.

7:25 p.m. While getting their orders and noting her gluten allergy, I simultaneously try and gauge how much banter I’ll have to employ to guilt them into overtipping me. He, of course, is eagerly engaged, while I can’t decide if she wants to kill herself or me.

At the end of the day, this is the West Village, and he will be the one throwing his card down, as is the drybar-Patagonia vest culture. So I put the extra effort in to throw in some of the classic canned lines. “And the chicken comes with fries… so you can’t beat that!” Words that really don’t even sound like words coming out of my mouth anymore.

8:30 p.m. I’ve successfully performed a calculated dance, maneuvering us to desert with limited table interaction. Switching off apologetic smiles as I feign business in the dining room and strategically waltzing out of the kitchen when a dish headed their way appears on the line.

But now it’s judgment day. The bomb that is the check with zero comps is about to drop. The mask of feigned friendliness will be ripped off and the pressure to tip 30% removed. There is hope, though, one saving grace in the form of the only thing we are allowed to send “Friends” (loose term) of the restaurant. A tiny swirl of ice cream.

“How bout some dessert?” I say with a big, stupid smile on my face. She’s quick to tell me they are too full and they’ll take the check. I’m screwed. I walk to the Toast iPad and hesitate. To swirl or not to swirl, that is the question. I decide to fire it, darting to another corner of the dining room as to hide the fact that I am not getting them that check they asked for.

8:45 p.m. A coworker closes them out, I avoid goodbyes by hiding in the coffee station, for once happy to return to simple waitressdom and not personhood.

10:00 p.m. A party of four West Village girls with rocks on their fingers and product worth more than I’ll make tonight in their hair are obliterated in the middle of the dining room. A tablescape of fries, little gem salad, and martinis separates the presumed Charlotte of the group from the drunkest of them, as she leans in trying to get her girl to hold it together.

But you can’t save them all. She’s gone full bobble head, swinging and swaying in her seat. On one violent downward sway, she lets it rip, puking on the floor. I alone see this, in what feels like slow motion, until her friends help her up and usher her to the bathroom, barfed Basque food all down the front of her artizia slip dress. At the Toast iPad, I inform the floor manager while simultaneously asking if I can be cut.

THURSDAY

3:25 p.m. I am late and not looking forward to this. The whole gray December thing is really stifling any forced positivity I can muster. I am keeping my headphones on for set up, listening to Lana Del Rey (which I’d argue is the most apt waitress music of all time) and wistfully dreaming of sunshine, success, and a margarita.

3:55 p.m. As I begin to drench white rice in Cholulah (the only edible option from family meal), I realize there is a stirring of activity coming from behind the host’s iPad. Interest piqued, I suddenly find myself on my feet, peering over their shoulder at the Rezy, reading a note under a random name, “This reservation is for Gwyneth Paltrow.”

I thank God for a little excitement.

4:25 p.m. As the GM lists off our VIPs for the night, I size up my coworkers and manufacture the shining feeling that out of all of us, I am the best suited to serve Ms. Paltrow. At the very least, I am the most excited.

5:00 p.m. To solidify my opportunity, I corner the GM at the Toast iPad and shamelessly yet successfully plead to be given her section. Now, this may be seen as some type of star fuckery, and in real life I’m morally outraged by the notion, but in restaurant life I am desperate for a taste of razzle dazzle, glamour, and the insider knowledge of how well Gwyneth Paltrow tips.

​And YES, fine - I have an undeniable fantasy of being so utterly charming that I am adopted, married, hired as an indentured servant, or whatever by one of these celebrities and swept away from the waitressing world.

5:05 p.m. Service starts, and I skip to the bathroom, hoping to ensure I am operating at my most beautiful. I am more than disappointed at what stares back at me in the mirror. Whatever grease is not collected in crusty stains across my yellow t-shirt seems to be in my hair. I’m looking like a lifeless Cinderella. I’ve got to do something about this.​

I beeline it for the GM and frantically inform her of our problem. There is no way in hell I am serving Gwyneth Paltrow looking like I spent 16 hours washing dishes and another 48 in a prison cell. Thankfully, she’s almost as excited about Gwyneth as I am, and in an act of mercy allows me to go to the office and retrieve a fresh T-shirt. Usually, I would be docked like $30 for this, but because it is truly out of necessity and no fault of my own (other than me being the one who spilled things all over it and did not have it laundered before this shift), she gives it to me for free.

5:20 p.m. I’ve rebraided my hair, hounded coworkers for a little blush and concealer, and thrown the old shirt in the trash. I should probably see if I have tables.

6:00 p.m.I am pulling a Princess Diaries, walking like there is a book on my head as I walk three brothy ass bowls through the dining room. “Goop Girls don’t have stains,” I whisper to my coworker as I heel-toe-heel-toe by.

6:30 p.m. I stand by the bar, an eagle eye on the door. Then, a billion-dollar blonde in a low ponytail pushes her way through the front door. I have butterflies. I run to the coffee station to catch my breath. Also, I am assuming she’ll drink bottled water and not tap.

7:00 p.m. Things are going swimmingly. Ms. Paltrow and I are laughing, she’s telling me about eating shrimp in Biarritz, I am nodding like I totally relate. She’s polished and polite as well as hungry. She needs some snacks before she has any wine, and I happily offer to get her some bites to start things off.

The sunshine coming from Table One is immediately overtaken by a cloud at the host stand. A horde of people, the teens being transformed into one big table. No, no, no, it can’t be. Not a large party. Not in my section. Not NOW. But my pained expression to the host doesn’t stop them from leading the group of 12 to my section.

7:20 p.m. After a small tantrum that got me nowhere and a pained introduction to the large party, I rush back to get Gwyneth’s wine order. Apologizing profusely for the delay, in a way that makes it a little too obvious, I am emotionally invested in our interaction.

Because she’s Gwyneth Paltrow, she’s just going to order as they go, and because I’m me (a waitress), I have to smile and nod regardless of knowing that this may set me up for failure as it completely dismantles my ability to streamline her meal.

8:00 p.m. 12 people is too many people to take to dinner. It leads to sidebar conversations, a fracturing of the group, and awkwardness over who had more of what. I really do believe that in order to truly dine together, you must share food as well as conversation. Besides, it would do us all some good to be a bit more selective about our dining partners.

That being said, the 12 top is playing a game of musical chairs in a valiant attempt to prove me wrong, making it impossible to figure out who ordered what beverage.

8:45 p.m. Reaching across the 12 top’s crowded table to clear some chicken, I look longingly at Gwyneth, as she smiles at the backwaiter graciously getting her dessert order. (Just a peppermint tea, of course.) Her stunning elegance and grace distract me as I bump the head of position 8 (formerly of position 2 fame), spilling chicken jus all down the front of my crisp yellow t-shirt.

I barely apologize for the bump, nor the splattered jus. NOT IN FRONT OF GWYNETH. I sprint to the kitchen to dump the plates in dish, then head back to the host stand to beg for a Tidestick, not keeping my expletives to a whisper.

8:50 p.m. I tend to be slightly over aggressive with the Tide stick, always resulting with a giant wet splotch where the stain used to be. When you need immediate relief, this isn’t really much of a solution. So I return to Gwyneth, delivering a tea and the check with a defeated smile.​

10:00 p.m. Of course, my last table in the restaurant is the 12-person army of belligerent drunks. I feel beaten, battered down, and am cursing their espresso martini order. A closer hesitantly comes to take them off my hands. I lean on their shoulder, wistfully staring at where Gwyneth once sat, tortured by thoughts of what could have been. If only I could have spent a little more time with her…

The tip she leaves me? 30%.

TUESDAY

7:00 p.m. It is a Tuesday at 7 p.m., and I am driving home from filming a movie in Pennsylvania when I receive an email from the GM, subject line: “REDACTED Schedule.” I am assuming this is due to the frantic texts I sent about calling out to do this job and the fact that I have been too busy to work a consistent schedule in months.

The email reads:

I wanted to reach out regarding the upcoming schedule. After some careful thought and consideration we’ve made the difficult decision to downsize a bit. In adjusting our hours and staffing needs, we will be removing you from the schedule moving forward. We will take responsibility for covering all your future published shifts.

​

It feels a bit like getting broken up with by someone who you’ve actively been trying to distance yourself from for weeks. I have two thoughts: “Whoa, I just got fired for the first time” and “Omg, I don’t have to work tomorrow!”

I respond with:

“Well, I guess this is goodbye then!”

No follow-up from the team, interestingly enough. Curious if it had to do with spilling Jus on that guy’s head, but no use dwelling on the past. For now, I am collecting unemployment and thinking of getting into Poker.

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