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
2:25 p.m. An hour before my shift, I send a “You def need me tonight, right?” text to the Floor Manager. Transparently, this is the third shift in a row I’ve tried to get out of—mostly because I’m sick, but also because there are just so many other things I’d rather be doing.
Sadly, for the third time in a row, my feeble attempts at getting cut have failed.
3:15 p.m. I arrive, foggy brained and achy, unsure of how long my voice will last. I am quickly aware I am not the only one that feels this way. Two-thirds of openers are wheezing.
I don’t know if everyone understands how gross being a waitress can be. In many ways a restaurant is a lot like a preschool. Both are hotbeds of tantrums, spilled liquids and germs. And just like a toddler you are going to get sick and you are going to get everyone sick.
4:50 p.m. Hardboiled eggs for family meal. I try to convince myself there’s an old wives’ tale that eating old eggs will cure a cold. It does not help. I resort to the deli, grabbing a powerful triptych of ginger ale, Gatorade, and chocolate, establishing stability, strength, and morale.
5:15 p.m. The host leads a group of elderly diners to my section. I shake my head. “I could kill them and it’ll be on your hands,” I tell her. It feels like biological warfare. I start wondering if there have ever been lawsuits about restaurants infecting the general public. It seriously feels like Wuhan in here.
5:45 p.m. I walk in on my other ailing coworker staring at the wall in the coffee station. We stand there stoically, feeling very sorry for ourselves. I bring up the potential lawsuit. She asks if it would be against the restaurant, or if we’d ultimately be culpable. Excellent point. I realize I don’t make enough to cover legal fees and drop it.
7:00 p.m. I watch my coworkers hungrily attack a plate of cold fries. My ailing coworker mercilessly dunks a hunk of them into the aioli and I watch as everyone else does the same. We will all be dead in a week.
7:30 p.m. My voice has entered a new level of raspiness. It sounds kinda good, I wonder if it in tandem with the glassiness of my eyes will invoke a kind of pity increase in my tip average.
8:15 p.m. I’m playing it up now. Walking slowly. Taking my time, pretending to be faint by the POS. Knocking the host out of the way, as I reach for the Advil under the host stand. People begin to tell me I don’t look so good. It’s working.
8:45 p.m. The Floor manager has begun coughing as well. I bribe them with some medicated cough drops and hurry myself off to bed.
Saturday
4:50 p.m. After three days off, I have defeated Tuesday’s illness and am feeling strong, noble, brave, and ready to serve some imbeciles on a rainy Saturday night. Did I sleep for a total of three hours last night? Absolutely. But I’m off that shocking high that comes once you’ve finally conquered an illness and are ready to rumble.
5:20 p.m. Okay, actually, I might have still been drunk upon arrival. I’m immediately tasked with our Chef de Cuisine’s baby mama’s birthday celebration.
There’s a unique stress that comes with serving a member of BOH, heightened by their partner’s inevitable R.B.F. For one, I’m acutely aware that this man both knows and cares far more about the food than I ever will.
I get off to a rocky start: his in-laws won’t take a seat at the table, and I approach too early with water. His wife is drinking some made-up cocktail the bartenders concocted for her. Everyone asks what’s in it, and I have no idea. Even after the bartender explains, my missing REM swipes it right outta my brain. I return to the table, panic, and lie: “Hibiscus and orange juice.” I turn away before they taste it to avoid seeing their confusion.
5:50 p.m. As we move on to entrees, my panic continues. I really never know what to do when there’s a baby at the table. Is it rude not to give the baby a share plate? At what age can a child use a steak knife? I’m not a mother — clearly, I’m a young waitress. Developmental stages are not my jurisdiction.
6:15 p.m. I’ve basically given up, hovering occasionally to ask if everything is all right, which is dumb because if it weren’t, the CDC would already be down in the kitchen. After dessert, I basically beg my manager to give them the check.
10:00 p.m. The end rolls around easily and I am relieved of my servitude duties. I go downstairs to fold my napkins. Laughing with coworkers, life is beautiful. There was a point where I convinced myself that not folding all 30 napkins would have karmic consequences, but nowadays I just feel it out, get into a flow state, vibe, you know?
10:10 p.m. On the way to stash my napkins in the server station, I accidentally make eye contact with my nemesis, the AGM. I avert my eyes quickly. From that fleeting glance, it’s clear they have an agenda. I hurriedly type in my code to Toast, clock out, and whisper to myself, “They can’t hurt me now.” If only I knew.
“You see this?” I look below my knee. The AGM is pulling out my napkin stack. “This looks messy.” They’re holding a napkin whose fold is askew. By “askew,” I mean only to the trained asshole who thinks people sit down at a restaurant and are upset that a napkin is folded slightly asymmetrically. They proceed to undo my handiwork and refold the napkin.
Before I can process the horror, they begin on the next napkin in the stack, informing me that all “30” of my napkins are heinous. They proceed to go Origami Master on my ass, straight up in the middle of the floor.
Thus begins the public humiliation ritual of refolding these napkins, with hawk eyes watching over me. Not only in clear view of the patrons whose dining experiences I was just leading but in the way of my coworkers. I am experiencing a physical sensation of anger like I have never known. I take a deep breath, locking eyes with my horrified coworker, whose kind glances prevent a rage blackout
After the disgusting display of power is over, I say “Thank you” without looking at them and beeline it to the bar, where I’m wordlessly handed a shot which I graciously down before getting the fuck out of there.
Sunday
4:25 p.m. Despite barely surviving Napkingate last night, I arrive at work hopeful today. I’ve been promised an early release on account that, believe it or not, I am more than a mere waitress and have an event to attend at 9:15 p.m.
4:30 p.m. And we’re off to a strong start as Enemy Number One, Napkin Lord, is heading out early. They give me a conceited nod on the way out that I ignore. Napkingate has made the Floor Manager incredibly concerned about FOH morale, so much so that they are allowing us to sit down for lineup. And at Table 5, no less!
I feel like a princess in the big corner booth, realizing I’ve never seen the restaurant from this angle. To top it off, the Chef brings out new dishes for us to try. A rainy Sunday, a bowl of bouillabaisse, and a promised out-time within the next four hours? God is good.
6:00 p.m. The closers come, and I realize Napkingate has incited a movement among my coworkers. The coffee station has become some kind of rebel-force meeting place; emails are drafted, action plans written, and threats whispered. A revolution has begun.
8:00 p.m.There’s a large party seated in the Teens. Something horrible happens when 11 people sit down to dinner, and I’m thrilled it’s not my problem tonight, yet somehow I reap the reward. The kitchen accidentally doubles down on their pre-fix, cheffing up too many salads and brothy beans, leaving them to be hungrily devoured by FOH. “It’s like Christmas!” I proclaim, taking a spoon to a steaming plate of beans. I realize I’ve never eaten this dish warm, and it scratches my hangover in a gorgeous way.
8:30 p.m. Easy release. I fold my napkins performatively and run into the rain to continue the rest of my life.
observing napkin folding is classic CIA black site tactic
I would of RAGED if I had to refold napkins