Service on the high-wire

One of the difficult things to communicate to new servers is exactly how expendable management finds them. Like most thinking people, they'll try to find correlations from situations they understand; unfortunately, this is where they go astray. For restaurant managers, firing servers is like taking a particularly nasty shit: It's 10 minutes of increasing pressure, followed by a stinky bit ("Servername, you do understand that Michigan is an at-will employment state, right?"), and then a satisfactory feeling of relief. Some managers seem to have a hard time making it through a shift without dropping a deuce on someone's life.

New servers don't get this, because they don't anticipate this management tendency. They think, 'Hey, they just spent a week training me,' assuming that investment gives them some leeway. What they don't understand is that a corporate manager's life is all about avoiding trouble. And nothing spells trouble for a corpbot like a guest who wants to raise a fuss.

Now realize that we've spent a whole generation telling people 'the customer is always right.' I know, I know, we're all supposed to understand that this is shorthand for 'don't contradict the customer,' but that isn't the way it plays out. The way it plays out, in the very literal and trouble-avoiding mind of the manager, is that whatever paranoid fantasies the guest wishes to espouse are immediately taken up as a cudgel by that manager. New servers generally don't understand this, and so are unprepared for the wall of greedy/crazy they're about to run into.

If one makes it through the gauntlet of the first few months on the job, handling most issues can become routine. Problem is, many of the people complaining aren't looking for a solution - they're looking for a handout. Many of my customers expect their meal to be free at the first scintilla of dissatisfaction. Bread won't be ready for a couple of minutes? Guess we're eating free today, kids! An old feature dish isn't available anymore? Then gimme something else awesome for free because you made me sad.

The only people getting nothing out of the exchange are, as usual, the servers. The manager feels satisfied that he kept the guest from having a bad experience - usually by using the magical Wand of Gift Cards, which means they'll come back. The guest not only got their meal, but also whatever swag the manager threw in to buy their silence. And the server? Well ... hopefully there was some tip there.

As bad as the greedy people are, though, it's the crazy people who are trouble, even for an experienced server. A good server utilizes a subconscious database of likely desires and outcomes to anticipate their guests needs; crazy folks fuck that up because they have no pattern.

Yesterday, for example, I waited on this couple in their mid-20s; while greeting them, it became clear the guy was high. Believe me when I say I don't usually have a problem with stoned guests - get them some food, probably a lot of food, and they're the happiest people in the building. This man's affect didn't say ganja, though; it said PCP. He didn't seem to notice that he was talking very loudly; he ordered five (5!) different drinks before settling on 'whatever she's having' (Coors Light); he repeatedly called me his 'waitress.'

So ... awesome. Somehow I've got to make this guy happy. They ordered a lot of food - an appetizer, two big entrees - and ate a couple bowls of soup to start. Trouble is, the man kept forgetting why 'the food' (as he called it, meaning the entrees) wasn't on the table (it having been held to allow time with the appetizer). "Where's m'damn food?!" he'd shout every time I entered the section. You can imagine the delight of the other guests. Each time I'd explain that he had ordered an entree with a cook time of 18 minutes, and that I would bring it just as soon as it was ready. This would satisfy him for a few seconds, until he forgot again.

In the middle of all of this, the bread oven conked out, meaning no bread for 10 minutes or so while we switched ovens. I went from table to table, explaining, without incident - until I got to him.

His red-rimmed eyes turned to me in self-righteous fury. "You trying to ho me out?" he shouted. "Think I'm a punk? I don't want no fuckin' bread, I want the fuckin' food!"

I explained that his food was still four minutes out, and that I just was spreading the word about the oven to explain the paucity of bread. "You still talkin' about bread!" he shouted, spittle flying. "I want the fuckin' food!"

Then he went further: "You ain't getting no tip! This is bullshit! You been bullshitting me!"

So I handled it, job-safety style. I nodded, I made commiserating sounds; I pointedly ignored the looks of sympathy from the other guests; and I did my damnedest to get his fucking food on the fucking table right fucking now.

Because, see, with the crazy people there's no winning - there's only losses and draws. And if there's one thing I've learned from watching soccer every waking moment, it's that sometimes you have to admit that a draw is a good result. The confrontation ended with him eating his food, paying the bill, and leaving - a draw. Good result.

The only other possibility was that he'd attract a manager's attention, let loose with the paranoid crazy, and I'd be in trouble as indicated above. Ah, a life of service.

The job

The thing with this job is, it's not just the job. It's never just the job. It's the people, it's the food, it's the time of day; it's the weather, or lack of it; it's the drama, or the fact that there hasn't been any; it's that the soup-bowl warmer has died, or the bread guy didn't show up; it's everything, and nothing, all at once, all the time.

It's life.

So I here I sit, 80 minutes from Monday, 12 hours from check-in, tensing up. Why? If the thing with the job is life, then why should I tense to meet it? If it's all the same, why shouldn't I be placid, peaceful, sure of my place in the restaurant, if not the world?

Let's catch up a bit. I'm a server. I work at an Olive Garden. When you come into my restaurant (if you get sat in my section, which is another can of worms), you'll get the standard greeting from me. It'll sound like this:

"Hi there. How're y'all doing?

"I'm Sean and I'll be your server. Have y'all eaten at the Olive Garden before?"

Let's pause in the middle of this prospectus to point out a few things: No, I'm not an automaton. If you ask me questions or otherwise break up my flow, I'll just go with it. This conversation is grooved to keep business flowing. There's even jokes, like when I say ...

"... so this wine, or any other wine available by the glass, can be sampled for 25 cents, and we donate the quarter to charity. In this case, when you're sampling, you are actually drinking ... ... for the children.

My god, for the children? That's great. Yeah.

This line always draws a laugh. Sometimes the laugh is the sitcom courtesy-laugh, but more often it's surprised, honest laughter, which I cherish like the tiny, tiny dollars at the end of the meal.

In some ways, that's the job: The tiny joke, the waiting for an interesting response; seeing that the woman at 12 needs a Bellini tea and the guy at 9 wants an ashtray and the two women at 10 are totally pissed that their chicken alfredo only came drenched in sauce and not swimming in it.

I think about telling the women about the 100 grams of unsaturated fat in the lunch portion of chicken alfredo, but they seem really determined to push that to 140, and whoamItostandinthewayofcommerce? Seems un-American to me. And I'm certainly not unAmerican. So I just get the ramikin of fat cheese sauce; I serve to the guests; and when they tip poorly, I recommend 'An Omnivore's Dilemma' or 'In Defense of Food'.

Maybe, when they get home, they'll stop sucking. And then, maybe, they'll start tipping.

That's always the hope.