Waiter Rant (23 page)

“Holy shit!” I exclaim.

“The lady who run the Web site write me and tell me she put it up,” Fluvio blabbers. “Now people know where you are!”

I shake my head. How was I supposed to know Russell Crowe has groupies who track his every movement around the globe? I thought that was the paparazzi’s job.

“Send me that lady’s e-mail address,” I say. “I’ll ask her nicely to take it down.”

“People find out where you work, you have to quit!” Fluvio says. Great.
Now
he cares.

“Relax, Fluvio,” I say. “Don’t go all Code Red.”

“Fix it,” Fluvio says.

“I will.”

I hang up the phone and look out the window. A spasm of anxiety hits me. My agent’s trying to negotiate a book deal for me right now. Part of the appeal of my blog has always been my anonymity. Fuck.

I fire off an e-mail to the administrator of the Web site. To my surprise, the lady quickly writes back and tells me she’ll take down the post. I anxiously spend the rest of the day scouring the Internet, looking for some indication that my cover’s been blown. No activity. The problem got caught in time.

The next couple of days, however, are a stressfest. My agent calls with updates. I wonder if the prospective writer having a perpetual urge to vomit is usually part of the process. Things at work aren’t helping either.

“Why you taking that table?” Saroya asks me on a fairly slow night.

“Because I like to make money?” I reply acidly.

“It’s slow,” Saroya sniffs. “You’re getting paid as a manager. You shouldn’t be taking tables.”

Part of the problem with the player/manager setup at The
Bistro is that there’s a built-in conflict of interest. Fluvio doesn’t pay me enough for me to be only a manager. If I’m lucky, my manager pay covers the monthly cost of my health insurance, around $450, and my taxes. Waiting tables constitutes the bulk of my take-home income. When it’s slow, I usually hang back and let the other waiters take the tables. But, when the rent’s due, no matter how slow it is, I’m on the floor. This drives Saroya nuts. I think she’s related to that Wahdi guy from Amici’s somehow.

“I’ve got bills to pay, too,” I reply.

“You’re greedy,” Saroya hisses.

“Gimme a break, please…”

“It’s not fair!”

I’m not about to be lectured by the chef’s girlfriend.

“Tough shit,” I say.

Saroya runs off to the kitchen in a huff. I’m sure Armando’s about to get an earful. I don’t care anymore—and that’s a problem.

I’m not the greatest waiter or restaurant manager who ever lived. Far from it. In fact, I can be a real asshole to work with. The staff has some legitimate gripes about my managerial style. Invoking the seigneurial right of headwaiters everywhere, I almost never do side work and I always work the best section in the house. In fact, the waiters snicker that a personalized
PROPERTY OF
plaque should be embedded in my section’s floor. I respond by saying that when I die, my ashes can be interred under it, and then they can walk all over me. Sometimes I think they want to hurry that process along.

Beth especially gets aggravated over what she calls my “customer profiling”—my cherry-picking the good-tipping customers and sending the dregs to the less-senior servers. That’s the conflict of interest I was talking about. Do I profile? Of course I do, but only to a degree. First off, my section holds only fourteen customers. The Bistro’s a popular restaurant. I can’t snag every big tipper who comes along. I’m also not
that
greedy. I have an amount of money I need to make every month. As long as I hit that goal I’m happy. I don’t need to suck up every dime. Once I’ve
hit my financial target, I slack off and let the other servers get the rest. I know that sounds mighty white of me, but that’s how it works at many a restaurant. The senior server is king.

I know there are other things I do that drive the staff nuts. In addition to my chronic tardiness, I also can be a bit of a bully when it comes to the POS computer. The Bistro has only one computer for placing orders. When things get crazy, a bottleneck forms and everyone gets backed up. Me? I’m famous for cutting in line. My usual MO is to claim a fake manager emergency so I can put my orders in ahead of everyone else. But I’ve also physically bumped people out of the way, abruptly logged them out of the computer while they were in the middle of placing an order, or hovered close to them, angrily muttering, “Hurry the fuck up” in their ear. Most of the staff learned to deal with my craziness, but some, like Inez, actually pushed back. Good for her. For the tough cases I use deception to cut in line. If I see a server nearing the POS computer when I need to use it, I’ll say, “Is that your cell phone ringing?” Once I even pointed to the floor and said, “Eeek, is that a tampon?” While the female server (who earlier had loudly informed everyone that she was having her period) frantically searched the floor around her, I slid in front of her and started inputting my orders. She didn’t speak to me for the rest of the night. The lesson here? Keep your bodily functions private.

After putting up with Fluvio’s nonsense for six years, I feel like I’m entitled to the special treatments I give myself. When I compare myself to Sammy and the other restaurant managers I’ve known, I’m a saint. I don’t scam tips, extort servers, shake down kitchen staff, or sexually harass the waitresses. I know, I know, not doing something you’re not supposed to be doing isn’t a sign of virtue. But in the restaurant business it
almost
is.

I’m not the best manager in the world, but I’m not the worst, either. The Bistro has always earned a high Zagat rating for service, so I must be doing something right. In my mind a good restaurant manager is like a good chief of police, always allowing a little larceny to operate in his or her town. Besides acting as a
safety valve for the inevitable vices, the chief knows his or her officers can pump the low-level dealers, prostitutes, and bookies they franchise for information on bigger and more dangerous criminals. A restaurant manager is the same way. I overlook the occasional drinking on the job and the pot smoking/low-grade drug dealing going on in the alley. I usually fix checks, cover up mistakes, and smooth things over with the customers when the waiters invariably screw up. Rarely do I have to intervene and drop the hammer on a server. I’m also the one keeping Fluvio off their backs. Without my moderating his rages, the atmosphere of The Bistro would become more toxic than the skies of Venus.

I’m also almost always the last server to leave the restaurant. I deal with the irate and crazy customers, and I’m the one who has to keep his cool in a crisis. After the lady who had that stroke went off to the hospital, Louis had a nervous breakdown and babbled that he was too upset to stay at work. He kept crying about some guy he saw die facedown in his all-you-can-eat platter at Red Lobster. Then again Louis calls in sick if he cuts his finger. I can’t imagine him or Saroya handling an emergency. But do the waiters remember that? No. Waiters are always complaining about something. They’ll bitch and moan when they’re making no money and then they’ll complain that they’re overworked when they get busy. You can never win.

However, some of their complaints are valid. I’ve gotten too comfortable in my job, and that comfort had metastasized into a sort of arrogance. The bus girls complain that I’m lazy. I call it energy conservation, but they’re right, I don’t do anything I don’t have to do. Fluvio’s shit is getting old, but I know he’ll never fire me. If I was Fluvio, I’d fire myself, but his paranoia makes him dread breaking in a new manager. Like Rizzo, I know where all the bodies are buried. And I’ve gotten away with a lot of shit because I know every dirty, stupid thing he’s ever done. With the new restaurant opening up and the personnel shifting this way and that, however, I can begin to feel the ground shifting beneath my feet. New people are coming into the picture, people
who could and should replace me. That realization’s causing me stress. Like the dynamic between Armando and me, things are starting to change.

The night drags on uneventfully. I grab a few tables here and there. Saroya, for all her crabbing, makes more than I do in tips. Then, five minutes to close, Russell Crowe walks in the door with fifteen people.

“Oh shit,” I mutter. “Him again.”

“They’re going to stay forever,” Saroya twitters.

“Great. I’m friggin’ exhausted.”

“You’re stuck here,” Saroya says gleefully. “I’m going home to my daughter. Have a nice night.”

Saroya hands me her cash and receipts and walks out the door. I head over to Russell Crowe’s noisy table.

“Hey there,” Mr. Crowe says over the din of his rambunctious entourage.

“Nice to see you again, sir,” I say.

“Quiet down, everyone,” Mr. Crowe commands, gesturing for silence. “The waiter needs to tell us the specials.”

Mr. Crowe’s party immediately stops talking and looks at me.

“Thank you, sir,” I say.

“You’re welcome.”

While I’ve seen Mr. Crowe eat in The Bistro several times, this is the first time I’ve ever waited on him. I have to admit, for the first time in my life,
I am
really star-struck. Even though I think he looks shorter in person than he looks on-screen, Beth was right about his eyes. There’s a powerful quality to them that reaches into you and stirs your insides. No, I don’t want to fly off to Mykonos with him, but I can see why he has such a commanding presence on-screen. I somehow manage to get through the specials without making an ass out of myself.

“Excellent recitation,” Mr. Crowe says, clapping his hands. “You should be an actor.”

The party breaks into applause. I permit myself a slight bow.

“Are you an actor?” Mr. Crowe asks me.

“No, sir,” I reply.

“Good. Let’s get some bloody wine then.”

Mr. Crowe orders several bottles of wine—nothing fancy. After presenting the first bottle, the film star waves off the pretentious wine liturgy.

“Just open them up, mate. Don’t be so formal.”

“Yes, sir,” I say, pouring some wine into his glass.

“So,” Mr. Crowe says softly, with a hint of growl in his voice. “You’re him, aren’t you?”

“Who, sir?” I reply, trying to look innocent. I feel my sphincter twitch. Someone on Mr. Crowe’s payroll must have read about my blog on that groupie’s Web site and shown him the story I wrote.

“The Waiter.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re The Waiter,” Mr. Crowe says, giving me a look that makes my thousand-yard waiter stare look like a pilot light flickering in a hurricane. “You’re the guy who writes that
blog
.”

I think about dissembling, but a curious image of Mr. Crowe leaping out of his seat and decapitating me with a Roman broad-sword jumps into my head. While that may give The Bistro’s waiters the greatest satisfaction, I’m kind of attached to my head.

“Yes, sir,” I reply. “I am.”

Mr. Crowe smiles. “So where’s this Beth girl?” he asks. Oh my God. He read the sniff-the-seat thing.

“She’s not working tonight,” I say. “She was your server the last time you were here.”

“Uh-huh,” Mr. Crowe says. “I see.”

“But she was thrilled to meet you, sir.”

Mr. Crowe stares at me hard. “You’re not going to write about me again. Are you?”

“No, sir.” (Mentally my fingers are crossed.)

“Good. All right, I’m starved. Let’s order.”

Mr. Crowe and his table order, eat, tip fabulously, and leave. As his party walks out the door Mr. Crowe shakes my hand.

“Good luck to you, mate.”

Millions
of people have read my blog. Quite a few of them have tried to track me down. But after three years the only person who ever asked me if I was The Waiter from the Waiter Rant blog was Russell Crowe. Go figure.

“Thank you, sir.”

I lock up, turn off the lights, and go home, a curious lightness filling my chest. I resist the urge to write up the story on my blog. I dodged one bullet, best not to tempt fate again.

A couple of days later the book deal is sealed. Russell Crowe was good luck for me.

Maybe he’ll play me in the movie.

W
hen news of the book deal spreads, I’m not surprised by the rather lackluster reception my good fortune generates. While some of the staff offers sincere congratulations, Saroya only wants to know how much money I got, and Louis and Armando act like it’s no big deal. When I called Fluvio at Bistro Duetto to tell him the good news, his only reaction was an incredulous “Really?” then dead silence. No congratulations were forthcoming. Despite his lack of enthusiasm, I told him that I’d like to ratchet down my schedule so I could spend more time writing. We had discussed this possibility a month ago, but now Fluvio sounded like a man trying to welsh on a bet. After I hung up the phone, a nervous feeling started buzzing in my stomach. I get the sense that I’ve just crossed some sort of Rubicon with Fluvio and the staff. Some of them used to be delighted to be a part of my blog. Now their attitudes have changed—and not for the better.

I shower and head in to work. It turns out to be a hot and humid Saturday night. According to the heat index, the temperature outside’s a sticky 102 degrees. The restaurant’s packed with customers. A line of reservation holders, angry they’re waiting for a table, stretches out the door. I’m not having a good night.
The customers are cranky, we have yet another new hostess, and Fluvio’s at the new restaurant.

“The customers outside want free cocktails,” the hostess whines fearfully.

“They can’t drink alcohol standing on the sidewalk,” I reply. “It’s against city ordinances. Tell their waiter to give ’em a free round when they sit down.”

“You’re gonna be their waiter,” the hostess snaps angrily. “You tell them that.”

The hostess, a slim blonde of nineteen, is operating at the outermost limits of her maturity. The poor girl’s laboring under the delusion that her sex appeal will protect her from the wrath of table-seeking yuppies. The customers couldn’t care less how cute she is. Good-looking hostesses are like good-looking girls in L.A., they’re such a common sight as to be unremarkable. Surprised at the level of animosity her attractiveness usually protects her from, the hostess buckles under the pressure and seats my section all at once. That may be okay at a Denny’s or Sizzler, but not at a fine-dining restaurant. It’s impossible for me to give good service when I’m a whirling dervish, cocktailing and specialing fourteen customers simultaneously. Now, ninety minutes later, my first round of customers is getting ready to pay their checks. Since all my tables came in together, they’re all going to leave together. That means I’m going to do the dervish routine all over again. I want to wring the hostess’s pretty neck, but I need her to answer the phones. I can’t give her any constructive criticism, because, no matter how gently I frame it, she’ll have a nervous breakdown and run out the door.

Beth comes running up to me. “The printer isn’t working again,” she pants. “Can you fix it?”

“Sure,” I reply. “Give me a sec.”

I take a deep breath, remodulate my voice to a customer-friendly frequency, and open the front door.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I say to the people waiting outside. “Thank you for your patience. Your tables will be ready in a few minutes.”

“How about a free drink?” a fat man demands, beads of sweat dripping off his chin.

“Your first round of drinks is on me,” I say. “City ordinances, however, forbid me from serving alcohol to people on the sidewalk.”

“That’s bullshit,” the fat man growls.

“I’d like to be drinking with you on the sidewalk myself,” I say, trying to inject a little levity in the situation, “but I’m afraid the law’s the law.”

“Whatever,” the man snaps, “just get us inside.”

My attempt at levity a bust, I head back inside and walk over to the receipt printer. It needs a new ink ribbon. I open the utility cabinet to get one, but, of course, there aren’t any. Cursing under my breath, I grab my house keys and run downstairs to the basement office.

I hate going into Fluvio’s office. It’s a windowless cave smelling of sour sweat and dirty socks. When I pull open the door, my worst fears are confirmed—the office is a hazmat site. Plates encrusted with fossilized bits of food litter Fluvio’s desk, while clusters of pint glasses, smudged over with greasy fingerprints, contain the evaporated reductions of several forgotten Diet Cokes. The smell in the office is unreal. Rummaging through the office, I wonder how long I can hold my breath. I can’t find any ribbons. Cursing, I grab the phone and call Fluvio at the new restaurant.

“Good evening,” the hostess answers. “Bistro Duetto. How can I help you?”

“Get me Fluvio,” I gasp, trying not to breathe deeply.

“Who shall I say is calling?”

“This is the manager at the other place.”

“He’s busy with a customer.”

“Get him, please,” I say. “I have a problem.”

“He told me not to—”

“Get him
now
.”

After a minute Fluvio comes on the line. “What the matter?” he barks.

“Where are the printer ribbons?”

“In the utility closet.”

“Guess again.”

“In my office then.”

“I’m in your office,” I say. “I can’t find any.”

“Look under my desk.”

I look under Fluvio’s desk. No computer ribbons, just a jumbled mass of cables, routers, and power strips.

“No dice, boss.”

“They have to be there.”

Suddenly, Louis bursts into the office. “Hey, man,” he shouts, wild-eyed, “I’ve gotta run credit cards, and we’re out of printer ribbon!”

“Don’t have a panic attack, Louis,” I say, covering the phone’s mouthpiece. “I’m trying to find some.”

“Dude, it’s fucking crazy up there.”

“I know, Louis. Give me a minute.”

I take a deep breath and calm myself. “Fluvio,” I say gently, “is there any other place you might have put the ribbons?”

“Maybe in the dry-goods area…”

“Thanks,” I say, hanging up. I’ve got to get out of the office before the smell makes me throw up.

Sure enough, I find the printer ribbons next to the dried pasta. There’s no rhyme or reason where anything goes in this place. I run back upstairs, replace the ribbon, collect all my customers’ credit cards, and race back to the POS machine. Since the terminal was down for several minutes, the waiters are now playing catch-up with their checks.

“Fucking great,” I mutter.

“Take a number,” Beth says.

“I’m gonna go in the weeds,” I say. “I can feel it.”

“I’ve been in the weeds all night.”

“Your section leaving all at once?” I ask.

“Yep,” Beth replies grimly. “You, too?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s that fucking hostess,” Beth hisses angrily. “She doesn’t know how to seat people for shit.”

“It’s her second night,” I say.

“That’s no excuse,” Beth says.

As if on cue, the hostess comes running up to us, looking frantic.

“The customers are complaining it’s too hot,” she says.

“I’ll turn up the AC,” I reply.

“It did get hot in here,” Beth says.

“I’m roasting up front,” the hostess whimpers.

Suddenly I’m aware of the sweat running under my arms and plastering my shirt to my back. It
is
hot in here.

“You’re right, Beth,” I say. “It shouldn’t be this hot.”

I walk over to the AC panel. The thermostat reads 89 degrees. I try turning up the air-conditioning, but the digital readout flashes
ERROR
. I put my hand in front of one of the vents. It’s blowing hot air.

The hot sweat running down my back suddenly turns cold. The air-conditioning isn’t working on the hottest night of the year. With all the warm bodies crammed inside the restaurant, the temperature is going to go through the roof. We won’t even have to cook the food—it’ll cook itself.

“Uh-oh,” I say. “We’re in trouble.”

“What’s the matter?” Beth asks.

“The AC’s down.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“I wish I was.”

I race up to the hostess stand, leaf through the directory containing our vendors’ phone numbers, and call the AC people.

“Mr. Freeze,” a tired voice answers.

“Is this Frank?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

“This is The Bistro. Our AC’s not working.”

“What does the panel say?” Frank asks.

“It’s just flashing an error message.”

“Is the fan working?”

“Huh?”

“Is the unit blowing out air?”

“Yeah. Warm air.”

“Shut the damn thing off, or the motor’s gonna burn out,” Frank says. “Something’s wrong.”

“Can you come over and fix it?”

“Now?”

“Frank,” I say, “it’s Saturday night, and I’ve got a restaurant full of people.”

“Listen,” Frank says. “The humidity’s stressing the system, and something’s gone haywire. To fix it, I’d have to come in with ladders and disturb your customers.”

“Yeah, but…”

“Besides, I’m on a big industrial job right now,” Frank says. “You ain’t the only ones with problems.”

“So I’m screwed.”

“Yep,” Frank says. “Tell your boss I’ll come by tomorrow to look at it.”

“Okay, Frank.”

“Bye.”

“So is the guy gonna come and fix it?” the hostess asks.

“We’re screwed,” I groan. “No AC.”

“The customers are going to freak,” the hostess says, her voice quivering with fear.

“Call Fluvio and tell him what happened.”

“He’s going to yell at me,” the hostess says. “You call him.”

“I’ve got to run checks,” I say, forcing patience into my voice. “I need to run my checks so my customers can leave and you can seat the ones waiting outside.
Comprende?
”

The hostess says nothing. Her only reply is to age regress and bite the knuckle of her right hand.

“Keep it together, babe,” I say. “You’ll be fine.”

Suddenly, there’s a knock on the window. I look up. The fat man outside points angrily at the thick, expensive watch strapped
to his wrist. I hold up one finger, indicating he has to wait another minute. A little voice in the back of my head tells me this guy’s gonna freak when he discovers the AC’s down.

I go back to the POS machine and run all my credit cards. I deposit the completed checks on their respective tables, wish everyone a good night, and head into the kitchen.

“Armando,” I shout above the din, “the AC’s broke.”

“What?” Armando gasps. “No fucking way!”

“Yes way.”

We simultaneously look at the kitchen thermometer. It reads 105 degrees.

“We’re all going to die,” Armando cries.

“Drink plenty of fluids,” I say.

“Did you call the cooling company?”

“They can’t get here till tomorrow.”

“Of course not,” Armando says, shaking his head.

“Just another day in paradise, Armando,” I say. “Just another day in paradise.”

Armando grunts and gets back to work. The kitchen guys are tough hombres, but I feel sorry for them. The kitchen temp will hit 110 before the night’s over.

All the customers in my section get up and leave. The bus people swoop in and clear the tables. Before they can even get fresh silverware on a table the fat guy from outside barges in and plants his ass in a chair.

“I want my free martini,” the man says angrily. “And turn up the AC in here.”

This guy’s gonna be trouble. I decide to get the pain over with early.

“I’m terribly sorry to have to tell you this, sir,” I say. “But our air-conditioning is broken.”

“What?” the man says, the blue veins in his temples throbbing.

“It went down a few minutes ago,” I say. “I called the cooling company. They said the humidity’s overtaxed the system.”

The fat man’s face turns a dusky red. “This is outrageous.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” I say. “I can’t fix it.”

“C’mon, Hilary,” the man says to his wife. “We’re leaving.”

Silently, I’m grateful.

“This place is a joke,” the man mutters, struggling out of his seat. “And you’re incompetent.”

I let the man’s insult wash over me. To respond would only add another problem to my list. The hostess and I watch silently as the man and his wife storm out into the sweltering night air.

“Can’t say that I blame him,” I say. “I wouldn’t want to eat in this heat.”

“Fluvio wants to talk to you,” the hostess says, anxiously sticking the phone in my face. “He wants you to tell him what’s going on.”

“Didn’t you explain what’s happening?” I ask, pushing the phone away from me.

“He wants to hear it from you.”

Fluvio never trusts what anyone tells him. He has to confirm everything he hears with several people. I’m too busy to feed into his insanity tonight.

“Tell him I’m busy,” I reply. “Tell him the AC’s down and the guy can’t fix it till tomorrow.”

“But he—”

“Just do it.”

The crowds pile in the door, and my section fills up instantly—two six tops, two deuces, and a four. I take care of the two tops first. The six tops are chattering away, so I have time to get to them. I cocktail and special the deuces, head over to the four, ask what they want from the bar, then loop back to the two tops and grab their dinner order. I walk briskly to the POS computer, key in the data, make the four top’s alcoholic chemistry experiments, and drop them off. The six tops’ heads are swiveling on their necks looking for the waiter. I hit them next. I take all their drink requests—wine and martinis—and take the four’s dinner order on the return trip. The bell rings. The deuce’s apps are up. The door chimes. It’s a reservation. The hostess is gone, probably
in the bathroom. I drop off the apps, greet the new arrivals, and seat them. Racing to the wine cellar, I grab two bottles of wine, return to the service bar, make six martinis, deliver the drinks to the first six top, run back, grab the bottles of wine, one red and one white, and pop them open at the other six. I tell the bus girl to bring an ice bucket. The kitchen bell rings furiously. The four’s apps are up. The door chimes. More reservations. Where the hell’s the hostess? The deuce signals for more bread. The lady at the four top needs another cosmo. Do you take Discover? What are the specials? I’m allergic to rosemary. Does this have to have garlic? Can you make me veal Parmesan? It’s hot in here. Can you do something about the AC? The phone rings. I glance at the caller ID. It’s Fluvio. I decide to ignore it. He spent thousands of dollars installing video cameras; let him see what’s going on for himself.