I Have a Soft Spot for Raggedy Andy

I had a serious case of the misty water-colored memories last week when I got a package in the mail from my mom. She was cleaning out her closets and such and came across a bunch of stuff that technically belonged to me but it had lived in her attic since 1986. With great anticipation, I opened the box and was greeted with a mish-mash of items that gave me a one way ticket to Sentimental Valley. Everything in the box was something that I didn't want to see banished to the trash can yet in New York City, closet space is a premium and I couldn't justify keeping that pile of art work I made in Miss Moon's seventh grade art class. Some of the things were easy to say goodbye to. Other things were not.

I quickly decided that I could do without various plaques and trophies trumpeting my achievements in high school. Yes, I was very excited about that first place win in Duet Acting with my drama partner Dawn, but did I still need to have the trophy? Into the trash it went as did the Outstanding Thespian award and Sophomore Standout plaque. Obviously, I had to keep the handwritten letter that I got from Lisa (Blair Warner) Welchel's grandma who was the president of her fan club and wrote me back when I asked how Lisa could deal with temptation in Hollywood and still be a good Christian. (Yes, I really wrote a fan letter and asked that...) And of course I had to keep the photo albums.

But then I came across something that was really tough. At the bottom of the box were two dolls that had been with me since childhood. I hadn't thought about them for over twenty years and would never have known if my mom had tossed them, but here they were staring at me as if to say, "Golly, we missed you. Where have you been?" One of them was a Raggedy Ann doll that I had made when I was about eight years old. She had a hole near her foot and the stuffing was old and yellow and brittle. Her head was lopsided from a repair made about thirty years ago when she ripped and we had to sew her back together again. The other was a Raggedy Andy doll that I had made with my Grandma when I was about eleven. He wasn't completed and had remained in a state of undress ever since Mammaw Lillian and I had given up on finishing him in 1978. All of a sudden I was sitting on my dining room floor cradling two old dusty dolls and crying like a baby.

I didn't want to display the dolls in my apartment but it seemed pointless to put them in a box and cram them into a closet. But how could I just throw them away? Thinking back to the summer I spent with Mammaw Lillian, I remembered how much fun it was to make that doll. "Honey, can you thread this needle for me? I can't see it," she'd say. My young eyes and nimble fingers deftly threaded the needle and I couldn't understand why she couldn't do it herself. Now every time I reach into my apron to retrieve my reading glasses I understand, but then I didn't. Whenever I would leave her house in Houston to go back to Victoria I would cry because I was always so scared that it could be the last time I would ever see her. I loved her so much. I sat in the dining room crying and thinking about Mammaw and eventually, I put the dolls back in the box to be dealt with later.

After about three days, it was time to decide what to do with the dolls. I was not going to keep them. After all, I didn't even know they were still in existence up until a few days earlier. I realized that Mammaw is not in that Raggedy Andy doll, she is in my memories. I can still have the memories of her without keeping an inanimate object. With or without the doll, I will always remember how I lived with her when I was 22 years old. I stayed with her for about six months as I saved money to get my own apartment. I lived with her when I got my first waiting job at Bennigan's on FM 1960 in Humble, Texas. Bennigan's had some serious expectations when it came to menu preparedness and we had to take two or three tests to get on the floor. Mammaw knew that menu better than I did. Every night for two weeks, we sat on her couch and she quizzed me with flashcards until we both knew every single ingredient of every single dish on the Bennigan's menu. I aced that test and it was all because of Mammaw. When I told her I had passed the test she gave me a hug. "Oh, baby, I knew you could do it!" She was so proud of me. It was on her sewing machine that I made my first apron for work with the scraps of fabric she had in a box in her closet. I knew that I didn't need to hold onto the doll to remember Mammaw Lillian.

I picked up the two old dolls. I gave them a hug and a kiss and put them into a bag. "I love you, Mammaw," I said. I stepped into the hallway of my building and dropped the bag down the trash chute. And you know what? I'm okay. I know that my love for Mammaw is not represented by a toy. The love I have for her is still here with me even though she has been gone for too many years. She was with me at the beginning of my waiting tables career and if she was around today, she would be the biggest fan of the Bitchy Waiter. Do I still have the Raggedy Andy Doll that I made with Mammaw? No. Do I still remember how she laughed and talked and smelled and cooked and listened and smiled and hugged me and loved me? Absolutely.




Click here to follow The Bitchy Waiter on Twitter.
Click here to find The Bitchy Waiter on Facebook.

Never Gonna Get It

My first job as a waiter was at Bennigan’s in Houston, Texas. After taking their ridiculous amount of tests and quizzes, I was finally given my flare and suspenders and let loose in the world of food service. I had at last moved up the restaurant hierarchy and was a step up from bus boy. I was a waiter. It’s funny, but I can remember the day that I was hired as a waiter and I felt like I had really made it. A hundred years later, not so much. Anyhoo. I learned a lot at that first job. One waitress in particular really showed me the ropes and I looked up to her immensely. She was my trainer, my mentor, my idol, and my dear friend. I don’t remember what the bitch’s name was. But I think I owe a lot of my stellar attitude to her. For the sake of convenience, let us refer to her as Ann B. Davis. (You know I loves me some Brady Bunch, right?) I knew that I was going to adopt her attitude within hours of meeting her. Let me pass on some pearls of her wisdom:

One day when her table needed some more coffee, I let her know. I saw her pour a cup of decaf and start towards the table. I stopped her to inform her that they wanted regular coffee and not decaf. Her response? “Oh no, everyone in my station gets decaf all the time. I don’t need a bunch of hyper people in my station. “Brilliant, no?

Another time an old lady slipped on a knife that we had left on the floor. The lady fell pretty hard and I am pretty sure some bone fragments from her hip hit some people at table 203. As I rushed over to see if I could help her, Ann B. Davis came up to me with her face showing concern. The old lady was from her station and I was genuinely impressed that Ann was so worried about her guest. “Oh my God, I wonder if I can get her anything,” she said. “Coffee? Tea? A splint?” What a bitch. God I loved Ann B. Davis. Or whatever her freakin’ name was.

My favorite memory of this amazing server happened towards the end of my tenure at Bennigan’s. At the end of her shift after she had punched out, Ann was sitting at a table enjoying her shift meal. A table nearby who didn’t know that Ann was off duty asked her if she could please go get her some more Ranch dressing. I heard the whole thing and was surprised that Ann got up and walked towards the kitchen knowing that she wasn’t on the clock. “Are you really gonna get that for her.” “Please,” she laughed. And then she proceeded to sing that song by En Vogue, as she walked into the kitchen and out the back door. “Never gonna get it, never gonna get it. Never gonna get it, never gonna get it. Never gonna get it, never gonna get it. Never get it. Whoa whoa whoa whoa.”

Click here to follow The Bitchy Waiter blog.
Click here to follow The Bitchy Waiter on Twitter.
Click here to find The Bitchy Waiter on Facebook.

Does Anyone Still Wear A Hat? While Waitressing?

Summer is upon us and the humidity level is creeping higher and higher. Here on the East Coast, the weather is a crazy thing to me. Having lived here for 16 years I am still not used to the fact that in the winter it can be 5° and then in the summer it can be 95°. What the hell kind of place is this? And I don't care what people say about it not being the heat but the humidity. If it's 95° it's fucking hot no matter what the humidity level is. The reason I'm so flumfluxxed about the temperature is because I have to wear a uniform to work and that uniform is black pants and a long sleeve black button up shirt. You try wearing that and walking into the depths of holy hell that we call the subway and try to stay fresh for more than three minutes. It's impossible. When I get off the train and get to work, it's not pretty sometimes. Sure, I could carry my uniform to work in a garment bag, but really? A garment bag that carries a stain covered pair of pants and a faded dress shirt? Not worth it. Or I could fold it and carry it in a bag, but really? And then get to work and have to wear a stain covered pair of pants and a faded dress shirt that is also wrinkled? A true dilemma. So what do I do? I wear it and and turn into a big hot sweaty mess and then serve my guests looking like a tired dried up French whore who just gave a blow job in a sauna.

At my last job, I could wear whatever I wanted which was a good thing for about two weeks. And then I realized I was getting all my real clothes stained with coffee and grease and I started longing for a uniform again. I don't know who came up with the universal uniform for restaurant folks to be khakis, but that's what it is most of the time. Pizzeria Uno, Bennigan's, Houlihan's and Black Eyed Pea were all khakis. I have spent about 13 years of my life being forced to wear Dockers and Gap pants.

My big issue with a uniform is when the restaurant requires you to wear a certain article of clothing but they make us pay for it. That pisses my shit off. If I have to wear that ugly ass burgundy shirt, Mr. Houlihan's, I don't want to pay for it. Same thing with you, Mr. Black Eyed Pea. I have to buy the green shirt with the stupid ass embroidered logo? Or sometimes they will give you one shirt but if you want another it comes out of your paycheck. Fuck that. I will take the one free shirt and wear that bitch every day until it has so much food on it that it walk itself into the restaurant and start picking up shifts.

If I have to wear a uniform, I want to wear one that has some personality. I want a little hat and an cute frilly apron and a name tag. I want a big starched white collar and white sneakers. I want bright red lipstick and a beehive. Basically, I wanna be Flo from the television show Alice. I have written about her before and I have even been her for Halloween. Now that's a uniform.

And does anyone get what the post title is referring to? Does anyone still wear...a hat?

Click here to follow The Bitchy Waiter blog.
Click here to follow The Bitchy Waiter on Twitter.
Click here to find The Bitchy Waiter on Facebook.

I've Fallen and I Can't Get Up

Have you ever been at work when something happens that requires the call for an ambulance or fire truck? It doesn't happen often and of course we hope that it never does, but occasionally, shit happens and you gotta bring in some emergency medical technicians who are gonna get all up in your space. When I was working at Bennigan's we had an occurrence that ended up with a lady being carted away in an ambulance. It was many years ago at my first ever waiting job. The main thing I remember about that place is that I wore suspenders and had buttons and crap all over me. We were encouraged to be unique in our "flair" so I pulled out my sewing machine and made my own aprons and then started charging people $5.00 to make them one if they would supply the fabric. Anyhoo, the details of that job are a blur, but I do recall this event.

The restaurant was your typical Bennigan's with a big tiled foyer where the host stood and handed out crayons and balloons and whatever else the crap we had to pass out to our tables. The tiles had a tendency to get slippery if it rained or if we spilled food or sodas on them. People were always slip sliding their asses all over the place there. I don't know why we didn't just throw a mat on the floor or something, but I guess that was too much effort for the managers. One day, the inevitable happened. A lady fell. An old lady. A really old lady. A really old lady fell really hard onto a really hard floor. I was shocked, horrified and amused all at the same time. Call me an asshole, but if someone falls I can't help but think it's the funniest thing ever. Seriously, I can watch America's Funniest Home Videos and laugh my ass off every time they show a bride running through a haze of celebratory rice and she trips on her veil and face plants into a sidewalk. The shit is funny. When the old lady hit the Bennigan's floor, the manager rushed over to assess the situation. Of course he wanted to cover his ass and make sure the floor didn't have a big puddle of honey mustard on it that she slipped in. But the floor was miraculously dry. Could it be that Senior Citizen Sally just lost her balance due to missing her blood pressure medication? Could he be that lucky? And then he spotted the culprit. A lone fork was on the floor next to her head. She had tripped on a piece of silverware. So what did he do? He did what any self respecting and model manager would do in this situation. He kicked the fork out of the way so she wouldn't know it was there. Yes, people, he hid the evidence. I saw it with my own delighted eyes as the fork slid under the host stand and he bent down to check on the well being of the lady in pain. Of course, he called an ambulance and they put her in a gurney and rolled her broken ass outta there. I never heard what happened to her. I assume they just gave her a new hip and called it a day.

As she was leaving a fellow server came up to me to discuss the incident. Her name escapes me but I always liked this girl. She was the one who informed me once that she only ever serves decaf coffee because she doesn't "need a bunch of hyper people" in her station. She leaned over to me as she watched her guest beining rolled out of the restaurant. "I wonder if I could have gotten her anything else. Coffee, tea, a splint? Oh well."

Bennigan's, Bend Again

Since this was originally posted, I have learned that this particular Bennigan's has closed down. Pity, because it was such a joyous and inspirational company to work for... My ass, is still on vacation (at my parent's house listening to screaming nieces and nephews and dying for a frozen margarita) so you get to read it again.

15 Minutes or It's Free!

There are lots of ways that servers can feel demeaned whilst slinging hash. Most of the time these feelings are thrust upon us by the wonderful people who sit in our station, but on occasion it comes from the restaurant itself. Bennigan's in Houston, Texas on FM 1960:

Someone at the top of the food chain, Mr. Bennigan I presume, came up with a wonderful plan to let people order food and then give it to them for free if it wasn't on their table within fifteen minutes. "15 Minutes or it's Free!" they called this promotion. Mr. Bennigan stayed up late one night and thought long and hard to come up with that name. The man is an utter genius, I tell you. This was a lunch promo and it sucked. Maybe they still do it, I dunno. If they do, I feel for the poor bastards who still work for that crap. But hey, then they have a job which is more than I can say so kudos to them for finding a restaurant that manged to stay open for business.

For each table in your station, you had to wear a stopwatch around your neck. So you potentially had nine of these things swinging around as well as all the "flair" crap you were supposed to wear; suspenders, stickers, buttons, whistles, butt plugs and flags. After the table ordered you had to re-read what they wanted and once they approved the order you took a stopwatch from your neck, placed it on the table, and started it. Then you ran like holy hell with fire under your ass to make sure this shit came out on time so it didn't come out of your tips. If anyone else was on the computer, you'd knock their ass down to get to it first. And people thought they would be all cute by ordering very well done steaks and burgers or anything else they thought would take a long time. No one ever ordered a side salad because that would be too easy. Plus it was Texas and people there don't really understand the concept of salad. Unless it's fried.

There was a routine you had to deal with when one of these orders came up. You had to alert the kitchen so they knew it took priority. And you had to give them updates. So every five minutes you had to run to the kitchen and give them a time for each order and then when it was three minutes before FREE FOOD happened, you had to "red flag" it or some shit. It was a real pain in the ass because all you did for lunch was run around to tables and check their fucking clocks and freak out. If you failed to give all the updates to the kitchen then it was not their fault if it went over time. It was the server's fault. And we had to pay for it. That sucked. If you did manage to give all the alerts and it was still late, then the restaurant would pay for it. I never had to pay for it. I made sure I gave every fucking alert because if it was late and I had done my part, I didn't give a rat's cheap ass who paid as long as it wasn't me. I ignored tables if I had to in order to keep track of the clocks. I remember one time, I was seconds away. I had a huge tray of food practically running to get to the table before the timer went off. I pretty much threw the plates at them but it made it on time. The customers were so pissed when that happened. They actually rooted for us to drop a tray or for the computer to jam or whatever else it took for them to not have to pay for their $6.00 burgers.

God I hated that place. I always felt like if they needed food that fast, they should have eaten at Taco Bell or brown bagged it. Just don't make me pretend to be a fucking race horse.