Walking in a Sweaty Wonderland

Last week, New York City had the distinct pleasure of its first heatwave. We had three days in a row of 97º temperatures. For those of you living in Texas and Arizona, I realize that 97º is what you look forward to after a day of 115º, but here in New York City, that is freakin' hot. And at two of my three jobs, our air conditioning is having challenges. (In corporate speak, "challenges" means "big fucking problems.")

On one of those hot days, I was at the restaurant where the A/C is weak even on a day when the sun isn't reaching through the ozone layer and molesting me. When I got to work, I knew that I had better set up the patio because despite the heat, some masochistic would think it would be nice to sit out there. Three hours into the shift, it seemed I had wasted my time and roll-ups because nobody was interested. And then it happened. A woman came in from the street eyeballing the patio.

"Is the backyard open?" she asked.

"Yes it is. Would you like to sit outside?"

"Is it hot out there?"

Okay. This lady just stepped in from the heat outside and wanted to know if it was hot outside. My nerves were already short because of the lack of A/C and my brain was a bit frozen from spending every spare moment in the walk-in cooler.

"It's the same heat back there that you just came in from." I smiled at her to make it seem like I was trying to be funny, but really, I thought she was a fucking idiot.

"Well, can we go back and see if it feels any different?"

"Yes, ma'am, sure we can." I grabbed a menu and lead her to the depths of hell we call a patio.

I opened the French doors and stepped outside. I was surprised at how different it felt from when I had last been out there three hours before. The air was crisp; almost chilly. I looked around and noticed a thin layer of frost on the metallic table tops. As I stood there, I felt the temperature dip twenty degrees and then another ten. In the back corner of the patio, the evergreen tree was decorated like a Christmas tree and two partridges were making a nest in it, obviously confusing it for a pear tree. Sitting at one of the tables was Santa Claus and Jack Frost each with a steaming cup of hot chocolate from Starbuck's.

"You're not allowed to bring outside food and beverages here, sir," I said to Santa.

"Ho, ho, ho," he laughed. "We didn't see a server so we brought our own. I do apologize." He touched the side of his nose with his stubby mitten-covered thumb and the two paper cups disappeared. "We are waiting for two more friends. Could we get menus, young man?"

"I'm just drinking," said Jack Frost. "Bring me a hot toddy."

"Can you say "please?"" said Santa.

Jack Frost rolled his eyes. "Please."

Two figures brushed passed us and I recognized Frosty the Snowman and  Mrs. Claus. They pulled up two chairs and joined the table.

Frosty had an icicle hanging off his ass and Mrs. Claus was wrapped up in a scarf that had images of children sledding down a hill.

"Dear," she said to her husband. "Frosty is warm. Can't you do something about this heat? It must be 40º out here. Look at him; poor thing's starting to melt. That icicle wasn't there ten minutes ago."

Santa again touched his nose with his thumb and immediately, the wind blew in from the north bringing with it snowflakes. The roll-ups on the table began to get soggy.

"Where's my fucking hot toddy" yelled Jack Frost.

I was so mesmerized by what was happening on the patio that I had forgotten I was at work. I looked at the woman who had wanted to sit outside and her cheeks were red with the cold air and a tiny bit of snot was slipping out of her nose. I handed her a tissue and she shivered as she wiped the snot away. I heard jingle bells overhead and looked up to see Rudolph flying above us pulling a sleigh along with eight flying pigs who had just flown out of my fucking asshole.

"Oh God, it's hot out here too," said the lady. " I'll just sit inside, I guess."

"Good idea," I replied.

Dumb bitch. We ain't got no micro-climate. It's 97 fucking degrees. I hate people.



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Patio A Go-Go

Sorry about this re-post, but I am actually out looking for a job today. And since writing this blog does not pay, I have to set my priorities. Of course, you could change that by clicking here. Or you could just leave a comment. Either way.


Let me tell you about waiting tables on a patio: it sucks. My restaurant has a patio in the summer and people knock themselves over to get one of those crappy little two-tops next to a busy Manhattan street. It's not relaxing out there, that's for sure. Sirens, buses, homeless people watching you eat french toast? Why bother? But people love it. But what really annoys the fuck out of me is when someone complains to me that it's too hot or too windy. Oh okay, let me stop the wind for you, lady.

Someone today waited twenty minutes for a table on the patio/dirty sidewalk. After they rearranged the tables to suit their needs they called me over and said the sun was too bright. They wanted to move. I reminded then that we are in fact outside which tends to have sun and told them that the entire inside of the restaurant was shaded if they wanted to move their gloober-globber asses in there. Of course they did not. They wanted to move the table somewhere else making it almost impossible for me to walk around them, but sure. Whatever makes my customers happy is what I want. Uh huh. They also tipped me $7.00 on $62.00. Assholes. I hope they get a touch of melanoma from their three minutes in the bright sun.

Another time a lady freaked the fuck out because she saw a rat on the sidewalk. It's a sidewalk. In New York City. That is where they live. Be thankful the rat didn't pull up a chair and order a bloody mary.

Another time a lady called me over because a gnat had flown into her mimosa and she wanted another glass. I personally think that drowning in a mimosa is a pretty good way to go, but whatever. It's a gnat. Who cares? Fish it out and continue drinking. I read somewhere once that we eat about a pound of bugs a year and don't even know it because they get in our food all the time. She didn't like that factoid. I took her mimosa inside and pulled the bug out of her drink with my impeccably clean hands. I then poured her drink into a new glass and gave it back to her. She should have been more specific and asked for another drink and not just another glass.

I hate working on the patio.


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Too Darn Hot

It's hot here in New York City. It's so hot that part of my face melted off yesterday while I waited for the bus to take me to a job. I was wearing the required all-black outfit of course. Nothing says comfort like black pants and a black shirt in 102° weather waiting for the Q60 bus in Queens. Lucky for me, I was working inside but what about those people who have to brave the elements? I look around the city during a heat wave like this and feel such empathy for the folks who have to work outdoors. Okay, "empathy" is a bit much because it implies that I have feelings and concern for others. Maybe when I say "empathy" I just mean I'm glad it's not me. Those men who pour asphalt and stand all day over a big cauldron of boiling tar? Awful. Those people who work on the tops of buildings replacing roofs? Horrible. Those servers who carry trays of fajitas to people on the patio? The worst.

Ages ago I worked on a patio for Houlihan's. If you are familiar with New York City perhaps you know where the big fancy Apple Store is right at the corner of Central Park and across from the Plaza Hotel. Well there was a time when there was a Houlihan's under there and it had a huge patio. Then one day it was filled in and covered with concrete and the Apple Store came in and no one ever remembers that there is a fine dining establishment buried there. Sad really. This country does not care about its history and architecture. How can they just bury a place like Houlihans'? Anyhoo, I worked on that patio one summer and it was so freakin' hot. It was a giant square of cement that just soaked up heat and sun so when you stepped out on it, it was like the Gobi desert. I seem to recall there were a few pitiful trees that tried to give us some shade but even the trees knew it was futile and they were like, "oh fuck this shit, it's too hot." I hated to wear sunscreen because I was greasy enough from the food and sweaty enough from the humidity that to add another level of oil to my face seemed wrong. I can recall more than once seeing sweat drip off of my nose and onto a plate of food as I served it to someone. First class service, indeed.

I was only there for three months before I was transferred back to my home Houlihan's. I never really liked it there and never bonded with any co-workers. One guy that was a waiter there was the brother to the manager. So you know he didn't do shit and got away with murder. I don't remember his name, but let's just call him Richard. Or Dick for short. Everyone hated working with Dick because we all knew that no matter how half-assed he did his side work, the manager wouldn't give a shit. He never got in trouble even though he was a complete prick. One time some foreigners stiffed him which wasn't all that surprising. It was a regular occurrence seeing that we were on Fifth Avenue at Central Park and in front of FAO Schwarz toy store. Tourist central. Well, Dick was not pleased with his 0% tip and let them know about it. As they were leaving, he went up to them and asked them why they didn't leave him a tip. They were all, "er, uhh, err, no English, errr." Richard went off on them. I was shocked at how he was yelling at these people who didn't even know what he was saying. "Well, this is America and in this country, we tip. Alright? You got that?? You know what your problem is? Ya got deep pockets and short arms, that's what your problem is. Get outta here, go on and don't come back with your short ass arms and deep damn pockets." Yes, he really said that. I mean, I'm bitchy and all but that is epic asshole.

The manager, his sister, heard about it. He was told to not do it again. Such authority. That patio sucked. The people sucked, the customers sucked, the food sucked. But the suckiest thing about it was definitely the heat. Stay cool.

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The Patio is a Pain in the Ass

This is a re-post of something I wrote last summer, but it being summer, its time has come again.

Let me tell you about waiting tables on a patio: it sucks. My restaurant has a patio in the summer and people knock themselves over to get one of those crappy little two-tops next to a busy Manhattan street. It's not relaxing out there, that's for sure. Sirens, buses, homeless people watching you eat french toast? Why bother? But people love it. But what really annoys the fuck out of me is when someone complains that it's too hot or too windy. Oh okay, let me stop the wind for you, lady.

Someone today waited twenty minutes for a table on the patio/dirty sidewalk. After they rearranged the tables to suit their needs they called me over and said the sun was too bright. I asked the sun to stop shining, but that bitch didn't want to cooperate so then they wanted to move. I reminded them that we are in fact outside which tends to have sun and told them that the entire inside of the restaurant was shaded if they wanted to move their gloober-globber asses inside. Of course they didn't. They wanted to move the table somewhere else making it almost impossible for me to walk around them, but sure. Whatever makes my customers happy is what I want. Uh huh. They also tipped me $7.00 on $62.00. Assholes. I hope they get a touch of melanoma from their three minutes in the bright sun.

Another time a lady freaked the fuck out because she saw a rat on the sidewalk. It's a sidewalk. In New York City. That's where rats live. Be thankful the rat didn't pull up a chair and order a Bloody Mary and ask for separate checks.

Another time a lady called me over because a gnat had flown into her mimosa and she wanted another glass. This very thing happened just a few days ago. I personally think that drowning in a mimosa is a pretty good way to go, but whatever. It's a gnat. Who cares? Fish it out and continue drinking. I read somewhere once that we eat about a pound of bugs a year and don't even know it because they get in our food all the time. I told her this, but she didn't like that factoid. I took her mimosa inside and pulled the bug out of her drink with my impeccably clean hands. I then poured her drink into a new glass and gave it back to her. She should have been more specific and asked for another drink and not just another glass.

I hate working on the patio.


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