There's No Place Like Home

I have felt naked for the last three weeks. It's as if I were missing a part of myself and everyone knew something was wrong with me. I was not whole. Well last night I became complete again because after three weeks of not waiting tables I tied on the apron and got back to work. As I positioned that black polyester piece of fabric with the perfectly placed pockets, everything seemed to make sense again. It was like I had clicked my heels together and been transported to a familiar and happy place called home. The sky was bluer, the birds were louder, and the glass of Chardonnay I had hidden in the drawer where we keep the paper towels seemed to taste even better than usual. I was a waiter again!

For the last three weeks, I have been training at another job so I took some time away from the service industry to focus on my new career which has no trays or aprons involved. The new job is great but I can't tell you how many times I have reached down to a non-existent apron to grab a pen. I may have to start wearing one at the new job because people need to learn how handy they are. When I wait tables, my apron has the following in it at any given time:

• pens
• wine key
• pad of paper
• spare change
• cell phone
• tissue and napkins
• lighter
• Trail Mix
• Justin Bieber
• notes for the blog
• a copy of Catcher in the Rye for when it gets slow
• gum
• mints
• several corks that I am saving to make one of these
• and Play-Doh (don't ask...)
  

At the new job, I have no apron. I keep a pen in my ponytail, gum in my pocket and my cell phone in my locker. It's difficult to do without my stuff, but I persevere. It's just one of the things I have to get used to not being a waiter all the time. One thing that is totally inconvenient at the new job is the tray that is permanently affixed to my left hand. It's very handy at the restaurant but a real nuisance anywhere else. My mom was right; I never should have had that surgically added, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Last night I realized that I missed being a waiter. It was nice to interact with customers again. When the lady at table 21 asked me if she was ever going to get to place her drink order, I was happy to tell her that she wasn't in my station but Jasmine would be right with her. Two minutes later when I walked past the lady again and she sarcastically asked me, "Are you Jasmine?" the urge to burn her eyebrows off wasn't even that strong. I simply smiled and told her, "No ma'am, I'm not Jasmine."

When table 35 called me over during the show to tell me something, I was eager to go hear what he had to say. "Would you tell those ladies at that table back there to shut the hell up?" he told me. "Yes sir," I replied and went right over to the two women. I didn't tell them to shut up though because that would affect my tip. I just asked them if they needed anything and they quieted down. The man at table 35 assumed I told them to shut the hell up, but I am a professional and know how to appease two tables at once.

When table 27 stiffed me on $84 because they thought the tip was included, I didn't mind. "Oh well," I thought. "I'm sure it was an honest mistake. Maybe next time they will tip better." They had also told me that they were coming back next week to see another show so I took a mental note to remember to not bust my hump if they happen to sit in my station.

Yes, it was good to be home again. There was a smile on my face, a pep in my step and a second glass of Chardonnay hidden on the shelf behind the coffee filters. Maybe waiting tables isn't so bad. Could it be that I like it? Could it be that serving people makes me feel good? Possibly. When I punched out and was stumbling towards the F train (thanks to the third glass of Chardonnay I had in a paper cup with a lid and a straw so it looked like I was drinking ginger ale and I was able to leave it in plain sight right next to the credit card machine), I realized what I liked about waiting tables. I had $91 in my pocket for an easy four hour shift and I had a damn good buzz that I didn't have to pay for.

I am a waiter and there's no place like home!



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Somewhere Over the Rainbow

You know when Dorothy says to Toto, "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore" because she knows there is some fucked up shit going down? That happened to me at work last week. My fellow server and I were definitely over the rainbow because nothing went as usual. Customers were nice, on time, pleasant, and they tipped crazy good. The whole night I was just waiting for a house to come crashing down on my ass and for Glinda to pop out of a bubble in an over sized prom dress covered in sequins and glitter. I kept looking around for Munchkins and a yellow brick road but it turns out it was just an extremely nice night at work. Allow me to explain.

Originally, the performer had only ten reservations which meant I would be making very little money. But though some miracle, sixty more people made reservations and suddenly it looked to be a very profitable evening. Even better, they had had actually made reservations allowing us to be prepared for a busy night. Somewhere over the rainbow, for sure. The performer was great and friendly and really talented, but the customers were all so wonderful. Jiminy Crickets! Maybe because it was over a long weekend people were in a good frame of mind. They all ordered their two beverage minimums in advance making my job about 79.93% easier.

Lo had a seven-top where a very old lady had said she was paying the check. To auto-grat or not auto-grat, that is the question. A party of seven certainly allows us to do so and with a senior citizen footing the bill, you never know what the tip might be. She might hand you a shiny dime and a piece of hard candy for a tip. Her bill was $211 so Lo decided to add the tip just in case. Thirty dollars was put on the check. It was very clear. She circled the added tip and even wrote "gratuity has been added" across the check. Well either the lady had a severe case of cataracts and didn't see it or she was very generous because when we picked up her credit card receipt, she added seventy more dollars to it. "Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore, indeed" Joy! Rapture! Meanwhile, my tables were practically throwing twenty dollar bills at me. Another customer went up to Lo and said, "Do you know who you look like?" Lo braced herself for the answer because you never know what people are going to say. I hate when people tell me that. It's always some unattractive man with a rat nest for hair and a big ass nose like Gene Wilder, Sideshow Bob, Bilbo Baggins, Sammy Hagar, Justin Guarini or Kenny G. But Lo's answer was different. "You look just like Joan from Mad Men." Lo gushed a big ol' thank you and patted her red hair and glanced down at her ample bosom. Another table told Lo they had seen her in a show once and loved her in it and went on and on about how talented she was. Between the compliments and big tips (and big tits), Lo was floating on air. No one complimented me on my appearance or talent but I was just happy with the tips that were flowing so freely.

The customers all left very quickly after the show was over allowing us time to sip our post shift glass of wine and talk about the night. "That was weird tonight," Lo said. "It was so smooth and we made so much money. How can you blog about this night? Nothing to bitch about." I was admiring the color of the Chardonnay in my glass and thinking I could always repost some lame ass piece of shit story from last year when Lo said, "You should totally write about how we were like over the rainbow tonight!"

"What?" I asked as I poured a second serving of wine and basked in my easy money.

"You know, like we were over the rainbow in a world where everything was perfect, you know? Like that. "

So yes, Lo. That is what I did. I wrote about that one perfect night when there were no Wicked Bitches of the West or Flying Monkeys screaming for separate checks. It was a night where troubles melted like lemon drops away above the chimney tops. That's where you'll find me. Somewhere over the rainbow with a pint glass of wine and a handful of Goldfish crackers.

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Please Do Not Eat the Lions

I loves me some tacos. Mainly because they go perfectly with margaritas but also because they keep me in touch with my (half) Mexican heritage. I have never met a Taco Bell I didn't like but I have also made sweet love to Del Taco, Taco Cabana, Two Pesos and the Super Taco from Jack and the Box. (Once on a cross country trip from Texas to California, my friend Stephanie and I stopped at every single Taco Bell on the way. It didn't matter if we were hungry or not; if we saw one, we stopped and I got a Mexi Melt.) I saw in the news the other day something that caught my eye because it had the word "taco" in it. A restaurant in Arizona was making a name for itself by selling exotic tacos every Wednesday. By exotic, I assumed they meant they put red cabbage instead of lettuce or Monterrey Jack instead of cheddar. But no. These bitches are selling lion tacos. Lion. Tacos. Who in the bloody fucking hell wants to eat a lion taco? All I would be able to think about is The Cowardly Lion from The Wizard of Oz saying "Put 'em up, put 'em up" as I spread sour cream all over it.

According to the vast amount of research I have done (I Googled it), lion meat is not illegal and it is $100 a pound so these tacos would be cost prohibitive for me anyway. Unless that shit is on the dollar menu, I don't want it. I suppose it is technically no different from a beef enchilada, chicken fajitas or a fish taco. (Which are are disgusting by the way. I tried a "fish taco" my sophomore year in college when I was really drunk. Her name was Laura.) I guess the main difference is that we don't normally eat lion. Or tiger. Or bear. Maybe I find it shocking because I grew up eating Hamburger Helper and I am used to the idea of eating cows. Maybe there is a place in the world where a lion sandwich is a perfectly acceptable lunch. I also wonder why we call it "hamburger" and not just "cow." I order a chicken sandwich but not a cow sandwich. This post is confusing me.

The day after I discovered the lion taco place, they came out and said they were taking it off the menu because of all the flack they got. The owner of the restaurant probably never even intended to sell the damn tacos in the first place. He just wanted some press and he got it. No word yet on what their next exotic taco on Wednesday will be.

"Would you like hot or mild sauce with your tacos de penguin?"
"Mild, please. And can I have extra penguin but the guac on the side?"
"Si, senora."
"Gracias."


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There's No Place Like Home

After a week of training at my new job where the people are less than friendly and the protocol is ridiculously strict, it was so nice to be back at my old job last night. It was if I had just clicked my heels together three times and was suddenly transported back to a place that was comfortable. There truly is "no place like home." My old job opened up her arms and smothered me in a warm welcoming embrace. Last night, I chatted with the host who I actually like. A lot. He didn't ignore me or tell me to clear a table like those cold bitches at the new job. My co-worker laughed at my jokes and I laughed at his, not like at the other job where no one talks to me because I'm the new guy. And most importantly, at the end of the shift, the bartender made me not one, but two citrus martinis. I think I missed him most of all. He's my scarecrow.

When I took my first order and walked back to the computer, the familiarity of that old fashioned piece of crap was so nice. Seriously, the computers that we use at the old job are like from 1986. They are huge and awkward and the screen looks like an Atari video game. (If you are too young to know what that means, I officially hate you.) Sure the fancy touch screen Aloha computers at the new job are nice, but sometimes I want a throw back to the when the days were more simple and carefree. It was nice last night to know the answers to the questions that people asked instead of having to go find out or just make something up. I suppose that eventually, I will feel comfortable at the new job, but it takes time. Time that I don't want to give. No one bossed me around last night, no one told me I was being too loud, and no one made me go to the basement and polish glasses for an hour and a half.

But alas, I have taken a new job. And given up unemployment to do so. I have painted myself into a corner because if I quit I can't just go back to unemployment. Now if they let me go though, I could. (Note to self: get fired.) I thought I could find something better in the world of food service, but I didn't. I understand now how Dorothy felt. "If I ever go looking for my heart's desire again. I won't look any further than my own backyard. Because if it isn't there, I never really lost it to begin with." True dat, Dorothy. True dat.

And if you like that image of the ruby slippers, you can fucking buy it here. Yeah, I painted it...)


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Ding Dong, That Munchkin's Dead

This is totally un-waiter related but important nonetheless. You know the Munchkin from The Wizard of Oz that says "As coroner I must aver, I thouroughly examined her, and she's not only merely dead, she's really most sincerely dead?" You know which one I am talking about? The coroner one? He died this week. Not only do I have a soft spot in my heart for Bitchy Waitering, The Brady Bunch, fried foods and The Olive Garden (kidding), my heart also goes soft for all things Ozian. His name was Meinhardt Rabbe and he was 94 years old. He always seemed like one cool fucking coroner and I hope he never had to wait a freaking table in his whole life. Have fun over the rainbow.