Well, hello. It’s been a while; how’ve y’all been? Me? Oh, fine, just fine. Why yes, I have been working a lot…
After coming to the realization (duh!) that I make my own schedule, and that I really need to take two entire days off each week, my work routine has settled down a bit. I still have split days off as the restaurant is closed on Mondays, and the other manager has a commitment that makes Tuesdays off impossible for me; but I’ve kind of gotten used to it. It’s almost like a 3-day weekend every week, if you don’t count the 10 hours of work right smack in the middle of it. Such a rude interruption…
Really, though, the only aspect of my job that I even mildly dislike is the schedule; and that only because it involves working Sundays. No, not the dreaded brunch as I would have opened an artery long ago if Sunday Brunch were required. Just like Jeff Golblum’s line in Jurassic Park, that “life finds a way…”, brunch also finds a way, every week, to suck. We are open for brunch and dinner on Sundays, the only day we open the doors during daylight hours; but my “keyholder” manager is there on Sunday mornings, and God bless her for it. That, and HBO On Demand are the only things that make working on Sundays tolerable, barely. I’d also like to take this opportunity to thank the bosses at my two previous jobs for giving me almost four years of Sunday-free work schedules. As Joni Mitchell sang, “You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone…”
Sundays, and the people who dine out on the 7th Day, are a different breed of cat altogether. You see people out to dinner on Sunday nights that you never, ever see any other night of the week. They say in the Bible that God rested on the 7th day, and the leper colony we get in each Sunday is your proof. My theory is that all the people who dine on Sunday nights crawled out of the primordial ooze when God took His one day off because He, too, just couldn’t deal. God was at home, in His sweats and wife-beater with His feet up and Sports Center on the tube when these people snuck their way into the evolutionary cycle.
And just to add salt to the gaping wound of working Sunday nights, and simultaneously drive a dagger into the heart of our check average, we offer a three-course “supper” for $20. This is just to make sure that we not only get the weirdos, but also the cheap weirdos. We have people who ask if they can split the $20 meal. Really? Look, if you don’t have enough money to eat out, just stay home…
Last Sunday night was a classic. Knowing the check average is always down, and often cover counts as well, I was sympathetic to my staff’s need to make a little coin even on Sundays; so I went with a lean crew. Three waiters, one bartender, one food runner, one hostess and I did over 120 people; and all of them came in at once. The parties of 8 and 9 started coming in around 7:15, so we were all sufficiently lulled into complacency by then. And they kept coming through the door, like extras from The Walking Dead. We have an alarm system that makes a “beep-beep” in the back kitchen when the front door opens and, as I am back there madly buffing glassware and silver to keep us afloat, it was going off to the beat of Funkytown. Let me take you down, beep-buh-beep, to Funkytown, beep-buh-beep… as more and more piled in.
In the midst of all this fun and good times, my bartender decided now would be a grand time to cut his hand, taking me off the floor and him out of a very busy bar while I triaged his wound. I found our sparsely stocked First Aid Kit, (and someone please tell me why it is that restaurant First Aid Kits are either stocked to the hilt with eye cups, defibrillators, and enough stuff to treat the victims of the Haiti earthquake, or they have just three band-aids and some dull scissors?) and got his hand wrapped; but the bleeding just wouldn’t stop and the kitchen had run out of latex gloves. Perfect. Now wouldn’t this be an excellent time for the Health Department to stop in? I got on my cell, called in a “Stunt Bartender” who, thankfully, was both nearby and willing to come in: go figure. She arrived about 20 minutes later and jumped into the fray.
I had just barely hung up the phone when my hostess, who was still doing restroom checks despite being drafted into service running food and bussing tables, informed me that the toilet in the Men’s Room had backed up. Dealing with the shitty situation in the bathroom brought new meaning to the term “Manager’s Log”.
As I was pushing the mop bucket from the restroom back into the scullery, I noticed that there was no one on the Sautee Station in the kitchen. The sous-chef informed me that he’d had to send one of the cooks home because he had been caught drinking the cooking wine in the back, and was drunk. Perfect. He told me this as I was helping one of my weeded servers process the nine separate checks from a party of really snotty Nelly Queens who had decided they needed to leave, now. All I needed was a good, old-fashioned computer crash to really make my night complete.
So then, another server comes up to tell me that the four-top on 72 wants to “speak to The Manager.” All restaurant mangers know that these are words that are generally never followed by anything good; and a big Shit Sandwich is most likely coming your way. As a manager, I like to remain in the background, offering support to the staff. I am like an Offensive Lineman in the NFL. The only time my number is called out over the PA system is when something bad has happened; but instead of “Holding, number 72, offense…” and the touchdown is called back, it’s “Overcooked Veal Chop, table 72…”
The tidal wave of business is beginning to withdraw from the beach, and the crew is starting to pick through the rubble, straightening out the beach chairs and umbrellas; so I cinch up my tie, shoot my cuffs, and head on over to 72. The gent at Position 3 who, as I was seating them, had made an off-color joke about the “diverse” crew and the “war zone” of the neighborhood surrounding the restaurant, had appointed himself spokesperson. They are four very old, very Jewish people. Oy.
“Lizzen, I just vant to tell you some-zing, here…”
Okay, here we go. Open wide for the Shitburger, and make it a double.
“Our soiver, fen-tehs-tic! And the Duck, to die for. We loved it all. Job vell done…”
I was speechless, as an ear-to-ear, decidedly non-shit eating grin had commandeered my face. A perfectly mashugana end to Sunday, Bloody Sunday…