Let me start this by saying that I am young and look younger. I can still pass as a child on the bus despite being halfway through my degree. Now onto the story.
There is this man, we shall call him C for Creepy. He's at least 60. It started off okay, he came in sometimes when I first started working where I am now and we'd tell each other jokes. Him and his friends would request that I be their waitress, they were fun to have as customers and it was fine. Then he started coming in by himself. I figured, "okay, I know he works at the theatre down the road, he's probably just coming in for a drink after work." Then the jokes turned sexual. I can hold my own when it comes to dirty jokes, so I'd simply one-up him on smut factor. This is around when it started getting weird. I noticed him coming in every single night that I was working, alone more often than not. He started inviting me out places (I never went), offering to get me tickets to shows that were coming up. One of my co-workers told me that he came in, asked if I was working and promptly left when told it was my night off. One of my favourite bars is right next door to where I work, the bartenders are friendly and know what I drink. I was sitting outside with friends on my night off and C, noticing me from next door, came over and into this other bar to chat with me. The real kicker came on Valentine's Day. He called me over to where he was sitting at the bar and gave me roses and chocolates that he'd convinced one of the bartenders to hide behind the beer tap. He then invited me to go on holiday to Australia with him.
Needless to say, I was creeped out and embarrassed. To my memory, I hurriedly thanked him for the present, telling him he really should not have gotten me anything and ran to the waiters station. My manager let me sign off early that night.
C still comes in every night, alone. He drinks his Stella with a tumbler of Franjelico on the side and stares at the female staff. He's started staying late and preying on young, inebriated girls who've come in for a coffee or a glass of water. It's getting to a point where management wants to ban him, money be damned.
And the Valentine's Day gifts? Well that was the night Bartender Boy and I got together. Him and my flatmate ate the chocolates and we threw the roses off the balcony.
Thursday 28 April 2011
Wednesday 27 April 2011
Hair of the Dog
The other night I did something that I had never done before. I let my hangover get in the way of me doing my job. In my defense, it was Easter Sunday. That sounds strange, but on the night before Easter we have to close at midnight, so that means an extra three hours of staff drinks. So we all put too many drinks on our tabs, sat around on the couches and hung out. It was great; since the big bosses have cut down on staff there's hardly more than four of us still around when we finish closing. I was planning on getting out of there around six, and I did (quarter to six in fact), but rather than going back to The Boy's, we went to our manager's house for more drinks. It was really good, this particular manager and I didn't get on too well, she didn't really warm to me as much as the other staff, but we had a really good chat and it was nice to hang out completely away from work.
However, great as it was, The Boy and I didn't get back to his until midday. He started work at five, me at 6.30. Now even four hours of sleep would have been okay except we didn't get four hours of sleep. No, The Boy (poor guy) isn't really a drinker, despite being a bartender, and on this occasion I think he over-exerted himself. Admittedly, I was more wasted than I think he'd ever seen me so he seemed fine to me but neither of us had eaten or slept in over 24 hours. So he was sick. Very sick, for hours. I alternated between rubbing his back and dozing until we both got up to go to work.
Generally nothing fixes a hangover better for me than working, but not this time. I literally thought I was going to pass out. Thank God my front of house who we shall call Acid Tongue let me polish cutlery, fold napkins and run food for me entire shift without saying a word. He even thanked me for coming in when he left. Maybe he's not as bad as I thought, although he does make waitresses cry on a regular basis.
And The Boy? Well he got to work, promptly threw up again and was then fine for the rest of his shift. Bastard. I have informed him that the next time he poisons himself with Appleton's, he can sleep with his head in the toilet.
However, great as it was, The Boy and I didn't get back to his until midday. He started work at five, me at 6.30. Now even four hours of sleep would have been okay except we didn't get four hours of sleep. No, The Boy (poor guy) isn't really a drinker, despite being a bartender, and on this occasion I think he over-exerted himself. Admittedly, I was more wasted than I think he'd ever seen me so he seemed fine to me but neither of us had eaten or slept in over 24 hours. So he was sick. Very sick, for hours. I alternated between rubbing his back and dozing until we both got up to go to work.
Generally nothing fixes a hangover better for me than working, but not this time. I literally thought I was going to pass out. Thank God my front of house who we shall call Acid Tongue let me polish cutlery, fold napkins and run food for me entire shift without saying a word. He even thanked me for coming in when he left. Maybe he's not as bad as I thought, although he does make waitresses cry on a regular basis.
And The Boy? Well he got to work, promptly threw up again and was then fine for the rest of his shift. Bastard. I have informed him that the next time he poisons himself with Appleton's, he can sleep with his head in the toilet.
Monday 18 April 2011
The Golden Rule
The Golden Rule in hospo is not "The Customer is Always Right" because, most of the time, the customer is wrong. No, it is "Don't Screw the Crew". This is a good rule to go by; fucking the staff leads to difficulties (especially in a small place) because everyone will know about it, you will be talked about until better gossip comes along and, if you break up whilst still working together, it will be incredibly awkward.
However, there are also certain positives. When one works nights, normal relationships are tricky. They work during the day, you work at night. I lived with a (now ex) boyfriend for a year and it drove him mad. He worked 9-5, five days a week with Saturdays and Sundays off. I worked 6-4 five days a week with Mondays and Tuesdays off. Often, when he'd be getting up to go to work, I was just going to bed (drunk). There are none of these problems when you work together, your partner understands that you are going to be awake at six in the morning but not at midday and that weekend nights are non-existant. Plus, every so often, you can sneak into the staff-room for a quickie. Furthermore, you always have someone to bitch about your customers and co-workers with and they actually know who you're talking about.
I should admit to this now, I am sleeping with a bartender I work with. And I'm not proud of it, I went a long time without ever sleeping with anyone I worked with and now, when I have a job I actually sort of like, I'm doing the dirty. But I am not the first, nor will I be the last and it does make it so much easier being on the same fucked-up timeframe. And he can make me drinks, that's what's important.
However, there are also certain positives. When one works nights, normal relationships are tricky. They work during the day, you work at night. I lived with a (now ex) boyfriend for a year and it drove him mad. He worked 9-5, five days a week with Saturdays and Sundays off. I worked 6-4 five days a week with Mondays and Tuesdays off. Often, when he'd be getting up to go to work, I was just going to bed (drunk). There are none of these problems when you work together, your partner understands that you are going to be awake at six in the morning but not at midday and that weekend nights are non-existant. Plus, every so often, you can sneak into the staff-room for a quickie. Furthermore, you always have someone to bitch about your customers and co-workers with and they actually know who you're talking about.
I should admit to this now, I am sleeping with a bartender I work with. And I'm not proud of it, I went a long time without ever sleeping with anyone I worked with and now, when I have a job I actually sort of like, I'm doing the dirty. But I am not the first, nor will I be the last and it does make it so much easier being on the same fucked-up timeframe. And he can make me drinks, that's what's important.
Thursday 14 April 2011
Pretty Please With Sugar On Top?
Technically this isn't about waitressing per se, but it happened at work so that's close enough I think. The other night I'd just signed off, made my drink (gin and tonic) and was heading outside, cigarette already rolled, to shoot the shit with another waitress who'd finished around the same time. For the sake of anonymity we'll call this waitress Bettie (she had a penchant for pin-up style makeup). We (Bettie, her fiancé and I) were outside when a guy stumbled up to us from the bus stop, "'Scuse me miss, can I aks [sic] for a smoke?". Bettie looked at him, eyed him up and down and replied with "What's the magic word?". He looked perplexed, mumbled something about it not mattering and walked away again.
I mentioned something about being tired by the number of people constantly asking me for a smoke or a dollar (I do give people change, just not the guy who asks "Dollar for da bus?" every day on my way to work when I know it's going straight into the strip club pokie machines. I used to serve him drinks.) Bettie batted her eyelids and said "Well, darling, what did he expect? I'm a preschool teacher during the day, there's no way anyone's getting anything out of me without saying please. Besides, I looked and his shoes probably cost more than my rent."
I mentioned something about being tired by the number of people constantly asking me for a smoke or a dollar (I do give people change, just not the guy who asks "Dollar for da bus?" every day on my way to work when I know it's going straight into the strip club pokie machines. I used to serve him drinks.) Bettie batted her eyelids and said "Well, darling, what did he expect? I'm a preschool teacher during the day, there's no way anyone's getting anything out of me without saying please. Besides, I looked and his shoes probably cost more than my rent."
Tuesday 12 April 2011
So I Guess This Requires an Introduction
Well, as you may have guessed from the title, I am a waitress (among other things) and this is where I intend to vent about my job, my co-workers and my customers. So, lets get stuck in, shall we?
There is nothing worse than a slow Friday night. If I'm going to do a 10 hour shift, I want it to be busy. A busy bar means more drinks for me which makes the night go faster; it makes sense, no? But last Friday was slow and not the good kind of chilled, relaxed slow either. The kind where you and the other two waitresses (seriously, why do we need three waitresses and a maître d on the floor when there's maybe twenty people in the whole fucking place?) actually fight over who gets to polish cutlery.
But on with the story, it was Friday night, it was boring and it was cold. The usual bouncer who I get to joke with wasn't on, I was working with a waitress I don't much like and it sucked. Then, while checking outside, I stopped at 15 and asked if they'd like another round. It's then that I notice that these people are young. That doesn't sound too strange, you may think, young people being in a bar, but at my bar it's rare to serve someone around my age. The majority of the clientele is over 30. Yes, I work in a cougar bar. Anyway, the girl who's obviously the leader of the group (and all of 19) orders a round of martinis. Now I know that martinis are foul unless you're used to them and when you've never had so much as a sip of one in your life, you think the bartender is playing a cruel joke on you. I also have no patience for people who pretend to know about liquor when they don't, hell I admit when I don't know something and I work in a freaking bar. These were not people who knew their cocktails. But I figured "what the hell" so went along with it. When someone orders a martini, it is not a matter of simply writing down 1X Martini on the docket and being done with it, everyone likes their drink differently. So I asked, "vodka or gin?" and was met with blank stares. Finally I get "you decide". Alrighty then, 4X Gin martinis, dry, dirty and with olives.
As I'm walking back inside the bouncer looks at me and makes a hand/neck cutting motion, "The girl in the black jacket's cut off". "Well shit", I think, "he could've told me that when I asked how everything was five minutes before I went and served 15. Besides, she seems stupid but sober enough to me." I told him that (not the first bit) and went inside to check what my manager thought. P (the manager, and one of my favourite people there) looked out at them, then back at me. "God, they've been awful all night. What did they order?" "Four martinis" I replied. "Oh good, they'll hate them. Get the money before you put the docket up." One of the guys pays the $68 for the drinks (not without squawking over the price) and I'm sure to take their drinks out to them, just so I can watch their faces with that first sip. I wasn't disappointed. Blonde Hair takes a tiny sip and instantly puts the glass down and asks for lemonade, the leader (the one that ordered the drinks) winces. The guy that paid screws his face up and the other guy looks like he's going to throw up. I bring them all water and the blonde girl's lemonade, trying to contain my merriment.
"What the fuck is in that?" asks throw-up guy. "Gin, dry Vermouth and olives" I answer, nonchalant. "Now that's $3.50 for that lemonade, have you got cash or do you need eftpos?"
There is nothing worse than a slow Friday night. If I'm going to do a 10 hour shift, I want it to be busy. A busy bar means more drinks for me which makes the night go faster; it makes sense, no? But last Friday was slow and not the good kind of chilled, relaxed slow either. The kind where you and the other two waitresses (seriously, why do we need three waitresses and a maître d on the floor when there's maybe twenty people in the whole fucking place?) actually fight over who gets to polish cutlery.
But on with the story, it was Friday night, it was boring and it was cold. The usual bouncer who I get to joke with wasn't on, I was working with a waitress I don't much like and it sucked. Then, while checking outside, I stopped at 15 and asked if they'd like another round. It's then that I notice that these people are young. That doesn't sound too strange, you may think, young people being in a bar, but at my bar it's rare to serve someone around my age. The majority of the clientele is over 30. Yes, I work in a cougar bar. Anyway, the girl who's obviously the leader of the group (and all of 19) orders a round of martinis. Now I know that martinis are foul unless you're used to them and when you've never had so much as a sip of one in your life, you think the bartender is playing a cruel joke on you. I also have no patience for people who pretend to know about liquor when they don't, hell I admit when I don't know something and I work in a freaking bar. These were not people who knew their cocktails. But I figured "what the hell" so went along with it. When someone orders a martini, it is not a matter of simply writing down 1X Martini on the docket and being done with it, everyone likes their drink differently. So I asked, "vodka or gin?" and was met with blank stares. Finally I get "you decide". Alrighty then, 4X Gin martinis, dry, dirty and with olives.
As I'm walking back inside the bouncer looks at me and makes a hand/neck cutting motion, "The girl in the black jacket's cut off". "Well shit", I think, "he could've told me that when I asked how everything was five minutes before I went and served 15. Besides, she seems stupid but sober enough to me." I told him that (not the first bit) and went inside to check what my manager thought. P (the manager, and one of my favourite people there) looked out at them, then back at me. "God, they've been awful all night. What did they order?" "Four martinis" I replied. "Oh good, they'll hate them. Get the money before you put the docket up." One of the guys pays the $68 for the drinks (not without squawking over the price) and I'm sure to take their drinks out to them, just so I can watch their faces with that first sip. I wasn't disappointed. Blonde Hair takes a tiny sip and instantly puts the glass down and asks for lemonade, the leader (the one that ordered the drinks) winces. The guy that paid screws his face up and the other guy looks like he's going to throw up. I bring them all water and the blonde girl's lemonade, trying to contain my merriment.
"What the fuck is in that?" asks throw-up guy. "Gin, dry Vermouth and olives" I answer, nonchalant. "Now that's $3.50 for that lemonade, have you got cash or do you need eftpos?"
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