Whatever Happened to Manners?

I feel far too young to be one of the old fogies complaining about the youth and their lack of simple manners so I won't be. Instead, I intend on complaining about the middle aged.

I am not saying that all middle-aged people are rude, just most of them. Funnily enough, whilst working I have never come across an ill-mannered elderly person, nor a badly behaved child. More often than not, I find myself chatting with the blue-hairs and complimenting parents on their child's manners. It is the middle-aged that could learn a thing or two.

To paint the picture, our outside section is out the heavy front doors, which are closed when it's cold and push from the inside out. When I'm taking in several plates/glasses from outside, it can be very tricky to get the doors open. Sometimes there's a wait-station there that we can put things on, sometimes there is not. The other night was one of the latter situations. It was also freezing cold and I had a stack of plates and several glasses in my hands. Our doorman hadn't started yet. As I was arranging everything in my hands, several people came in and out of the doors (which shut quite quickly). Like a good little waitress, I greeted everyone coming in and bid everyone leaving a good night. Not one single person made any attempt to hold the door and let me in. One elderly man sitting with his family at table one noticed me outside, got up from his dinner and opened the door for me. As I was thanking him and coming in, he observed the lack of gentlemen in the world today.

Now I'm a feminist; I believe in equal rights and equal pay for all. I need a man like a fish needs a bicycle. I don't need a man to open a door for me. But on the same note, a gentleman is nice. The Boy insists on carrying the groceries. He walks on the side of the cars when we walk down the street. He opens doors for me. I do not require this, but it's nice. Really though, my point is not just that of the gentleman. It is common human courtesy to hold a door for someone coming in after you.

Arseholes

Last night was strange. We didn't have any of the coffee crazies come in (the regulars who I know and love) and only two of the normal suits. However, we did have an abundance of asshats.

First was the couple who camped for seven hours. I am not joking. For the last three hours they only had tap water. Also, the man was the kind of guy who speaks veeeerrryyy slowly to waitstaff because we must all be stupid. Honestly, how many people need "two Glenfiddich 18yrs, neat, but one only a half shot with a jug of water on the side" explained to them four times in different ways? I'm not saying okay and repeating your order back because I don't understand you. Whiskey is not hard. Reading Kant is hard. But I digress.

Second was the woman who showed up at 11pm on a Friday to a packed bar demanding a table inside for her and your nine friends. This was simply not going to happen, we had no free tables, chairs or even standing room inside. When I explained this to her, she pointed to three guys sitting at a four-top (waiting for their three partners to come back from the bathroom) and asked why I couldn't make them move. Because they've been here since dinner, have been coming here for eleven years and tipped me fifty dollars as well as being lovely, that's why.

I think last night must've been a full moon or the wind changed or something. Send me better luck for tonight!

The Best Thing I Have Ever Said

The other night I discovered that I can say pretty much whatever I like whilst working and as long as I do it smiling, no one notices that I've just said something incredibly crude/insulted them. This is the story of how I discovered this. Of course, you treat different tables differently; I would never have said this to a table of two little old ladies, for example.

It was about 10.30ish on a Friday night. Usually people aren't drunk that early but there are some exceptions, these two guys were an exception. I was doing outside section and stopped in to check on them. The exchange went as follows.

S - Can I get you another drink?

M - No I'm good. But I have to ask you, are you spiritual?

S - That depends on what you mean by spiritual.

M - I mean, do you ponder about why we're here and who put us here and all that?

S - I'm a second year Philosophy student, so I ponder, definitely. I believe in a Philosophical god, rather than a traditional Christian one. But I guess I'd consider myself spiritual, yes.

M - Do you believe in the second coming?

S - I don't really believe in the first one.

M - No, if I say the words "Second Coming", what do they mean to you?

(At this point I looked at him, looked at his friend who had the look of exasperation the sober man gets when his drunk friend is asking waitresses strange questions, looked back at the drunk guy and replied:)

S - Multiple orgasms.

And then I walked away, leaving sober friend cracking up and drunk friend wondering what just happened.

Tugging the Heart Strings

Something that happened the other night reminded me of this story.

There's one guy, a friend of Odette, that comes in every so often. He's very wealthy and very nice, he leaves enormous tips and buys everyone working rounds of drinks. So a little while ago he came in and quietly told Odette that he wanted to buy one table's dinner. He also didn't want anyone to know that he'd done it. He left choosing the table to Odette and asked her to tell him who she picked.

There was one elderly couple in having dinner, they were both about eighty and very sweet. So Odette chose them and pointed them out to mystery man. He gave her his card and told her to charge their bill to it. She sorted that all out quietly and watched as the situation panned out.

The couple finished their meal and asked for the bill. Odette said "I'm not entirely sure how to tell you this, but a guest here has paid your bill already." Understandably, they were confused. She called over Mario and together they explained that a mystery customer had paid for their meal for them and didn't want to be identified. The woman started crying and explained that it was their wedding anniversary -  they'd been married for sixty years - and nothing like this ever happened to them. Odette and Mario bought them dessert and coffee on the house and told them to enjoy their evening. The couple finished the dessert and left holding hands.

Odette told me later that in over ten years of hospitality work, that was the only time she has ever teared up whilst working.

Bitch, I Will Put You in a Nursing Home

Last night seemed to be a night for the crazy folk to come out and play. I'm not quite sure why, it wasn't a Sunday or a full moon (always weird) but there was a distinctly odd feeling about everyone. On top of that, the staff were in full on strange mode and the streetlights were out for about an hour. On the whole, though, people were lovely, except for one crazy bitch who makes up my story.

She was there almost all night at a table with several of my favourite regulars and they were in my section. I was at the table a fair bit; these are regulars who spend money and appreciate being well-looked after. Anyway, even early on there was something weird about this one woman, let's just call her Crazy. Well Crazy had a mean case of the crazy-eyes and she was one of those women who refuse to acknowledge waitstaff. That pisses me off to begin with, but the guy she was there with was nice enough to make up for it. They were drinking Dog Point Sauvignon Blanc (from 2010, fruity, from Marlborough) by the bottle, so didn't require a whole lot of checking up on but I was walking around and stopping in with them every so often after the regulars left. It was on one of these general "Can I get you another drink/something to eat/more water/clear anything finished?" stop ins where the woman looked up at me and shouted "Go away! Just go away!" to me whilst flicking her hand dismissively. This is when my bitch came out. "Fuck it," I figured, "may as well give her what she wants." So I did. I kept joking with and serving every other table in my six table section but them. They could pour their own damn wine. Roughly ten minutes later, Crazy starts crying, while sitting at her table. I hate women who do this, it makes me and everyone who notices it uncomfortable. Crazy went to the bathroom where  the other waitress (Mary-Jane) overheard her wailing about how the waitresses were so young and "he" (presumably the thoroughly middle aged man she was with) was "looking at them".

Well this answered some questions, namely why my presence anywhere near their table seemed to so upset her. But I kept doing my thing, until I went to start closing so Mary-Jane was on the floor. Well she knew what had happened but only sort of and Crazy's water glass had been empty for nearly twenty minutes. So Mary-Jane went over to fill it up and the same thing happened. She came into the kitchen to tell me, wondering if she'd done something wrong. Now this pissed me off more than when Crazy first pulled that shit. Mary-Jane is far newer to the game than I am and therefore not yet jaded. She's also lovely, friendly and genuinely cares about her customers. For this hag of a woman to make her think she was the one at fault made me livid. But there was nothing I could really tell Mary-Jane, other than to punch Crazy in her dried-up ovaries. So I let the manager and the bouncer know that she was drunk and told Mary-Jane to do what I'd done and simply not serve them.

Later, when we (Cookie, The Boy and I) had finished staffies and were walking home we saw something beautiful. Crazy and her man thing arguing in a doorway just down from my bar. I heard man thing say "I'd like you more if you weren't such a bitch" and "Just knock! You're not staying with me so you can either knock or sleep on the street." The police were on their way over as we walked past. Karma is sweeter than revenge.

All My Hats

I'm done with work for the week! Well, sort of, I have this thing to go to with some of the staff tonight; a new bar/restaurant has just opened across the street from us and gave us tickets to their opening party. Bring on the free food and booze! Being a waitress is so glamourous (ha-fucking-ha).

Anyway, so over the last 20ish hours I've worked I've done lots of different things. Generally I'm a waitress and that's all I do; I talk to people a lot and I carry stuff. But since we've cut down on the number of staff on at any given time, I get to do way more things. Last night I got to be on the door while A was inside looking for his missing wedding ring (I got to check IDs and everything). Friday night I got to bartend when it got busy suddenly and Mother Hen was ordering stock, I figured I'd help out Cookie and The Boy. That brings me to my little anecdote of the day.

I am not a bartender; I can make mixed drinks just fine and even a few cocktails, I can pour wine (who can't?) and beer from a bottle. Tap beer is a mystery to me, there's all the tilting and foam and it's too much effort. Anywho, I was over at 120 (the end of the bar) and a guy there asked me for a Jim Beam and L&P (for those non-Kiwis, it's a lemon flavoured soft drink). I explained we don't have L&P and his options as far as mixer goes are Coke, Diet Coke, lemonade, ginger beer, ginger ale and any weird variety of juice. This is when his arsehole factor became apparent. He started going on about how he's been "coming here for years" and why don't we have any L&P? I replied that I don't know about multiple years, but I know for sure we haven't had L&P in at least two. I also said that he's more than welcome to go across the road to a convenience store, buy a bottle of L&P and we'll keep it chilled for him and make his drinks with that. He settled on Jim Beam and ginger ale. I made his drink in front of him and got the portable Eftpos for him to pay, upon which he informed me that he wanted it in a smaller glass. Now at my bar, the tall glasses and the short glasses are actually the same volume, so if I'd made it tall and he wanted it short it wouldn't have been an issue. But unless the customer says otherwise, I will always make bourbon and rum mixed drinks in a short glass, this guy wanted a whiskey glass. It was 3 in the morning, we'd done last call and I could not be fucked with arseholes at this point. I politely (not really) informed him that if he'd wanted it in a smaller glass, he had ample time to tell me that when I was making the drink in front of him, not when it came time to pay and he could either take it and pay or leave it.

He paid the $9 and shut up. I think I'd make an awesome bitchy bartender.

Cast of Characters

Right, well I'm starting to get confused with the aliases I've given everyone, so we'll get them straight now. This is only the front of house, kitchen staff and regulars will need their own separate posts.

Chief - The big boss (sort of, he's not actually allowed to own a bar because of past drug convictions, so technically his wife owns everything). He's a lovely guy who drinks Pinot Noir like it's going out of fashion, smokes like a chimney and has a wicked speed habit. Lovely and well-meaning though he is, he's going mad so drives us all fucking insane when he starts trying to tell us how to work.

Mrs Chief - Possibly the scariest woman I have ever met, and I don't scare easy. She's beautiful even though she must be pushing 60 and she's always flawlessly dressed. She owns everything and holds the liquor license cause Chief's not allowed to. I was terrified of her for months when I started, until we had a Secret Santa day last Christmas and showed up, excited as a little kid, wearing a Santa hat and gave everyone bottles of champagne. Now I'm slightly less scared of her.

Mario - The resident, crazy maitre d. He's about 5"7, 50 years old and very, very Italian (from Sicily). He calls everyone darling, takes hour-long smoke breaks and adores dirty jokes. He also drinks wine like no one I've ever seen, you hardly ever see him drink, but the give away is finding wine glasses with condensation still on them. He also has a tendency to drink glasses of wine meant for customers, especially on slow nights. A man his age, in this industry who does and says the things he does would have been fired long ago, but for his accent and skill at talking to people. It took me two months to be able to understand a word he said.

Odette - One of the managers, called so because she's beautiful and a dancer but also has a wicked speed habit (and access to the best drugs in the city). I adore her, she's lovely and the only person who doesn't yell at you if you call in sick. She's been at the bar for eight years but is leaving in a month for a managers job at another restaurant.

Mother Hen - The general bar manager. She's terrifying too and it took her a long time to warm up to me, but now that she has, she's amazing. She's everyone's mum but I've learnt after one too many 8am walks home to never go out drinking with her after work. She knows every single hospo worker in the city and has been in the industry for nearly twenty years. She has the best "don't fuck with me" face I have ever seen, I'm trying to learn it. Also married to our bouncer.

Lurch - The manager on Sundays and Mondays, he's huge. Easily over 6 foot, he's incredibly protective of the female staff, especially when we go out for post-work drinks and a lovely guy. He is, however, a nut job when he's drunk. One of the first things I learnt is that "when Lurch suggests a party back at his place, you go home."

Short Stuff - Another maitre d, he's shorter than me (I'm 5"4), Maori and hilariously funny with the filthiest mind I've ever come across. He gives everyone nicknames when they start, I'm Roaring Meg Mount Difficulty (named after a wine) because I never roar at anyone. He's one of my favourite staff members, though he works day shifts so leaves fairly early every night.

A - The bouncer. Married to Mother Hen, but far more chatty and relaxed. They've been together for years and are the sweetest couple I've ever seen. He's a personal trainer during the day and is hilariously funny. Drinks a lot of coffee but very little booze and tends to go on strange diets where anything white is banned.

Superman - Built like a tank, he owns a construction business and goes to university during the day, he only works as a maitre d on Sunday and Monday nights and nights like New Years Eve. He's severely ADHD and only sleeps about four hours a night. He's harsh, he made me cry once, but he knows his stuff and he's funny. We have a love/hate relationship.

Honeybee - My favourite waitress. She started two weeks before I did and we work mostly the same shifts. She's training to be an air hostess and working at the bar at nights for the hospo experience. She's stunningly beautiful and a lot of fun. We sing together when it's boring.

Frenchie - Obviously, she's French. She's a waitress/bartender but her true calling is photography. Unlike most of her fellow French hospo workers, she sees this as simply a job that's good for travelling with, she doesn't care too much about service (which is much more fun than caring a lot). I went in for dinner once, asked her what the soup was and she replied "I don't fucking know, but there's probably no love in it."

Mary-Jane - Our newest waitress, she's a lovely girl (and gorgeous) but working with her drives me mad. She's sometimes lazy and tends to do stupid things like getting high on her break and not being able to work. However, she is great for a post-work drink.

Kilt - The newest bartender, she's beautiful and Scottish and hilarious. She dances behind the bar and is great for a laugh. I don't know her well enough yet to say more.

Cookie - The glassie, sometime bartender and my old flatmate, he's also one of my best friends from before we worked together. Tall, swishy and fabulous he's the only gay in the village (at the moment, anyway). Mario thinks we're like Will and Grace, he's not wrong.

And last but not least,
The Boy - As well as my lover, he's a bartender; he's been at the bar off and on for six years (it was his first job out of high school). He's also our resident pot-head, always good for a meeting in the kitchen after work and wonderful at his job. The first person ever to make me break my rule of not screwing the crew, it works fine because he's incredibly chilled and makes the best hazelnut margaritas. Plus, he puts extra booze in my drinks, that always helps.

Don't Ever Touch Your Waitress

So I started thinking about this the other night at work. I was serving a table outside and a girl accidentally brushed my boob. She apologized profusely, I wasn't upset in the least but a flippant comment, "It's fine, honey. If you were male and 50 I would mind" made me think. Now I have customers and I don't mind if they touch my arm, or my shoulder, hell I have regulars who I kiss on the cheek and hug. But there is a line, and it's not always the men who cross it.

A few months ago I was serving a table when the woman reached over and tugged my skirt down. Now my skirts are short, but not appallingly so (mid-thigh and I always wear tights underneath). I have never had a staff member or a customer complain about how I'm dressed, quite the contrary I tend to get lots of compliments on my shoes or my dress or what-have-you (we don't have a uniform at my bar). So you can imagine my shock and surprise when this complete stranger felt it was necessary and okay for her to adjust my clothes. I don't think I said anything, but I'm fairly certain I gave her a look. To my memory, they tipped pretty well too, maybe she felt bad. I think it was more the shock that there was a woman touching me, men I can deal with much better.

And that brings me on to my next point. Men, it is never, NEVER okay to touch your waitress, or your waiter for that matter, unless you know them and it's comfortable for both parties. The other night, my boss was sitting outside with two other men, having a drink and shooting the shit and what-not. I get on pretty well with Chief (that's what we'll call my boss) so when I went out to offer them another round we were chatting. One of his friends touched my arm. Now there is such thing as an innocent arm touch and there is such thing as a not so innocent arm touch (you go by the way they've been talking to you), this was the second kind. Chief's pretty protective of the female staff as well, so he slapped his friends hand away and joked "touching costs extra." We laughed and I went to serve the next table. A little while (and a few more drinks) later, I went back to Chief's table when I noticed they were getting low. While I was getting the drink order, Chief's friend exclaimed, "You've got a red bra on!" (the side of my top had slipped down under my arm) and went to touch my chest. Now this is not on from any customer so I slapped his hand away myself and reminded him that touching costs and he now owed me at least $100. Chief backed me up on this, and tried to push it up to $150. When the guy complained, Chief responded with, "Hey, I pay her at least that much and I don't get to touch anything!" The guy didn't have much cash on him, but I got him to sign my docket pad with an IOU for at least $100 and a few drinks, Chief signed as a witness and the guy tipped me $20 when he left.

So the moral of the story? Well there's several. Waitresses are not strippers, but everything has its price; a smile smoothes over everything; and if you're a boss and you have your staff's backs, they may just give you a cut of the money they make off very drunk men.

One From The Records

Okay so before I waitressed at the Restaurant I spent six months as a waitress in a well-known strip club in my city. Don't judge, I was young and I needed the money. Anyway, I saw some of the most amazing, underhanded, dirty practices while I was there but generally the girls (most of them anyway) were cool and I made really good money. Also, there was one fight I saw there that stuck in my mind, purely because of how epic it was.

It was a tuesday night. This automatically made the night suck, it was a tuesday and I was going to be working til 6 in the morning. It was also raining and in the middle of winter. No one goes to strip clubs on a tuesday in the middle of winter; it's just not sensible. Anyway, out of maybe the ten customers we had, three are the antagonists in this tale. I'd been talking to one of the girls in the bathroom, she was a stripper from Melbourne with awesome, studded heels. I was making the rounds and offered drinks, they ordered a glass of red wine, a vodka cranberry and a Tui (possibly the worst beer known to man). Right as I was getting their order, a gentleman standing at the bar gestured a little too wildly and knocked several glasses from their spot hanging above the bar into the ice sink. I'd been waiting for someone to do that for months. Anyway, it was taking a while to get their drinks because A, the only bartender on, had to completely empty, clean and refill the ice bin. Shoes Stripper actually came up to me while I was waiting for the drinks (we had stupid systems at this bar) and asked me where their drinks were because they were "really thiiiiiiiirsty", with that little girl whine and everything. That was about when I wrote this girl off as a bitch. Either way, I got their drinks, put them on my tray and started walking through the (mostly empty) bar to Shoe Stripper, who was sitting at the rail thing next to the stage.

Right as I got to her, her friend stood up in front of me, knocking my tray and spilling all the drinks down my front. I got a mumbled "oh, sorry" and stalked back to the bar to change my shirt and get them new drinks. As I was making my way back, I saw the best thing I've ever seen in a strip club. There was a girl on stage called Christina (I don't know her real name). She was gorgeous, blonde, curvy and hilariously funny. She was up there, doing her thing, and Shoe Stripper sitting by the stage loudly commented on her weight, I think her exact words were "Oh my god, that blonde skank's huge! No wonder they don't make any money here." With that, Christina turned around (she'd had a bit to drink out of boredom) yelled "I'm not fucking fat, you stupid fucking slut!," punched Shoe Stripper square in the face then dove off the stage, knocking Shoe Stripper off her stool and onto the floor, where they started wrestling. It was a full on cat fight, complete with screaming and scratching and hair pulling and everything.

We (the other waitresses, myself, and my friend T) were all standing near the bar in awe while this was going down, until something clicked and we all started yelling and cheering Christina on. It didn't take too long before the bouncers came in, one picked up Christina and carried her into the changing room while the other one picked up Shoe Stripper and took her outside, her friends following meekly behind. And what did us waitresses do? Well we did what I'd do for any girl after a fight, we picked up all Christina's hair extensions that Shoe Stripper had ripped out and followed her into the changing room with them. A girl can't leave her hair lying all over the floor of a strip club, you know.

The Stupidest Question I Have Ever Heard

Sorry I haven't posted in a while, I took a weekend off to go camping (which was wonderful; it had everything camping needs to be good; tents, cows, excessive consumption of alcohol, nudity, upside-down tequila  shots...). Anyway, I'm back now and a stupid question last night made me remember this one.

It was last Valentine's Day which happened to fall on a Monday. We were completely booked and I was recently single and therefore bitter. We had lots of couples, as one would assume, but one particular twosome stands out. They were sitting at table ten later on in the evening (around 9ish). She was drinking Cosmopolitans, he'd been on beer. I went over to ask if they wanted another drink. She ordered another Cosmo (not without looking at him first to check she was allowed another drink. I hate when couples do that, if you want another drink then fucking well have one). He turned to me and asked "what vodkas do you guys have here?" I rattled off the list, house pour is 42below, we have all the flavours as well. We also carry the Absolut and Finlandia ranges as well as Imperia and Zubrowka. He considered for a moment and asked what whiskies we had. I got him a list, as the whiskies are extensive and I can't be arsed memorizing them. He settled on a 15-year-old Glenfiddich. My query as to how he wanted it was met with a black stare. "I mean, would you like it neat or on ice?" I clarified. And that was when it happened, the stupidest question that I have ever heard. "What kind of ice have you guys got here?". The realization hit him instantly, it showed in his face, much as I imagine my incredulity showed in mine. So I gave him the only answer I could think of, other than laughing;
"The kind that comes frozen and vaguely square-shaped."

Just A Quick One

A few Saturdays ago there were three very drunk, decidedly middle-aged suits sitting up at the bar. One of them stopped me as I was walking past and slurred "I have to ask you, honey. Do you work here cause you like older men or do you just work here?" (Imagine that being said by a forty-something year old who reeked of whiskey). Now generally I am nice; I brush off lascivious old men with a polite but firm comment, unlike a lot of other female bar-staff who have the "Eat shit and die" look down pat. I've been begging them to teach me. But that night, without even thinking about it, I turned around to face the guy, gave him a look that would turn Medusa to stone and replied in my best withering voice, "I just work here", before continuing on my path to the staff table.
The punchline? The guy and his friends were so abashed that they tipped me $50 and I never even served them. Guess my fuck off face isn't too bad after all.

Humbert Humbert

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.

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.

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.

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."

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?"