I have decided that I will no longer answer the take-out phone at the restaurant. I hate the to-go phone. Every server does. This is why it rings and rings and rings and no one ever seems to pick up. We all have tables on the floor, tables we hope will be paying us to provide them with good service. We are busy trying to provide said service, and stopping what we’re doing to answer the phone and then explain the menu and take the order from some voice on the other end just takes time none of us has.
Of course, management is very adamant that the phone should ring no more than three times before one us picks it up. It is, after all, a sale waiting to be made. So they rant and rave and remind us constantly that the phone needs to be answered, and since it’s part of our job and I have that stupid work-ethic thing going on, I answer it more often than not, even when I don’t have the time.
But no more. Last Sunday, as I walked into the vestibule to put an order into the micro, the phone rang and since no one else was standing still long enough for me to hand it off to them, I took the call. What’s your special today, the guy wanted to know. Well, what sides do you have? Well, what can I get that’s like the meatloaf? What kind of soup? And on and on with the questions. Figure out what the hell you want before you make the fucking call. We have a menu on line. And if you're calling us to place an order, I assume you're at the very least familiar with out menu. I spent at least ten minutes on the phone with this guy, ten minutes I could have been using to wow my guests by refilling their drinks before they even asked. And as soon as I hung up, the phone started ringing again.
Because I’m stupid, I answered it again. Another pain in the ass order – all kinds of substitutions and sauces on the side.
By the time I was done on the phone, my orders were up in the window and I had to start running them out to my guests who by this time had empty glasses and had mentally deducted five percent from my tip. By the time I finished running the first round of trays and refilling everyone’s drinks, I realized I’d forgotten to ring in an order.
Fuuuuuck!
That’s why I was coming into the vestibule to begin with.
Moments later, I realized I’d forgotten to bring out a salad too. And the woman was pissed and let the manager know when he ran out the tray for me since I was in the back cajoling the grill line (bribing them with promises of pot) into rushing out my forgotten ticket.
Fortunately, the rushed order came out moments after the order for the table beside them (who ordered at the same time), so they never knew the difference. But I knew. And I couldn’t seem to recover myself for the rest of the night. I was just off all day, one step behind where I needed to be. And by the end of the shift, it was all I could do to finish my sidework and get the hell out. I even shorted them on a few silverware roll-ups in the end because I just didn’t care.
So from now on, the to-go phone can just keep on ringing. I’m pretty sure I can’t hear at that frequency. You know, hearing loss brought on by all those years I spent working on jets.
*I started another blog - one only about serving. This is also posted there.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Why don't I pay more attention to the one-way alley?
I don’t always make the best decisions. Over the past few years, in fact, I’ve made a number of choices that turned out to be just plain bad. It’s not that they were inherently bad decisions like say, “Should I step out in front of this speeding truck? I think I will.” It’s just that when considering my options, I failed to see the possible consequences of one choice over the other. Not that I wasn’t looking for consequences – I look. I always look. And then I look some more. And then maybe I make a decision. And then maybe I even act on that decision.
It usually goes something like this: I need to cross the street. I’m at the corner. There’s a crosswalk. I look both ways. No cars. I look on the side streets to see if anyone is planning to turn. Still no cars. I check both ways once more. Nothing. I step out and halfway across the street I’m crushed by a speeding motorist. Why? Because even though I saw an alley halfway down the block, a one-way alley with a sign pointing away from the street, and even though I didn’t see any cars coming out of it, I didn’t consider that someone might pull out and speed down the street to run me over.
So a couple months ago, after I had a couple weeks off from work and realized that I had been spending way too much time at work, after I came home from Iowa and decided I had to find a way to save some money and stop working so much, a friend of mine from the restaurant who was staying with me until his townhouse was ready approached me with the idea of moving into said townhouse and splitting the rent with him. I thought about it.
I considered the benefits – I save money. I can cut down my hours. I live in a better neighborhood. I live in a bigger and nicer house. One with a real kitchen. I get to spend time with my son. When I’m not there, my son gets to spend time with another adult who he gets along with. I like hanging out with this friend and living with him will mean we get to hang out more often. We hang with the same group of people from the restaurant and since the house is just blocks from the restaurant, we can have people over to play cards and have a few beers.
I considered the negatives – I have to move. I hate moving. I have to live with someone else. I have to be considerate of another adult. I have to compromise on my tv viewing choices. He’s a bit younger and likes to have people over more often than I do. Like on week nights. When us old people like to sleep.
I even considered possible consequences – Maybe something will happen and he won’t be able to cover his share of rent one month or two or more. Maybe he’ll decide that he hates my son or me or vice versa. Maybe he’ll eat all my groceries and never buy any of his own. Maybe he’ll be a neat freak and roll his eyes every time I leave a glass on the end table. Maybe he’ll be a slob and I’ll roll my eyes every time he leaves a glass on the end table. Maybe he’ll leave the toilet seat up and I’ll fall into it in the middle of the night (my son has been properly trained).
Best case scenario, we would all make slight compromises and end up saving money and getting a little bit ahead. Worse case scenario, I would end up making more compromises than him, but still end up a little bit ahead. Worst case scenario, he would totally flake out, but I would be able to cover bills and even if I didn’t end up ahead monetarily, I wouldn’t be further behind and I would still live in a pretty nice house. So I decided to do it. The two of us sat down and worked out the splitting of rent and utilities, we talked about the challenges of living with a teenager (so he wouldn’t be surprised later), we discussed the cats, we met with his landlords, we signed the lease, he helped us move one weekend and it was done.
What I failed to consider was this – He’ll get his car towed the weekend we move. The next weekend, he’ll decide he needs to go to the store after I’ve gone to bed, he’ll see my car keys on the kitchen table, he’ll take them and he’ll drive my car into a tree.
It usually goes something like this: I need to cross the street. I’m at the corner. There’s a crosswalk. I look both ways. No cars. I look on the side streets to see if anyone is planning to turn. Still no cars. I check both ways once more. Nothing. I step out and halfway across the street I’m crushed by a speeding motorist. Why? Because even though I saw an alley halfway down the block, a one-way alley with a sign pointing away from the street, and even though I didn’t see any cars coming out of it, I didn’t consider that someone might pull out and speed down the street to run me over.
So a couple months ago, after I had a couple weeks off from work and realized that I had been spending way too much time at work, after I came home from Iowa and decided I had to find a way to save some money and stop working so much, a friend of mine from the restaurant who was staying with me until his townhouse was ready approached me with the idea of moving into said townhouse and splitting the rent with him. I thought about it.
I considered the benefits – I save money. I can cut down my hours. I live in a better neighborhood. I live in a bigger and nicer house. One with a real kitchen. I get to spend time with my son. When I’m not there, my son gets to spend time with another adult who he gets along with. I like hanging out with this friend and living with him will mean we get to hang out more often. We hang with the same group of people from the restaurant and since the house is just blocks from the restaurant, we can have people over to play cards and have a few beers.
I considered the negatives – I have to move. I hate moving. I have to live with someone else. I have to be considerate of another adult. I have to compromise on my tv viewing choices. He’s a bit younger and likes to have people over more often than I do. Like on week nights. When us old people like to sleep.
I even considered possible consequences – Maybe something will happen and he won’t be able to cover his share of rent one month or two or more. Maybe he’ll decide that he hates my son or me or vice versa. Maybe he’ll eat all my groceries and never buy any of his own. Maybe he’ll be a neat freak and roll his eyes every time I leave a glass on the end table. Maybe he’ll be a slob and I’ll roll my eyes every time he leaves a glass on the end table. Maybe he’ll leave the toilet seat up and I’ll fall into it in the middle of the night (my son has been properly trained).
Best case scenario, we would all make slight compromises and end up saving money and getting a little bit ahead. Worse case scenario, I would end up making more compromises than him, but still end up a little bit ahead. Worst case scenario, he would totally flake out, but I would be able to cover bills and even if I didn’t end up ahead monetarily, I wouldn’t be further behind and I would still live in a pretty nice house. So I decided to do it. The two of us sat down and worked out the splitting of rent and utilities, we talked about the challenges of living with a teenager (so he wouldn’t be surprised later), we discussed the cats, we met with his landlords, we signed the lease, he helped us move one weekend and it was done.
What I failed to consider was this – He’ll get his car towed the weekend we move. The next weekend, he’ll decide he needs to go to the store after I’ve gone to bed, he’ll see my car keys on the kitchen table, he’ll take them and he’ll drive my car into a tree.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
More than your fair share
When my son was small, I used to get a lot of phone calls from his school teachers. He talked too much in class. He talked when they were supposed to be silent reading. He talked when standing in line. He talked while other students were talking. He talked while the teacher was talking. And even though the things he talked about were generally on-topic and sometimes very funny, he was disrupting the learning process for the other students. “I have only so much time for each lesson and for each student,” some young teacher would say to me. “And he’s a wonderful boy. He’s just using up more than his fair share.”
Obviously, the boy needed more attention and another outlet (and probably a little more challenging work to do). We addressed those problems. He’s slightly less disruptive now.
I was thinking about this the other night. At the restaurant. When I had four tables of guests to tend to, and one of those tables was using up more than their fair share of my time and causing the other tables to get less attention than they deserved. I wanted to tell them what I told my son:
“The teacher (server) is in the classroom (restaurant) to teach you new things (take your order) and help you when you don’t understand (bring you refills and Tabasco sauce that you forgot to ask for). The problem is that you are not the only student (guest) in the classroom (my section). There are, in fact, other students (customers) who want the same thing you do. Sadly, your teacher (server) is a mere mortal and is unable to bend the time/space continuum in such a manner as to allow her to spend as much time with each student (dumbass) as some would like. Out of fairness to other students (more patient guests than yourself), it’s important that you allow the others a turn to speak and ask for help. The only other option is for you to get a private tutor (servant) who could tend to your every need, but we both know that is much too expensive. What I’m trying to say here is, you aren’t the most important person in the world, you’re not entitled to more than the next guy, so hold on, shut up and wait your turn.”
Of course I didn’t say that last part to the kid, but I definitely wanted to tell it to my table the other night. Of course I was far too busy running after yet more jelly (oh and could we get some to go boxes even though we’re still stuffing our faces full of food that is falling out because we’re too impatient to even wait to finish chewing before we speak, oh and I’d like to switch to coffee now even though you just brought me a fourth Coke, and when you come back by to ask that other table if they might need anything . . . actually, don’t bother asking that table, I’m sure they’re fine, but when you come back I’m sure we’ll have thought up something else, so hurry!), so I didn’t have time to tell them that I didn’t have time for their nonsense (bullshit).
And in the end, they tipped me $6 on a $79 check. So yeah, they definitely couldn't afford their own private servant.
Obviously, the boy needed more attention and another outlet (and probably a little more challenging work to do). We addressed those problems. He’s slightly less disruptive now.
I was thinking about this the other night. At the restaurant. When I had four tables of guests to tend to, and one of those tables was using up more than their fair share of my time and causing the other tables to get less attention than they deserved. I wanted to tell them what I told my son:
“The teacher (server) is in the classroom (restaurant) to teach you new things (take your order) and help you when you don’t understand (bring you refills and Tabasco sauce that you forgot to ask for). The problem is that you are not the only student (guest) in the classroom (my section). There are, in fact, other students (customers) who want the same thing you do. Sadly, your teacher (server) is a mere mortal and is unable to bend the time/space continuum in such a manner as to allow her to spend as much time with each student (dumbass) as some would like. Out of fairness to other students (more patient guests than yourself), it’s important that you allow the others a turn to speak and ask for help. The only other option is for you to get a private tutor (servant) who could tend to your every need, but we both know that is much too expensive. What I’m trying to say here is, you aren’t the most important person in the world, you’re not entitled to more than the next guy, so hold on, shut up and wait your turn.”
Of course I didn’t say that last part to the kid, but I definitely wanted to tell it to my table the other night. Of course I was far too busy running after yet more jelly (oh and could we get some to go boxes even though we’re still stuffing our faces full of food that is falling out because we’re too impatient to even wait to finish chewing before we speak, oh and I’d like to switch to coffee now even though you just brought me a fourth Coke, and when you come back by to ask that other table if they might need anything . . . actually, don’t bother asking that table, I’m sure they’re fine, but when you come back I’m sure we’ll have thought up something else, so hurry!), so I didn’t have time to tell them that I didn’t have time for their nonsense (bullshit).
And in the end, they tipped me $6 on a $79 check. So yeah, they definitely couldn't afford their own private servant.
Monday, February 18, 2008
The other day at the bus stop
My son and I were waiting for the bus* downtown when a group of Boy Scouts and their parents crossed the street and walked toward us. It was cold outside, as it tends to be in the month of February, and the young boys in their neckerchieves were shivering. Mostly because the coats they weren't wearing were not staving off the cold. As the boys (some of them my son's age) and their parents moved past us and several of them complained to one another about the rather brisk wind, my son leaned toward me and muttered, "Isn't their motto 'Be prepared'?"
Everyone turned to see what lunatic was laughing so hard.
*Why were we waiting for the bus when I own a perfectly good car? In short, I am an idiot. Again. More to come.
Everyone turned to see what lunatic was laughing so hard.
*Why were we waiting for the bus when I own a perfectly good car? In short, I am an idiot. Again. More to come.
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
Seriously?
Professor: I have some ink cartridges that have been stacking up in my office.
Me: You can send them back to be recycled. Do you still have the boxes?
Professor: Can you do it for me?
Me: Do you have the boxes? And the labels?
Professor: Yes. If I bring them to you, can you send them back?
Me: All you need to do is put the labels on the outside of the box. UPS will pick them up when they come.
Professor: Can I bring them to you?
Me: Uhm, sure. But all you need to do is put the labels on them and stick them in the mailroom (right beside your office).
Professor: I really can’t be bothered with this. Can’t I just give them to you to take care of?
Me: Sure. But all I’m going to do is peel and stick the labels.
Professor: Great. I’ll bring them down.
--------------
Me: (on phone) Math department. How may I help you?
Dude: This is Mike from FedEx. Could you help me out with something?
Me: Sure.
Dude: John Smith.
Me:
Dude:
Me: John Smith?
Dude: Yeah.
Me: Would you like to talk to John Smith?
Dude: No.
Me: I’m sorry – what is it about John Smith that I can help you with?Dude: I’m downstairs.
Me: Do you have a package for Dr. Smith?
Dude: Yeah.
Me: You can deliver it here.
Dude: Yeah . . .
Me:
Dude:
Me: Do you need the room number?
Dude: It’s on the package.
Me: Is there anything else I can help you with?
Dude: No.
Me: Well, I guess I’ll see you in a few moments.
Dude: Yeah . . .
Me: Have a nice afternoon.
Dude: Yeah.
Me: Yeah.
Dude still hasn’t delivered the package.
Me: You can send them back to be recycled. Do you still have the boxes?
Professor: Can you do it for me?
Me: Do you have the boxes? And the labels?
Professor: Yes. If I bring them to you, can you send them back?
Me: All you need to do is put the labels on the outside of the box. UPS will pick them up when they come.
Professor: Can I bring them to you?
Me: Uhm, sure. But all you need to do is put the labels on them and stick them in the mailroom (right beside your office).
Professor: I really can’t be bothered with this. Can’t I just give them to you to take care of?
Me: Sure. But all I’m going to do is peel and stick the labels.
Professor: Great. I’ll bring them down.
--------------
Me: (on phone) Math department. How may I help you?
Dude: This is Mike from FedEx. Could you help me out with something?
Me: Sure.
Dude: John Smith.
Me:
Dude:
Me: John Smith?
Dude: Yeah.
Me: Would you like to talk to John Smith?
Dude: No.
Me: I’m sorry – what is it about John Smith that I can help you with?Dude: I’m downstairs.
Me: Do you have a package for Dr. Smith?
Dude: Yeah.
Me: You can deliver it here.
Dude: Yeah . . .
Me:
Dude:
Me: Do you need the room number?
Dude: It’s on the package.
Me: Is there anything else I can help you with?
Dude: No.
Me: Well, I guess I’ll see you in a few moments.
Dude: Yeah . . .
Me: Have a nice afternoon.
Dude: Yeah.
Me: Yeah.
Dude still hasn’t delivered the package.
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