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"Whine
Me, Dine Me"
I use
my spare time to write about my life in a waitress uniform; the guests I
come across, the co-workers who affect the story and the general atmosphere
of the restaurant I take a paycheck from. Recently I was a guest in another
restaurant and cannot help but jot down my dining adventures for you.
It was
a Friday evening and my friend and I drove an hour to the "Big City" to do
some serious shopping and then go have a few drinks and maybe a bite to eat
if we had any money left. I had one thing in mind as I left work and
changed out of my uniform... I want new shoes! My feet were a little achey
from a busy lunch that day and with money in my pocket, I wanted to find
THAT pair of shoes. I just don't browse for shoes. I have a pair in mind
and make a safari out of it. So far, in all my years, when I have that one
pair of shoes in mind, I never can find them. I usually end up substituting
for ones I only half-ass like and rarely wear, or stick to the old pair that
are hurting my feet to begin with.
Long
story short, I actually find the shoes of my dreams and it only took two
hours and a dozen shops. They're what I had seen in the magazines, circled,
hung on my refrigerator and prayed to. Even better, they were $79 and I got
them marked down to $15. I'm tweaked and on that shoppers high. I'm
dancing in the parking lot of the restaurant we stop at, and for a moment,
almost reconsider going in and leaving these fabulous shoes out in the cold,
lonely car. It dawns on me that there is crime in the Big City, especially
in restaurant parking lots. Gangs, thieves, shoe-jackers could be in any
bush and since it's close to 10pm, I know they're just waking up and ready
to victimize me. My friend is at the door of the eatery, calling me names
(which amongst friends, "bitch" is a term of endearment) and telling me to
leave the trunk of her car alone. I'm merely making sure (repeatedly) that
it's not going to pop open and give away my purchases' hideaway. If it
hadn't started to snow, or if I had a parka and sherpa guide, I'd probably
still be there. But alas, I went inside.
Let's
just call the restaurant we went to "Crimson Shellfish". It's a good name
and one that won't get me sued for what I am about to say in these next few
paragraphs. We walk up to the hostess stand to be seated but are asked, by
the raising of a finger in the universal sign of "Shut it", to wait a
moment. The manager and three hostesses are discussing body piercings. One
is holding an empty breath mint tin full of metally things. I feel so rude
to have interrupted such business affairs and find myself sheepishly
glancing out the window towards the car. If they're busy, I surely can
return another day. Or maybe I can go put the shoes on, return, and they'll
be done comparing belly button rings. Surprisingly, they finish the schpiel
and ask us how many will be dining tonight. I state "Two" and "smoking
section" right away because I really want to save these three hostesses and
a manager time.
Now, I
smoke. I'm not proud that I do and sadly I can say I just recently started
up again after a three and a half year hiatus from the baccy. I smoke when
I drink, I planned on drinking, so I needed the section designed especially
for my bad habits. This hostess, this pierced and leaning-on-the-stand
hostess, doesn't smile and give us menus and walk us to our table. She
simply says… "Smoking's at the bar" and turns to converse with her sistahs.
I find myself growly now. I'm no longer "Angela: New Shoe Goddess." I'm
"Angela: Who The Hell Trained You, Bitch? Waitress/Trainer." I look to her
boss, words of my own General Manager ringing clear in my ears… "Wow your
guests." I was not wowed so far. The manager should see I'm not "wowed"
and say something! I want to see some scolding followed by hostess tears!
Stupid
Crimson Shellfish ruining my buzz.
We
find the bar, which wasn't hard. It was shut off from the rest of the
restaurant and right by the front door encased in glass. Inside, amongst
the haze I could see a few tables filled with parties of two, eating their
dinners and puffing away on their cigs. We pushed our way in through the
tall glass doors, took a seat and looked around at our surroundings. I was
in an aquarium, or a zoo exhibit for non-smokers to gaze at with their
healthy children. I suddenly felt the need to conserve my oxygen in case
this was a strange Nazi trap. And what was that in the far corner near the
ceiling? A security cam? What exactly are smokers known to do in captivity
that would warrant closed circuit television viewing? I ask my friend this,
but she's too irritated that we've now been waiting five minutes for a drink
menu. When poisonous gas doesn't filter down from the ceiling, I light a
smoke and try to relax. It's been awhile since I've been out and about and
I want to be pampered.
Two
waitresses walk by and ask if we've been waited on. We say no and I guess
that's all they cared to know. For a moment there I thought one, maybe
both, were intent on taking care of us, "wowing" us, so to say. Nope. They
just nodded and walked away. Good skills.
After
a few minutes I decide to "wow" myself and walk to the bar and order the
biggest margarita on the rocks that this joint can offer. I watch the
security camera out of the corner of my eye and wait for bells or whistles
to give my plan away. Nothing happens so I approach the bartenders. Easy
enough, right? Well, it would have been if the two behind the bar weren't
fighting. One was an aged woman and rather tan looking for being in Ohio
mid-winter. Very tall hair. I have to add that. It was captivating. The
other, a Vin Diesel wannabe that made me want to just splash a glass of
water on him now to save the trouble when he makes an ass of himself later.
The Vin fellow is supposed to be making my order, but he's thoroughly beside
himself with anger at the old lady barkeep who won't work for him the next
morning. I'm leaning on the bar beside two fellows who appear to be
enjoying my lean so I make my way back to the table after shooting them a
"glance". That's a "piss off" glance, not a "come hither" glance, by the
way.
Upon
returning to my table, oddly, there sits two margaritas. Two magical
margaritas brought down by the Jose Cuervo Faerie? Nay. My friend had
gotten a waitstaff's attention and ordered. That's when I was convinced the
non-smokers had a bar, too, and was probably tended by a nice loving couple.
I'm
half way through my margarita when Mr. Diesel walks up with the one I
ordered and looks perplexed and a little put out. He asked where I got the
first, and I recall thinking earlier how I would've tossed water in his face
for eventually being an asshole. Funny how my intuition works. I slide it
from his fingers and assure him it'll be placed in a good home. I notice he
rolls up the sleeves to his already short-sleeved shirt. Egomaniacs and
bartending... a classic marriage.
As he
walks away, not that I was watching him walk away (lets get that straight) I
notice a waitress, one of those that ignored us, being given a $20 bill as a
tip. She's attractive, yes, but I've yet to see her remove dirty dishes
from a table, soiling her uniform with spilled sauces and yuck. I haven't
seen her haul ass from point A to point B to make a customer happy with a
clean napkin. Has she even smiled once to anyone besides the self-involved
bar prince? Do her feet ache from spending hours on them, running back and
forth on command? Is her mouth dry from asking repeatedly, "May I get you
anything else, Ma'am?" I doubt this. I double doubt this. I triple dog
doubt this!
I tend
to exaggerate when pissed off, sorry.
I need
my shoes now like an affirmation, a security blanket, not just to see if
they're safe from the clutches of wrong-doers. I drink down the rest, pay
and head for the car with my friend close behind. These are shoes I paid
for by the tips I made all week. These shoes I hunted down, store after
store with aching feet from serving guests. These are no longer just
"shoes"… HA! They are a TROPHY. I earned them and I earned them by wowing
my guests, even when I had a headache, or if they were rude, or if they only
left me $1. These are blood, sweat and tear shoes.
Except, well, I didn't bleed, or cry and I'll be buggered if I sweat. I'm a
girl, dammit. |
