So at The Restaurant we have this obscene family-style strawberry shortcake. It's layers of ice cream, strawberries in some sugary goop, poundcake and whipped cream. It's seriously disgusting. On the menu it says that it serves 2 to 3 people but in reality, it could feed a small army of sugar-craving lunatics.
Anyway, TJ is waiting on two people who decide to order this thing. As they're eating, they pay the check. After TJ runs the credit card and they sign the receipt, they hand the check presenter back to him. 12% tip. Wonderful.
The couple proceeds to (shockingly) not be able to finish the dessert and ask TJ to wrap it up.
I've said before that the staff of The Restaurant is not one to put things in food, spit in food or anything gross like that--but they will fuck with you.
TJ takes the dessert into the back server station where, at the time, we had a bread warmer. It must be said that this bread warmer was dangerous. If you accidentally leaned on it or brushed up against it, you would get seriously burned--which is part of the reason we got rid of it.
So what does TJ do? He tosses the dessert into a metal to-go container, sits it on top of the bread warmer and just crosses his arms and watches it. Juan, one of our head busboys, comes to the back and asks if TJ needs it wrapped up. "Nope, I got it," he says. Juan looks a little concerned and hesitantly walks away.
The dessert melts into a veritable chunky soup with small mounds of poundcake and lumpy strawberries. TJ seals the container very tightly and double bags it.
I mean, really what are they gonna do? Get home and call the restaurant to complain that their ice cream melted? I can hear our manager now..."So let me get this straight...you took your ice cream...to go...and you got home and it was melted? Hmm."
Moral of the story? Tip your fucking server.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Monday, January 18, 2010
Barfy and Narc-y
This post has been a long time coming. I've taken some time off from the blog since I've been feeling uninspired and, well, kind of lazy. But the time has come for the inevitable Barfy and Narc-y (B&N) post, so here goes:
We have this couple who comes in every Thursday night. They have had their "regular" servers in the past, but as staff turnovers go, they end up with a new server every few months. As it turns out, at this juncture in time, they love me. Perfect.
First off, they are old (she's about 65, he's around 80, I suppose). And to be honest, they have hearts of gold and are usually very, very nice. The own a bakery in a borough and always come in around 10:40pm. For the record, this is 20 minutes before we close and they take an hour and a half to eat. So you can imagine my delight when they hobble through the door suggesting my section.
Here's a rundown of their visit:
-As soon as I see them approaching the door I begin putting their order into the computer (which takes about 7 minutes in itself).
-They start with sparkling water and insist that one of the bus boys go to the kitchen to have their bread toasted. They don't eat butter, so they ask for marinara sauce and sauteed garlic and olive oil in which to dip their bread (the chef is thrilled to do this).
-To start they order a shrimp appetizer (no butter, no capers, no salt, not too well done) and a side of steamed broccoli (well done) with more garlic and olive oil on the side (they once asked if they chef could cook the stems and tops of the broccoli separately so the tops wouldn't turn to mush...I said no).
-Entrees are a fish dish (no butter, no salt, no capers, extra olives, extra basil, no mussels, extra shrimp) a half order of fettuccine with white clam sauce (which is usually with linguine...extra clams) and a salmon dish (no salt, no butter, light breadcrumbs and "could you ask the chef to pick us out a really large piece of salmon?")
-Before the food comes she asks me to tie a lobster bib around her neck.
-When they're finished eating they ask for to go containers ("the plastic ones, not the foil ones") and for cloth napkins with hot water and lemon to clean their faces.
You may be wondering about the nicknames. Well, here you have it:
After they pay the check. She gets up and goes into the handicapped bathroom for 15-20 minutes. I guess I should have mentioned earlier that she weighs about 97 pounds, always wears Gucci sunglasses throughout the meal, and looks like skeletor...you can imagine what goes on in that bathroom. Anyway, the husband, like clockwork, every single time, falls into a coma within three minutes of the woman leaving the table. He literally looks dead. By the end of their meal I'm the last server there and usually contemplating suicide or reading a magazine at an empty table near the back. When she finishes up in the bathroom she wakes up her husband. They leave as slowly as they came and say, "See you next week!"
I go and pick the check presenter off the table and again, sure as anything, they've left the same tip as last week: 14%.
Stellar.
We have this couple who comes in every Thursday night. They have had their "regular" servers in the past, but as staff turnovers go, they end up with a new server every few months. As it turns out, at this juncture in time, they love me. Perfect.
First off, they are old (she's about 65, he's around 80, I suppose). And to be honest, they have hearts of gold and are usually very, very nice. The own a bakery in a borough and always come in around 10:40pm. For the record, this is 20 minutes before we close and they take an hour and a half to eat. So you can imagine my delight when they hobble through the door suggesting my section.
Here's a rundown of their visit:
-As soon as I see them approaching the door I begin putting their order into the computer (which takes about 7 minutes in itself).
-They start with sparkling water and insist that one of the bus boys go to the kitchen to have their bread toasted. They don't eat butter, so they ask for marinara sauce and sauteed garlic and olive oil in which to dip their bread (the chef is thrilled to do this).
-To start they order a shrimp appetizer (no butter, no capers, no salt, not too well done) and a side of steamed broccoli (well done) with more garlic and olive oil on the side (they once asked if they chef could cook the stems and tops of the broccoli separately so the tops wouldn't turn to mush...I said no).
-Entrees are a fish dish (no butter, no salt, no capers, extra olives, extra basil, no mussels, extra shrimp) a half order of fettuccine with white clam sauce (which is usually with linguine...extra clams) and a salmon dish (no salt, no butter, light breadcrumbs and "could you ask the chef to pick us out a really large piece of salmon?")
-Before the food comes she asks me to tie a lobster bib around her neck.
-When they're finished eating they ask for to go containers ("the plastic ones, not the foil ones") and for cloth napkins with hot water and lemon to clean their faces.
You may be wondering about the nicknames. Well, here you have it:
After they pay the check. She gets up and goes into the handicapped bathroom for 15-20 minutes. I guess I should have mentioned earlier that she weighs about 97 pounds, always wears Gucci sunglasses throughout the meal, and looks like skeletor...you can imagine what goes on in that bathroom. Anyway, the husband, like clockwork, every single time, falls into a coma within three minutes of the woman leaving the table. He literally looks dead. By the end of their meal I'm the last server there and usually contemplating suicide or reading a magazine at an empty table near the back. When she finishes up in the bathroom she wakes up her husband. They leave as slowly as they came and say, "See you next week!"
I go and pick the check presenter off the table and again, sure as anything, they've left the same tip as last week: 14%.
Stellar.
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