Showing posts with label vocations. Show all posts
Showing posts with label vocations. Show all posts

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

In Retrospect, You'll Think The Service Was Great!

Sometimes, we remember things as better than they actually were. A relationship, a hairstyle, a job. We move on and in rose-colored retrospective we are able to remember said past event fondly.

"Wasn't that a great party?" We might ask about a soiree where we stood with our back to the wall like we were afraid of getting jumped, shoving cheese in our gobs and asking our friends repeatedly when would be a socially-acceptable time to pull the Irish exit.

"He was the best boyfriend ever," we wax poetic about the mullet-quaffed, pimple-faced emotional abuser who slept with our "best friend."

This was the case with me and waiting tables. I'd whittle away my days on a copy desk, daydreaming about my days as a waitress-- floating effortlessly through my tables, filling water glasses and dropping checks, smiling at adoring customers who proclaimed me "the best waitress ever"-- inviting me to sit and enjoy their meal with them before I would struggle home with a pile of money so big I'd be dropping twenties as I skipped down the street. It all seemed so much better than slaving away for unappreciative clients, writing brilliant copy that would just be edited and edited down until all that remained was a broken, predictable string of words. A waitress. If only I could be a waitress again.

There's two things you should know about the last time I waited tables:
1.) I was drinking a lot in those days, so no memory can really be trusted. Clearly.
2.) Physically I was pushing maximum density, so just the idea of me "floating" should raise some red flags.

Tonight, the folly of my memory became painfully, heartbreakingly clear. When I took my first order as a newly appointed waitress at a local, excellent high-end Mexican eatery I won't bother to name here lest I sully it's reputation, one memory came rushing back to me.

One important memory.

I am a very, very bad waitress.

Really. Taking the order- ok. Being friendly- sure! I can do both. Entering the order into the computer- it's complicated, but I'll work on it. Getting drinks-ok, I'm a little stressed now. Was that a Coke or a Diet Coke? Shit- is that another table? Oh God. Can someone bring them a menu? Wait- they want water? UGH! Ok, ok. They didn't get their complimentary chips? Here are the specials. Yes, they're all good. Do you need a minute? No, seriously-take a minute, cause I need one. Wait-- are they up to entrees or dessert? God, that sangria smells good. When was the last time I peed?

The fact is, I used to love waiting tables, because no two days were ever the same. Bad customers? No worries, they'd never be back! I'd hang out at the sports bar I worked at, and once my shift was over I'd drink away all the money I'd made that day, stumble home, get up and do it again. It was an easy time, before settling on a career I'm now trying to leave behind, when my whole future was ahead of me. When I didn't have to worry that these tips needed to add up to this month's rent. When I didn't take things so seriously.

And there's another thing: I am old. At 33, I am about a decade older than the rest of the staff. They're headed back to school this week. College? Nope. Most of them are going to high school, trying to juggle shifts with wrestling practice and studying. And they're good. They cover their tables, they set, pour, place and clear without breaking a sweat.

And then there's me. At first they sniffed around me-- who did I know to get the job? Was I the boss' sister? His mom? What was my deal? Was I some sort of seasoned waitress, ready to come in and start barking orders? It's safe to say that after my first night of training tonight, they're sleeping restfully in their big-kid beds with the knowledge that I'm not some robo-waitress ready to take their jobs.

My first shift tonight was not, by most standards, busy. Yet I found myself spinning in circles on multiple occasions, while Team Youngbloods glided by on gilded wings to all of their tables. Afterwards, I limped home with minimal dollars in my pocket (I had spent half my house pay having dinner at the end of my shift- that worked well!), gimping along like a retired major league catcher-- my knees aching, my back sore, with my eye make up dripping down my face like a pathetically sad goth kid while they-- who knows-- went home and played Guitar Hero. Do the kids still play that?

I realized tonight, a very important thing. I am less like Alice's sassy, no-nonsense Southern belle Flo and more like, well, another famous waiter I know. Watch this video. It's basically my night distilled into less than three minutes.

But at least for the customers, the guacamole was good.
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