The Time I Left Work Grinning.

The time is 1:15 AM. I am almost done with an unremarkable Sunday night cocktailing shift.


Tall Irishman: Is it too late for a pot of tea?
Underemployed: Nope.
Tall Irishman: Great! Can I get two pots of English breakfast tea with some milk?
Underemployed: Sure. Hey you look really familiar to me.
Tall Irishman: Oh?
Underemployed: Yeah. You know, you look just like the guy from The Frames.
Tall Irishman (smiling) : I am.

We introduced ourselves shaking hands, and I told him about how I'm a fan of his band and about how much I loved Once. When I brought him and his friend their teas, I told them it was on the house. He looked so surprised. "It's just hot water and two bags of tea, right? My pleasure."

And Then I Dreamed Neo-Nazis Invaded. Or, My Supervisor Can Suck It.

Last night went reasonably well. Almost every table tipped over 18%, several tables had multiple rounds, and yet I was off by 12:30 AM. It started rocky.

GermanSupervisor: You don't work that often and you'll be alone on the floor tonight so just ask for help when you need it. That's what I'm here for.
Underemployed: Ok.

First of all, I've been cocktailing 3 days a week for a month. Often alone for significant portions of my shift. Second of all, when she said that to me there were only 2 open checks. SLOW. Thirdly, I've been working at this restaurant since before she was even hired- yes, she's been here a long time, but I've been here longer. Yes, she got hired as a supervisor, but I get how things work around this place. I've been working at the same damned restaurant since September of '09, and have picked up serving shifts since December (pre-German). That makes me an old timer. My last comment. Although I don't take it personally since she is a raging bitch to almost everyone, I do read it as a pathetic attempt at asserting authority, à la I'm going to insult you and then tell you its because you need schooling since I'm in charge, got it? If you know your conversation partner isn't really allowed to respond, any insinuation of insult is pitiable. And my response is my coping strategy at work. Get yelled at? "Ok." Hard to keep escalating with someone who responds calmly.

Fast forward to later in the night. Much much later. The drink rush has ended. I did great- not a single misprinted receipt, not a complaint about an order, and earlier a table with 2 bottles of pinot noir tipped 30%. My customers were happy, I was happy. Still, every time my supervisor showed up on the floor she had something to nitpick. Whatever, that's her job, but if I find it faster to get to checks on the computer by pushing which table they are at vs. listing the open checks and searching for their name, what does it matter? It doesn't, but you aren't an authority if you aren't criticizing someone, right?

But she got her time to shine. I had just sold a bottle of rose to two friendly gay guys who I'd been serving by the glass for about an hour. They had their girlfriends from college joining them. They wanted to have the bottle waiting, but close it out. "These girls will drink us under the table if we don't set limits." I really liked these guys. We had such a great rapport by this point.

Enter my supervisor. It turns out, we had 86'd the standard rose (we sold out a couple days ago and are waiting for the new supply. Rose is hot right now) The bottle I gave them was a bottle of a different rose that was from the restaurant (as opposed to the cocktail bar) and it cost $4 more. Now, the check was already closed. And the gents had left me a generous 30% tip on the $44 bottle that they were enjoying so much. My supervisor was angry, stressed, and making little sense.

Underemployed: This was the bottle I was given by the bar. I had been selling them rose by the glass, and nobody behind the bar or otherwise told me we were 86'd rose and serving a different bottle.
GermanSupervisor: Well, its your fault that you didn't look closely at the bottle and aren't familiar enough with the wine list to notice it was different. I'm going to have to go talk to your table and let them know you brought them the wrong bottle. And that we need to readjust their closed check so we don't lose the difference from what we sold.
Underemployed: Ok. They're really nice. I'm sure they don't care.
GermanSupervisor: We'll see.

Seeing that she wasn't going directly to my gents right away, I swung by to "clear" some of their snack plates away. I said quickly, "Guys, I brought you the wrong bottle. The bottle I brought you is $4 more expensive than the bottle we normally serve. I didn't know. My manager is going to come over here and talk to you, I don't really know why, but I'm sorry in advance."

While taking care of my other customers, I saw her approach the table and talk with them. I'm nervous, but not really since these guys are in my pocket, they love me, I know they wouldn't let my supervisor get away without saying I'm great. After a little time goes by, I bring drinks to a nearby table, and swing by my men.

"She had the nerve to interrupt our evening to tell us that there was a disconnect between the waitstaff and the bar," one of the gentlemen said. "Before she could even finish I told her, 'Isn't it your job to make sure that your staff knows what's going on? We asked our lovely server for a bottle of rose, she brought us one, we're happy.' I want her fired. You know he [the other gentlemen] lives at this hotel 3 months a year?" I was stunned, they stood up for me and insulted her to boot! "I don't like he face, what's her name? I want her fired." I whispered her name to him. A customer asked me a question and I answered it. They ordered another bottle after their girlfriends arrived and some more munchies. I comped them a $4 snack, considering that's the price difference between the bottle they ordered and the more expensive bottles they kept ordering.

As I opened the bottle for them and poured, I heard a phone ringing behind me. I picked up the blackberry and put it on their table, since they had rearranged slightly once the ladies arrived. "It's not mine," said my new gaymanfriend. "It must be your bitchy manager's. I'm going to answer it." I ran away. My supervisor was rummaging through the drawers of the service station looking for her phone. I helped her look. I went back to the awesome people, "She's freaking out!" I told them. "What if I drop her blackberry in the toilet?" We laughed, knowing he wouldn't. I walked away. As I arrived again to give them their munchies I saw a blackberry still on the table. Blackberries in the toilet was sort of a motif for the rest of the night. We had a great time. Again, a seriously generous tip on the bottle.

When I was doing my closeout paperwork, my manager didn't speak to me. Whatever. I don't get paid enough to stroke her ego too. Not my job. In my dream last night the cocktail bar was being invaded by neo-nazis. I guess my subconscious too was feeling neither generous nor subtle to this fucking woman.

"There Goes Your Social Life." -Dionne

I'm really hoping to see a couple friends today for afternoon coffee, another couple for dinner, and another couple for after-dinner drinks. I gave my friends an 8-hour window that I'd be able to see them at one of the hottest places to grab a bite and a beverage in New York.

The catch is that I'll be working. It's my only hope of seeing friends today. Since it's Wednesday, nobody's going to want to hang out when I leave at 10:00pm and I can't relax over drinks before work because: 1) I don't always love drinking at 1:00 unless I'm eating a great brunch, 2) Most of my friends don't have the luxury of drinking at 1:00, since most of their (albeit crappy) jobs take place in the daylight and, and this is the kicker, 3) I don't want to carouse before heading into an 8-hour shift because I need to conserve my energy for the floor.

Restaurant work, while social by nature, can wreak havoc on a healthy social life unless your coterie is also in the industry. I work while others play- in fact, my work facilitates that play. Think about it- the times you want to go out are precisely the times I hope to be working, since I'll make more money off people who think exactly like you. On Sundays, when I work brunch, I try not to see friends afterwards since I'm often exhausted, a little dirty and a lotta cranky. I often end up seeing music on Sunday nights, but when people ask me why I look so tired I just tell them "I've been awake a really long time."

Some weeks are harder than others. This week my time has been totally booked, so today's my best shot at seeing the friends I care about for the rest of the week. It's tough, but my friends understand. And they come visit me at quieter times in my shift so I can actually see and talk to them, and so they can see where I work (and what I write about).

See you at work, friends!

A Little Sifton Bashing Is Good For The (Restaurant Workers') Soul.

Since I now have a blackberry, I can tweet and email and do lots of things when I'm not doing anything, and if I'm discreet, I can do such things on the job.

Below is an email exchange between me, Underemployed, and an Ivy League '06 who is in the part of his culinary school training where he is doing legit dinner services. Keep in mind I was (still) at work when I wrote.

Underemployed:

They sat a 10-top 7 minutes before kitchen closes. If/when I'm in charge somewhere large groups will not be seated within half hour of kitchen closing unless they are reserved or vip. This is bs.

IvyCulinaryKid:

shit! that is brutal. i got out by 1045 even though it was a pretty rough service... sorry 'bout that; that is bs. like a raymond chandler novel narrated by angelina jolie, sultry yet off-putting. (that was my best off the cuff sifton impression)

Underemployed:

One could say its like tripping on cough syrup- it could do you good but more likely it will leave face-down buck-naked on a bathroom floor you can only hope will be yours.

IvyCulinaryKid:

wow. that is good. you should write for the times.


If only, if only.

Check out this amazing Sifton poem from The Village Voice and these disturbingly accurate Sifton Mad Libs on Eater.

Where I've Got Nothing To Complain About. Or, It Pays To Know.

There are many things in my life I am thankful for. There are many things in my life I am frustrated about. But one facet of life I have totally under control is getting wicked comps and VIP treatment at one of the busiest celebrity-chef run restaurants south of 14th Street.

The scene is Bustling Restaurant, Friday night, 9:00 pm. Dinner service is in full swing. Those without reservations are waiting about an hour and a half for a table, and there is a wait-list to sit at the bar. I had made a 9:45 reservation for my bestie and me to have some bonding time, but we showed up early hoping to sit at the bar. After checking in with the hostess, we head to packed bar. And this is where the magic happens.

I wave at the two bartenders, big smiles all around- I am very friendly with both of these gentlemen. I'm particularly chummy with the older one (I estimate age 55), who has been serving me at this restaurant bar since I moved into the city. Although my best girl had been informed that the bar wait-list was going, we were seated as soon as the next set of seats opened at the bar because the younger bartender slightly lifted his chin to me, and darted his eyes at the men getting up from their seats. The 2 women who assumed they'd be sitting next looked really confused watching us take their seats, knowing that they hadn't watched us wait. Jumping the line? Sexy.

We were then started off, no questions asked, with some bubbly. Chitchat with the two bartenders ensued, as did unordered appetizers. Free drink and food? Sexy.

But why the special treatment for little, underemployed me? I tip nicely and go a lot, but I am in no way a high roller, so why give me free stuff?

Because we're friends now. I befriended the older bartender quickly, regularly drinking and dining during the daytime in his Thursday double. He'd be just getting started and I, at 3 had just ended my torturous breakfast shifts of 6 am - 2 pm. I'd tell stories about my day- he knows about where I work, he's served (my) Chef for years at this bar, and I think he likes that an outgoing 24 year old girl would happily shoot the shit about the industry with a well-seasoned, middle-aged vet like him. And I loved talking about the menu, the wine, the tastes, the ideas, in my geekiest food-loving glory. And that's when he started giving me stuff for free. The more regularly I would go, the more he and I developed our strange bond- sometimes he'll even let himself complain about a costumer or two, and then brush it off and tell me about a new wine on the list. Other times, he'll pry me for stories from work and make fun of me for the rookie mistakes I make. I ask about his daughter (my age), and he recognizes my mom, my brother, and my bff when I bring them in. I go alone a lot at quiet times in the service- late afternoons particularly, after lunch rush but way before dinner.

I try to only go when he's working...Maybe I know his schedule...oops.

In Which I Get Sad and Sore. Or, Another (Damned Early) Breakfast Event.

Today I was a one-woman special event show. Arriving at 7:30 AM I swept the space and set up the coffee service. Our clients arrived at 8, at which point I started serving and bussing all by my lonesome. Their guests arrived at 9- I was on till noon. The good news? No tip sharing. The bad news? I am really fucking sore. The "tray" I would hold for 15 minute intervals was not a tray but a wooden butcher board, approximately 10 pounds. Now, I'm no weakling, but you try holding ten pounds of circular wood with bite sized treats on it with one arm for a grand total of four hours and see how your wrists and shoulders feel.

The event was fascinating. A fashion PR firm transformed our event space into a store showcasing the sartorial goodies of their client. Buyers, editors, and stylists came in like an open house to view the clothes and get swag from the firm. Dress code was either cute little dress with black tights and black tall heels or slouchy jeans rolled with wedges and a sensibly feminine men's shirt. The whole scene was very "Kell on Earth."

What really effected me though was how these women (and three gay men) ate. The bites we served were in no way light, just little. Some women literally salivated as I described each item, but couldn't bring themselves to lift their hand to my tray. Some women took one item, and nursed it. Others abstained, claiming huge breakfasts. Some would eat, swoon from the long forgotten taste of carbohydrates and fat, and then talk for at least a minute and a half about how large they were getting this month. Others ate happily, and to them I say, Cheers! You need to eat to live so you might as well enjoy it once in a while.

Private Party and Public Boredom. Or, Working Coat Check In The Spring.

Last night, I worked for the special events crew doing coat check. The event was an after-party for a film screening. There was promise of celebrity sightings. I arrived at 10:30 pm, left at 2:30 AM and made about $70 bucks in those 4 hours. Not bad at all.

But what did I actually do? What is the life of a coat check attendant?

10:30 pm : Arrive. As guests won't be showing up till 11:30 at the earliest, go to the barista station and make an iced americano. Need caffeine to be charming and perky. Give young barista semi-solicited college advice- major in whatever you want! get a job where you can do your homework while getting paid!

10:50 : Go to the coat check stand downstairs. Write out the tickets; hang tickets on hangers. Wait. Read awesome book.

11:30 : Once the guests arrive, I trade them tickets for coats and bags. I direct guests to the bathroom. Some generous guests tip when I take their coats. Some don't. Since it's mid-April there aren't that many coat wearers anyway.

OverlyThoughtOutfitLady : Can I check my bag?
Underemployed : Of course.
OverlyThoughtOutfitLady :You'll be here the whole time?
Underemployed : I'll be sitting here for the entire event. You're stuff will be safe.
OverlyThoughtOutfitLady : You won't get distracted and walk away?
Underemployed(perhaps too bitterly) : No, I have this awesome book to keep me occupied.

Read my awesome book. Text friends on West Coast since East Coast friends are either drunk or in bed. Instruct people without wristbands to go upstairs and get one if their name is on the list. Read awesome book. Look alive.

Overheard :

30something woman #1 : I have no business here.
30something woman #2 : I know. There's a lot of people who shouldn't be here. I'm really annoyed.


2:00 am: As guests leave, trade the coats and bags for ticktes. Smile a lot so as to entice them to put cash in the tip jar. Chat about the book I'm reading. Chat about the party. Deal with drunk men.

Drunk 20something (in no way ashamed of blatantly staring at Underemployed's chest): You're...necklace...is huge.
Underemployed: Uh huh.
Drunk 20-something : Pretty.
Underemployed: Thanks. Can I have your ticket?
Drunk 20something: It's really...big. Can I touch it?
Underemployed: Here's your coat. Goodnight.


2:30 : Hail a cab.

And that's all it was. Some nice people, some rude people, a lot of drunk people. I assume coat check is more challenging when it's actually cold out and everyone has heavy coats to shed, but it's not rocket science. And you can read.

V.I.P. Reflection Effect

Many restaurant kitchens jump through hoops to give a VIP exactly what he wants. Like Yosemite Sam cooking in the king's kitchen.




But just because someone is powerful doesn't mean they know about food. VIPs out there- stick to the menu. Or, since money is no object for you and yet some of your meal will be comped so you feel good and come back, tell the kitchen they can send you whatever they want and they'll love you for letting them show off their finest dishes. Live a little.

Of course, those of us front of house deal with strange requests as well. Bizarre VIP request story of the week: The son of a beloved American actor known for playing a kind of slow but remarkably zeitgeist-y southerner and various generic romantic leads came into the restaurant with friends several months ago. His request? That we put his Americano in a different, larger cup that was "easier to hold." Seeing as we only stock one size of coffee cup, we had to run around like crazy looking for a different mug. But we find one we did. And I hope he found the mug suitably easy on his delicate fingers.

Not Much Has Changed Since Lucy's Day.

There is so much to learn about restaurant behavior from this all time great scene from "I Love Lucy."



Attempt 1 : Really? Clearly no server could take orders when carrying what looks like a massively heavy tray.

Attempt 2 : Server should have acknowledged Lucy, maybe with a "I'll be right with you," before dropping the checks he is holding in his hands on the appropriate tables.

Attempt 3: First time the server really flubbed.

Order Taking Attempt 1: No manager should call a server off the floor mid-order.

Switching Tables: I hate when costumers do this. It gums up the works and confuses people (like the poor server). If there are any runners in this kitchen, they're going to get very confused if the server doesn't properly communicate the seat change. The host must also be informed, lest she try to seat a party at a table that is no longer available.

Order Taking Attempt 2: I know it's sexy when servers don't write down the order, but I like writing it down and I like when other servers write it down. Props to this server for knowing the limits of short term memory.

Special request: Although the server's quip about bringing the chops out for Lucy to choose is rude, his point resonates deeply in my heart.