How Much Would This Best Man Have To Pay You?

This morning's daily Craigslist fix had a job posting that makes me hate affianced American men:

Need Cute Topless Female Poker Dealer and Bartender Friday Night (Chelsea)

We are a group of laid back young professionals who are getting together to celebrate an upcoming marriage of one of our closest friends. We are looking for two girls who are willing to be our dealer for our poker game and our bartender while we play. No poker/bartending experience is necessary. The one stipulation is that you are willing to be topless and wear boy shorts or something similar. We are a group of guys in our twenties who are just looking to have fun - nothing creepy. We are willing to pay $70 per hour plus tips from 10:30 - 1:00 on Friday Night. The rate is negotiable. Please send pics or email back if interested and we can talk on the phone.

• Compensation: $70 per hour plus tips, rate is negotiable
• This is a part-time job.

Ugh, everything about this irks me. Don't worry, chickaboo, we're professionals! C'mon pleeeeaaaasse, this is not just a friend but one of our closest!!!!! See- it's just for fun, nothing creepy. But the kicker is for $210 base plus tips you could work a good night shift at a restaurant where you're allowed to keep your clothes on. Funny how that works.

What a bunch of assholes. And without any bartending experience those drinks will taste like crap.

I Went The Extra Mile And All I Got Was 18% Back.

I am a good server. I keep track of when your glass is empty, I remove empty plates the moment you're done with them, and I can suggest things you don't even know you want. You're unhappy? I'll actually do what I can to remedy the situation.

Like today at cocktail hour. 2 30-something women were doing drinks and a cheese plate appetizer. Drinks: 1 glass of white, 1 iced coffee, 1 grapefruit juice. Their total bill was looking something like 35-40 bucks. Not a huge tab, but today was really slow so that made them one of my high priority checks.

Before the food arrives, the lady drinking the wine asked me if she could order olives. "We don't have olives as a menu item," I told her, "but I can bring you some of the olives from the bar like we use for martinis." I put several skewers of olives (probably 12 total olives) into a small bowl and brought them to her.

Then their food arrives. They were totally underwhelmed by the scope of the cheese plate. They thought it would come with more stuff. The teetotaler (whom I'd served last week), told me she'd order it before and it had more on it. I told them them I'd check with the kitchen to see if they forgot to send up an accessory. I did. They didn't. I came back to give the ladies more water and told them that's all. Disappointment.

As I was walking away from their table, I had the genius idea to give them one of our $4 dollar snack sized items. I picked one that would go with their cheese, and brought it over, thinking it would up the likelihood of these ladies staying longer and leaving happy. "I bought these for you," I told them, "just don't tell my manager." I might have winked. They thanked me profusely, told me how sweet I was and, after refusing a second glass of wine or juice, asked me for more (free) olives. I brought them. More compliments on my awesomeness.

And yet, when it was time to look at their bill, they left the standard 18%. Not a penny more. I really felt like I gave them A+ service. Was expecting 20%, particularly because I comped them a snack and kept bringing those damn olives.

What do you think readers? Am I rightfully indignant or should I quit whining? Post your answers in the comment section. I'm really curious.

"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!

Don't Touch My Tail When I'm Cocktailing!

Through a series of scheduling mishaps that came my way, I got evening cocktailing shifts Saturday and Sunday night. I worked my lil' patootie off. Speaking of posteriority, I have a general rule that all customers, particularly male customers should adhere to which is, namely, don't touch the merchandise.

When cocktailing, I keep the drink menus in my back-pocket. The menus are tall and narrow so they fit nicely and I hate wearing those little cocktail aprons. While talking with a table of middle-aged women that had been drinking for a couple hours Saturday afternoon and thus deserved my attention when they wanted to chat, I felt a menu disappear from my back-pocket. Out of the corner of my eye I see an athletic late 20-something hulk of a man walk away with a menu. The women looked at me scandalized, and I just stood there slack-jawed. "I wouldn't mind if he touched my back-pocket," one of the drunk ladies said to me. Before I could stop myself I blurted, "I'm uncomfortable."

Maybe I should have said something to him when I went to take his order. I mean, he didn't cop a feel, but he definitely didn't respect my bubble (butt? Lame joke). Something like, Now that you violated my personal space, what else can I do for you. But I didn't say anything. I just took his order and avoided him as much as possible.

What's funny is that much later at night as things were really busy, a male supervisor snuck a menu too, since he had cranky guests he needed to appease. Kind of bugged me, but if I were in a pinch and he had menus in his back-pocket I might consider...

Need to get some ass? Put menus in your pants.

If You Have To Ask, You Don't Want To Know. True Story.

Saturday, 1:41 AM

I just got home from working at the restaurant where my co-workers and I are pretty sure there were 2 hookers circulating.

CocktailCoWorker: Look at the way they float together, man to man, never buying, never staying to chat past one drink
Underemployed: They look like the well-fed, un-beaten kind.
CocktailCoWorker: Classy almost.

I believe that women have the right to dress how they feel, and if how you feel includes shorts revealing a hint of cheek and spike heels who am I to say you're a hooker? Unless, of course, you are wandering around in a busy hotel lobby hunting for Johns.

RE: Food Trucks Near McCarren Park?

Posted in Williamsburg by artist (collective) Trustocorp. Spectacular.

The Only Job I've Quit. A Story of Jazz, Booze, and Pizza.

In January of this year, bright with hopes for a year better than the one that came before, I walked into a small jazz club on the east side. A co-worker at the restaurant worked there, and he said they needed another server. He raved about working there. As a jazz lover and a live music junkie, I figured it would be awesome to get paid to listen to music while slinging cocktails. I imagined fat paychecks and after-parties with hot piano players and brooding guitarists. My life was about to be so much awesome.

My first evening of work was a Tuesday and there was no other server on the floor. I hadn't seen a single item on the menu, nor had I tasted any of the specialty cocktails but I didn't worry- I could talk my way out of any customer question. The bartender working was a kind of trash girl from Queens who seemed comfortable and knowledgeable with how things were done. She told me the manager got the start-up money from her father, who owned a family-style pizza restaurant chain.

Working alone for the night, I served, ran food, bussed tables and portered, bringing clean glassware to the bar as they needed it. The manager of the club had a novel concept you don't really hear of in the music scene- no cover, no minimum. I had hoped that the evening's "Battle of the Bands" would mean big earning, but alas, most people listened to their friends, maybe had a beer and left a one dollar tip. Dollars earned for a 6 hour shift: $60. That's pathetic, but not so pathetic as to be alarming, and I actually enjoyed listening to some of these bands. This is a music club, I thought, I have to wait for a weekend shift to make up my mind.

Next was a lunch shift. Since there was an office crowd in the area, I thought maybe we had a shot of getting an in-quick out-quick lunch crowd eating the 3-Course lunch special for $12. I sat around at the bar pounding diet cokes and polishing the same 20 forks over and over again, I think I served 4 tables the entire service. But I did get a chance to examine the menu. Expensive, and ludicrously small portions. Using my Spanish skills, I chatted with the two cooks- they told me our manager/owner had asked them to make the servings even smaller so we could earn more profit. It was embarrassing they said.

I walked into the club at 5:30 PM that Saturday night. I told myself this was the test. Either I make legit money (as in absolutely no less than $120) or I quit. For the first time I had a co-server. He was a nice looking actor who had just wrapped his first "Law and Order" episode. I asked him if my paltry earnings were normal. He said they were. He also said that Pizza-Dad often came in the club to give DumbManager more money and occasionally criticize her management skills. Strike One, bases totally loaded.

There was actually a decent crowd. People were drinking, few were eating, but I was feeling good. The music was awesome dance-worthy latin jazz. Then a party of 12 sat. They ordered drink after drink, and my feelings about the club were turning around. A quiet young couple was sitting drinking soda. I walked by checking in as much as I could without being awful, hoping to convince them to buy food or drink. They decided to share a mojito and an appetizer.

A couple hours later.
DumbManager: You have to tell them if they want to stay they need to order more.
Underemployed: No, I don't. It says on their menu "No cover, no minimum." I've done my best, I got them to order a drink and a snack. They have spent more than they have to.
DumbManager: Fine but keep checking in with them.

See, not having a cover or a minimum means that the club is paying the band off of what it earns from the bar and restaurant. You would have to sell HUGE volume for this to be a model even worth thinking about implementing. PS-When the table left, they apologized to me for not ordering more. That is a managerial fail. Strike 1 1/2.

But the night took a turn to the weird. Despite putting the glassware securely on the shelf, several glasses fell down after I walked away. I brought my tray into the back to clean off the glass- I spotted a good excuse for a bathroom break. Good thing I didn't need to actually use said facilities, because the door (locked as it was) fell off its hinges and I literally stood with arms above my head holding it up. Now I had never signed any contract- I wasn't on the books- if that door had hit me with its full force I would have gotten really banged up and it wouldv'e been a chore to collect on my worker's comp. I attracted the attention of the kitchen staff who propped the door with a broom. Strike 2.

Remember that boozy party of 12? Although I didn't ask the manager, I had taken a credit card as a precautionary measure- pretty standard operating procedure in cocktail land. As the night was winding down, the card holder wanted to leave although her friends wanted to stay. Then others wanted to leave. They wanted to pay for their drinks individually; forgetting the fact there's an 18% gratuity for parties over 10 and the fact that we were looking at a $400+ bill split amongst 12 DRUNK people = I'm gonna get stiffed. I asked the manager what she wanted me to do. She asked me what the policy is at the other restaurant I worked at. Nauseating. Me and the other server had to use a table calculator and divvy up the bill as best we could (oh PS- this is an old fashioned club with hand-written tickets, server-calculated bills, and a slide machine for the credit card). It took forever and yet the tip earnings seemed really low. Basically we got screwed. "Estoy aqui para que?? No es caridad!!" I screamed to my friends in the kitchen. Strike 2 1/2.

Fast-forward to 2:30 AM. Music is bumping, the crowd is dancing but all my checks are closed. I ask the manager if I can do my close-out paperwork. No, she says, I have to stay on the floor. (Standard operating procedure is that servers beat it and bartenders stick around, but don't cut the servers in on the tips they make after we go home. You don't keep servers around doing nothing, making everyone earn less). An hour goes by, I start doing my paperwork alone, and realize how little I made. Strike 3. I walked up to the manager right then and there and told her I'll finish this service, but won't be coming back to work.

At 4:00 AM, having opened no new checks in about 4 hours, I finished up my paperwork. After a grueling 10 hour (!) shift, I left with a measley $80.

Below is the email I sent to DumbManager the next morning:

As we discussed last night, I need to be off the schedule. I am not available to work monday night anyway. If you are in a huge bind thursday, call me to let me know on wednesday, otherwise I won't be there.

Below is my adress. Having worked XX hours at $4.60 an hour, I will be expecting a paycheck for $XXX.00. I'm bummed it didn't work out- you have an awesome venue and a beautiful vision. Unfortunately, I just can't afford to be working there.

Best,
Underemployed

OMG I'm Still Confused. Like, I Can't Even Deal.

I have nothing to write today since after an amazing day off spent with a fellow underemployed friend I have watched the series finale of "Lost." And I'm not too cool to admit that I am stunned and really thinking about what I saw.

All I will say is this: At participating AMC Theaters, movies before noon on weekdays are $6.

And this: I am impressed that the screenwriters of "Lost" held up their end of the bargain for the most part. There was more than enough pay off in that finale.

I will be back to my normal self tomorrow. Let me deal, people, let me deal.