R.I.P. Deli Coffee Cup Man.

Leslie Buck, designer of the ubiquitous We Are Happy To Serve You blue paper coffee cup passed away yesterday at the age of 87. Check out the NY Times obit for this graphic design pioneer- immigrant, holocaust survivor, shrewd businessman. I bet his design legacy will live for many years to come.

A Movie Night For An Icky Sicky Restaurant Worker.

I, like many Gen Yers, find Disney movies deeply comforting. When I am sick (like now with my stuffed sinuses and various allergic reactions to the entire world), there is nothing better than lying in bed, equipped with a mug of tea and a box of tissues, watching some fantastic movie designed for 8 year olds.

It won't surprise anybody that I love Ratatouille. From the basic but oh so satisfying low-status protagonist saves the day and becomes an important figure in the community through-line and the affirmation of the legitimacy of cultural critics to the themes of unabashed love of good food and adventure and just plain being yourself, I love everything about it. I also love how accurate the kitchen is- from the job descriptions to the copper pots, from the various personalities to the layout of the space, Ratatouille is spot-on. This startlingly clear glimpse into fine dining is definitely the product of good research- really, the best. Amazing, national cuisine-changing, "Top Chef" guest judging, French Laundry geniusing Chef Thomas Keller was their consultant. Geek out with me, people!



But why, oh why, would I want to watch a movie about a restaurant kitchen when today was a miserably gruelling day of work and I don't feel good?

My guess is it's good, old-fashioned wish-fulfillment. In this film I see a world I already inhabit. But in this glorious version, I never get yelled at, ignored, burned, bumped, ripped off, or pissed off. And rats can cook.

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.

An Open Letter To Monday Night Customers.

Dear People I Served Last Night,

I'd like to acknowledge certain etiquette rules. Don't talk to me while you are chewing. I'm happy to make a self-deprecating joke about my bad timing so you can chew and swallow before talking to me. Also, it is inappropriate to touch people you don't know. When I am walking by, try "Excuse me" or "Miss" or "Can we place a drink order?" before even thinking about touching me. Grab my arm at your own peril. I had to fight my every instinct not to shove your arm off me, and the fact that I even managed to smile at you was a triumph of costumer service that you did not deserve.

To the two gay gentleman ordering food and dirty martinis: I love you. You were lovely to talk to, you kept the drink orders coming, you tipped generously, and you let me know that you were having a great time. Thanks.

To the gentleman squatter: The reason I kept asking you if you need anything is because you had been sitting since 2:30 in the afternoon, it was 8:30 and all you had ordered was a single glass of orange juice while typing away at your computer. Now, you are in the lobby of a hotel so I get that it's not a proper restaurant/bar. Still. Think for two seconds, OJ Stingeson, and you'll realize my point. When other costumers see you not ordering and not getting kicked out, or even the dirty eye, they might follow suit. My humble suggestion for people really settling into their spot : For every 2 hours at least, buy something. A soda, a snack, and if you're feeling generous, an alcoholic beverage. Me coming over to refresh your water glass every time you wave at me is time spent not paying attention to costumers who are actually going to help me make money. Screw you and your fresh squeezed juice.

To the couple drinking gimlets as I was ending my shift: Thanks for the extra tip. I later learned that after transferring your check to my coworker I still got a cut of his tip pool. Those extra 5 bucks you slipped me were unnecessary, it turns out. But your generosity of spirit will not go unnoticed by the world.

Finally, to everyone who bumped into me, especially the large gentleman with the rolling suitcase : Places where food and drinks are being brought to people by people demand an awareness of spacial relations. When you rammed into me with your luggage, I almost fell onto the couple whose order I was taking. If I had been carrying a tray, all three of us would have worn its contents. You didn't even look back and apologize. You knocked the wind out of me and my costumers noticed that I was in pain. You suck, sir.

Love,

Underemployed

Playing With Food Can Be An Art. But Don't Get Touchy If Your Busser Spits On You.

Artist Kevin Van Aelst makes fingerprints from food- sugar packets, macaroni and the like. But if I had to clean this up, I'd be real mad. And bussers deal with enough- people's nasty used napkins, dirty silverware and lipstick stained wine glasses. Why give them more work? Why?

Here's the article about Kevin on boingboing.

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.

I Talk To You And Give You Food Because That's How I Get Paid. Get Over Yourself.

Like so many men, emerging country singer and former pizza delivery guy Jonathan Byrd knows the simple pleasures of having a woman around. And though he seems to be kidding, his song does hit an anti-feminist nerve. Why is he in love with his waitress? Because she is a pretty woman who calls him sir, because she smiles at him, checks in to see how he's doing, because she listens, and because she will "come back till [he's] had enough."

An Afterthought : Here are some pet names costumers have called me at work. I bet they would never use these inappropriate diminutives with the male servers.

Honey
Sweetie
Dear
Angel
Love