When I worked at Denny's, I had the overnight shift and usually worked the smoking section (smokers tipped better and were generally lower maintenance than non-smokers, so it was worth the constant respiratory distress I underwent, being allergic to cigarettes and all), but every now and then would cover some tables over in the larger non-smoking section, too. Usually when the other waitron was sleeping off his “lunch” on a booth bench in the back or we were short-handed (which happened a lot - even the wonder-waitress who liked to steal my tips was less reliable than a clock missing a cog)(please don't ask why a clock needs a cog...I'll feel even older). The non-smoking section was three times the size as smoking and had a few larger tables - big enough for ten or twelve people, if they were friendly.
We had a "banquet room", if you can call anything done at Denny's a banquet, but while I worked there the only thing that happened regularly in that room was the rolling of the silverware bundles - each server had to roll a certain number by the end of their shift or stay after to finish them. We worked on the honor system, but I think I was the only one who ever did all of them. I think this because I knew what a hundred bundles looked like, and no one else ever made a pile that size except the manager when he would hang out with me back there and talk racing while I rolled.
The big room also served as a napping place for one or more of us at any given time - nights could be terribly quiet, often only requiring one person to cover the whole floor, so if anyone was exceptionally tired they'd sneak off for a snooze. Some of the best (evil) fun I had was waking up another server when we got a crowd in. Muahahah...there are so many (evil) ways to go about that...
OK, so mostly I was nice, and would gently, quietly speak their name while placing a lovely hot cup of coffee on the table beside whatever padded bench they'd come to rest on...but every now and then...
There was probably also The Sex (thanks, Aunt Becky!) going on, too. Not me, mind you...at that juncture in my life, I couldn't have cared less about The Sex or men, but considering the rumpled state of a few folks exiting that room, one can only presume...eww.
Sometimes I would sit back in there and collect myself when I was angry, frazzled, or just bone tired. I was still suffering from the insomnia that landed me the job in the first place, and sometimes got only a few hours sleep a week. I'd read a few pages in whatever the current book was, drink some water (I didn't drink coffee when I worked...I didn't need my few poor wits to be any more scattered than usual), maybe eat a bite of French Silk Pie (who needs The Sex when there's French Silk Pie?? Even Denny's couldn't screw that up - they ordered it from a bakery) and then get on with my night.
That room was also where we counted our tips and filled out the claim form every night, so it was a hotbed of criminal activity - not one of us ever claimed full tips for taxes. We needed our cash more than the IRS did.
I liked my shift - it wasn't where the big money was (that would be the breakfast shift) - but it was all I could handle. Those morning waitresses impressed the hell out of me...I still don't know how anyone handles the rush that comes to a breakfast joint in the morning. The few folks I had to serve before seven were enough to make me glad to beat feet out of there when my relief came.
Our Denny's was situated off the 285 Atlanta bypass, on an access road - either Savoy or Cotillion (I always got them mixed up - they paralleled the highway). At the time I worked there, there was a hotel/convention center and a few businesses in the immediate vicinity, and some neighborhoods not too far away. It was considered part of the Dunwoody area - Dunwoody being an upscale, Georgia version of one step removed from Beverly Hills. Our Beverly Hills would be Buckhead, I think. Dunwoody is where the newly rich folks build homes. They're very well off, but not mega-rich, and they build big, flashy homes and drive expensive, flashy cars. Dunwoody is where all those executives move in and out as companies shift them from place to place...in fact, there was more than one corporate house scattered about when I lived there. I wasn't rich, by the way, just lucky to have an apartment in the shitboxes just across the highway from Dunwoody proper. I loved that apartment...
One night, I had a group of folks over from the convention center next door - ten or twelve well dressed, professional looking people (the men in suits with ties, the woman in dresses, low heels, pearls). They were polite, ordered quickly and without fuss. They didn't run me ragged, demanding extra lemon for their water, hotter water for their hot tea, pickles, catsup, napkins, or any of the usual high-maintenance crap. I thought it was going nicely, right up until it was time to pay the tab. They paid it, exactly. No tip. They proudly proclaimed that they were part of the bible convention next door, and for my tip they were going to pray for me. To give me something to hang onto besides cash, they were leaving me a pamphlet about how I needed salvation and how they could lead me there.
Y'all, I wasn't openly pagan at the time - I wore my pentacle inside my shirt and it's not like you could tell by looking at me, so these people were assuming that I was a sinner and that they were the ones to save me. In those days I didn't swear, I dressed ultra-low key or conservatively, and barely made eye contact with anyone. I may have been a mess internally, but I tried very hard not to let that show at work...people don't want a side of conflict mixed with misery with their scrambled eggs or Delidinger,*and I knew it.
I had to walk away or I would have wiped the smug, self-righteous looks right off their faces with a bent butter knife. I really, really wanted to tell them that they could go pray at the phone company and see if it paid my bill, or perhaps at the leasing office at my apartment complex and see if it covered rent. I also wanted to ask them if they were at all familiar with the phrase “theft of services”, and what exactly led them to believe my soul needed praying for anyway? but I just went back into the kitchen and then into the banquet room and waited until they left.
Can you imagine, they were crestfallen that I didn't dance for joy and embrace their necks for praying for my soul instead of paying for my service? They actually complained to the manager - not about my service (which wasn't bad at all, that night) but rather about my distinct lack of appreciation for their generosity. Barf.
I don't know how he kept a straight face as he listened with false sympathy to their plaint that I wasn't grateful to them for seeing to the needs of my tarnished soul. If he'd comped any part of their meal, I would have dumped a fresh pot of coffee in his lap...and I'm not a violent person!!
It wasn't just the tip they didn't leave me that ticked me off- it was the tips I didn't get from the tables I wasn't covering because I was seeing to their large group. It was the tip I'd have to claim even though I didn't get it, and the taxes I would have to pay despite never having the money.
The next night, when a similar group came in (with two of the people from the previous night), I let someone else have the table - the wonder waitress who liked to steal tips. What? She was Baptist, I figured she'd appreciate their "tip" better than I would. I had her best interests at heart. Really.
*If you never had a Delidinger, I'm sorry...it was possibly the best thing Denny's ever made (besides French Silk Pie, and they didn't actually make that), and I nearly cried when they discontinued it.
Showing posts with label Employment Weirdness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Employment Weirdness. Show all posts
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Sunday, April 27, 2008
The Denny's Chronicles - Tlaes From the Other Side of the Tray
The homeless man often came by our store. We were near two highway overpasses where he liked to spend his nights, and when it rained or was bitter cold, he knew he could sit in a corner and nurse a cup of coffee for hours without being troubled by any of us. He was quiet, a little ragged, but clean, and sometimes his eyes seemed focused on places and times far removed from us.
I kept his coffee warmed and occasionally slipped him a plate of food that, oops, hadn't been made right so would he eat it and save me from binning it? He wouldn't take charity, wouldn't take food for pity, but if I could convince him that it was a mistake, that the eggs were supposed to be over-easy and not scrambled or the bread on the sandwich should have been white and not wheat...well, then he'd eat it to save us having to toss it. I got very inventive with our mistakes. I mean, how many ways can you think of to convince an intelligent man that you cut the wrong freakin' pie? In the end, my fairly tragic waitressing abilities made it easier - he often watched me botch the job, and I think he must have strained something a time or two, trying not to laugh. It wasn't much of a stretch to believe I'd made a mistake that was mutually beneficial.
What seemed to bother him most about hanging about our store was that he often didn't have enough money to leave much (if any) of a tip. He really hated that. He would apologize, hang his head, and shuffle on out before the morning crush (he always came in around midnight or so, maybe a bit later, when we were quietest), and he'd be gone until the next bit of bad weather. Once in a while, the manager would think of a job that the homeless man could help out with - moving boxes, hauling some trash, mopping a bit of floor - and then he'd get a little cash and smile so sweetly because he could order his own meal, pay for it, and leave a tip.
I never asked him why he was homeless. It seemed rude. Sometimes I'd see him under one of the bridges or shuffling down the side of the road looking for cans and other recyclables, and every now and then he'd be sweeping or doing some kind of work at a shop along the road where I lived. He had a backpack full of his life. He had all his teeth, didn't smoke, and didn't behave like someone who did drugs on a regular basis. He spoke clearly enough, most of the time...but every now and then, he'd be a little disconnected, a little distant. I think he might have been mentally ill, someone who'd been turned out of treatment when the funds ran out, someone who'd lost himself along the way.
I called him sugar, or sweetie, or honey, or darlin' - that's the beauty of living in the South, if you don't know someone's name you call them sugarhoneysweetiedarling and you're covered. I didn't know his name...I never asked and he never offered. Maybe he didn't remember, or maybe he didn't want to be himself, or maybe he was just that private. He didn't mind me calling him one of those substitutes, though. I guess it's nice to have someone call you an endearment when you're used to the harder words flung at you like chunks of verbal stone while you trudge alongside the road...even if that someone is overweight, insecure, and caught up in her own internal struggles. Maybe that's why he always sat in my section...he recognized a kindred spirit behind the cartoon necktie.
One cold, sleety night, he came in a little later than usual. He was wearing clean clothes, his hair and beard were trimmed, and he was smiling. He sat in my section and I poured the coffee without asking - he always liked it black with sugar (on days he hadn't eaten well, he'd put in more sugar). This time, he actually ordered his meal, complete with desert. While he ate, he told me about the job he'd found, one that didn't mean he had to stay inside (bound, suffocating, straight-jacketed by corporate employment rules and regulations), one that let him have the freedom he seemed to need to maintain his equilibrium. He was pleased, and so was I - someone else had seen the human being beneath the "homeless" label and offered him a position with their landscaping company. He liked working with plants, getting his hands into the earth, bringing life and color to empty spaces. He spent a long time at his table, enjoying his dinner and a slice of French Silk pie (my personal favorite, too) before asking for the check. I placed it on his table and we chatted a little more about nothing of consequence, until a group of young folks jostled their way in for a post-clubbing snack to steady their drug-frazzled nerves.
While I was getting their drinks, the homeless man left, leaving his check and payment on the table. I took the kids' orders and bussed the now empty table, collecting the ticket and the cash he'd left without really looking at it. It went into my apron pocket until I could get to the register. When I finally got to it, maybe half an hour later, I was stunned. For an eight-dollar (or so) tab, he'd left me a twenty. Just left it. He didn't want change - he'd written a note on the check thanking me for being so nice to him, and telling me how bad he'd felt all the times he couldn't leave me a tip. He hoped this made up for that. Holy crap! I could have cried - new job or not, he needed that money more than I did, and he knew I wouldn't take it if he'd stayed, so he waited until I was too busy to argue with him.
I never did see him again. Once in a while, when I am in a dark mood, I wonder if he really had a job or if he just decided to have done with the messiness of life. Most of the time, though, I like to think of my nameless, homeless man digging in the dirt, putting in flowers and greenery, keeping grass trim, giving trees a friendly pat "hello" as he walks past them, earning his keep and finding his peace.
That was the best tip I ever got, in more ways than one.
I kept his coffee warmed and occasionally slipped him a plate of food that, oops, hadn't been made right so would he eat it and save me from binning it? He wouldn't take charity, wouldn't take food for pity, but if I could convince him that it was a mistake, that the eggs were supposed to be over-easy and not scrambled or the bread on the sandwich should have been white and not wheat...well, then he'd eat it to save us having to toss it. I got very inventive with our mistakes. I mean, how many ways can you think of to convince an intelligent man that you cut the wrong freakin' pie? In the end, my fairly tragic waitressing abilities made it easier - he often watched me botch the job, and I think he must have strained something a time or two, trying not to laugh. It wasn't much of a stretch to believe I'd made a mistake that was mutually beneficial.
What seemed to bother him most about hanging about our store was that he often didn't have enough money to leave much (if any) of a tip. He really hated that. He would apologize, hang his head, and shuffle on out before the morning crush (he always came in around midnight or so, maybe a bit later, when we were quietest), and he'd be gone until the next bit of bad weather. Once in a while, the manager would think of a job that the homeless man could help out with - moving boxes, hauling some trash, mopping a bit of floor - and then he'd get a little cash and smile so sweetly because he could order his own meal, pay for it, and leave a tip.
I never asked him why he was homeless. It seemed rude. Sometimes I'd see him under one of the bridges or shuffling down the side of the road looking for cans and other recyclables, and every now and then he'd be sweeping or doing some kind of work at a shop along the road where I lived. He had a backpack full of his life. He had all his teeth, didn't smoke, and didn't behave like someone who did drugs on a regular basis. He spoke clearly enough, most of the time...but every now and then, he'd be a little disconnected, a little distant. I think he might have been mentally ill, someone who'd been turned out of treatment when the funds ran out, someone who'd lost himself along the way.
I called him sugar, or sweetie, or honey, or darlin' - that's the beauty of living in the South, if you don't know someone's name you call them sugarhoneysweetiedarling and you're covered. I didn't know his name...I never asked and he never offered. Maybe he didn't remember, or maybe he didn't want to be himself, or maybe he was just that private. He didn't mind me calling him one of those substitutes, though. I guess it's nice to have someone call you an endearment when you're used to the harder words flung at you like chunks of verbal stone while you trudge alongside the road...even if that someone is overweight, insecure, and caught up in her own internal struggles. Maybe that's why he always sat in my section...he recognized a kindred spirit behind the cartoon necktie.
One cold, sleety night, he came in a little later than usual. He was wearing clean clothes, his hair and beard were trimmed, and he was smiling. He sat in my section and I poured the coffee without asking - he always liked it black with sugar (on days he hadn't eaten well, he'd put in more sugar). This time, he actually ordered his meal, complete with desert. While he ate, he told me about the job he'd found, one that didn't mean he had to stay inside (bound, suffocating, straight-jacketed by corporate employment rules and regulations), one that let him have the freedom he seemed to need to maintain his equilibrium. He was pleased, and so was I - someone else had seen the human being beneath the "homeless" label and offered him a position with their landscaping company. He liked working with plants, getting his hands into the earth, bringing life and color to empty spaces. He spent a long time at his table, enjoying his dinner and a slice of French Silk pie (my personal favorite, too) before asking for the check. I placed it on his table and we chatted a little more about nothing of consequence, until a group of young folks jostled their way in for a post-clubbing snack to steady their drug-frazzled nerves.
While I was getting their drinks, the homeless man left, leaving his check and payment on the table. I took the kids' orders and bussed the now empty table, collecting the ticket and the cash he'd left without really looking at it. It went into my apron pocket until I could get to the register. When I finally got to it, maybe half an hour later, I was stunned. For an eight-dollar (or so) tab, he'd left me a twenty. Just left it. He didn't want change - he'd written a note on the check thanking me for being so nice to him, and telling me how bad he'd felt all the times he couldn't leave me a tip. He hoped this made up for that. Holy crap! I could have cried - new job or not, he needed that money more than I did, and he knew I wouldn't take it if he'd stayed, so he waited until I was too busy to argue with him.
I never did see him again. Once in a while, when I am in a dark mood, I wonder if he really had a job or if he just decided to have done with the messiness of life. Most of the time, though, I like to think of my nameless, homeless man digging in the dirt, putting in flowers and greenery, keeping grass trim, giving trees a friendly pat "hello" as he walks past them, earning his keep and finding his peace.
That was the best tip I ever got, in more ways than one.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
The Denny's Chronicles - Tales From the Other Side of the Tray
Tipping is part of service. The standard tip changes as the economy does - I remember when a regular tip for average service was five percent. Now, it's fifteen percent. That's for average, run-of-the-mill, not awful but not spectacular service from your waitron. Poor service should garner no less than five percent (even if the waitron dump scalding coffee in your lap), stellar service should be rewarded as much as you think the waitron deserves - after all, you want to encourage that amazing behavior every time, right?? Heck, I've been known to double a tab with the tip, just because the server was spectacular and deserved it (I'm not wealthy, either, but I never forgot the generosity some folks showed me when I was a 'tron, and I want to pass it along when I can).
Some folks don't understand about tipping. They seem to think that tips are a reward for extraordinary behavior. They aren't. A tip is calculated as part of that waitron's labor. Often, they have to share a percentage of the sale (not the tip, the sale) with the bartender, the busboys, the maitre 'd. Did you know they pay taxes on tips? And those taxes are calculated by the waitron's sales and not what you actually give them? A really rancid tip can actually cost your server more money than they made from your table. If the service was that bad, speak to a manager, but don't take money from the server's pocket!! They have to pay rent, make car payments, pay the power and phone bills. Like you, they are trying to make ends meet. No one waits tables because that's what they wanted to do when they grew up, or it's their hobby - they do it because they are in school, they are struggling, they have kids or odd hours elsewhere, and waiting tables is the only job with the flexibility they need.
I don't know what the base pay for a server is today, but when I was at the job, it was about $2.12 an hour, which just about covered taxes and benefits - if I'd had benefits, which I didn't. My pay check would be a few dollars every two weeks, so everything I actually made came from tips. I had to claim a minimum percentage of my sales for taxes - at the time, it was seven percent of sales, so if I sold a hundred dollars in food/beverages in a night, I had to claim seven dollars in tips whether I made that or not. I was supposed to claim all my tips, but I was a rogue and I didn't. I would have to pay an exorbitant tax rate on them (* edit - thirty percent on whatever I claimed, so three out of every ten dollars I claimed in tips went to taxes - and I never got it back), and I needed that money for trifling things like rent, groceries, and fuel. I was listed as a part time employee (despite working in excess of forty hours a week) so I didn't get insurance or other benefits. I needed to try and stockpile a bit of money for medical emergencies, and regular check-ups, dental work, and exams were out of the question unless my mum was paying for them. I wasn't the odd one out, either - most of the people I worked with were in the same boat, only some of them also had children to worry about.
On the other side of tipping is service. Some servers just don't get it - they actually need to do a decent job to get decent tips. Some servers think they should get twenty percent just for getting food or drinks to the table, and they get angry or flustered when you ask for things like separate checks (at the beginning of the meal, before you order, this isn't unreasonable) or expect the occasional refill of your water. I've had servers roll their eyes when I ask them for dressing on the side of my salad, or send back a dish that wasn't prepared correctly. I am not high-maintenance, but I am precise in ordering. I find that most places over-dress a salad, which makes it unpalatable. They also over-sauce many dishes, or put sauces on things when you ordered them plain. It is not unreasonable to return the dish and ask that it be made as you ordered it, and a server shouldn't have an issue with that if you are in the right.
Ordering a dish one way, then continually complaining and sending it back because you decide you don't like it that way after all, that is worthy of an eye roll (out of your sight line, of course). Constantly asking for one condiment or another, extra napkins, another straw, lemon slices, and the like, one thing at a time...that is justification for a server smacking you upside the head, but they won't. Nope. They'll want to, but they'll grin and bear it, and you should recognize your bad behavior and tip them like the sun shines out their ass for their service.
If a server hasn't done a good job, I'll let them know. Not by stiffing them on the tip, but by telling them (gently, with compassion) where they went awry. A server should never use a bad day as an excuse for poor service - a waitress tried that with a group I was in, and we weren't having it. She never brought us silverware (we went and got our own), never refilled our water in a two-hour period (again, we got our own), didn't bring the couple of drinks from the bar that were ordered (the people who ordered them had to fetch them), either didn't write down or didn't check our orders (most of them were wrong when they eventually got to us - after over an hour waiting), brought us another table's order, largely ignored our table for the time we were there (over two hours from seating to finally getting our check), and didn't separate the check when we'd clearly asked her to at the beginning of the meal. She also added another table's tab to our check and added in the gratuity herself, even though we were below the number that usually prompts that action (in this particular establishment, eight people or more means an automatic gratuity of fifteen percent). When we pointed out the tab that wasn't ours, and that we were only seven people, she claimed she couldn't change the check and we should sort it out ourselves.
We sorted it out, all right. We spoke to the manager, explained what had gone wrong (almost everything) and what had gone right (because another server stepped in) and that we were very disappointed with our watress' service. Also, when one of our number spoke her mind to the waitress about the service, the waitress told us we were a difficult table, demanding and unreasonable, and that we had made her job impossible - and she was having a bad night because someone stole a hundred-dollar tab/tip off the bar because she had left it there too long, so her poor service wasn't her fault.
I might have felt sorry for her if she hadn't given the same level of non-service to three other tables near us, all two-tops. We were fetching their silverware along with our own, filling their water glasses, and even passing the improperly delivered food on to their table when it turned out it's what they ordered. Perhaps we should have asked for tips!
Her bad day wasn't our fault, and we shouldn't have suffered for it. If she couldn't manage to do the job, if she was so shaken, broken up, devastated by the earlier event, she should have gone somewhere to collect herself instead of taking it out on her customers. This holds true in any service industry job, by the way. Oh, and? We still tipped her ten percent.
The manager was horrified by her behavior - we were regular customers, there every week, and we always ordered carefully and tipped well, so he didn't for a moment believe that the confusion was on our part. I should be sorry that the woman was fired the next morning, but I'm not really. It turns out, we weren't the first or only table to complain about her. Not everyone's cut out to do that job - I was stunned that I lasted as long as I did without stabbing someone with a bent fork.
People have left tips in some fascinating places. I guess they find it funny, entertaining themselves by watching the server look for the tip. Interesting places people leave tips - I found them in water, iced tea, and soft drink glasses, at the bottom of a milkshake cup, thrown into a puddle of catsup and scrambled eggs, in the dregs of a coffee cup, and even in an ash tray that had been filled with creamer (as well as ashes and cigarette buts). They were placed in the leftovers of sandwiches, crammed into pie leavings, covered in syrup, and left as pennies scattered across the table and booth seats. And this was in a "nice" neighborhood where people lived in million dollar homes and drove big expensive cars. Just goes to show, money doesn't equal class. Shoot, the best tip I ever got was from a homeless guy! But that's another story...
Some folks don't understand about tipping. They seem to think that tips are a reward for extraordinary behavior. They aren't. A tip is calculated as part of that waitron's labor. Often, they have to share a percentage of the sale (not the tip, the sale) with the bartender, the busboys, the maitre 'd. Did you know they pay taxes on tips? And those taxes are calculated by the waitron's sales and not what you actually give them? A really rancid tip can actually cost your server more money than they made from your table. If the service was that bad, speak to a manager, but don't take money from the server's pocket!! They have to pay rent, make car payments, pay the power and phone bills. Like you, they are trying to make ends meet. No one waits tables because that's what they wanted to do when they grew up, or it's their hobby - they do it because they are in school, they are struggling, they have kids or odd hours elsewhere, and waiting tables is the only job with the flexibility they need.
I don't know what the base pay for a server is today, but when I was at the job, it was about $2.12 an hour, which just about covered taxes and benefits - if I'd had benefits, which I didn't. My pay check would be a few dollars every two weeks, so everything I actually made came from tips. I had to claim a minimum percentage of my sales for taxes - at the time, it was seven percent of sales, so if I sold a hundred dollars in food/beverages in a night, I had to claim seven dollars in tips whether I made that or not. I was supposed to claim all my tips, but I was a rogue and I didn't. I would have to pay an exorbitant tax rate on them (* edit - thirty percent on whatever I claimed, so three out of every ten dollars I claimed in tips went to taxes - and I never got it back), and I needed that money for trifling things like rent, groceries, and fuel. I was listed as a part time employee (despite working in excess of forty hours a week) so I didn't get insurance or other benefits. I needed to try and stockpile a bit of money for medical emergencies, and regular check-ups, dental work, and exams were out of the question unless my mum was paying for them. I wasn't the odd one out, either - most of the people I worked with were in the same boat, only some of them also had children to worry about.
On the other side of tipping is service. Some servers just don't get it - they actually need to do a decent job to get decent tips. Some servers think they should get twenty percent just for getting food or drinks to the table, and they get angry or flustered when you ask for things like separate checks (at the beginning of the meal, before you order, this isn't unreasonable) or expect the occasional refill of your water. I've had servers roll their eyes when I ask them for dressing on the side of my salad, or send back a dish that wasn't prepared correctly. I am not high-maintenance, but I am precise in ordering. I find that most places over-dress a salad, which makes it unpalatable. They also over-sauce many dishes, or put sauces on things when you ordered them plain. It is not unreasonable to return the dish and ask that it be made as you ordered it, and a server shouldn't have an issue with that if you are in the right.
Ordering a dish one way, then continually complaining and sending it back because you decide you don't like it that way after all, that is worthy of an eye roll (out of your sight line, of course). Constantly asking for one condiment or another, extra napkins, another straw, lemon slices, and the like, one thing at a time...that is justification for a server smacking you upside the head, but they won't. Nope. They'll want to, but they'll grin and bear it, and you should recognize your bad behavior and tip them like the sun shines out their ass for their service.
If a server hasn't done a good job, I'll let them know. Not by stiffing them on the tip, but by telling them (gently, with compassion) where they went awry. A server should never use a bad day as an excuse for poor service - a waitress tried that with a group I was in, and we weren't having it. She never brought us silverware (we went and got our own), never refilled our water in a two-hour period (again, we got our own), didn't bring the couple of drinks from the bar that were ordered (the people who ordered them had to fetch them), either didn't write down or didn't check our orders (most of them were wrong when they eventually got to us - after over an hour waiting), brought us another table's order, largely ignored our table for the time we were there (over two hours from seating to finally getting our check), and didn't separate the check when we'd clearly asked her to at the beginning of the meal. She also added another table's tab to our check and added in the gratuity herself, even though we were below the number that usually prompts that action (in this particular establishment, eight people or more means an automatic gratuity of fifteen percent). When we pointed out the tab that wasn't ours, and that we were only seven people, she claimed she couldn't change the check and we should sort it out ourselves.
We sorted it out, all right. We spoke to the manager, explained what had gone wrong (almost everything) and what had gone right (because another server stepped in) and that we were very disappointed with our watress' service. Also, when one of our number spoke her mind to the waitress about the service, the waitress told us we were a difficult table, demanding and unreasonable, and that we had made her job impossible - and she was having a bad night because someone stole a hundred-dollar tab/tip off the bar because she had left it there too long, so her poor service wasn't her fault.
I might have felt sorry for her if she hadn't given the same level of non-service to three other tables near us, all two-tops. We were fetching their silverware along with our own, filling their water glasses, and even passing the improperly delivered food on to their table when it turned out it's what they ordered. Perhaps we should have asked for tips!
Her bad day wasn't our fault, and we shouldn't have suffered for it. If she couldn't manage to do the job, if she was so shaken, broken up, devastated by the earlier event, she should have gone somewhere to collect herself instead of taking it out on her customers. This holds true in any service industry job, by the way. Oh, and? We still tipped her ten percent.
The manager was horrified by her behavior - we were regular customers, there every week, and we always ordered carefully and tipped well, so he didn't for a moment believe that the confusion was on our part. I should be sorry that the woman was fired the next morning, but I'm not really. It turns out, we weren't the first or only table to complain about her. Not everyone's cut out to do that job - I was stunned that I lasted as long as I did without stabbing someone with a bent fork.
People have left tips in some fascinating places. I guess they find it funny, entertaining themselves by watching the server look for the tip. Interesting places people leave tips - I found them in water, iced tea, and soft drink glasses, at the bottom of a milkshake cup, thrown into a puddle of catsup and scrambled eggs, in the dregs of a coffee cup, and even in an ash tray that had been filled with creamer (as well as ashes and cigarette buts). They were placed in the leftovers of sandwiches, crammed into pie leavings, covered in syrup, and left as pennies scattered across the table and booth seats. And this was in a "nice" neighborhood where people lived in million dollar homes and drove big expensive cars. Just goes to show, money doesn't equal class. Shoot, the best tip I ever got was from a homeless guy! But that's another story...
Thursday, April 10, 2008
The Denny's Chronicles - Tales From the Other Side of the Tray
One night, I had some local kids do a dine and dash in my station.
It was after midnight, and they'd been taking up a six top for several hours, ordering more and more food and picking at it, drinking gallons of coffee and soft drinks. I had other tables to work, but they were, by far the highest maintenance. Eventually, after picking at a pile of food, running me ragged, and making a monumental mess that I'd have to clean up (we bussed our own tables), they ordered desert. Thank goodness!!
I wasn't expecting much of a tip from these twits, because I knew the area too well. Kids from Dunwoody High School were often guilty of classist assery, and in their eyes, a waitress was bottom off the social strata - we were servants and we should feel privileged to serve them. They didn't know I'd graduated from Dunwoody myself, a couple of years earlier, and probably knew their older siblings. All they saw was someone to treat like shit so they could feel better about their vacuous existence.
I was expecting them to pay their tab, however. It seems they had different ideas. While I was putting together the deserts they'd all ordered, they were giggling and sneaking out the door. The door in full view of the galley where I was working. Sneaking out to climb into their BMW and zoom off into the night. Without covering the enormous amount of food they'd wasted, or my time fetching it to them.
Oh, not, not on my shift. I chased their sorry asses down in the parking lot (I guess they figured the fat chick couldn't run. Shows what they know - I was a sprinter in my youth, and was still outrunning out-of-control race cars every weekend), hauled the ringleader inside and called his daddy - right after I called the cops. He tried to pay the tab, but it was too late for him. I wasn't impressed with the Gold Card (or whatever he was waving at me, honestly I don't remember) or the promise of a really nice tip. Nope. I was pissed. The others were stuck without a ride, because ringleader-boy had the car keys, and goddess forbid they walk anywhere, so they milled about the entry calling me names and declaring me "uncool". Whatever - I had never been guilty of being "cool" in the first place and I really didn't care what they thought of me at that point. Damn punks with their nouveau-riche attitude..."My dad's making a million a year so I'm better than you and can treat you like shit, even though I've never done a damn thing to help improve humanity and am a complete waste of oxygen"...Hah!
I refused to let it slide, even when daddy tried to buy me off, tried to talk me out of police involvement. That was par for the Dunwoody course at the time, though - buy your kid's way out of trouble, give them more money to spend and make sure they never suffer the consequences of their actions because they might be uncomfortable for a little while and blame you for their idiocy. Please, be a parent!! Grow a nut, for heaven's sake!! I wasn't being bought, though. Nope. I was just sick of the jack-assery, and I could always sell a kidney to make rent.
Daddy paid the tab with his credit card, in view of the nice officers. Of course, he didn't tip me. Ass. He should have tipped me double and taken it out of the kid's hide, but gods forbid a child should learn to be respectful of others, develop a sense of empathy, and realize that the job does not define the person.
At least the manager backed me - he was just as sick of the punks as I was. The things they did to our bathrooms should have warranted a psychological evaluation at the very least. People scorn truckers and the like, but none of them ever tried to walk out on a tab, stiff a waitress on the tip, or did something unspeakable to the restroom or spouted obscenities at the top of their lungs just to annoy other diners. Nope. That would be the wealthy, privileged kids.
They never came back, any of that group, and we never missed them for a minute.
It was after midnight, and they'd been taking up a six top for several hours, ordering more and more food and picking at it, drinking gallons of coffee and soft drinks. I had other tables to work, but they were, by far the highest maintenance. Eventually, after picking at a pile of food, running me ragged, and making a monumental mess that I'd have to clean up (we bussed our own tables), they ordered desert. Thank goodness!!
I wasn't expecting much of a tip from these twits, because I knew the area too well. Kids from Dunwoody High School were often guilty of classist assery, and in their eyes, a waitress was bottom off the social strata - we were servants and we should feel privileged to serve them. They didn't know I'd graduated from Dunwoody myself, a couple of years earlier, and probably knew their older siblings. All they saw was someone to treat like shit so they could feel better about their vacuous existence.
I was expecting them to pay their tab, however. It seems they had different ideas. While I was putting together the deserts they'd all ordered, they were giggling and sneaking out the door. The door in full view of the galley where I was working. Sneaking out to climb into their BMW and zoom off into the night. Without covering the enormous amount of food they'd wasted, or my time fetching it to them.
Oh, not, not on my shift. I chased their sorry asses down in the parking lot (I guess they figured the fat chick couldn't run. Shows what they know - I was a sprinter in my youth, and was still outrunning out-of-control race cars every weekend), hauled the ringleader inside and called his daddy - right after I called the cops. He tried to pay the tab, but it was too late for him. I wasn't impressed with the Gold Card (or whatever he was waving at me, honestly I don't remember) or the promise of a really nice tip. Nope. I was pissed. The others were stuck without a ride, because ringleader-boy had the car keys, and goddess forbid they walk anywhere, so they milled about the entry calling me names and declaring me "uncool". Whatever - I had never been guilty of being "cool" in the first place and I really didn't care what they thought of me at that point. Damn punks with their nouveau-riche attitude..."My dad's making a million a year so I'm better than you and can treat you like shit, even though I've never done a damn thing to help improve humanity and am a complete waste of oxygen"...Hah!
I refused to let it slide, even when daddy tried to buy me off, tried to talk me out of police involvement. That was par for the Dunwoody course at the time, though - buy your kid's way out of trouble, give them more money to spend and make sure they never suffer the consequences of their actions because they might be uncomfortable for a little while and blame you for their idiocy. Please, be a parent!! Grow a nut, for heaven's sake!! I wasn't being bought, though. Nope. I was just sick of the jack-assery, and I could always sell a kidney to make rent.
Daddy paid the tab with his credit card, in view of the nice officers. Of course, he didn't tip me. Ass. He should have tipped me double and taken it out of the kid's hide, but gods forbid a child should learn to be respectful of others, develop a sense of empathy, and realize that the job does not define the person.
At least the manager backed me - he was just as sick of the punks as I was. The things they did to our bathrooms should have warranted a psychological evaluation at the very least. People scorn truckers and the like, but none of them ever tried to walk out on a tab, stiff a waitress on the tip, or did something unspeakable to the restroom or spouted obscenities at the top of their lungs just to annoy other diners. Nope. That would be the wealthy, privileged kids.
They never came back, any of that group, and we never missed them for a minute.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
The Denny's Chronicles - Tales From the Other Side of the Tray
I was reading Mommy Wants Vodka and baby on bored, and they both did recent entries about waiting tables. After I left rather long comments for both of them, I thought hey, this could be a blog post or twenty! As I am always happy to let someone else provide blog fodder, I'm taking a page from their books and writing a little about my own (short lived) experience on the other side of the tray.
I have had bouts of insomnia throughout my (somewhat) adult life. During one long stretch of sleepless weeks, I would head over to the local Denny's because it was the only place open in the wee hours. This Denny's was located off of 285, the Atlanta Perimeter, nestled between a hotel/convention center and another motel, and was usually good for a pot of coffee or three and some chatter with whoever was awake at that hour - sometimes the waitress, sometimes the dish washer or the manager, sometimes just the coffee pot. Half the time I'd bring a book, sit in the closed section, and read all night. They never minded, never gave me hell about taking up real-estate without ordering food (often I only had enough money for coffee and a tip), and I was there so often they let me get my own water and showed me how to work the coffee machine so I never had to wait for a refill...and occasionally I'd pour for anyone else in there, too, just to be helpful.
Every now and then, I'd bring a client in - I was (and still am, to an extent) a "fortune teller", and I figured working out of the Denny's was no worse than the goth club downtown I'd been working from (oh, that's a whole other set of stories). Sometimes I'd do readings for the staff, and the manager's girlfriend got in on the action too.
When the manager found out I was looking for part time, weekday employment (I was working races almost every weekend, and even though it was a volunteer gig and I had rent to pay, I wasn't giving it up), he offered me a spot on the overnight shift, eleven to seven. Why the heck not? I'd never waited tables, had no idea how to go about it, but come on...this was Denny's after midnight - how hard could it be?
Oh, right.
It might have been helpful if they'd trained me a little, or at least explained how to write down orders so the cook could understand them. What, he didn't know what a "gswds" (Grand Slam with Double Sausage) was? Come on! I got it...oh, wait, that would be because I wrote it down to begin with. Oops.
My first night was right before a three day even at the track, so I worked, went home, and headed up for my weekend of chasing cars. Woof. I'd made enough in tips to pay for my gas (it was about fifty-cents a gallon, back then. Those were the days!) so I was happy. I camped at the track, had a nice weekend, and showed up Monday night for my second go-around.
Hmm. It seems they weren't expecting me to return.
Why, pray tell?
Someone had left the drawer short by about (exactly) eighty dollars, my first night. The manager asked around, and Luther (yes, that's his real name, the asshole deserves being identified) told him I'd been cuffing twenties all night, and that he, Luther, had seen me at it.
Oh, really.
First of all, rebel that I am, I had my sleeves rolled up past my elbows all night(we were supposed to have them rolled down and buttoned, but I never did). Kind of hard to cuff a twenty when your cuffs aren't there. Also, I told the manager, if I was going to slip a little extra something in my pocket, a wrinkled old crack addict wasn't going to be the one catching me at it, and if he wanted to know who left the drawer short he should look out back where all the drug paraphernalia was scattered about and see who might be back there with it. And finally, if he really thought I'd taken the money, I would go empty out my meager bank account, give him what little I had, and we were done, because I never piss in my nest. I won't say I never stole anything, ever, but I certainly wouldn't bite the hand that feeds me - I have never been that monumentally stupid.
I started to walk out. The manager told me to wait, and explained that it had just looked odd - the drawer comes up short and I'm gone for three days. Umm, hello?? I told him I would be at the races all weekend! Hell, I offered him a guest pass! I should have taken the hint, really, and given it up as a bad idea right then and there.
Turns out, Luther was the one tipping himself from the till. From that night on, I refused to touch the register until they made it policy that one person a night had the key, so only that one person could ring up tickets and make change. And guess what? My drawer was never short so much as a cent, so up yours Luther, you drug using, lying, cheating, stealing jackass!!
Then there was the waitress who would wander into my section and grab my tips from the table...and on the nights she had the drawer, not only did it come up short, but somehow my charged tickets never left me a tip, either, and she could never seem to find the slips to show me that empty tip line. Oh, I hated working her nights. They wouldn't fire her because she was supposed to be this wonder-waitress form another store, on loan to show us how it's really done. She got mad when they wouldn't give her my tiny little six table section - it was the smoking section, and smokers are better tippers and usually lower maintenance, and she wanted it because it was an easier section and would make more money overnight than non-smoking. The manager wouldn't give it to her, though, because I had seniority in that store...by about two weeks...and he didn't like her, either. I'd tell you her name, but I can't remember it.
So we had Luther, the lying cheating, thieving asshole; we had the tip stealing uber-waitress bitch from hell; we had the manager who was never anywhere to be found because he was studying for a degree in anything that would get him the Hell out of Denny's; we had the cook whose name I wish I could remember because he was a freakin' genius in that kitchen; Tim the big sweet dishwasher who once told me he would kill anyone who gave me a hard time - and I believed him; and we had little old me, the worst waitress to ever darken Denny's door. The stage is set.
I want to end this first post with this - I had an extraordinarily weird crew to work with. Most of the people who wait tables, bus tables, and do the dirty work behind the scenes are decent, honest, hard-working people with families to feed, rent to pay, and bills to cover. I know this, and I want to make sure you do, too. I have experienced restaurant crews that were as tight as any military outfit, as close as any family, and as wonderful as you could hope to ask for - I just didn't get to work with them, because Fate decided I should be a bad Denny's waitress so I could write future blog entries. Thank you, Fate. I'll settle up later.
I have had bouts of insomnia throughout my (somewhat) adult life. During one long stretch of sleepless weeks, I would head over to the local Denny's because it was the only place open in the wee hours. This Denny's was located off of 285, the Atlanta Perimeter, nestled between a hotel/convention center and another motel, and was usually good for a pot of coffee or three and some chatter with whoever was awake at that hour - sometimes the waitress, sometimes the dish washer or the manager, sometimes just the coffee pot. Half the time I'd bring a book, sit in the closed section, and read all night. They never minded, never gave me hell about taking up real-estate without ordering food (often I only had enough money for coffee and a tip), and I was there so often they let me get my own water and showed me how to work the coffee machine so I never had to wait for a refill...and occasionally I'd pour for anyone else in there, too, just to be helpful.
Every now and then, I'd bring a client in - I was (and still am, to an extent) a "fortune teller", and I figured working out of the Denny's was no worse than the goth club downtown I'd been working from (oh, that's a whole other set of stories). Sometimes I'd do readings for the staff, and the manager's girlfriend got in on the action too.
When the manager found out I was looking for part time, weekday employment (I was working races almost every weekend, and even though it was a volunteer gig and I had rent to pay, I wasn't giving it up), he offered me a spot on the overnight shift, eleven to seven. Why the heck not? I'd never waited tables, had no idea how to go about it, but come on...this was Denny's after midnight - how hard could it be?
Oh, right.
It might have been helpful if they'd trained me a little, or at least explained how to write down orders so the cook could understand them. What, he didn't know what a "gswds" (Grand Slam with Double Sausage) was? Come on! I got it...oh, wait, that would be because I wrote it down to begin with. Oops.
My first night was right before a three day even at the track, so I worked, went home, and headed up for my weekend of chasing cars. Woof. I'd made enough in tips to pay for my gas (it was about fifty-cents a gallon, back then. Those were the days!) so I was happy. I camped at the track, had a nice weekend, and showed up Monday night for my second go-around.
Hmm. It seems they weren't expecting me to return.
Why, pray tell?
Someone had left the drawer short by about (exactly) eighty dollars, my first night. The manager asked around, and Luther (yes, that's his real name, the asshole deserves being identified) told him I'd been cuffing twenties all night, and that he, Luther, had seen me at it.
Oh, really.
First of all, rebel that I am, I had my sleeves rolled up past my elbows all night(we were supposed to have them rolled down and buttoned, but I never did). Kind of hard to cuff a twenty when your cuffs aren't there. Also, I told the manager, if I was going to slip a little extra something in my pocket, a wrinkled old crack addict wasn't going to be the one catching me at it, and if he wanted to know who left the drawer short he should look out back where all the drug paraphernalia was scattered about and see who might be back there with it. And finally, if he really thought I'd taken the money, I would go empty out my meager bank account, give him what little I had, and we were done, because I never piss in my nest. I won't say I never stole anything, ever, but I certainly wouldn't bite the hand that feeds me - I have never been that monumentally stupid.
I started to walk out. The manager told me to wait, and explained that it had just looked odd - the drawer comes up short and I'm gone for three days. Umm, hello?? I told him I would be at the races all weekend! Hell, I offered him a guest pass! I should have taken the hint, really, and given it up as a bad idea right then and there.
Turns out, Luther was the one tipping himself from the till. From that night on, I refused to touch the register until they made it policy that one person a night had the key, so only that one person could ring up tickets and make change. And guess what? My drawer was never short so much as a cent, so up yours Luther, you drug using, lying, cheating, stealing jackass!!
Then there was the waitress who would wander into my section and grab my tips from the table...and on the nights she had the drawer, not only did it come up short, but somehow my charged tickets never left me a tip, either, and she could never seem to find the slips to show me that empty tip line. Oh, I hated working her nights. They wouldn't fire her because she was supposed to be this wonder-waitress form another store, on loan to show us how it's really done. She got mad when they wouldn't give her my tiny little six table section - it was the smoking section, and smokers are better tippers and usually lower maintenance, and she wanted it because it was an easier section and would make more money overnight than non-smoking. The manager wouldn't give it to her, though, because I had seniority in that store...by about two weeks...and he didn't like her, either. I'd tell you her name, but I can't remember it.
So we had Luther, the lying cheating, thieving asshole; we had the tip stealing uber-waitress bitch from hell; we had the manager who was never anywhere to be found because he was studying for a degree in anything that would get him the Hell out of Denny's; we had the cook whose name I wish I could remember because he was a freakin' genius in that kitchen; Tim the big sweet dishwasher who once told me he would kill anyone who gave me a hard time - and I believed him; and we had little old me, the worst waitress to ever darken Denny's door. The stage is set.
I want to end this first post with this - I had an extraordinarily weird crew to work with. Most of the people who wait tables, bus tables, and do the dirty work behind the scenes are decent, honest, hard-working people with families to feed, rent to pay, and bills to cover. I know this, and I want to make sure you do, too. I have experienced restaurant crews that were as tight as any military outfit, as close as any family, and as wonderful as you could hope to ask for - I just didn't get to work with them, because Fate decided I should be a bad Denny's waitress so I could write future blog entries. Thank you, Fate. I'll settle up later.
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