The Comfy Corner

I recently have been spending a great deal of time in Tribeca. For those of you who aren't familiar, it is a small neighborhood in NYC. It stands for "Triangle Below Canal" and it is literally a little triangular neighborhood just below Canal street where the rich, artist folks live. A paradox, right? Rich and artist? I honestly have no idea where any of their money comes from, but the residents of Tribeca (including Beyonce, okay? Excuse me.) are some of the most fascinating people I've ever met. Just imagine every character in the TV Show, "Girls." Here are a few of my favorite overheards:

1) "If I told you that I was actually a huge celebrity in Sweden could I get a discount?" - Rich girl whose daddy probably cut her off

2) "What if I told you I was pregnant? Do you have a pregnant discount?" - Same rich girl
"I hope you're not pregnant, because you've had 5 mimosas." - Me

3) "I haven't been in anything for a long enough time now that someone actually stopped me on the street and asked me to take a picture of THEM!" - Renee Zellweger

4) Said nonchalantly "Oh yeah, I almost forgot, your grandpa gave you five hundred dollars for your birthday." Pulls out a white envelope of cash. "Do you want it now or should I hold on to it?"

The son, equally non-chalantly, "Yeah, just hold onto it."

5) "We can drop by the candy shoppe right after the Balloon Saloon, honey." - A mom

6) "No, absolutely not, you cannot get the berries. You can have a cone of ice cream but no berries." -Questionable Tribeca Parenting?

7) "I have so many tiny hats, it's ridiculous." -Asian woman

It has been a mere six months since I walked away from my last restaurant job, the dark sleet of New York's skies washing over my tired skin, as I let the sweet burden of horrible-job-syndrome lift off my aching back, celebrating the freedom of just having quit a survival job that was sucking away the soul of my being. Now, I celebrate a return to the restaurant business in an environment that does the opposite of suck soul. It injects soul. Feeds my soul. It is called, "The Far Dog."

This tiny restaurant is situated on the main street of Creede, CO and is celebrating its 17 day anniversary. And I am fortunate enough to have been there from the first cup of fresh brewed Lavazza coffee set in front of a customer. You may be thinking, "Far Dog? What kind of a name is that for a restaurant?" Well, the restaurant is named after the owners' dog, Farley. That's right folks, it is named after a puppy. It's a tiny, comfy restaurant, in a tiny, comfy town, named after the cutest puppy that lazes at the front door greeting customers and happily accepting food donations. In other words, it is my comfy corner in Creede. It's the first time I've worked at a restaurant that I actually want to eat at and spend time at outside of work. When I'm not working there, I'm drinking there, or meeting friends there. It is an amazing place filled with amazing food and amazing people.

And the clientele is incredible. The people of Creede are a patient people. A kind, generous people. A people that tips people in fair quantities. A people that is not of the foreign/European/non-tipping variety of people. And it has been wonderful! However, just the other day as I floated about the Far Dog lost in my dream of a waiting job, one customer quickly yanked me out of my cloud and slammed me back to the harsh reality that there are assholes everywhere you go. He was apparently an extra in one of the "Twilight" films which gave him some sort of higher rank among the other piddly little human beings of the world. He is the type of person that would see me in one of them-there theatre shows and say something demeaning like, "You should maybe consider pursuing this as a profession..." As if that isn't what I'm already doing. As if I was just dabbling in the field for a short time. Well, this gentleman was eating breakfast at the restaurant and asked for a piece of toast. And, for some reason, toast is not the quickest thing in the world to make at our restaurant because it has to be made on the grill. So after about three minutes of toast waiting (it was being plated and sent out after three minutes) he stops me and says, "Forget the toast! It's too late now! What am I supposed to do with toast now?!" I smiled at him and said, "Okay!" and then proceeded to feel that sinking feeling in my heart. That familiar feeling of inadequacy and failure. And I started my internal monologue, "I could tell you a thing or two you could do with the toast... SO sorry sir that toast in Creede takes a minute longer that LA toast. I bow at your feet in toast serfdom."

And that is why I've decided that I'm not a good waiter. Yeah, I do the job well, I'm personable and good with customers, but I'm also too emotionally involved. My heart hurts because a piece of toast didn't make it to the table. In order to be a good waiter you have to have a heart of steel. You have to be able to stand up for yourself and not let people demean you or put you down. That's the only way to get respect in the restaurant business. And I don't think I quite have that yet. But, in any event, the one asshole toast experience aside, I am thrilled to be working in a restaurant that is letting me keep my soul. It's a great feeling. Stay comfy y'all.

Have I posted this before? Does it have the exact same title and is about the exact same subject? Probably, but it deserves a reposting because people who go out to eat at restaurants are oftentimes absolute morons. A guy this evening walks in, sits down, and does not open his menu. Assuming he has been here before and already knows what he wants I approach him to take his order. He looks at me directly and says, "I want a steak."

"I'm sorry, sir, we don't have steak."

*baffled expression of disbelief*

"You don't have steak???"

"No sir. We have steak tacos..."

"No, that's not what I want. I want steak." He puts his hands in the shape of a steak to inform me of what a steak looks like.

"We don't have steak."

"Well, what DO you have??"

I took what little patience I had left, balled it up in a big ball, reached down, opened his menu gently and said as if talking to a small child, "We have the items that are here in our menu." More baffled expressions from him. "Mostly pizzas, pastas, and salads."

"Oh, well I'll have to go somewhere else, then."

Have a great day sir, go die, and learn how to read a menu. Bye.

Every person who has been a server in a high volume restaurant will be able to relate to this. And if you've never been a server, then this is what you are missing out on. This job, for some reason invades people's sleep. My friend Zach, apparently talks about work in his sleep. His girlfriend tells me that he will legit ask her questions while he is sleeping like, "Will you help me run this food?" And she'll respond, "Sure what is it?" and he'll say, "desserts..." Over the past week I've had several dreams about working in the restaurant. All of these dreams result in me waking with a jolt realizing that I've been tossing and turning and clinging to my pillow.

I should preface this Comfy Corner list by saying that I came up with this idea on the bus and I was trying to jot it down in my blog journal (yeah, I keep a blog journal...SUE ME!) but I couldn't spell the word "restaurant" to save my life. I don't know what happened. I work in a restaurant, I've eaten at restaurants my whole life, but at that moment I simply couldn't figure it out. I wrote restarant, resteraunt, restaraunt...every variation. Such a struggle... in any event, this is what to expect from someone who works at a restareont.

The other day, I had a party of three that came in and sat down at the largest table in my section (it can seat six or seven). This would have been fine if they were just dropping in for a quick bite, but they were "waiting for someone else" so I had to continually check in on them over the course of the next two and a half hours. They sat there at my largest table with their waters and their soup and just selfishly prevented me from making any money that evening. These are the lessons that all people need to learn from this story.

So no matter how modest some people may seem or how much they self deprecate and hate on themselves, everyone enjoys a good compliment now and then. It warms the heart like a nice piece of pie on a rainy day. I am proud to say that I thoroughly enjoy and thrive on compliments. When you are majoring in musical theatre, it is quite difficult to achieve a sincere compliment. All I hear every day is criticism and how I need to do things differently to get "better." That makes sense of course; that's why I'm paying so much money, but every now and then I just want to look at them and scream "LOVE ME!" It is so easy for criticism to beat down my ego and my self esteem, but it is also just as easy to boost it back up with a simple "Great job!"

The trouble with compliments, however, is how to deal with them once they are given to you. This is the hard part. The best example I can give in theatre it is the dreaded stage door routine. You walk past all of these people giving you compliments and you just smile and thank them and the conversation is over. They never have anything else to say, you never have anything else to say, so it gets awkward. You're both just standing there smiling and nodding. Or worse, no one even knows you were in the show, so you walk past crowds of people who are glancing at you wondering why you're there all alone wearing make up (While you're awkwardly looking around to see if you know anyone).

As a waiter, compliments are just as difficult to deal with. For instance, tonight I had a table who genuinely enjoyed my presence during their dinner so at the end of the meal one lady said to me, "So we came out here to have a leisurely dinner and you really accommodated that for us. Thank you." I should have just said, "You're welcome!" but instead I got all awkward about it and said, "Oh, well that's ... what my goal always is! I'm so... glad you had a good time!" ... I'm glad you had a good time?!?! It was dinner, not a trip to Disneyland. Moral of the story: when it comes to compliments, keep it simple, keep it short and you'll avoid awkward moments.

I was in the "Laz Cafe" the other day (it's this amazing cafe right next to my apartment that makes anything you could possibly want and they deliver) when this crackhead walks in and loudly says "HEY! Whatch ya'll gots to eat roun' here?" The guy at the register didn't know how to respond. So the crackhead continued saying, "Ya'll gots some a dem wing dings?" The guy at the register said, "yeah, we do." So he was like "I want ten a dem. Well done." And as the guy was busy making his "wing dings, well done" he shouted "Yo, lemme have a salad too...'cept I don't want no lettuce, extra cucumbers, some onions, tomatoes, olives, cheese..." and then his voice kinda trailed away. Meanwhile, I'm just standing at the counter reading the menu trying to decide what I want. As I stood there watching this happen I thought about all of the annoying people I've had to deal with in my life that don't understand the concept of a menu.

In the restaurant I get so many people who sit down, I put a menu in front of them and they immediately say something along the lines of "I'd like an extra large pizza with mushrooms, onions, pepperoni, sausage, peppers, extra cheese...hey ya'll got anchovies?" to which I typically respond, "No, but we do have a menu. And we charge for extra toppings, so that's already gonna be like a twenty dollar pizza. And they only come in individual sizes, this isn't Papa John's."

It is frustrating beyond belief. Do people never go out to eat? And what possesses those people to suddenly walk into a mid range chain restaurant? And when they walk in, why do they act like they know exactly what they're doing when in fact they haven't the slightest clue? WE HAVE A MENU FOR A REASON! I just don't understand why anyone would walk into a restaurant to have dinner if they don't like what is offered on the menu. It doesn't make any sense. Modifications to what we have on the menu? Sure. But this isn't your momma's kitchen. We have rules.

At work today, I look down at the floor and see these two silly bandz (I feel weird spelling bands with a "z") conveniently paired together. As far as Halloween goes, this is the scariest thing that happened to me all day. I had to take a picture, but I hope I didn't catch anything...

The awful, devil table I wrote about in Dear Table 27 returned last night (only this time, they insisted on sitting at table 25, the largest booth in the restaurant typically reserved for parties of 6 or 8 but they were a party of 4, but they were all so fat, they could have been 8...so I guess that's okay). This is how it went down:

1) They ate two entire loaves of bread and butter (we typically give each guest 1 slice)
2) They polished off their avocado egg rolls in the time it took me to refill one of their drinks
3) They informed me that they were still hungry after the three pizzas they ate and that they weren't as big as I made them think it would be (I told them the exact number of inches each pizza would be, we are a corporation, we measure our pizzas to a tee...bitch)
4) All the women (even the little girl) were so fat that their boobs were on the table.
5) They then ordered a pasta
6) They then ordered a brownie sundae
7) They then asked for more bread and refills
8) They then informed me that they felt rushed, they thought that the girl should have gotten her drink for free because she was a "kid" (That's a stretch, she is a BIG kid. AND she had THREE REFILLS of her adult size drink. That's cause to charge you for an adult drink), and that I deceived them into making them think the pizzas were bigger, so they wanted it all comped.

Here is what I did. She handed me a twenty (the bill was 66) and said to take that off and see where the bill was then. I looked at the bill and said "It'll be 46." She said, "Well, we felt rushed. People should be able to stay in a restaurant at least an hour after close and not feel rushed." (they were there an hour after close). "So why don't you see if you're feeling nice and do something about the bill." I said "fine" and I threw the bill on the ground, printed out a receipt for 46 dollars, handed it to her and said "this is how much you owe. Have a great night."

They were short 10 dollars on the bill. They almost made cry, I was actually fuming. The manager informed me that they were no longer welcome in the restaurant. Why are there people like this in the world?! It is so horrible that anyone would go out there and just make some poor waiter's life absolutely miserable just because you are a cheap bastard. If you can't afford the food DON'T EAT HERE!!! ARGH, she is such a heinous, severely overweight BITCH. If you are reading this, never return. If you do, I will personally tell you to leave immediately, hand you your receipt from last night and threaten to call the police.

Ya'll have a nice day

I see a lot of grumpy, unhappy people passing through the restaurant. I waited on a guy yesterday who sat down, I came right up to him and took his order and two minutes later I saw him talking to the host and he ended up moving to sit on the other side of the restaurant. I went up to him and said, "Too cold up there, eh?" because I knew several people were complaining about the temperature. And he took several sharp intakes of breath (like it was the Arctic circle up there or something), grabbed his chest and said, "The service here is terrible. How are you supposed to see me with that wall right there? And you never brought me my bread and butter." As if I had been ignoring him for hours! He had just sat down!

I wanted to say, "You need to calm down, sir. I have absolutely no control over the architectural design of this restaurant and you didn't order bread and butter. You are my only table and I just got here and I would remember if you ordered bread and butter." But I all I said was "Yes, sir." And I made it a point to be extra nice to him for the rest of his meal because ya know what, sir? Life is far to short to be grumpy. As the Dalai Lama said "Happiness is not ready made. It comes from your own actions." In other words, it is something that needs to be worked towards and I'm working for it because I choose happiness, I choose confidence, I choose smiling.

So, as promised, I got the picture. Does this make me a super duper creeper? Probably. She came back to the restaurant (she's starting to become something of a regular, probably because she likes me so much) and I finally built up the courage to ask for a pic. :) I gave her a discount in return. I also got her email (creeper...)...

It was an eventful evening! Everyone was all atwitter over the fact that Elphaba was eating there (most of our business comes from the theatre). I also got my first "call-me" message with a bill. There was a family sitting right across from Elphaba. The son was a cute, clearly-gay boy, who was giving me eyes every time I went to the table. Sure enough, when I picked up the bill he left his name and number on a napkin and wrote "Call me :)" Pretty gutsy to do that when your family is sitting there. I won't call you Kyle, because I'm taken, but I'm flattered. :)

I waited on some British people tonight that absolutely made me sick. They came in with a 20 percent off coupon for their meal which I applied to the meal, no problem. But then, their pasta came out too soon after their appetizer and the woman complained about it being cold. This isn't all too uncommon, we simply reheated the pasta for her and gave it back, easy fix. But at the end of the meal, they decided that they should be compensated for all of their suffering. They wanted something done to the bill. I sighed and took the matter to the manager, who then graciously comped all of their food (so they only had to pay for the wine and beer they ordered and their appetizer). They took one look at this severely reduced bill and said, "What happened to the 20% off?" So I took it back and we took 20% off of the remaining food on the bill (the coupon only applied to food). They got a whopping 2 more dollars off of their bill. They then started to complain about how the discount didn't apply to alcohol. My manager very kindly explained the rules and they called him a bitch and left without tipping me a penny.

This whole situation made me really sad for humankind. Why are there people out there like this? Needless to say, they made me feel really upset. The other servers could tell how upset I was and one of them asked me if this was my first serving job. I said yes and he said "Yeah, when I worked my first serving job I used to wake up in the middle of the night sweating thinking that I forgot to run someone's food or something." This is absolutely true. Ever since I've started waiting tables I have had several stress dreams about forgetting to ring in orders, food running late etc. It is a stressful job and I think more people out there need to realize that it isn't as easy as you think.

So, it is common knowledge in the restaurant business that the foreigners who walk in probably won't tip. As a result, we have taken to racially profiling people as soon as they walk through the door. If they speak English fluently, then odds are probably in our favor. If they seat themselves and look around the restaurant confused and then order one glass of water to share between the four of them - things are looking bad.

That is all preface to the story of this one woman who walked in alone. Her name was Cecilia. She spoke about as much English as I speak Spanish (which is to say, very very little). She ordered a pasta and didn't want anything to drink (always a bad sign). After I said one tiny little thing in Spanish to her (Esta bien?), I was trapped. She rattled away all of this Spanish that I didn't understand and before I knew it I was holding her iPhone taking pictures of her. I took one candid shot of her eating her pasta (it was for her mother...I think), and then I took another picture sitting down at an adjacent booth (all at her very specific request). In the middle of the photo shoot she stopped our busser, Milena, and said something along the lines of "I saw you last night, I was eating at the bar." Milena had never seen this woman before, ever. And then, before I could stop her, she took the camera and insisted that she take a picture of me. I posed super-awkwardly and she snapped the pic. She said something along the lines of me being more attractive in person than I am in the picture. She wanted to take more pictures of me but I insisted that the one picture was good enough and then she insisted that she email the picture to me (!). I put in my email address and now I have immortalized the memory. Perhaps I should have put in a fake email, but I kinda wanted the picture and the memory. Cecilia, the strange woman that came in and acted like she was my best friend and then walked away without tipping, I will never forget you.

Today, two women came in and they ordered a pizza to share. And then one of the women said "I'm famished, if I got a wedge salad, would you help me eat it?" The other woman frowned and somberly replied "Michael always ordered the wedge salad..." I stood there pen poised, absolutely speechless and wishing I had given this table to someone else. The first woman had a similar reaction but she quickly said, "Oh should we get something else?" And the other (I assume widowed) woman forced a smile and said "No, no. They are fond memories." Then, they both turned to look at me and I said, "Great! I'll go put that in for you." What does one say in a situation like that? Oof, an un-comfy corner if I've ever been in one. They ended up ordering another wedge salad later.

The people who eat out can be categorized into relatively few stereotypes. Some are as follows:

The Silent Family- I see many families that come in and I feel so sorry for the kids because the parents order them waters with no ice and look sternly at them as they eat their plain cheese pizzas and they eat in silence. This is an awkward table to wait because you feel like you are intruding on some family feud or something. Perhaps it's a messy divorce or something but it always ends the same way: no dessert.

The Cool Dad- This is where my family fits in. My dad always felt the need to put on a show every time we went out to eat (he stills does this). He would joke with us kids and steal bites of our desserts and make terrible "dad jokes" every time the waiter came around. I now realize that there are many dads out there like this. They are bound and determined to show the world that they are hip, with it, and their kids love them.

The Invisible Waiter- This is the table that won't give you the time of day. Never once will they give you eye contact from start to finish. They are sometimes single diners on their cell phone the whole meal, or they are business men who simply cannot be bothered. They already know what they want to eat, if you go up to ask them if they want dessert, they will not stop talking to each other and pretend you aren't standing there. When you feebly attempt to manage a "have a nice day" as you drop off the check, they don't hear you and continue with their lives not ever knowing that you existed.

The Foreigners- They don't speak English, you resort to sign language, they order something safe like spaghetti, and they don't tip.

The Rich Who Don't Tip- This is really a sad case. These are the people who have never worked a day in the service industry and would never stoop so low as to even consider doing so. They don't understand that waiters have multiple tables to attend to, they get confused when you say things like "the egg rolls are pre-made at the beginning of the day so we can't take out the bacon." And then after being really picky, needy and overly judgmental, they tip poorly. Sometimes they'll even say something like "This is a far cry from the restaurant at the W."

The Poor Who Tip Really Well- These are my favorite. These are the waiters who eat out. These are the people who work their asses off in the service industry for very little pay. They understand your life particularly well. They forgive any mistakes you make. They joke with you about other difficult customers and they tip well even if you kinda sucked. This is the category where I fit in.

The Indecisive- This is Table 27.

The Overly Chatty- The really nice table that thinks you want to know everything about their lives. I had a woman once who literally said to me "I am going to tell you why I like eating the crust of my bread and you are going to stand there and listen." It was frustrating. It wasn't a good story ("I had sensitive teeth as a kid and I was never allowed to eat my crust.") but she was nice. These are often very cute, very old people.

Alright comfy cornerers - now, those of you who know me know that I am a pretty patient, nice person, and it takes a great deal to really make me crack. The ladies at 27 last night crossed that line. Not only did they cross the line, they crossed two and a half hours of line (after closing time) and then they boxed up some line to go, and then they had 18 glasses of line and asked for refills of line after we had already shut down the line. I've tried to keep my posts funny and ironic, but this one is going to get ugly. Parental advisory - Prepare yourselves as I pay tribute to "the bitchy waiter." On the millionth chance that either of you ladies is reading this, take this as a hint and never come back.

Things I wanted to say to the ladies at 27:

1. This booth was made for normal sized people. You're both so fat that your entrees came with two sides of boobs.
2. No you can't have that six person booth just because you "have a lot of bags."
3. Yes, our small cravings appetizers are small, that's why they have small in the title.
4. The small cravings are clearly all too small for your fat asses so get a regular appetizer and stop making me describe the portion size of each one.
5. Don't make me stand around for 5 MINUTES while you finally decide you'd like "a Diet Coke" (Diet Pepsi better be fine, cause I'm not even gonna ask, cause I don't have another 5 minutes).
6. Too fucking bad your appetizer "didn't have enough avocado in it." It was probably for the best.
7. No I can't give you a half order of another appetizer for free, you ate the whole THING! You didn't even leave proof that anything was wrong with it!
8. No, we only allow guests to have a couple pieces of bread, not a couple loaves (Not exaggerating, wish I was).
9. Yes, the pastas are all good, fucking DECIDE ALREADY! I HAVE OTHER TABLES!! I DON'T WANNA HEAR ABOUT YOUR THEORIES AND EXPERIENCES WITH PESTO!!!
10. No, we don't do free desserts on birthdays (actually, yes we do, but you don't deserve a free dessert)
11. I don't care that PF Chang's does free desserts, we don't
12. I don't care why your other daughter wasn't able to make it or that she's in finals or that she doesn't like goat cheese or that she was in The Music Man or that she just saw American Idiot (p.s. you only "absolutely loved " American Idiot because you are both American idiots.)
13. Stop asking me for more bread!!!
14. We start charging for refills after number 8.
15. Don't call me over to hand me your empty plate, I'll get it without your prompting.
16. We closed 45 minutes ago ...IHAVESHITTODOANDIWANNAGOHOMESOLEAVE!
17. Have a terrible evening and never come back. You made me physically and mentally exhausted and tipped 10 percent. Just...go...die...
18. Oh yeah, and, your chain smoker voice was like a chainsaw to my eardrums. Stop smoking 7 packs a day.

Things I actually said to table 27:

1. What can I get for you ladies today?
2. Yes, of course.
3. Oh, happy birthday!
4. Have a lovely evening!

So I recently started waiting my first tables. I work at a mid-range chain restaurant that serves overpriced "specialty" pizzas, salads, and pastas. For the sake of keeping my job, it shall remain nameless. The food is actually very good, but as far as being a "classy" establishment, I would say it is an upper middle class destination. We serve wine, but we don't have white, linen table cloths. So here are a couple stories of people who got confused about how "classy" my restaurant is.

1. A teenage ballet company from New Hampshire came down to see the Boston Ballet. It was a group of twenty five. Five adults, eighteen skinny, pretty girls, and two skinny, pretty boys. This story is about one of those boys who walked into the restaurant in his loafers, his pressed, white shorts, his polo and his knit, white sweater elegantly draped over his shoulders. Age estimate: 14. I casually took their orders trying to convince them that I was just as young and cool as them, when this boy asks "Do you have fresh lemonade?" I got him his fresh lemonade, and then he said "Do you have personal sized pizzas?" By the look on his face he might as well have asked if I would run put change in the meter because he had an important business meeting to go to. "In that case, I'll have the traditional cheese." Give this boy a Bentley and call it a day. He is the next Queen of England.

2. A pair of older women breezed into the restaurant as if they owned the place and when I asked if they would like something to drink, the woman in seat one (restaurant lingo, it's a whole system) said "No." And when I looked at her in confusion she said "I'll have a water." As I walked away she looked at her friend and said "Well, this is a far cry from the W." Look, I'm sorry we don't have wheat bread. I'm sorry we don't have water in wine glasses already on the table as soon as you sit down. Give us a break! We are humble pizza makers trying to scrape out a decent existence.

3. Europeans don't tip. It's a fact I've come to accept. Even though they know they should, they don't. When I go to Europe I know I'm not supposed to tip. When they come to America, they act like they don't speak English. In any event, a group of European ladies came in and immediately ordered a round of Coronas. After several pizzas and another round of Coronas, I asked if they would like to look at dessert menus. They did. After giving them a reasonable amount of time to make decisions I came back and asked what they would like. The woman in seat four said quite abrasively "No, we're too fucked for dessert." Then she laughed loudly and repeated "We're too fucked" just to make sure I heard her. It was as if they had just Googled some American cuss words and they were trying the worst one out on me. I laughed uncomfortably and got the bill. They didn't tip.