mrvette
Phantom of the Opera
I rather enjoy restaurant work. It keeps you occupied, moving. You
need music in the background to keep a tempo. Your feet move a little
bit all the time, like a dance with milkshakes and order tickets. Five
tables, who has their drinks who needs to order food, did I already give
them their ticket? and when the fuck can I get behind the grill - I
want to cook. I get sick of people not knowing how to order a hamburger.
I went in to Milt's at eleven yesterday morning. It was slow for the
first hour and the boss sent the other waiter home - why pay somebody to
stand around?
Then people came in. Slow at first, but they kept coming in until the
place was packed and BC had to take orders between flipping burgers. We
probably did 800$ in business in three hours during the lunch rush, just
two of us. Lots of dishes, running, prioritizing tables and
re-prioritizing as people left, as customers started to look anxious,
trying to take care of the locals but needing to service the
more-anxious tourists faster.
The last guy of the rush, just at the tail end of the hectic part
(people come and go in waves. Once a wave breaks, it is easy to catch
up on the burgers and shakes part. The hard part is with all the
customers milling around and quietly or not so quietly /needing/) comes
back to the window with a burger in hand. Never a good sign. He says
"this burger is raw! I don't have time for a new one, I can't eat this,
I need a refund!" "Ok, one second sir, let me get the boss" BC, the
boss, looks at the guy and has the same conversation I just did. He
hands him six dollars back, more than the man paid for it, and goes back
to what he was doing.
Long minutes later, the shakes are made and the burgers are cooked. BC
digs a layer down into the trash to grab the burger, cuts it in half to
check it. The thing is well done - no pink. Sandwhich in hand, he
walks over to the customer and says "Look - see this? Well done.
Nothing wrong with this sandwhich. I want that six dollars back." "I'm
not going to do that. Its mine."
I was cleaning dishes at the time but I'm imagining a dramatic pause
while BC takes a breath of hot, dusty air. In Moab in July, the air is
always hot and dusty - they were probably both sweating and irritible
even in the shade of the Sycamore outside.
"Listen to me. This is my place and there was nothing wrong with this
burger so keep your fucking money and get the fuck out of here. If you
ever fucking come back here, I'm going to bitchslap you."
Those were the actual words from BC's mouth - I know this because he
told me the story and based on other customer interactions, I think it
is credible.
He once got in a fistfight with a customer who, he thought, was giving
his pregnant wife some shit.
That wasn't what was happening at all.
The guy is lucky he was still /able/ to finish his food, though.
Anyway, while BC is all worked up, I'm pouring shake mix into the
machine so I can finish a half-poured beverage for an eight year old
boy. "Finish the shake - worry about that shit later" "It's empty.
Thats why I'm filling it, dude" "WTF!? You let the machine get empty?
Fuck, man!" "I'm sorry, man. Is this really bad for it?" "Well, you're
a grown man and shit, you figure it out - is it bad for the fucking
machine to have that augur turning with nothing in it?" "Look, you
don't have to be condescending about this". I finish the kids drink and
give it to him, already having decided that I've had enough and I quit.
"Fuck, Tom. How do you want to handle this? I'm tired of paying you to
fuck these things up. Go work at Zak's and break their fucking shit.
Last night it looked like you swept AROUND the mats - do I have to tell
you to pick the things up and mop under them, too? Yesterday I walked
in and my pregnant wife was behind the grill working while you just
stood there - what the hell is that?" I mentioned that actually, I did
move the mats and clean under them. I didn't mention that his wife came
in to work even after I told her to get some rest and that we were fine
without her - she just said "OK, I'll come right in" and hung up the
phone.
The wife is the red button - but, then, she has done week-long adventure
races on two hours of sleep and hundred-mile running races. So I don't
worry about her as much as he does.
"Don't you have anything to say?" "It doesnt much matter what I say, BC"
So I left a moment later and went to work at Zack's, a high-volume
tourist restuarant on main street.
Mariachi music in the kitchen, no pale boys in sight. One of the first
things I notice is that everyone is slapping each other's asses on the
way past. Once in a while somebody grabs their buddy by the hips, from
behind, and gives a sort of dry-hump on the way past them. One of the
cooks walks by the kitchen manager and slaps him in the balls. Juan,
the manager, doubles over but grins a "well played!" to the cook.
What.
The.
Hell.
Six hours fly by in a blur of burgers, flatiron steaks, fettucini
alfredo, Red Bull energy drinks, sweet tea and Mariachi music. We clean
up, I spend some money at the bar (open later than the restuarant, thank
god) attached to the place and go home.
BC left two voice mails between yesterday afternoon and this morning. I
drop in, he offers me my job back and admits to having been an asshole
and a bad manager. Apologizes.
I told him I'd think about it but stick with just one job for a couple
weeks.
Cooks are an unstable breed...:tomato:
need music in the background to keep a tempo. Your feet move a little
bit all the time, like a dance with milkshakes and order tickets. Five
tables, who has their drinks who needs to order food, did I already give
them their ticket? and when the fuck can I get behind the grill - I
want to cook. I get sick of people not knowing how to order a hamburger.
I went in to Milt's at eleven yesterday morning. It was slow for the
first hour and the boss sent the other waiter home - why pay somebody to
stand around?
Then people came in. Slow at first, but they kept coming in until the
place was packed and BC had to take orders between flipping burgers. We
probably did 800$ in business in three hours during the lunch rush, just
two of us. Lots of dishes, running, prioritizing tables and
re-prioritizing as people left, as customers started to look anxious,
trying to take care of the locals but needing to service the
more-anxious tourists faster.
The last guy of the rush, just at the tail end of the hectic part
(people come and go in waves. Once a wave breaks, it is easy to catch
up on the burgers and shakes part. The hard part is with all the
customers milling around and quietly or not so quietly /needing/) comes
back to the window with a burger in hand. Never a good sign. He says
"this burger is raw! I don't have time for a new one, I can't eat this,
I need a refund!" "Ok, one second sir, let me get the boss" BC, the
boss, looks at the guy and has the same conversation I just did. He
hands him six dollars back, more than the man paid for it, and goes back
to what he was doing.
Long minutes later, the shakes are made and the burgers are cooked. BC
digs a layer down into the trash to grab the burger, cuts it in half to
check it. The thing is well done - no pink. Sandwhich in hand, he
walks over to the customer and says "Look - see this? Well done.
Nothing wrong with this sandwhich. I want that six dollars back." "I'm
not going to do that. Its mine."
I was cleaning dishes at the time but I'm imagining a dramatic pause
while BC takes a breath of hot, dusty air. In Moab in July, the air is
always hot and dusty - they were probably both sweating and irritible
even in the shade of the Sycamore outside.
"Listen to me. This is my place and there was nothing wrong with this
burger so keep your fucking money and get the fuck out of here. If you
ever fucking come back here, I'm going to bitchslap you."
Those were the actual words from BC's mouth - I know this because he
told me the story and based on other customer interactions, I think it
is credible.
He once got in a fistfight with a customer who, he thought, was giving
his pregnant wife some shit.
That wasn't what was happening at all.
The guy is lucky he was still /able/ to finish his food, though.
Anyway, while BC is all worked up, I'm pouring shake mix into the
machine so I can finish a half-poured beverage for an eight year old
boy. "Finish the shake - worry about that shit later" "It's empty.
Thats why I'm filling it, dude" "WTF!? You let the machine get empty?
Fuck, man!" "I'm sorry, man. Is this really bad for it?" "Well, you're
a grown man and shit, you figure it out - is it bad for the fucking
machine to have that augur turning with nothing in it?" "Look, you
don't have to be condescending about this". I finish the kids drink and
give it to him, already having decided that I've had enough and I quit.
"Fuck, Tom. How do you want to handle this? I'm tired of paying you to
fuck these things up. Go work at Zak's and break their fucking shit.
Last night it looked like you swept AROUND the mats - do I have to tell
you to pick the things up and mop under them, too? Yesterday I walked
in and my pregnant wife was behind the grill working while you just
stood there - what the hell is that?" I mentioned that actually, I did
move the mats and clean under them. I didn't mention that his wife came
in to work even after I told her to get some rest and that we were fine
without her - she just said "OK, I'll come right in" and hung up the
phone.
The wife is the red button - but, then, she has done week-long adventure
races on two hours of sleep and hundred-mile running races. So I don't
worry about her as much as he does.
"Don't you have anything to say?" "It doesnt much matter what I say, BC"
So I left a moment later and went to work at Zack's, a high-volume
tourist restuarant on main street.
Mariachi music in the kitchen, no pale boys in sight. One of the first
things I notice is that everyone is slapping each other's asses on the
way past. Once in a while somebody grabs their buddy by the hips, from
behind, and gives a sort of dry-hump on the way past them. One of the
cooks walks by the kitchen manager and slaps him in the balls. Juan,
the manager, doubles over but grins a "well played!" to the cook.
What.
The.
Hell.
Six hours fly by in a blur of burgers, flatiron steaks, fettucini
alfredo, Red Bull energy drinks, sweet tea and Mariachi music. We clean
up, I spend some money at the bar (open later than the restuarant, thank
god) attached to the place and go home.
BC left two voice mails between yesterday afternoon and this morning. I
drop in, he offers me my job back and admits to having been an asshole
and a bad manager. Apologizes.
I told him I'd think about it but stick with just one job for a couple
weeks.
Cooks are an unstable breed...:tomato: