Bleurgh.....
Bleurgh, bleurgh, bleurgh.
It's been a terrible weekend.
Or rather I've been terrible.
as big as your face...If I was a race horse they would have put me down by now. If I was a dog they would have taken me to a far off beach and left me there. There I would have been sat with big sad weeping eyes knowing that my time was over and soon they'd replace me with a fresh new puppy that doesn't forget to order steaks and knows who has to order next.
I don't know what it was but I just couldn't get my shit together at all. I was missing orders, calling men "madam", forgetting to clear tables and just not being very good at all. It all started to go tits up on Friday. Or as it will now be forever known as, "The Day My Crown Slipped". Slipped and got bent and stood on, ending up in the bin.
My first table was a 16 top, computer boffins and fairly regular customers too. I missed one guys soup from the first course. No biggie, soup takes a moment to collect from the kitchen. I was annoyed though. But still I didn't take a moment to check the order to ensure that I had rang it up right. So it wasn't really a surprise when only 15 mains came down and one poor keyboard warrior ended up with nothing in front of him but a sorry looking waiter.
Of course his steak was well done and would take a good ten minutes to be cooked despite three heavy pans on top of it. By the time it was cooked it was the size of a plate and as thin as communion wafer (but more substantial, obviously) The head chef was cool about it but his underlings took great pleasure for the rest of the evening reminding me about my mistakes. I had no comeback but as sure as shit on your shoe I'll get them back one by one.
Time for sweets. I was determined to get at least on course right. Wasn't to be though. I over ordered and ended up with two chocolate fondants over. The other wait staff were looking at me they way concerned children look at their parents when they realise they probably have Alzheimer's, half concern half pity. As I stood there eating the evidence of my mistakes I wondered what was wrong with me.
No matter what is going on in my life or how I am feeling the moment I go out on the floor I can normally pull on a new face and be Manuel, the waiter. I own the floor, it's mine. But this weekend I owned nothing more than my shoes. And they have holes in them.
If it had just been one table on one night I would have just laughed it off but I was at it again tonight. I referred to a very manly looking man as a woman. I forgot to clear a 5 tops starters. At one point I found myself babbling at a table about how nice the German Riesling was despite the fact that they had already made it clear they wanted shiraz. I should have just put on a badge that read, "I'm Special" (In an Olympic sort of way) and gone for the sympathy vote...
The Glorious Leader picked up on it too. He joked that I would be getting just two tables next Saturday. At least I think it was a joke. The worst was still to come. I had a woman complain that her T-Bone steak didn't have enough meat on it. Now this was bullshit of the worst kind. Our T-Bones are the size of your face, not Celine Dion's obviously, but they are damn big. Now normally I would tackle this with gusto. I'm never one to back out of an argument especially when it's an obvious empty net of an argument. But I just couldn't, I couldn't fight back! I got the manager instead. It's a rum day when I cant give it to old duffers. You know what I mean....
I nearly wept!
The fuck is wrong with me?!
I'm putting it down to a lethargy brought on by tiredness caused by the bothersome builders next door who seem to work only when I am trying to sleep. I need to pull it together quick sharp like as I have a full restaurant for dinner tomorrow. All of which are going to see The Osmonds. A restaurant full of Osmonds' fans (what's the collective noun for a group of Osmonds' fans? A Family? A Cuntage?) is a scary proposition for the best of waiters but it's hell on earth for one that isn't right at their game.
I don't know what it was but I just couldn't get my shit together at all. I was missing orders, calling men "madam", forgetting to clear tables and just not being very good at all. It all started to go tits up on Friday. Or as it will now be forever known as, "The Day My Crown Slipped". Slipped and got bent and stood on, ending up in the bin.
My first table was a 16 top, computer boffins and fairly regular customers too. I missed one guys soup from the first course. No biggie, soup takes a moment to collect from the kitchen. I was annoyed though. But still I didn't take a moment to check the order to ensure that I had rang it up right. So it wasn't really a surprise when only 15 mains came down and one poor keyboard warrior ended up with nothing in front of him but a sorry looking waiter.
Of course his steak was well done and would take a good ten minutes to be cooked despite three heavy pans on top of it. By the time it was cooked it was the size of a plate and as thin as communion wafer (but more substantial, obviously) The head chef was cool about it but his underlings took great pleasure for the rest of the evening reminding me about my mistakes. I had no comeback but as sure as shit on your shoe I'll get them back one by one.
Time for sweets. I was determined to get at least on course right. Wasn't to be though. I over ordered and ended up with two chocolate fondants over. The other wait staff were looking at me they way concerned children look at their parents when they realise they probably have Alzheimer's, half concern half pity. As I stood there eating the evidence of my mistakes I wondered what was wrong with me.
No matter what is going on in my life or how I am feeling the moment I go out on the floor I can normally pull on a new face and be Manuel, the waiter. I own the floor, it's mine. But this weekend I owned nothing more than my shoes. And they have holes in them.
If it had just been one table on one night I would have just laughed it off but I was at it again tonight. I referred to a very manly looking man as a woman. I forgot to clear a 5 tops starters. At one point I found myself babbling at a table about how nice the German Riesling was despite the fact that they had already made it clear they wanted shiraz. I should have just put on a badge that read, "I'm Special" (In an Olympic sort of way) and gone for the sympathy vote...
The Glorious Leader picked up on it too. He joked that I would be getting just two tables next Saturday. At least I think it was a joke. The worst was still to come. I had a woman complain that her T-Bone steak didn't have enough meat on it. Now this was bullshit of the worst kind. Our T-Bones are the size of your face, not Celine Dion's obviously, but they are damn big. Now normally I would tackle this with gusto. I'm never one to back out of an argument especially when it's an obvious empty net of an argument. But I just couldn't, I couldn't fight back! I got the manager instead. It's a rum day when I cant give it to old duffers. You know what I mean....
I nearly wept!
The fuck is wrong with me?!
I'm putting it down to a lethargy brought on by tiredness caused by the bothersome builders next door who seem to work only when I am trying to sleep. I need to pull it together quick sharp like as I have a full restaurant for dinner tomorrow. All of which are going to see The Osmonds. A restaurant full of Osmonds' fans (what's the collective noun for a group of Osmonds' fans? A Family? A Cuntage?) is a scary proposition for the best of waiters but it's hell on earth for one that isn't right at their game.
Back tomorrow...
...if I survive.
