Restaurant stories

I just about exploded at one of the servers. It was nothing major--he had two tickets in for the same table where nobody happened to be sitting. I should have been more sympathetic, especially because the day before he marked one of his tables with ketchup and mustard before I dropped the burger.
And I'm far from perfect. A couple times a service I'll get the seat numbers backed around and try to give the wrong food to someone--"no, SHE had the burger, I had the duck meatballs," "I'm very sorry sir [I just figured that the 250 pound guy would go for the burger and his little mistress would get cute little duck meatballs in a mission fig reduction]." And once every service or two, I'll present a plate upside down as it's burning my hand--I refrain from saying more than, "red wine braised shortribs on horseradish whipped potatoes, careful hot plate" especially when the person touches it and yelps, but it bugs me to give an upside down presentation (protin facing away from the guest or at an odd angle). I once even delivered appetizers to the wrong table--right apps, but to the neighbors.
But a few of the imported waiters have issues with every ticket--"it's actually this table, not the one on the ticket" "number one is actually the lady sitting in number 8 because she wanted to order first" "what I meant by that add-on was..." "oh, we're not serving that? " "but I told her it would be alright because last week we had goat cheese."
These are the people from whom we get questions that take all the humor out of, "are the vegetables vegetarian?"

So one day, in the bussing station across the counter from the dish pit, I asked one, a stylish and trendy guy, "do they have Axe in South Africa?"
"Axe?"
"The man perfume?"
"yes, why?"
"Just wondering whether it's new and exciting or old and inured, because in the mornings, it overwhelms even the smell of bacon." I did not mention middle school locker rooms or adolescent attempts to alter pheromones. I did not mention anyone by name or my own eye-watering reaction or the possible effect on guests. I was maybe not as tactful as strictly possible, but I was proud of my resraint.
Still, it was not enough.
""Well, what do YOU wear?" quite affronted. "Hugo Boss? CK One?"
Blan stare, slowly shaking head.
"Hovan musk? Guess? "
Wide-eyed blank stare. These brands make deodorant?
He started to get wide-eyed. "Bulgari? Alfani?"

Break a minute: how do I come across as someone who smears my pits with stuff made by designer names I purposefully avoid for the sheer weight of the social statement they embody?
Okay, there was the incident in the Roma Termini when I bought a pair of Bulova glasses to replace my three year old pair for the cost of a Lens Crafter's frame, but don't hold it against me. I was chasing a cute girl who had a thing for pink D&G frames....

"No," I said. "None of that. I use soap."
"Soap?" somewhat surprised. "What brand?"
"I dunno, but it comes in a box of five dozen and it'll burn a hole in your skin if you don't rinse well."

And that was that.


But then I almost blew up at one, and my supervisor caught it.
"What's the problem?" he asked.
I explained another wrong table number, another backwards order with bizarre modifications.
"I know your frustration," he said. "Believe me. Really. I know it too well. I've been shoveling the shit they leave behind every day for the last three weeks. It's like you said [yesterday while I was talking with the other supervisor who covers dinner with the help of a sommelier and our mutual boss], my job is running around with a fire extinguisher and a cork and making sure that we can still serve food. At night, they get four tables an hour. We get the full restaurant in four minutes and then again an hour later, and instead of training, I'm just trying to keep people from getting too livid.
"Cut these guys some slack, okay? They've never worked in restaurants before. A couple of them haven't even had real jobs before. This is big, okay?"
"Here's my problem," I replied. "I can understand having patience for the first week, but with a four table section, how hard is it to know table numbers? And after a month of escalating reminders, how hard is it to mark a table with ketchup and soup spoons?
"And here's the real problem: why are these folks making significant digits more than I am while I train them and do half their jobs? Granted, I only have seven years serving tables and fifteen bussing, but it seems like things might work a little more smoothly if I were holding the sundry responsibilities of serving while they were directed as runners."

I got the 'oh shit' face. "You can serve? You'd be interested in serving?"
"Well, yeah, it's what I applied for...."
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" the vein started going.
"It's what I applied for; I figured you'd be in the loop."
"Are you kidding? That kind of communication, here at the Ritz? Buddy, that's not how we roll. Even so, I could've used you so bad you'd be lookin like a ten day old tampon."
So maybe it's a cue to be grateful for underestimation. After a month of running, I already feel about that well.
"Hmm, thanks for the warning, maybe I DON'T want to serve."
"Ha! Think again. This is the Ritz Carlton. There's no way to de-volunteer yourself now, buddy."

I guess I should count my blessings. I'm just not sure which.