No One Wants the Leftovers

by djr

I can’t be late.

I can’t be late.

I can’t be late.

Ray’s already pissed about me missing yesterday, but what the hell can I do?  I can’t let my son continue coughing.  And given the choice between spending six hours in the ER with my little boy and eight hours hustling a trove of tips from Sunday brunches and dinners, which would you choose?  But it’s never a choice.  Never.  Nate’s health trumps every other priority in my life.  Ray’s already been as forgiving as a boss can be.  I’ve missed more shifts than anyone in this stupid place.  Left early.  Arrived late.  “Ducked out” for an hour during the dinner rush.  I can tell he’s got no more patience for me.

“Next time don’t bother coming back,” he says as I quickly put on my server’s apron and tie it up.

“You couldn’t sell fishsticks without me,” I tell him, though I know he’s beginning to doubt the truth of that.  Worked here six years.  Longer than anyone else—cooks, busboys, even Ray.  Started as a hostess my sophomore year, just after Nate was born.  Swore I’d go back and finish high school, but the money was too good here.  Maybe high schoolers should never get jobs.  Or college students.  Once that cash starts rolling in, you just can’t give it up.  At least I couldn’t.  I was never good at anything in high school.  Except maybe screwing.  But I’m good at this.  My customers like me.  They request me.  I get more tips than anyone here.  Even that priss Tina with the big tits.  Fawning all over her male customers.  God, I hate her.  When I flirt it ain’t for tips.  She gives the same dippy advice to everyone.  “Try the shrimp,” she always says in that stupid, fake, air-headed ditzy voice, “it’s to die for.”  No, it’s not.  I mean, the shrimp is ok, but not everyone wants to hear what you like.  They really want to know what they are going to like.  You have to figure out what they want to hear and tell them that.  When I give a recommendation it’s on the money.  I can read what a diner will like just by looking at them.  It’s all in the shoes and the eyes.  Once they start asking about the menu their questions just lock in place what I already know.  You were right about the souffle!  That perch was fantastic, thanks.  I’m so glad you sold me on the crab cakes.  The lady with the sequined “ruby slippers” is a child at heart and wants simple, friendly food.  The suit with the perfectly polished loafers will eat anything on the menu that is presented well.  I can count the number of times I’ve had to comp a recommendation on one hand—one.  My very first customer.  Goddamned catfish.   

Ray is unhappy, but he’s not the one who must suffer for my son’s health.  My fellow servers have covered me every time I’ve asked.  Even Tina.  When Nate is having a rough time, I’ve surrendered more tips in my pocket from gratitude than I could ever count.  I know they get tired of me, but everyone has their price.  Nate’s poor health hits me three times: insurance premiums, deductibles, and forfeited tips. 

Anyway, the only apartment I can afford is nearly an hour from work and I show up in a rush and jump in like a hungry barracuda.  Nate is sitting precariously in his first-grade classroom, and I need him to stay healthy.  I’ve missed three days in the last two weeks.  I was almost in tears begging him to go to school this morning.  Willing his lungs to just take care of business. 

Three groups arrive and are all placed in my section.  I’m full now.  It’s ok; I got it.  The first is a young couple.  He’s in a tailored suit, she’s carrying a two-thousand dollar purse like it’s nothing—just an ordinary object she happens to be holding.  They are seated at my two-top and they order trendy cocktails and three hors d'oeuvres to start and I can see they are going to be getting an early start on the weekend.  Big bill, big tip—he’s got to show off.  The second group is business folks.  Seven high-flyers: five men and two women.  Expensive suits, a pencil-skirt dress, and a designer pantsuit.  The pencil-skirt’s the assistant.  The pantsuit is not the boss, but she’s going to be a ball-breaker for me.  She needs to show them she’s got just as much power as they do.  All I have to do is support her power play and everyone is happy—the men will sort themselves out.  They get my eight-top.  The last is the toughest—a family of five.  Parents, a toddler, and two tweens.  Private Christian school uniforms for the tweens, a smartly coordinated get-up for the toddler, and two parents who are well-put together.  The model uptight family.  High demand, low tip.  They’re at my six.  Add these to the other three tables I have which are in various stages of pulling into the station—coffee, desserts, and such—and I’m going to have a profitable afternoon.  I just need to get them all out by two to pick up Nate on time.  It’s just past noon.  I’ll be fine.

The two-top is ready for their second round, and he asks me for a celebratory summer cocktail.  “We have an oak-barrel Whiskey Sour on the rocks I think you’ll like.”  Expensive but supports their need for trendy hipness.

The pantsuit buys the first round and whispers to me that she wants it on separate bill.  “I’m not picking the whole tab for these frat boys.”  She winks at me.  We’re going to get along fine.  I admire her almost to the point of tears.  A strong woman.  A smart woman.  Can play any game they want but remains a woman and wants me on her team.  I may just be a server, but I am grateful to be included.

The Christians want soft-drinks and kid’s menus.  “Some cleaner silverware would be nice too,” Mom asks snottily looking down at me as she looks up from her chair.  I’ll snag Freddy, my ace busboy.  He never needs explanations.  He reads a situation and anticipates like a Navy SEAL.  Spotless utensils flash silently to each plate as though from a Vegas dealer.  It’s important to know every kitchen face and name and treat them as equal partners on your team.  It’s not always easy.  I was told long ago, “Sometimes you have to learn some lingo, gringo.”  It’s just so nice when a friend bails you out.  Even nicer when you can return the favor. 

Whiskey sour is a hit.

The Christians love the tuna sandwiches I split for them—the tweens split one and Mom and the toddler split one—helps Mom keep trim.  Saves them money.  Drives down their bill.  I wonder if they’ll calculate that into their tip.  I ain’t holding my breath.

The eight is happy with drinks and appetizers.  The frat boys love my craft beer choices, and the pantsuit just nurses her Manhattan and observes.  Lots of items to keep straight coming at me like a machine gun, but at every second of a shift I know exactly who ordered what.  Asking, “Who’s having the fritters?” is the mark of an amateur.

I may not have had any talent for cell structure or five-paragraph essays or the details of the Smoot-Hawley Act, but I can do this.  I like it.  It’s taken me almost six years to get here and I think I’m kinda good at it.  I wasn’t good at writing or taking tests, but I’m good at this.  I like making people happy. 

I notice Freddy and his boys setting up a long table for twenty in the next section.  Ray approaches me and says, “I have a big banquet at 1:00.”  He wouldn’t be telling me this if he didn’t want me to cover it.

“I gotta be out by two.  My Mom can’t pick up Nate today and I barely got him healthy enough to get to school this morning.”

“This is a big group.  Mr. Freeman’s nephew’s rehearsal dinner party.”

I ask, “Mr. Freeman?  The owner?”

Ray nods.  “I need you on it.”

“A twenty-seat banquet?  I’ll never get out on time.”

“I’ll have Hannah pick up your three open tables.”  He can see my doubt still.  “It’s going to be a huge tip.  You can finish these three up and if you need to leave the banquet before the check, I’ll finish up for you.”

 “You will?”  He nods.  Wow.  Ray never takes on any but the most special guests.  Last time was the Senator who dined with Mr. and Mrs. Freeman and that was six months ago.  “I’m out the door at 2:00, right?”

“Two o’clock.”

I nod and see the pantsuit has a question.  She’s not raising her hand or anything; I can just see it in her eyes like a bidder in a million dollar art auction.

I approach, lean in and whisper, “Is there something I can get for you?”

She smiles at my intuition.  “Yes,” she whispers, “Can your chef whip up about four spider rolls for me?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll find out for you.”  (“I don’t know,” is always followed by, “I’ll find out for you.”  Always.)  I don’t know what Spider Rolls are, but I will do everything in my power to have her walk out of here happy.

Back in the kitchen I yell, “Chef!” across the prep table as a dozen busy hands prep plates of his art. 

“Yeah, Red.”  He’s the only one who calls me that.

“What are spider rolls?”

He smiles at me.  “Sushi.”  They’re not on the menu.  I know every item the menu and they are absolutely not on it.  I know all the ingredients of every dish, what they best go with, and every variation of them.   I know what well done, rare, blackened, sauteed, broasted, and every other word means.  I know substitutions, splitting a meal, corking fees, and any other industry term.  So, when she said “spider rolls” I knew we didn’t make them.  But I love Chef and he loves me.  “How many?”

“Four?”

He holds up two fingers.  And less than two minutes later I am sliding a cool plate with four beautiful spider rolls on it to my girl. 

“Oh, fantastic.  You’re an angel.  Thank you.”

I am beaming.  The only thing that keeps me from jumping for joy is the clock and that twenty-seat banquet table.  It is perfect and empty.  The assault is on the way.  I check my phone in the kitchen.  No calls or texts from Nate’s school.  I might make it.

The last of my original three tables cashes out.  I bring back “easy change”—change they can easily tip me with.  I always do.  If you get $50 for a $39.90 bill, you bring a five, five singles, and dime.  If you bring a ten, you might only get the dime.  It’s shitty, but it happens.

The Christians are done.  Dad still has nearly a full plate.  “What was wrong with the salmon, sir?”  You never remove a full plate of food without asking, “What was wrong?”  Obviously, something was wrong.

He waves off my question and mumbles, “Just wasn’t as hungry as I thought.” 

He didn’t like it but won’t complain.  I’ll have to comp it.  I hate doing that, but if you’ve already disappointed someone with a bad meal, you can’t add insult by charging them for it.  This will kill my tip if they don’t consider it.  Two-tuna sandwiches won’t leave me much for all the attention they required.  I can’t worry about it as the banquet arrives.   A loud fashionable group begins rolling in.  The bride-and-groom-to-be are obvious, as is her father.  I can tell from across the room he is a big presence.  Ray greets them personally and guides them to the table and introduces me.  I get them started then cash out the pantsuit and her entourage.  They throw a pile of money at me, enough to cover the bill and somewhere in the neighborhood of a 30% tip!  Then she waves me over and hands me four fifties.  Two-hundred dollars!  Over the 30%!  “Excellent.  Thank you.  That went very well for me.”

Sometimes we don’t know we are stressed until it is over.  My six tables are complete, and I feel a weight lifted from my shoulders.  I can almost breath again.  Being short of breath makes me think of Nate.  I check the clock—1:10.  Fifty minutes for twenty people?  It’ll never happen.  My heart races again. 

…