Confessions of a Waitress
"I’m not like this in real-life, it is just part of the job"
Lori sherman
Lifestyle Editor
Every weekend I enter the battlefield. Equipped with my uniform, apron - fully loaded, I pass from table to table in search of hard-earned cash. It may not be war, but it’s certainly not paradise.
I’m a waitress, a server if you will, and though the job may look easy, it’s no slice of pie. Apple please, hold the whip cream, with two forks, not too hot, not too cold, just right. Get it wrong? You lose your tip and gain a loud-mouthed complaint to your manager.
Ah, the joys of the restaurant industry. I’m really not the best person to speak on the subject. I’m not a veteran; I’m a new recruit. I only joined the force this past summer hoping to earn the crazy money I heard only those serving tables could make.
Sure, the money is plentiful. You’re making less than minimum wage, but trust me there is a lot of cash in the deep wallets of the hungry and naïve. But you have to earn it, and it doesn’t come easy.
You want food? Well, I want your tip. So I lay it on thick – just like the amount of butter they smear on that stale loaf of garlic bread you ordered five minutes ago.
I’m not ashamed to admit it because that’s the biz. Drink, eat, pay (don’t forget a juicy well-done tip please and thank you), leave, and don’t make a mess. That’s my motto and so far, it’s working quite well.
This may sound harsh, and of course I don’t let my “guests” in on this little motto of mine. Who knows why I’m telling you? But the secret is to kill that hunger pain with kindness.
Each customer is different and each customer gets different service. Whether you’re a businessperson, a senior citizen, out on a first date, it’s all in the approach.
Sure you could just wonder up to the table staring at your pad of paper asking politely what they want, but that’s not going to get you 15 per cent. You’d be lucky with a pity tip - 5 per cent for accuracy and lack of personality.
No wonder so many actors turn to serving tables when their dreams of becoming rich and famous are put to the side. The restaurant floor becomes their stage. Pretending you’re not horribly tired and miserable, busting out sarcastic jokes while balancing four plates and a pitcher of beer on your head is best left to the professionals.
There are times I’d like to quit and throw in that mashed potato stained towel. Working with the public, remembering a million little details about people’s orders, having hot lava-like gravy accidentally poured on you by some 8-year-old brat is wonderful and all, but there’s just something about leaving the restaurant with 100 dollars more than what I came with that is too hard to ignore.
So I’ll keep at it until my patience and need for fast cash wears out. If you ever happen to come across my table one night while out for dinner, don’t hold this against me. Who am I kidding? Your need for food and my fake smile and corny jokes will make you forget this column completely.
Dinner is served.
