Nothing for me, thanks

Me: Any thoughts on what you'd like to drink?
Her: No. I'll have some coffee.

So what do you have

Customer: I don't see halibut on your menu
Me: correct

Golfers are adorable

I was flipping through channels at the bar, looking for some sports.

(Only) woman at the bar: "golf. cool. leave it there."

Me: Isn't "cool" a little liberal for golf?

Her husband: " whoooa no! that word isn't even in our vocabulary. (leans back laughing slowly shaking his head, arms folded, repeating "no way" a few times".

Me:

Miley Cyrus hates Equador

This is the day the Ritchie Valens/Buddy Holly crash gets relieved of it's "the day the music died" status.

Sweet n' Free

I was reminded this evening of one of the many reasons why I'd rather run a 5k in a pair of new dress shoes...with a hangnail, than serve an elderly couple who've wandered out without chaperones:

Do-it-yourself lemonade

While I can certainly understand being poor (I am), I find it insulting and spiteful to be made to make a first trip for the water with lemon and then a second trip a few minutes later for that magic pink-packaged ingredient that ties the whole cocktail together. I'm sure the reasoning goes something like:

"Being that it's way too embarrassing to come right out and ask someone who makes his living by selling things to people for actual money, I'll just have him get me the water first. Surely many people must do that every day (almost everyone), and he couldn't possibly fault me for doing it (I don't). Then, in two minutes, when he's distracted doing something else (I'm not. I only have one other table. I'm an underachiever, not Mr. Magoo), I'll ask him to bring that Sweet n' Low around."

Though I suppose that while not dumping the whole depressing scheme on me at once could be an attempt at being polite and sparing my feelings, I'd love to for someone to be frank with me just once and lay out the whole recipe and plan from the get-go for the sake of convenience. Don't break my window then come around the next day to steal the radio after I've spent an hour with a roll of duct tape and a Hefty bag patching up your handiwork. I know exactly who you are and what you're up to, so just give it to me straight: blue, pink, or yellow?

I suppose the upside is that I don't get bored running back and forth piecing together Ms. Daisy's depression spritzer. Nothing takes the sting out of a $14 dinner check better than knowing that I'm at least getting my exercise in. The only thing that could make this scenario more enjoyable is the (inevitable) request for more lemons and sweetener...and, of course, being asked to wrap up the remaining two bites of dinner along with a fresh loaf of free bread. At that point, one learns to be grateful just to not receive the gratuity in nickels and pennies.

Ice Ice...maybe

A rare sight in any restaurant's waiter's station is a full ice bin. On any given night, of the thirteen servers on the floor, one, maybe two of them are refilling the ice the five times it has to be done throughout the course of the shift. Most of the others will thank said team player(s) with an 'atta boy, but never actually exercise the possibility of doing such a thing, and some will go on just not thinking about the source of the ice and that the bin underneath the soda machine is not actually that source. (It's like how my clothes keep reappearing in my closet and drawers, but clean again. I don't really feel the need to investigate. I just keep hoping that it will keep happening.)

This group malaise is a source of mounting frustration for even the most seasoned waiter who finds himself being the ice mule of the night. He'll snap as he realizes that he has to fill that bin for a fourth time, or it will remain with only that one last sad, wet piece of ice sliding around the bottom of it for the rest of the night. This will come on the heels of the two ladies who've occupied his only four-top for the past two and a half hours having just left him four dollars...in change. The ensuing breakdown usually manifests itself as a mumbling tirade followed by an angry jamming of the scoop back into the bin, followed by an awkward silence in the immediate area for about three minutes. The same dummy will undoubtedly be toting that bucket back and forth for a fifth and final fill-up in an hour, accompanied by the following commentary by a supportive "team" member:

"Woow, you're really on top of that ice tonight, huh? ThA-Anks! I've gotta find out where that ice machine is one of these days."

...and a tumor is born

Admittedly, I'm that mule some nights, and it does get frustrating mostly because I can't make myself stop the insanity once I've started. I have no idea how it happens and even less about what forces me to continue. Most nights though I usually have no problem at instantly cranking up the look of concentration on my face as though I'm mere seconds from bursting into action on a drink order for eight after noticing someone looking down into the bin and then beginning to look around to let someone else know that it needs filling. I can play that game of chicken all night.

The true master of labor avoidance will walk their glassware back to the ice maker to get the ice they need, hoping that whatever cruel turn of chance that found the bin empty will right itself soon.

Dear lady who sat out on the patio three nights ago with your friends for three hours nursing a bottle and a couple of appetizers,

When I asked for you to fill out that "keep in touch" card, I meant for you to put your address and/or email address on it so that I might be the waiter to turn in the most cards so as not to have to roll silver that night. So you know for future reference, we (waiters) will never promote something without the prospect of some sort of prize or reduction in workload. Ever. I didn't really want to keep in touch with you or care if the restaurant does. So while I appreciate the "great service!" compliment you wrote across the card along with absolutely nothing else, it was completely useless to me. You might have thought I'd do a victory lap around the restaurant showing everyone the awesome comment card I'd just gotten or maybe just press it to my chest and smile inside for a few seconds of deep, genuine pride at what a great job I'm doing at being a waiter, but neither of those things happened. I just wished that, instead of the compliment, you might have opted for a more monetary show of appreciation, say maybe nine or ten dollars rather than the $6 you left on that $54 check. Thanks again.

We're out of that too

I was watching vids on YouTube this morning with my daughter and happened across a bunch of skits of (Sesame Street's) Grover as a waiter. I'd seen and remembered a few, like the tiny/huge burger, with the blue, mustached exasperated guest (creatively named "Fat Blue"), but didn't remember this one which is now officially my new favorite (I can have favorite Sesame Street skits. What?).

We've all worked someplace where it seemed that we were missing at least some minor component of what we needed to do our job at just about every turn. My recurring favorite is that once every never months that some couple orders that most expensive wine on the list...which, I find out from the bartender, sold out two weeks before, along with, of course, their eventual second and third choices. They inevitably settle on a couple of Diet Cokes, preserving my hope that I can extend my White Zinfandel sales streak to a new personal best of eight bottles in a row.

A few more of my favorite out-ofs:

• the liqueur that we've never had since we've been open that's a key ingredient of one of the cocktails that's been featured on our menu...since we've been open.
• espresso spoons: The average restaurant has three of them: one jammed in some inaccessible part of the dishwasher, one in the pen caddy in the office, and one at that table that's needed to be bussed for the past twenty minutes.
• creamers: Usually, if you can slide it by the M.O.D., a ramekin'll do here.
• coffee: one out of every 46 or-so waiters will brew a pot when they've used the last serving. After all, if we were team players we'd be professional athletes, not waiters.
• clean dessert menus: I think I saw one four years ago

I'd give myself carpal tunnel syndrome finishing half this list, so I'd better not.