Napa Valley’s Worst Waiter Chapter 1:

I work at a restaurant. Last week I was “demoted” from my exciting $15 an hour host – or – assistant manager – or – floor manager – or – manager (the owner of the restaurant has introduced me to our guests using all of those titles, so I never know who I am, which might explain my schitzo personality lately) to being a part-time waiter. Getting demoted was actually a good thing because who the hell wants to be a restaurant manager for $15 an hour when I can be making minimum wage plus tips!

Waaay to bring in the BIG BUCKS Dave! It’s hard to believe that only a few years ago I was making over 100K + a year. Damn the economy!

I am a lousy waiter because I am pushing Six O and I can’t remember the specials or the soups when I go to a table and they ask me:

“What are the specials and what are today’s soups?”

I fake it by saying:

“We might have just sold the last soup, let me check with the chef, I’ll be right back.”

Of course no one else is in the restaurant and these are the first customers of the evening, so I suppose I am not fooling anyone. The chef tells me in minute detail about the two soups and when I get to the table I can only remember the ingredients to one of the soups. I completely forgot to ask the Chef about the specials.

Sigh, this is the life of Napa Valleys worst waiter.

Yesterday I went to take an order for a table of three realizing too late when I got there that I had forgotten my notepad and I now I had to memorize everything they ordered including appetizers, main courses, wines by the glass, and who ordered extra mushrooms and what kind of cheeses they want on their burgers (cheddar, blue and I can’t remember the last varietal – but I’m sure its not cottage).

I am nervous so there is my AVS (almost vomiting syndrome – a condition I have when I get nervous) when I get to the register to place my orders. Meantime the owner is at the next computer and he is placing his order with the ease of a KY Jellyied pee pee (I’m not good at analogies) and I am staring at the screen wondering where the hell is the “extra onions” button for the burger order for the woman at position three. I know any minute that Mr. Poopyhead (the restaurant owner’s nickname his employees affectionately have bestowed on him) is going to ask me what is taking me so long to place my order and I have visions of green vile bile blasting out of my mouth, (‘ala Megan in the Exorcist) all over the wanker’s polyester pink polka-dot shirt.

Just as I find the “extra onions button” MPH turns to me and coldly asks me what am I doing, and oh crap how I hate swallowing almost puke, and I answer him by mumbling something about concentrating on my order showing what a good employee I am, which I am not, and I walk away from the computer hoping I got at least 75% of the order for table 12 correct.

I didn’t.

I forgot to give them ketchup and mustard for their burgers. I forgot to give them a sharp knife for the steak. I think I got the burger orders right (all the correct types of cheeses, who got fries and which fries were to be extra crispy and who ordered their burgers rare and who ordered them well done). But for the life of me when I arrive at the table carrying three plates (a first for me) I can’t remember who gets what – so I just place them in front of people hoping for the best. I notice as I walk away everyone is switching plates around.

After I clear the dishes from the table, they order a latte and a cup of chino and some English tea to go with their one orders of molten chocolate cake. What’s a chino? I drink coffee black and have no idea what a chino or a latte is (which should make a future career at Starbucks a tad bit of a challenge). I ask the buser girl to make them for me. She’s cute and skinny and helpful.

Finally they give me their credit cards asking me to split the check up three ways.

DON’T THEY KNOW I FLUNKED ALGEBRA II IN HIGH SCHOOL?

But luckily the computer has a button called: “Split Check” and I allow the computer to do its thing. But naturally, I entered all the information into Hal incorrectly charging one credit card twice and forgetting to add in the tip on the other card and I have no idea how to fix my mistakes, and I’m sick of having upchuck in my mouth, so I decide to pee in my pants instead. I can’t ask MPH (Mr. Poopyhead), to help me because he showed me how to fix this problem two months ago in a 4.2 second demonstration (I blinked during the demo and subsequently missed 1/3 of it ) and he will hammer me for not remembering how to fix the problem this time which only makes me pee in my pants more and thank goodness I’m wearing black pants and an apron.

So I ask skinny buser girl Cindy or Mindy or Mandy or whatever she is calling herself these days (she is about 12 years old at best or I’m really getting old because everyone is looking 12 years old to me these days) to help me. Without any previous instructions from MPH – ever – she figures it out instantly, corrects and fixes all my mistakes (she is doing this while listening to her i-pod and I also have no idea how i-pods work) and I take the checks to the guests. They tip me about 25% each even though I screwed up just about everything on their order. They said I made them laugh and that it was fun experience. They hug me warmly as they walk out.

DH reprimands me after my guests leave because I left a fork on the table before taking their checks to them. All tables should be completely cleared before presenting the check. This is a violation # 12,758 (out of 64,916 possible violations) of restaurant policy and is punishable by a 90 minute water-boarding in the walk in box.

Whatever works.

I’m now going to attempt to finish my on line virtual managers test for a store manager’s position at Starbucks. Tests make me nervous. I feel a bout of AVS coming on.. I’m gonna go brush my teeth.

xo,

Dave the Waiter

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