“Hi, how’s everyone doing tonight?” I say to my newly seated table of four.
“Hungry!” says the older gentleman, who I assume will be handling the bill.
I cue my best laugh and flash a smile. “Well then, you picked the right place. What can I get for you?”
“A million dollars,” the man says, waiting for me to crack up at his one-of-a-kind knee-slapper.
Once again, I cue my laugh and grin ear-to-ear, this time a little more jubilantly.
“Well, if I could do that, I’d be having you serve me! Best I can do for you is our special for tonight.”
The man laughs, genuinely, and orders an old fashioned with Bulleit Bourbon, his friend gets the same, and their wives share a bottle of white wine.
They each get a steak dinner, one more drink with the meal, and leave full and happy.
I now have an extra $40 in my pocket.
This is the joy of being a waitress.
Before I got a career that aligned with my college degree, I worked in the food industry.
My first job ever was at KFC, and at 16 years old, I moved into the restaurant world as a host.
As a teenager with little power over my life, or so I thought, I felt as if I ruled the universe at that host stand.
I decided where people would sit to enjoy their meal, I (kind of) decided how long someone would wait to be seated, and I decided which server would get which table.
One time, a server came up to me and complained that she hadn’t been given tables for a hot second. I knew my rotation wasn’t messed up, and she always blamed everything on the hosts.
So, I fixed her problem. I sat her section three times in a row within a five-minute span.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, as she came up and yelled at me for triple-seating her. “I thought you wanted more tables.”
Funnily enough, when I became old enough to serve, she became one of my best work friends, and I was invited to her wedding. We laughed together as we reminisced about our former feud.
It’s friendships and dramatics like that that make me miss the restaurant life sometimes.
When the restaurant was packed on a weekend night, it was always a battle between the kitchen and the servers.
I’d be livid because my two-top’s order was taking forever, so I’d go back and check the “window” to see where my ticket was in the line. They’d yell at me to get out, as pans were flying almost as fast as the curse words coming out of their mouths.
I’d yell back at them because my table was yelling at me.
There were times when I’d feel a little too calm during a rush, so I’d check the POS (point of sale) to see how my tables were progressing, then take a walk around the restaurant.
The second I stepped out of the server station, I’d lock eyes with a table whose order I definitely forgot to put in.
I’d turn around on both heels and sprint back to the kitchen, begging the chefs to get me two Thai curry noodles “on the fly.” Once again, every curse word on Urban Dictionary would be thrown out and muffled as I swiftly fled to the “safe” side of the swinging doors.
I’d then go up to my table and say that the kitchen is a little bit behind, due to the influx of customers, but their food should be out any minute. I would then run away and hide until the food was ready.
At the end of the night, I’d come into the kitchen with “thank you for all your hard work” beers, PBR tall boys. They’d whip me up something delicious and free for dinner, and all was well.
I’ve had customers “stiff me,” which is when they give you a big, fat $0 tip. But, I’ve also had a customer literally give me the coat off her back, because I told her I liked it.
Everytime she and her husband came in after that, they requested me.
It was being a waitress that made me realize that everyone has a story, and I was thoroughly interested in most of them. Which, I believe, led me a bit toward journalism.
But, if I was juggling eight tables at a time, I really didn’t care about Kathy’s life-changing trip to the Everglades. Table 37’s drinks were ready at the bar, table 30 was still waiting for its ranch dressing, my back pocket was incessantly buzzing because table 25’s appetizers were taking up space on the expo line, and table 40 was waiting for its check.
Was I serving time, or was it time well served? I’ll never know.
