Memoirs of a Minimum Wage Sole-istic Aristocrate pt.1
Everyone knows. It's oh-so painfully obvious. If you don't know, you're out of the loop.
Have no idea what I'm speaking of? Well, work in the 'hospitality' careers, and you'll soon be the writer of your own ennui journal entries of idiotic things people happen to do. It isn't much of a surprise that people are not the smartest (refer to lemming, noun), or even the most note-worthy on many occasions. But, when it happens. . .
And, it happens. . . .
I'd like to start out this entry with informing my (nonexistent) audience of my line of duty. I am called the 'Front of House.' My job is to kiss your ass. And at two dollars and fifty some odd cents an hours (as a server) I shall do so at my own leisure. Mostly, I run around the place like a mad-man to get some exercise, and maybe get some bonus points (if you're not in the industry, we call them thar 'tips') for that fancy trick I can do with balancing food, drinks, and condiments all on the same tray and serve at the same time.
My other job as FOH (keep up with me people, refer to above if you're lacking in brain power), is a host. Or, hostess, as I don't have much of a penis (it's rubber). This means, I get pissy when you seat your fat, lazy lard asses down in my restaurant without caring if this could fuck up the people who would be serving you. Other than that, I get paid a nice seven fifty to get yelled at about how crappy your food service was, so I can shut you up with the word, "FREE."
I deal with other minimum wage employees, which makes my day bright and shiny. And, yes, if you're curious if your waiter, or waitress thinks you suck balls, chances are, yes. S/he's talking major shit about you to the other kids in the back. Oh yes, it's high school all over again. Except this time, we wont spit in your hair, or piss in your drinks. We'll smile, and hope you didn't hear what we said about your cellulite, so you'll tip us better.
So, now that we covered the basics, I'll get to the real important stuff. Like, you. Yes, you. The reader (or, lack there-of). The one who walks in, with good intentions, but decides that, your bacon isn't crispy enough. No, it's still not crispy enough. And now the eggs are cold. Oh, you're making it over again? Thanks, but it's still crap. Oh, and you don't have >insert random drink I've never even heard of beforeyou know who you are. I can't stand you. You make me want to blender babies, with a bit of rosemary, and a little spinach.
It's not because food cost is a factor - no. That bacon, and those eggs cost about seventy five cents all together (it's called direct buying). It's because, you run us around with false hopes, lay us down, real nice and easy, and leave us with the burden. . . The burden of telling. . . The Boss.
The Boss doesn't like losing money. It makes him look bad. And when he doesn't look the part - who suffers? Usually, the next person down. But, restaurants have this awesome pecking order. Boss sits over everyone. Then, supervisor over everyone else. Everyone else sits over any wacko religious nimrods (another story for another time). So, when Boss isn't happy - we hear it. And, typically it's our fault. In our establishment, we have to explain why these things happen in a nice little three to four sentence essay. But, when three or four of these happen, well, hope it not your service, and it's the kitchen's fault.
By, defying the Law of the Lard (from the point on, this shall be what we call Boss, restaurant, and all supervisor types), Lard gets pissy. Like, 'I'm-about-to-start-my-period,' (Or, the worse, and lesser known, 'I-haven't-had-a-period-yet-and-may-need-to-trip-down-some-stairs,') pissy. And Lard likes it when it works. And what Lard wants, Lard gets. So, enough of these stupid little walk outs, and we start to lose some hours. And, for a server, at our oh-so-high labor cost, tip = life.
Though, I must admit, for Lard being such a Big Brother type, he's pretty good at what he does. You pull enough of these little eat-n-runs, Lard gets wise. He is omniscient, and all knowing (redundancy!) and will eventually end up having the same high school moments as the server. And, tell you to GTFO. Or, at least not let you have stuff for free.
So, please, stupid-unknowing-customer. Do it for the server. Don't be a douche. Oh, was there a moral to this story? No. Not really. I needed to lay the stone work for the next installment. For those with a sadistic nature - stay tuned!
XO, Dahlia
Have no idea what I'm speaking of? Well, work in the 'hospitality' careers, and you'll soon be the writer of your own ennui journal entries of idiotic things people happen to do. It isn't much of a surprise that people are not the smartest (refer to lemming, noun), or even the most note-worthy on many occasions. But, when it happens. . .
And, it happens. . . .
I'd like to start out this entry with informing my (nonexistent) audience of my line of duty. I am called the 'Front of House.' My job is to kiss your ass. And at two dollars and fifty some odd cents an hours (as a server) I shall do so at my own leisure. Mostly, I run around the place like a mad-man to get some exercise, and maybe get some bonus points (if you're not in the industry, we call them thar 'tips') for that fancy trick I can do with balancing food, drinks, and condiments all on the same tray and serve at the same time.
My other job as FOH (keep up with me people, refer to above if you're lacking in brain power), is a host. Or, hostess, as I don't have much of a penis (it's rubber). This means, I get pissy when you seat your fat, lazy lard asses down in my restaurant without caring if this could fuck up the people who would be serving you. Other than that, I get paid a nice seven fifty to get yelled at about how crappy your food service was, so I can shut you up with the word, "FREE."
I deal with other minimum wage employees, which makes my day bright and shiny. And, yes, if you're curious if your waiter, or waitress thinks you suck balls, chances are, yes. S/he's talking major shit about you to the other kids in the back. Oh yes, it's high school all over again. Except this time, we wont spit in your hair, or piss in your drinks. We'll smile, and hope you didn't hear what we said about your cellulite, so you'll tip us better.
So, now that we covered the basics, I'll get to the real important stuff. Like, you. Yes, you. The reader (or, lack there-of). The one who walks in, with good intentions, but decides that, your bacon isn't crispy enough. No, it's still not crispy enough. And now the eggs are cold. Oh, you're making it over again? Thanks, but it's still crap. Oh, and you don't have >insert random drink I've never even heard of beforeyou know who you are. I can't stand you. You make me want to blender babies, with a bit of rosemary, and a little spinach.
It's not because food cost is a factor - no. That bacon, and those eggs cost about seventy five cents all together (it's called direct buying). It's because, you run us around with false hopes, lay us down, real nice and easy, and leave us with the burden. . . The burden of telling. . . The Boss.
The Boss doesn't like losing money. It makes him look bad. And when he doesn't look the part - who suffers? Usually, the next person down. But, restaurants have this awesome pecking order. Boss sits over everyone. Then, supervisor over everyone else. Everyone else sits over any wacko religious nimrods (another story for another time). So, when Boss isn't happy - we hear it. And, typically it's our fault. In our establishment, we have to explain why these things happen in a nice little three to four sentence essay. But, when three or four of these happen, well, hope it not your service, and it's the kitchen's fault.
By, defying the Law of the Lard (from the point on, this shall be what we call Boss, restaurant, and all supervisor types), Lard gets pissy. Like, 'I'm-about-to-start-my-period,' (Or, the worse, and lesser known, 'I-haven't-had-a-period-yet-and-may-need-to-trip-down-some-stairs,') pissy. And Lard likes it when it works. And what Lard wants, Lard gets. So, enough of these stupid little walk outs, and we start to lose some hours. And, for a server, at our oh-so-high labor cost, tip = life.
Though, I must admit, for Lard being such a Big Brother type, he's pretty good at what he does. You pull enough of these little eat-n-runs, Lard gets wise. He is omniscient, and all knowing (redundancy!) and will eventually end up having the same high school moments as the server. And, tell you to GTFO. Or, at least not let you have stuff for free.
So, please, stupid-unknowing-customer. Do it for the server. Don't be a douche. Oh, was there a moral to this story? No. Not really. I needed to lay the stone work for the next installment. For those with a sadistic nature - stay tuned!
XO, Dahlia