Waiter Rant (8 page)

“Good evening,” I say, “and welcome to The Bistro.”

“Hi,” the man says. His date looks up at me nervously.

“May I get something for you and your lovely companion to drink?” I ask.

“Uh,” the man says, “we’re not sure if we’re gonna eat here.”

“It’s a little expensive,” his girlfriend says.

“I completely understand, madam,” I say, dropping my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I can’t even afford to eat here.”

The man and woman laugh.

“But if you decide to stay,” I continue, “I’m sure I can help you pick out some nice entrées.”

The man and woman look at each other across the table. A quiet decision’s made. They’re staying.

“What kind of beers you got?” the man asks. I tell him what we have.

“No Budweiser?”

“Try a Moretti, sir,” I say. “That’s an excellent Italian beer. I drink it at home.”

“I’ll have one of those, then.”

“And you, madam?” I say, turning to the wife.

“Do you have piña coladas?” she asks shyly.

“We don’t, madam,” I reply. “But we should. I like them, too.”

“They are good,” the wife says.

“How about a Lemon Drop martini?” I suggest.

“What’s in that?”

“Lemon vodka, orange liquor, and sugar.”

“Mmmm,” the lady says. “I’ll try one.

“Very good,” I reply. “Let me get your drinks.”

I go to the back and make the couple’s drinks. Okay, so I’m not quite the mercenary waiter I make myself out to be. I’m very protective toward customers for whom eating at The Bistro’s a monetary stretch. Sure, I don’t make a lot of money off them, but it’s a rare chance to make someone’s evening special. Every day I deal with entitled snobs who spend $100 on dinner the way a blue-collar couple might spend $10 at McDonald’s. For many wealthy people, eating out isn’t a big deal. When you work for a living like me, spending a hundred bucks on dinner’s a very big deal. What’s an average meal for some is an indulgent feast for others.

I make the lady’s martini. On The Bistro’s cocktail menu a Lemon Drop’s considered a premium beverage. I ring it in as a glass of cheap Chardonnay. Oops, an honest mistake. I slip the man’s beer into an ice bucket and bring the drinks to the table. My wheels are turning, trying to figure out how my couple can have a nice Valentine’s Day dinner and not go into the poorhouse. I’ve got to do it right. If I treat the couple like charity cases, they’ll
get even more embarrassed. I’ve got to guide them toward inexpensive choices but make them feel they’re just like any other customer.

I give the couple their drinks and tell them the specials. The man’s ear perks up when he hears about the rack of wild boar.

“How much is that?” he asks.

“Thirty-two dollars.”

“Wow.”

“But it’s a very large portion, sir,” I say. “You could easily share it.”

“How about that, honey?” the man asks.

“The wild boar sounds delicious,” the woman agrees.

“It is,” I say. “We’re famous for it.”

“Okay, then,” the man says. “We’ll have that.”

“Very good, sir,” I reply. “Can I get you both an appetizer?”

“I’m saving room for dessert,” the lady says.

“You’re very wise, madam. Tonight we have a nice raspberry chocolate cake for two.”

“Oh my God!” the lady exclaims. “We have to have that.”

I smile. Suddenly I’m glad Armando didn’t make a candied version of pickled gonads.

“I’ll reserve one for you, madam.”

“Thank you,” the lady replies.

I go to the POS computer and ring in their order. I punch in two house salads, which are free, and one wild boar. I stick my head into the kitchen and ask Moises, the salad guy, to make the complimentary salads a little grander.

“No problem, papi,” Moises says, giving me the thumbs-up.

Normally I don’t tell people about splitting entrées or order them free salads. Customers’ eyes are usually bigger than their stomachs. People often order without thinking things through. As a waiter I encourage this phenomenon. Ordering multiple appetizers and entrées drives up check totals and leads to higher tips. That makes me happy. Even though I know customers won’t eat half of what they order, I encourage overconsumption so I can
make a buck. But I’ve taken this Valentine’s Day couple under my wing. Maybe they remind me of my parents. Maybe I want to do something nice.

Or maybe Saint Valentine is really on the job after all.

My couple eat their dinner, share their special heart-shaped dessert, and pay the bill in cash. They leave a nice tip. While the lady’s fixing her makeup in the bathroom, the man comes up to me and shakes my hand.

“Thanks for everything,” he says.

“You’re very welcome,” I reply. “Please join us again soon.”

I watch as the couple walk hand in hand into the cold night air. Outside the woman looks up at her man starry-eyed and gives him a “thanks for dinner” kiss. Somehow I know watching that kiss will be my best tip of the evening.

The couple who take their place, however, are the usual rude yuppie breeders who fell out of love the moment the ink on their prenup dried. I steer them toward the most expensive items on the menu and cheerily rob them blind.

I told you I could be a mercenary bastard.

A
fter the great Valentine’s Day shakedown, business at many restaurants takes a nosedive until the spring. Sadly The Bistro is no exception. It’s a quiet March afternoon, and I’m at my lunchtime post by the hostess stand surveying an empty restaurant. When customer traffic dries up, you’ll usually find me engaging in my favorite pastime—reading. A restaurant devoid of customers can be extremely boring, so I always make sure to have some reading material lying around. If business is slow and I don’t have access to a newspaper or book, I can get antsier than Popeye Doyle going through heroin withdrawal in a Marseille slum. To prevent this from happening, I always keep several magazines and paperback books stashed in secret caches around The Bistro. It drives Fluvio nuts when he sees me reading a book or a newspaper during my shift. He thinks I should be dusting off wine bottles or something.

Right now I’m reading Raymond Chandler’s
The Simple Art of Murder
. It’s a collection of pulp magazine stories the author wrote before his first novel,
The Big Sleep
, was published in 1939. I’ve always had a soft spot for Chandler. Married to a woman many years his senior, Chandler, a heavy combat veteran from World War I, was fired from his job as a California oil executive
for alcoholism and womanizing. Middle-aged, out of work, and barely getting by on charity provided by wealthy friends, Chandler supported himself during the Great Depression by writing pulp fiction at a penny a word for magazines like
Black Mask
and
Dime Detective
. As you read his earliest works you see how Chandler, basically a self-taught writer, developed his hardboiled literary style of wisecracks, metaphors, and sharp lyrical similes while sketching out the character of what would become his most famous creation—the world-weary but idealistic private eye, Philip Marlowe.

I’ve read these stories a dozen times, but today I’m looking at them with a new eye. My Web site’s popularity has attracted the attention of a literary agent. After a few weeks of discussions I signed with his agency. Now we’re putting together a book proposal for prospective publishers to consider.

Ever since Waiter Rant became popular I’ve toyed with the idea of becoming a writer. Despite my earlier promise to Inez, however, I haven’t exactly been trying to make it happen. Now, out of the blue, I’m presented with a chance to do something many people only dream about. It’s a great opportunity, but I’m frightened. Can I actually write a book? Will I fall flat on my face? Despite my excitement I feel the shadow of failure wrapping itself around me.

But reading Chandler’s work gives me hope. I’m not comparing myself, but if Chandler’s writing apprenticeship was in the pulps, maybe mine was on the Internet. We’re both self-taught writers, and damnit, if success could happen to a forty-five-year-old man desperate to change his life, why can’t it happen to a thirty-eight-year-old waiter trying to change his? For the first time in years I feel like I’m taking concrete steps toward changing my life.

Just as I’m starting to imagine my face on the back of a book cover the house phone rings.

“The Bistro,” I answer. “How can I help you?”

“Do I pay you to work, or do I pay you to read?” Fluvio asks, his voice angrily pushing through the cellular static.

“Are you spying on me again?”

“Of course I am.”

I look at the video camera staring down at me from the ceiling. Two years ago Fluvio had a video surveillance system installed in The Bistro. Although he claims he installed the cameras for security, I know better.

“What are you reading?”

“A book about murder.”

“Planning to kill someone?”

“Don’t give me any ideas, boss,” I mutter. “What’s up?”

“I want to fire Beth.”

“Why?” I groan. Fluvio’s always huffing and puffing that he’s going to fire someone.

“She’s switched shifts tonight with Saroya and didn’t tell me.”

“She told me, boss.”

“This is my place,” Fluvio sputters. “I’m in charge, not you. She has to call me.”

“She’s one of the best waitresses we have.”

“Why you always acting like the staff’s lawyer?” Fluvio snaps. “You work for me.”

“She’s a good worker, Fluvio. Leave her alone.”

“Listen, you…” Fluvio says, his anger starting to rev up.

“Whatever, Fluvio,” I reply casually. “Say, did you hear about Café Foo Foo?”

“No what?” Fluvio says, perking up. He loves gossip.

“The owner says you’re imitating his menu.”

“That’s bullshit,” Fluvio growls. “He imitate me.”

“I know that. You know that. But that’s not what he’s saying.”

“That asshole. I fix him good one day.”

I hold the phone away from my ear as Fluvio vomits up invective about Café Foo Foo’s owner. My job here is done. I’ve redirected Fluvio’s nervous energy to a place where it can do no harm. Within seconds Fluvio forgets all about firing Beth, and I spend the rest of the phone call reassuring him that our food is much better than Foo Foo’s. I know I’m being manipulative, but hey, you go with what works.

Fluvio’s quip about my being the staff’s attorney isn’t far off the mark. I’m always intervening on the staff’s behalf. When Fluvio hired me six years ago, he explained that I was going to be a player manager, a glorified headwaiter earning an hourly supervisory wage when he wasn’t on the premises. In a sense it was a smart move. Restaurant managers often make less money than the waiters they’re supervising. The last thing Fluvio wanted was another bribe-hustling manger like Sammy. But being thrust between Fluvio and the waiters meant I was forced to be a mediator from day one. That’s not easy. The gap between management and staff can make the Gaza Strip look like a resort town. And Fluvio? He can be the culinary version of Yasir Arafat.

The Fluvio who owns The Bistro is not the same person I met at Amici’s. The stress of opening a new restaurant exposed an unseen side of his personality—an anxious and angry side. To say Fluvio yells would be an understatement. His wife would later tell me that she never saw the choleric side of her husband until after they opened the restaurant. Many chefs yell and scream, so, in that sense, Fluvio is no exception. But in the heat of his rages he can say some truly awful things. Initially, I worried Fluvio would turn out to be another Caesar, but I quickly discovered that his emotional outbursts were like summer storms, vanishing as quickly as they started. You can have a blowup with Fluvio one minute, and he’ll be buying you a drink the next. But his episodes are so sudden and cataclysmic that he often says and does things he regrets later. He once made a particularly crude comment about a woman I was dating. After I threatened to break his nose he promptly apologized and kissed up to me for weeks afterward. That’s Fluvio’s modus operandi; he’ll blow up but then try to be your best friend. Emotionally, it’s very confusing, like being in a relationship in which your partner’s hitting you one moment and buying you flowers the next. I always joke that you aren’t officially part of The Bistro’s staff until Fluvio makes you cry at least once. When orienting new hires, I try prepping them for the
inevitable verbal onslaught by giving them the “Fluvio Talk.” Despite my best efforts, however, many of them quit after the first few weeks. Veteran staff members aren’t immune, either. Just last week a woman who worked the lunch shift for several years threw down her apron and stormed out the front door. When Fluvio ran after her to apologize, she yelled, “You’re an awful man. Leave me alone!”

Over the years I’ve come to realize that Fluvio’s anger and anxiety stem from his fear of losing everything that he’s worked so hard to create. As I mentioned earlier, Fluvio’s no stranger to failure. He flunked out of a dozen jobs before finding success as a chef. He also has a strained relationship with his ex-wife and children back in Italy. Now, at forty-six, he has a new wife, a new son, and a robust business. Fluvio’s got a second shot at happiness. He doesn’t want anything to mess that up, but I worry his anxiety will destroy the very thing he wants to protect.

Fluvio’s worrying has turned him into a jumpy, irritable, and angry man. Like a solider just home from war, his eyes are always scanning the horizon for threats. Constantly fidgeting, he tenses up and moves away if you place your hand on his shoulder. This anxiety hurts him in social settings. Because thoughts are banging around the inside of his head like electrons colliding inside a particle accelerator, his attention span can be measured in nanoseconds. You can be having a conversation with him when suddenly, and for no reason, he’ll stop talking to you and walk away. He does this to vendors, staff, and even his customers. While Fluvio has the capacity to be a very charming, nice, and considerate person, he’s usually on his best behavior only when dealing with people who have something he wants. Fluvio doesn’t have the energy or inclination to be nice to people he perceives as beneath him. Believe me, if you work for Fluvio, he thinks you’re beneath him.

Like many depressed and anxious people, Fluvio is unkempt and sloppy. His glasses are always smudged, and he often forgets to shave. His clothes are rumpled, and his shirt’s never tucked in.
His physical disorganization is reflected in his personal spaces as well. His car is a mess, and his office makes a pigsty look like the interior of the Vatican. Fluvio’s idea of filing something is to throw it on top of his desk. Not surprisingly, he can never find
anything.

Fluvio’s anxiety drives me up the wall. For example, if you’re talking to him and the phone rings, he’ll leap out of his seat and
run
to answer it. If you have the misfortune to be standing next to the house phone, he’ll bark “Get out of my way” and even physically
push
you aside if you don’t move fast enough. When Fluvio answers the phone, it’s a violent act. Like a deadbeat sweating the creditors, Fluvio thinks that every phone call is a portent of impending disaster. The sound of a ringing phone fills him with dread. If he misses a phone call, he’ll desperately scroll through the caller ID and try ringing the caller back. Fluvio can’t stand not knowing what every call’s about. That’s because, like all overly anxious people, he always assumes the worst. To make sure he never misses a phone call, he always carries at least two cell phones, a BlackBerry, and a wireless-enabled PDA. He always has to be plugged in. Most people use pills or booze to narcotize their inner demons. Fluvio uses technology. The best example of this is The Bistro’s video camera system.

Many restaurants employ video cameras to allow the kitchen to view a diner’s progress or to help management keep on eye on the cash register. I think the general dining public would be shocked to know how often Big Brother is watching them as they eat and drink. But Fluvio didn’t hook up any monitors in the kitchen to help Armando track a table’s progress—the only monitors are in the office downstairs. The cameras are there for Fluvio to watch the staff. As far as internal security is concerned, the staff at The Bistro are incredibly honest. Missing inventory has never been much of a problem. Fluvio somehow got by without a video system for years, but as his anxiety and fear morphed into paranoia, he turned into a control freak.

On some level, most restaurant owners are control freaks. If
they aren’t, then they hire someone who is. But Fluvio’s controlling behavior is less about quality control and more about fear. He’s always on the lookout for people trying to rip him off. When he first installed the cameras, I was furious. I knew something about the effects of larceny and corruption while working for the Church and in the business world. I take a strange pride in the fact that the restaurant workers I have known have a better-developed sense of ethics and honor than many of my former colleagues. I told Fluvio I’d understand the cameras if we had a security problem, but since we didn’t, I felt like the surveillance was a slap in the face to the people who had given him long and honest service. His response was a simplistic, “Why you worried? You stealing from me? You got something to hide? You do nothing wrong, then you have nothing to worry about.”

That hurt. I had processed millions of dollars’ worth of Fluvio’s cash and inventory. I’m not claiming any kind of moral superiority. You’re not supposed to steal. But it hurts to think Fluvio needed to videotape my integrity. If I had wanted to steal from him, I could have robbed him blind and he never would’ve known about it. Eventually, I realized that, even if The Bistro was staffed by a convent of nuns, Fluvio would still want to act like Big Brother. Why? Like every anxious paranoid, Fluvio assumes the worst about every situation and person.

That’s why Fluvio freaked when Beth changed the schedule without telling him. He’s not upset that she switched shifts; he’s upset because he didn’t know about it. When he doesn’t know something, he assumes people are trying to get one over on him. So instead of indicating to Beth his desire to be kept in the loop, Fluvio immediately launched into Code Red.

Fluvio drives me insane, but I have a very soft spot for him, too. Despite his many shortcomings he can be a likable and kind man. When business is slow, he always makes sure everyone has enough hours to work and never lays anybody off. He’s made health insurance available when few small business owners are doing so. He’s lent money to people (including me) when they’re
broke. He was also quite nice to my family, cutting my brother and me a major price break when we held a surprise party for Mom at The Bistro. He takes good care of all his children and his aging father. But, despite all his good qualities, you never know when Fluvio will slip into Mussolini mode. This forces you to keep your guard up continuously. That constant expenditure of energy makes him an exhausting man to work for. Fluvio makes things a lot harder than they have to be.

I learned early, because of his personality, that I had to be the buffer between Fluvio and the staff. Whenever he screams at the staff, I calm him down. Whenever he gets hot under the collar about firing someone, I make his eternal preoccupation work for me and distract him. I’ve smoothed things over with aggravated customers, vendors, and staff. I’ve apologized many times for his rudeness. There are many people in the neighborhood who don’t like Fluvio. My normal response to their trash-talking is to say, “Yeah, he can be difficult, but he’s a good man at heart.” So as the years have passed, I’ve done my best to protect Fluvio from Fluvio. I remind him to shave, tuck in his shirt, and zip up his fly.