Not a newbie
Do you ever wonder about the waiter? Do you ever look at his little cherub like face and wonder? What’s going on in his little head? What’s he thinking about? Do you ever think on these things? Do you wonder how he got here, to this point in his life? Do you? Do you wonder about the waiter? Do you give him a second thought?
Of course you fucking don’t! You’re normal people. You care only about whether the waiter heard you saying you wanted your salad without dressing or if he has washed his hands in the last 3 days. And really that’s fine with me, there is no need for you to be wondering how I got here (9B bus from Balmoral heh) or how it is so that a man of my age and gait is doing the job of a teenage child. It’s none of your concern.
But there was a couple on Tuesday night that wondered. Oh my were they wondering. I could see it on their wee wondering faces.
It was early on Tuesday evening and I had a couple of tables, nothing very interesting it was all very meh and huh. They were all eating and I was looking for something to do. But I hadn’t noticed the couple standing at the door until he coughed a polite cough to attract my attention. Smile followed cough. Oh how civilised. I nearly dropped my iPhone as I scrambled to stash it back in my apron pocket. They smiled again, in unison this time which was a bit weird to say the least. I got them seated and told them the specials and advised them of their right to order a tasty beverage which they did. Sparkling water times two, one with no ice, and off I flounced.
“Sorry…excuse me waiter…”, says the chap as I tried to make my escape. I spun round. Well more lumbered than spun. I wouldn’t want to give you the impression I am gymnast-like in my movements, because I’m not. Not at all.
“Soup?”, asked the chap.
Balls…I hadn’t told him the soup…I really did need to snap out of my daydream like state.
“Eh yes….yes we have soup on tonight….”, man was I struggling to remember what the soup was. He looked at me as if I was one of god’s special children. It was a look more of pity than frustration. This unnerved me. I prefer my punters full of anger rather than pity.
“I wanna say tomato…or lentil…but maybe mushroom…I’ll check”, they both smiled at me. It was getting all very cult like. I’m not used to guests being reasonable.
Obviously the soup was chicken noodle. They ordered two bowls and the pork and the rump steak with various side orders and wine. Which I forgot to bring them. I was back at the bar introducing my face to my sweaty palm when Mr Reasonable wandered my way. Added to the forgotten wine was now also a steak knife for the rump of beef and a jug of water. I went red, Bradley Branning red. Which is as red as it guests.
I brought them all their missing bits and bobs and wine and water and checked them off. The lady, setting down her steak knife, reached out and clasped my hand like a sympathetic mourner at a funeral and told, “everything is just fine, it’s fine.” And then they smiled at me again. I took myself off to the safety of the empty section behind the precious velvet curtains. I caught my breath, all the running around correcting my fucks up had me whacked. But as I stood there, panting like a Labrador and with my tongue drooping too, I could hear them talk about me between forks of food.
“Ah he must be new….[chomp chomp chomp]“, says Mrs Reasonable.
“[chomp chomp chomp slug of wine] yeah has to be new”, agrees Mr Reasonable.
“He’s eh….not young either”, continues Mr Reasonable (soon to be renamed Mr Cheeky Fucker)
“Maybe he has to work at nights….you know what with the economy…second job like”, suggests Mr Cheeky Fucker’s newly named wife, Mrs Cheeky Fucker.
“Aye could be it alright”
I was frigging mortified, well who wouldn’t be. Not only did they think I was some shit newbie or other but they thought I was a skint shit newbie who had to take a second job to keep a tin roof over his shanty styled hut. Cheeky fuckers. I was resolved to explain my less than perfect service the next time I went to their table. I would explain that it was my first shift back and that I had been off for two weeks and that I had been to New York and everything. That would do it.
“So did you enjoy that then? The steak tender enough? The pork not over done?”, I asked with twenty years of experience dripping from every word.
“Yes, yes everything was just fine. Don’t worry about those wee things earlier. It’s not as easy as everybody thinks, you know….waiting tables. You ARE new aren’t you?”
Now I was about to kick off but the plates were heavy so I just agreed, sarcastically. I dropped off the plates and headed back to their table. Thankfully they didn’t want sweets so soon the whole ghastly experience would be over. I swear to god if she smiled at me once more I was gonna get very very upset. I could see she wanted to ask me questions about why I was waiting tables and all that but thankfully her crushing sense of reserve prevented her from doing so. Mr Cheeky Fucker paid the bill and as they got up to leave she stuffed a twenty pound note into my hand, the one she wasn’t clinging onto in a very mumsie way. He put his hand out to shake mine and as she wasn’t for letting go I ended up shaking hands with him with the cash still in my hand. It was all very odd for a moment as we were all joined in hands. I was was worried we were about to teleport to their home planet on SmileyFuckerLand. But off they fucked but not before Mr Cheeky Fucker had assured me that I, “had the potential to be a very competant waiter”.
My anger subsided thanks to espresso but mainly thanks to the twenty pound note that I still held clasped in my sweaty paw. So I have decided to continue down the shit waiter route. It seems to pay off. Wonder what i would get for spilling wine over someone? I need money for the new iPad. Heh….
21 Comments → “Not a newbie”
I want to be one of gods special children. I need money. Where do I get a Sugar Mr. Cheeky Fucker?
I was a bad waiter once, but in a different way.
Geezer rings up on Valentine’s day, in a state of some panic.
“What’s on your Valentine’s menu?” says he, in deep shit.
I proceed to read out the menu in intimate detail. He ooo’s and ahhh’s appreciatively. It takes about ten minutes. It was a slow lunch.
“That’s great!’ says he. “Table for two please.” I can feel the relief radiating from him, even down the phone.
“Sorry” says the Belfast Plate Carrier. “We’ve been booked out for two weeks.”
hehe the standard response when you mess up is ‘sorry mate! (big smile) only just got here ten minutes ago, and i’m still trying to get this place organised!”, in a conspiratorial way. Works for me every time, and makes it sound like you’re the only pro in the place
Then just chuck ‘em a free coffee. Wins you friends and allies. Coffee…greases the gears of society!
Here’s a loaded question. How hard would you have to try to appear incompetent and new?
And, 20 quid. Sweet. What nice people.
Remember to get your SD card to 30 pin adapter and your USB to 30 pin adapter too. How good of Mr Jobs to deliberately omit 2 industry standard interfaces and replace with a proprietary interface so that you have to buy extra Apple bits to make normal stuff work.
i LOVE bpc’s answer!! re the cheeky fuckers well, i’d call them elitist fucks, sugar! but 20e is 20e or in my case, 27.47usd! ;~D xoxoxox
sassy: you are…ah as for money, just be content with being special…
BPC: Mwahahahahaha…..I’ve done that myself….lovely…I assume you’re not open on sunday for the dullest day of the year…
Not Twitter: I have to but more stuff? brilliant!
Savannah: actually it’s GBP and not e’s….elitist fucks? oooh hell yes…
for an extra 20 quid (40 cdn) i’d act like i had to wear a helmet and take the ‘special’ bus..geez
arf….terrible!
OOOOOh Belfast Barista! How did I miss your comment! Sorry!
yeah being a “hero” really helps…also helps to have a kitchen to blame…forget to ring a portion of chips in? blame the kitchen! nobody dies and I win…
Often, I suck at my job and have received angry complaint emails addressed to the “owner/Manager of the Company” and of course…. that’s me!
because of you, dear manuel, i ALWAYS think about the waiter. you’ve ruined me… but even before i ‘met’ you, i once left a $20 tip for a $5 breakfast at a coffee shop after the server spilled maple syrup all over me and the table… she was just adorable. 50 years old, big red beehive hairdo in a small town in west virginia… i was in love…
Theres nothiing worse than people thinking your a window licker, a feeling i know well genraly caused by culhies failing to understand hows its possable i dont know where west high st is in fuckin ballygobackwards.
An culchies dont tip to make you feel better ether.
belfast! duh, i knew that! 31.20usd ok, but they’d still be elitist fucks! xoxoxox
Ahh Manuel! What bastards!
P.S You live dangerously close to me! Small world it seems…
Boxer: heh…what ya do? Giver yourself a dressing down? ha
daisy: ah so spilling works then….I’m not sure I can pull a big red beehive all the same but for £20 I’d give it a go
BTD: no, no they dont
savannah: ha, quality
white rabbit: spoooooky….
Manny…this is just too funny! I really missed your understated sarcasm. But now I’M back, too, and will read all the posts I’ve missed and read loyally in the future.
Great job.
Ha, you’d better…..
I want to know more about the Belfast bus experience.
My bus route is a tragedy at best. Latest example…
A crack whore boards the bus and proceeds up and down the aisle asking everyone for spare change. Which some of them willingly give! She then repeats the procedure asking everyone again and then disembarks.
That is just a mild sampling of my typical bus ride. Don’t get me started on the REAL disasters.
Those sympathy tips are great! You know it has always surprised me that we can be spot on some nights and make average tips but when you are off your game a bit money is flooding toward you. You deserve the 20 pounder for those other times when you should have got more.
Sympathy Tipping. I’m all over that! The worse the server is, the more I tip, as long as he or she is not a rude bastard. We all have our bad days. I served tables for years and it’s amazing how good a slightly larger tip would make me feel.
Gah!! What is that I feel, empathy? Ick! Over it now.
I’ll be honest, whenever I’m eating in Belfast I look at the waiter and wonder if it’s you. But then one of my hi-la-rious cohorts will ask for the medium rare carpaccio or something and when he isn’t murdered there and then with salad tongs I generally assume it isn’t.