I'm somewhat of a bastard, which probably makes me ill-suited to be a waiter. Regardless this is what i've been doing for the past two and a half years.
I wait tables at a local greasy spoon here in Ottawa. The place is roughly the size of a cargo container and is overrun with lebanese. They serve standard greasy-spoon fair; hamburgers, pasta, poutine (that Quebec creation which combines all the carbohydrates of fries, cheese, and gravy with all the health benefits of freebasing lard), caesar salads, and arguably, the best pizza in town.
I am the only waiter in the place on Monday, Tuesday and Saturday evenings. Along with me are 1 to 2 cooks and any number of dishwashers who cannot speak English. You would think that would be frustrating for them, but it's not, because most of the conversation between the staff is in lebanese...Which I don't speak but believe I can at least reach a close proximity to by wildly waving my arms around.
They are generally nice people, even funny. Unfortunately the two guys - a cook and the cashier - are more moody than a lonely wet cat in heat.
Also, there's a disher-washer on Monday who makes up for the fact that he's utterly useless by maintaining a steady tuneless humming throughout the evening. The closer I get to him, the louder he hums. It's a nervous humming, because we both no that he is about as helpful as a dog turd on a sidewalk. Thankfully he provides additional assistance during pressure-time by puttering around directly in my flight path.
There's Vlamur from Bosnia. Totally competent and a real nice guy. We bond because we're the only staff that speaks English. We tend to agree with each other whether it's hockey or the slightly confused management style. Sometimes, though, I get the feeling that neither of us has a clue what the other is saying.
There are two modes of operation at the restaraunt: stillness pervaded by boredom, or racing around pervaded by spastic.
Either i'm sitting there - usually doing a crossword puzzle, or watching the cook cook, or pacing back and forth along the narrow length of the restaurant, or watching Mythbusters - generally bored, or i'm madly scrambling from table to table to kitchen, to fridge, to dishwashing nook, to store, and back to table. All this punctuated by quick inane comments to other members of the staff and customers. Things like:
"No, they're not lesbians...Lebanese from lebanon."
"It's cream of spinach soup...It's made from cream and spinach."
"No, you can't have the gravy for free."
"Define 'warm it up' considering it just came out of the oven."
I say these things with a straight face. It comes out smoothly because i'm part of the flow of the restaurant. I'm a nice guy. I can put it on and calmly deflect an old man screaming in my face because his turkey dinner with mash potatoes is 45 minutes late, because the cook has to do deliveries and he's the only on that can cook turkey.
I don't say to Old Turkey Mash, "How do you know that was actually Turkey you just ate?"
Other things cross my mind throughout the evening.
Like, families that sit down and order a large greek salad, a plate of zucchini sticks, a plate of nachos, two medium deluxe pizzas, one spaghetti, a round of milkshakes, slices of apple pie with extra ice cream. . .and then ask for Diet Cokes. What crosses my mind is: kind of like trying to melt the iceberg that just hit the Titanic with the hair dryer isn't it.
Then there's the people that order some extravagant cocktail even though it's clear the decor in the place consists of model trains, pictures of trains, pictures of train stations, and what appear to be miniature trains but are in fact trucks. Inevitably it's a women in her late fourties, round, leathery, grey roots, puffing on a Benson and Hedges Gold, with a beleaguered looking, late-fourties male companion. She orders a Twisted Julep Frat Face with a Touch of Gin. I look at her blankly, straight faced.
"What's the matter, you don't have single malt scotch?"
I look around me, at the trains, and I say, "This is pretty much a greasy spoon. How's a gin and tonic sound?"
Then there are the people who take painfully long to order, and don't answer when you ask, "Do you need a moment to decide?" It's funny each customer to some degree or another is convinced that they are the center of the known universe. That is to the exclusion of anyone one else who might need the one waiter that is the only one available.
In this particular degree it's like trying to get and order out of William Shatner on quaaludes:
"Ieeeeeee. Woooooooould. Lieeeeeeeke." they pause to bring the menu closer to their face like it's a secret code and the message will change, "Emmmmmmmmmmm. Hooooow's.Yoooooooooour... Huuuuuuuuuuuummus?"
"We don't have hummus."
"Aaaaaah. Wellllllll-"
"Do want me to give you more time?"
"Weelllllllll. Nooooo....Caaaan. Yoooooou. Sugessssst... Somethinggggggg?"
"How about some fries and a Red Bull?"
"Frieeeeeeees? Iiiiiiiis. Thaaaaaaaat. Onnnnnnnnnn- wherrrrrrrrrrrrrre. Issssssssss. Thaaaaaaat?"
And so on.
There are those people that have come to a restaurant fully equipped with competent cooks and begin to create there own special meal. This is usually by way of a long painful game of twenty questions:
"I see that you have zuccinni sticks. Do you have blue cheese?"
"No."
"Do you have....Honey Dijon mustard?"
"No."
"Do you have duck liver?"
"No."
"Do you haaaaaaave... fried plantain?"
"No."
"Butter scotch builla-base."
"No."
"Hm.....How about-"
"Look lady, if you can't read the menu i'll get the kids' one. It's got pictures."
And yes, it's usually the middle-aged women that are worst customers. They narrowly edge out extremely old people and young families as people the most likely to demand the most and give the least.
They are also the most hormonally extreme in terms of pre-food and post-food attitude.
(sorry to end this one so abruptly. i ran out of steam when I was writing many ages, and now, a world ago.)
