I love a caramel macchiato as much as the next guy, but I wonder why the receipt of a macchiatto results in an exasperating demand for a tip in the form of a tip jar. I don't tip at McDonald's and I don't tip at Target. I always wonder why the crew at Starbucks believes handing something to me over the counter should result in a tip. Then again, I may be insanely jealous they receive tips with so little effort.
This is the story of my effort.
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I saw her standing by the hostess stand. All of four foot eight inches, her sweater draped over her shoulders and a scarf tight around her head, despite the warm temperatures of late April. The hostess moved to seat her at a small table for two, but she nodded her head and pointed her finger, and just like that, she was seated at a table set for four in my section.
I gathered a glass of water with lemon, a straw... and my strength... and I approached the table. A quick hello sufficed as a greeting, as she was busy removing her scarf and otherwise situating herself for a long and leisurely lunch. From my vantage point in the server’s station, I watched as she dipped her napkin into her water and then proceeded to polish the silverware before her.
When she finished, I approached the table again, introduced myself and began the litany of daily specials. Her head cocked, barely noticeably, at the mention of a Chicken Salad sandwich served with a choice of beverage for the steal of $5.95. But she did not order, instead she pushed her water glass accusingly toward me and asked for another glass and another napkin.
I removed the offending items and returned moments later to see if she was ready to order lunch. Instead she asked me to go into detail about the other daily special : a nice Grilled Salmon with a side of béarnaise and mixed vegetables. Once we decided the salmon was indeed fresh, that the béarnaise would be served on the side, not touching the salmon, that the vegetables consisted of zucchini and squash and onions, lightly buttered and sautéed -- al dente—once we established all this information, she ordered the Chicken Salad sandwich on white bread with a side of cole slaw.
Total trips to the table: 3
Her lunch order submitted to the kitchen, I retreat once again to the server’s station, when suddenly her waving hand beckoned me back to her side.
“Did you say a beverage came with my lunch?” she asked. I smiled and told her yes.
“Is the coffee fresh?” she asked.
I assured her it had just been brewed. She nodded her head but didn’t say anything more. I asked if she wanted a cup of fresh coffee.
“Not now”, she answered.
I made a slight bow, turned and went into the kitchen to check the status of her order. And there it waited: a full portion of chicken salad on white bread with a side of cole slaw. I picked up the dish and practically sashayed back to the table with her lunch. I placed the dish before her. She picked up her fork and pushed at the bread.
“Is that a tomato I see,” she asked.
Yes.
“I don’t like tomatoes. Take it off my sandwich.”
Do you have an allergy? Should I have the sandwich remade?
“No. I just don’t like tomatoes."
For a moment I wanted to ask her why she didn’t just remove the tomato herself, but years of hospitality training kicked into overdrive, and I smiled and removed her plate. In and out of the kitchen, sans tomatoes, and the plate was before her again.
“Is this bread toasted? I like mine toasted, I told you that."
Well no, you didn’t exactly tell me that, my brain replied, but I smiled and removed the plate. In and out of the kitchen again, this time the warm smell of toast accompanied me to the table. The plate settled before her again, and suddenly the small dish of cole slaw caught her attention.
She stuck her fork into it and tried a bite.
“Young man, this cole slaw has too much mayonnaise. Will you take it to the kitchen and rinse it and then pat it dry?”
My eyes slowly moved from the small dish to the sandwich, the chicken salad sandwich, the sandwich made delicious by the addition of copious amounts of mayonnaise to small pieces of chicken. For the first time that day I began to think of my good friend Jack Daniels and made a mental note to call him when my shift was over.
In and out of the kitchen again, this time sans mayonnaise, and I went back to the table again—when Holy Mother Mary of God! -I’ve left her fork in the kitchen. I swung by the server’s station and grabbed the cleanest fork I could see and approached the table again. I set the combination in front of her and held my breath. No, she did not clean the new fork! She jabbed it into her cole slaw and stirred it around.
“That’s better.”
I let out a sigh and retreated.
Total trips to the table: 8
Checked on her status and refilled her water.
Total trips to the table: 10
When she appeared to finish, dabbing her napkin against her lips, folding it and placing it onto the table, I approached again and asked if she was ready for that cup of fresh coffee. I also reached for the plate.
“I am not finished yet, “ she barked.
I stepped back and watched as she pushed the small side dish away and revealed the smallest remnant of pickle. She daintily popped that gem into her mouth and then smiled, “OK, you can take it now. And I will take a cup of coffee. Black. Make sure it is fresh or I will send it back.”
My friend Jack kept appearing in my mind, but I squashed the sudden urge to contact him right then and there, and I took her plate to the kitchen, retrieved her black coffee and returned yet again to my lovely diner.
“It’s not hot enough,” was her fresh complaint.
Back to the kitchen again to have a discussion with the microwave, (well, I was talking to the microwave while the coffee heated, the microwave did not say much). I placed the cup back on the table, inquired about dessert, recited the litany of that day’s available desserts, assured her that indeed, we did not carry ice cream, spoke in detail about our cheesecake- no, it was not made on site – and she decided to have what I already knew she would, which was nothing.
Total trips to the table: 13
I won’t go into the moments that followed: the presentation of the check, the explanation of the seven percent sales tax, or the search in the abyss of her purse for loose change. Let it only be said that $5.95 plus sales tax plus 15% gratuity of ninety-five cents (gleaned from a “tip-chart” also hidden in the bottom of her purse) add up to the imposing total of $7.32. I saw the angelic look of satisfaction of “a-good-deed-done” as she passed me $7.40 and told me to keep the change. After all, this was eight cents more than the requisite 15%! I smiled at her charity. And of course, I got her another cup of fresh, hot coffee. In the spirit of her generosity I even helped her adjust her sweater and scarf before she left the building.
Total trips to the table: 17
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
All The President's Men
Early in the days of the Clinton administration, the Democrats in Congress used to have a yearly meeting at Kingsmill Resort in Williamsburg, Virginia. At some point during their retreat the President and Vice-President would attend a dinner function and then address the group in a closed-door setting.
It was always an exciting time as the sharpshooters would take their positions on the rooftops, the bomb-squad dogs would canvas the building and the Secret Service would station themselves throughout the resort, especially the Conference Center where one could be located about every 50 feet or so. I remember setting up the banquet hall and the staff being asked to leave for twenty minutes while the dogs checked the room. I also remember that we were scanned one time only for weapons.
I was tending bar when the politicians arrived, so many TV-familiar faces that it gave me goosebumps: George Mitchell, Carol Moseley Brown and even Ted Kennedy. In fact, while most of the VIPs were ordering single drinks, Senator Kennedy actually asked me for an entire bottle of wine which he took to the veranda and enjoyed in a close-knit conference with a beautiful young aide. NO KIDDING!
Soon enough the crowd moved into the banquet hall and just then my manager approached to tell me I would be the server for President Clinton and Vice-President Gore. Oh the excitement! It was a buffet, so there was not much more to do than clear plates and offer wine, but I relished every minute of it. After dinner, the President took to a small dais to give his speech and all the servers left the room.
A Secret Service man approached me and told me that as the President's server, I needed to place a bottle of Perrier next to the podium. As I prepared to go into the room, he also said, "There will be rifles pointed in your direction. Don't try anything. And I recommend you don't trip." REALLY? WAS HE JUST MESSING WITH ME OR WHAT? I was terrified as I approached the dais, but it got worse a few minutes later when the same man told me the President now wanted coffee.
At Kingsmill Resort, we didn't just bring you a cup of coffee. We brought you a dainty cup on a dainty saucer that was not filled until after everything was placed on the table. As I made my way across the room a second time, everyone in that room could hear the empty cup shaking against the saucer as my hand trembled. After this experience, all I wanted to do was smoke, so I went out back to the loading dock and told a cigarette all about my big day. Then I decided I couldn't smell like smoke if called back to the President's side, so I went to my locker and brushed my teeth and washed my face. It always amazed me I was able to go outside, go to my locker and reenter the room without being scanned a second time for weapons.
Jump forward a year to the second visit and the events get out of control. This time the bomb-sniffing dogs took over the banquet hall for almost 90 minutes, which almost threw the event behind schedule. We were really scrambling. My new friend Jim was selected to take care of the Clinton's table this year, but when the President walked into the room, Jim completely freaked out, and I was asked to step in and take over. (It's important for me to mention that Jim was gay...very, very unapologetically gay.)
We also were scanned each and every time we entered into the banquet hall, and during Clinton's address, no one was allowed in the room, even to deliver coffee. With all this extra time during the speech, Jim and I decided to wander the Conference Center. What did we talk about? We talked about how HOT all those Secret Service guys were. We also got into a bizarre early edition of the game "Who would you have sex with...?", which included the hilarious question: Clinton or Gore? We were as bad as two New York contruction guys whistling at a girl in a bikini, just much quieter.
Please let it be known that the Secret Service guys were really, really nice. They smiled as we walked by. In fact, some of them may have been laughing. There must have been a private joke that day.
Eventually it was time for me to hit the back dock to share all my adventures with my cigarette. As I stood there smoking, my eyes came to rest on a strange group of wires coming out of the Conference Center where no wires had ever been located before. My curiosity compelled me to follow them out of the dock area and up the hill...where I found a white van filled with people listening to headphones. HOLY MOTHER OF GOD, THE ENTIRE FIRST FLOOR WAS BUGGED. This is the reason we had to leave the banquet hall for 90 minutes! Even worse, the Secret Service guys had heard our entire raunch-filled chatter.
No wonder they were laughing.
I sincerely believe the Pentagon has a dossier with my name on it. It is probably passed around and laughed at from time to time. In fact, when Al Gore visited Norfolk a few years ago, he passed through the lobby of the Marriott and shook hands with the employees. I am positive that when he shook my hand, he did a very subtle double-take and then stepped back quickly.
It was always an exciting time as the sharpshooters would take their positions on the rooftops, the bomb-squad dogs would canvas the building and the Secret Service would station themselves throughout the resort, especially the Conference Center where one could be located about every 50 feet or so. I remember setting up the banquet hall and the staff being asked to leave for twenty minutes while the dogs checked the room. I also remember that we were scanned one time only for weapons.
I was tending bar when the politicians arrived, so many TV-familiar faces that it gave me goosebumps: George Mitchell, Carol Moseley Brown and even Ted Kennedy. In fact, while most of the VIPs were ordering single drinks, Senator Kennedy actually asked me for an entire bottle of wine which he took to the veranda and enjoyed in a close-knit conference with a beautiful young aide. NO KIDDING!
Soon enough the crowd moved into the banquet hall and just then my manager approached to tell me I would be the server for President Clinton and Vice-President Gore. Oh the excitement! It was a buffet, so there was not much more to do than clear plates and offer wine, but I relished every minute of it. After dinner, the President took to a small dais to give his speech and all the servers left the room.
A Secret Service man approached me and told me that as the President's server, I needed to place a bottle of Perrier next to the podium. As I prepared to go into the room, he also said, "There will be rifles pointed in your direction. Don't try anything. And I recommend you don't trip." REALLY? WAS HE JUST MESSING WITH ME OR WHAT? I was terrified as I approached the dais, but it got worse a few minutes later when the same man told me the President now wanted coffee.
At Kingsmill Resort, we didn't just bring you a cup of coffee. We brought you a dainty cup on a dainty saucer that was not filled until after everything was placed on the table. As I made my way across the room a second time, everyone in that room could hear the empty cup shaking against the saucer as my hand trembled. After this experience, all I wanted to do was smoke, so I went out back to the loading dock and told a cigarette all about my big day. Then I decided I couldn't smell like smoke if called back to the President's side, so I went to my locker and brushed my teeth and washed my face. It always amazed me I was able to go outside, go to my locker and reenter the room without being scanned a second time for weapons.
Jump forward a year to the second visit and the events get out of control. This time the bomb-sniffing dogs took over the banquet hall for almost 90 minutes, which almost threw the event behind schedule. We were really scrambling. My new friend Jim was selected to take care of the Clinton's table this year, but when the President walked into the room, Jim completely freaked out, and I was asked to step in and take over. (It's important for me to mention that Jim was gay...very, very unapologetically gay.)
We also were scanned each and every time we entered into the banquet hall, and during Clinton's address, no one was allowed in the room, even to deliver coffee. With all this extra time during the speech, Jim and I decided to wander the Conference Center. What did we talk about? We talked about how HOT all those Secret Service guys were. We also got into a bizarre early edition of the game "Who would you have sex with...?", which included the hilarious question: Clinton or Gore? We were as bad as two New York contruction guys whistling at a girl in a bikini, just much quieter.
Please let it be known that the Secret Service guys were really, really nice. They smiled as we walked by. In fact, some of them may have been laughing. There must have been a private joke that day.
Eventually it was time for me to hit the back dock to share all my adventures with my cigarette. As I stood there smoking, my eyes came to rest on a strange group of wires coming out of the Conference Center where no wires had ever been located before. My curiosity compelled me to follow them out of the dock area and up the hill...where I found a white van filled with people listening to headphones. HOLY MOTHER OF GOD, THE ENTIRE FIRST FLOOR WAS BUGGED. This is the reason we had to leave the banquet hall for 90 minutes! Even worse, the Secret Service guys had heard our entire raunch-filled chatter.
No wonder they were laughing.
I sincerely believe the Pentagon has a dossier with my name on it. It is probably passed around and laughed at from time to time. In fact, when Al Gore visited Norfolk a few years ago, he passed through the lobby of the Marriott and shook hands with the employees. I am positive that when he shook my hand, he did a very subtle double-take and then stepped back quickly.
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