Seriously, I could write endless numbers of posts about my Big Fat Greek Boss, who happens to own and manage the Italian restaurant where I work.
He is so bad my friends have hard times believing me when I tell them the stories. He is soooo bad that I am surprised the restaurant hasn't died yet.
To his credit you need to understand he is old, meaning in-need-of-hearing-aid type of old, which also means that he grew up in war times when food was scarce. This might explain why he is so goddamn cheap. Not justify, but explain it at least.
My Big Fat Greek Boss (whom i will refer to as BFGB) will find every possible way to rip customers off, he is the antithesis of Customer Service, he does not have any long term view whatsoever and he rather put 10 cents in his pocket TODAY and loose a customer for the rest of his life than invest in some long term relationship.
Why do people still come there to eat, is something I haven't quite figure out yet. Oh, wait, maybe it has something to do with the fact that we are one of the only pizza places in several blocks, that the portions are humongous and that most of the customers are so old they'll probably be dead before they could find a replacement for their long time Italian dinner habit.
Yes, it's that sad.
More details on the BFGB to come.
Mar 16, 2009
Sep 3, 2008
The Queen, the King and the servant
One of the things that working as a waitress has thought me is being able to appreciate good service. And bad service, even.
In those -rare- occasions my schedule allows me to go out for dinner, I feel like a Queen. How nice to have someone keep your glass of water full, how indulgent to have another guy offering you bread, and ...OMG... it's warm, and you don't even have to slice it because they've already done it for you! How luxurious to have a stranger bringing your favorite dish cooked exactly the way you want, and have another stranger cleaning up after you and getting your table all nice and ready for dessert.
How about when they bring you an after drink on the house? That's when I don't feel like a Queen anymore, I am God in my own Heaven.
Think about it for a moment. You, people. All of you who like to come and eat where I work. And all of you who patronize some kind of food establishment. Think about it. Make a list of ALL the reasons why you go out for dinner instead of staying home. Sure, it's because of the food, you like that particular taste you can't quite reproduce in your kitchen. Or maybe you don't even like the food that much (at least I hope, for your own sake, that you don't like the food I happen to serve you), but it's million times better than what you can prepare for yourself. Then, yes, you want a night out and a slice of city life is way better than what's on TV tonight. And maybe you want to enjoy the company of friends, or maybe you simply forgot to buy groceries, now it's too late and you are exhausted.
But listen, how about that luxurious experience of being served? You don't have to move a finger, you just need to talk clearly, express your desire for a hot plate of half cheese ravioli -and please just add 2 of the meat ones, would you?- half spaghetti, one quarter with meat sauce, one quarter with tomato sauce and a touch of cream, one quarter with pesto and grilled chicken, not too much oil because I am on a diet, and one quarter, is there a quarter left?, oh yes, ok, the last quarter with primavera sauce, but please leave out the broccoli because I can't digest them, ah and don't forget to throw in some extra garlic, and give me some anchovies on the side. And the spaghetti, I'd like them al dente, but not the ravioli, them I like mushy, I can't stand when the edges are too hard to chew.
Yes, sir? Anything else?
That's it, ah, I am in a hurry, so can you please make it superfast?
I will, but you have to admit that one of the reasons you are here is because your wife/husband/partner would rather kill you than prepare all of the above. And because you like the idea that someone can serve you the requested dish with a smile on their face. And because the only thing we ask you in exchange is to remember exactly what you ordered so that you won't complaint when the spaghetti are too hard, the ravioli are too soft, the primavera has too much garlic, the chicken is not on the side and the tomato sauce is pink.
You ask, I deliver. You make a mess, I clean up. Your kids throw half-eaten rigatoni all over the floor, I pick them up. You spill Chianti on the antipasti and on your white collar shirt, I don't scream "Dummass!!", instead I literally run at your table, apologize like it was my fault, wipe the mess, give you clean napkins, more wine and new appetizers, for free.
You are the King, I am your servant.
What's not to like about that?
The bill, maybe?
Hey, Sir!...Sorry....Sir! Where's the tip?
In those -rare- occasions my schedule allows me to go out for dinner, I feel like a Queen. How nice to have someone keep your glass of water full, how indulgent to have another guy offering you bread, and ...OMG... it's warm, and you don't even have to slice it because they've already done it for you! How luxurious to have a stranger bringing your favorite dish cooked exactly the way you want, and have another stranger cleaning up after you and getting your table all nice and ready for dessert.
How about when they bring you an after drink on the house? That's when I don't feel like a Queen anymore, I am God in my own Heaven.
Think about it for a moment. You, people. All of you who like to come and eat where I work. And all of you who patronize some kind of food establishment. Think about it. Make a list of ALL the reasons why you go out for dinner instead of staying home. Sure, it's because of the food, you like that particular taste you can't quite reproduce in your kitchen. Or maybe you don't even like the food that much (at least I hope, for your own sake, that you don't like the food I happen to serve you), but it's million times better than what you can prepare for yourself. Then, yes, you want a night out and a slice of city life is way better than what's on TV tonight. And maybe you want to enjoy the company of friends, or maybe you simply forgot to buy groceries, now it's too late and you are exhausted.
But listen, how about that luxurious experience of being served? You don't have to move a finger, you just need to talk clearly, express your desire for a hot plate of half cheese ravioli -and please just add 2 of the meat ones, would you?- half spaghetti, one quarter with meat sauce, one quarter with tomato sauce and a touch of cream, one quarter with pesto and grilled chicken, not too much oil because I am on a diet, and one quarter, is there a quarter left?, oh yes, ok, the last quarter with primavera sauce, but please leave out the broccoli because I can't digest them, ah and don't forget to throw in some extra garlic, and give me some anchovies on the side. And the spaghetti, I'd like them al dente, but not the ravioli, them I like mushy, I can't stand when the edges are too hard to chew.
Yes, sir? Anything else?
That's it, ah, I am in a hurry, so can you please make it superfast?
I will, but you have to admit that one of the reasons you are here is because your wife/husband/partner would rather kill you than prepare all of the above. And because you like the idea that someone can serve you the requested dish with a smile on their face. And because the only thing we ask you in exchange is to remember exactly what you ordered so that you won't complaint when the spaghetti are too hard, the ravioli are too soft, the primavera has too much garlic, the chicken is not on the side and the tomato sauce is pink.
You ask, I deliver. You make a mess, I clean up. Your kids throw half-eaten rigatoni all over the floor, I pick them up. You spill Chianti on the antipasti and on your white collar shirt, I don't scream "Dummass!!", instead I literally run at your table, apologize like it was my fault, wipe the mess, give you clean napkins, more wine and new appetizers, for free.
You are the King, I am your servant.
What's not to like about that?
The bill, maybe?
Hey, Sir!...Sorry....Sir! Where's the tip?
Mar 5, 2008
Sometimes spaghetti likes to be alone
Yeah, right.
Remember one of the first scenes of that great movie, Big Night, when the chef Primo refuses to serve spaghetti as a side dish for risotto, wondering how can someone order starch and carbs at the same time? Remember how the customer keeps asking for more cheese on his serving of pasta? Remember how another customer assumes that the spaghetti automatically comes with meatballs? "No, sometimes spaghetti likes to be alone", answers the waiter, trying to accommodate the guests and to stay true to his Italian heritage at the same time.
That's a difficult task and in all honesty, I gave up. I gave up trying to understand the ranch dressing thing, I stopped saying that Italian food is not all about garlic, (which we use just to add a hint of flavor, not to replace lack of flavor), I quit explaining that the pregrated, prepacked, never expiring "parmesan" from Chile has nothing to do with the noble cheese of Central Italy, and that we don't use THAT MUCH OF IT anyways, I'm tired of saying that pizza to me is not a chewy piece of dough surmounted by an extra thick layer of greasy cheese and an insane combination of fatty toppings, I don't want to inform you that pesto sauce doesn't really have to be everywhere, I no longer feel horrified by that monstrous meat lasagna dish, I stopped giving recommendations on the food we serve, because if I did, I'd just say you'd better leave and go order somewhere else where they have absolutely nothing on the menu that resembles fettuccini Alfredo or spaghetti meatballs (who is this Alfredo anyways?).
You want extra cheese on a pizza that is already only about cheese? FINE. You want to add pesto, chicken, broccoli and clams to your fettuccini pomodoro? NO PROBLEM. You want even more bread and butter with your meal? OK WITH ME. You want to dip the pizza crust in Thousand Island dressing? SURE. You want a pink sauce? WHY NOT? You want to eat eggplant parmigiana with a side of tortellini? FINE. You think three glasses of root beer go well with your veal? GREAT.
I'll do what you want. I'm here to please you. Just remember though: Sometimes spaghetti likes to be alone.
Remember one of the first scenes of that great movie, Big Night, when the chef Primo refuses to serve spaghetti as a side dish for risotto, wondering how can someone order starch and carbs at the same time? Remember how the customer keeps asking for more cheese on his serving of pasta? Remember how another customer assumes that the spaghetti automatically comes with meatballs? "No, sometimes spaghetti likes to be alone", answers the waiter, trying to accommodate the guests and to stay true to his Italian heritage at the same time.
That's a difficult task and in all honesty, I gave up. I gave up trying to understand the ranch dressing thing, I stopped saying that Italian food is not all about garlic, (which we use just to add a hint of flavor, not to replace lack of flavor), I quit explaining that the pregrated, prepacked, never expiring "parmesan" from Chile has nothing to do with the noble cheese of Central Italy, and that we don't use THAT MUCH OF IT anyways, I'm tired of saying that pizza to me is not a chewy piece of dough surmounted by an extra thick layer of greasy cheese and an insane combination of fatty toppings, I don't want to inform you that pesto sauce doesn't really have to be everywhere, I no longer feel horrified by that monstrous meat lasagna dish, I stopped giving recommendations on the food we serve, because if I did, I'd just say you'd better leave and go order somewhere else where they have absolutely nothing on the menu that resembles fettuccini Alfredo or spaghetti meatballs (who is this Alfredo anyways?).
You want extra cheese on a pizza that is already only about cheese? FINE. You want to add pesto, chicken, broccoli and clams to your fettuccini pomodoro? NO PROBLEM. You want even more bread and butter with your meal? OK WITH ME. You want to dip the pizza crust in Thousand Island dressing? SURE. You want a pink sauce? WHY NOT? You want to eat eggplant parmigiana with a side of tortellini? FINE. You think three glasses of root beer go well with your veal? GREAT.
I'll do what you want. I'm here to please you. Just remember though: Sometimes spaghetti likes to be alone.
Feb 13, 2008
Rules of the game
During all these years, I've served tons of customers. Many of them I've seen more than once, and their face has become familiar, as well as their taste in food. I can tell you what dressing they like on the salad, how often they go out for pizza, what type of beer they drink, what side dish they enjoy with their chicken parmigiana, how thin their crust must be.
Does that make me their intimate confidant? I don't think so. I don't even know their name! As a matter of fact, one of my personal rules is:"Never get to know a customer by name". Because that can only lead to worse.
When Mark, the saturday night guy that always wants to sit at table 13 and would never - and I mean never - order anything else than his veal with spaghetti, followed by a slice of cheesecake, when he told us his name, everyone freaked out. BIG DISASTER! You are nice, you know, you come in, you don't talk much, in fact you don't talk at all, you are easy, freaky and predictable, so predictable that by the time you take your coat off, your veal is already frying on the pan, and you haven't even ordered yet. So why did you ruin everything?
I mean, you were perfect, never a word, just signs, credit card on the table to mean you are ready to pay, nod to the right to ask for more water, nod to the left to request extra bread. Perfect! Why did you need to tell us your name? That's not good.
Please don't, at least you, silent Mark, please don't start making me your friend. I'd say especially you, freaky Mark. I saw the horrified look on your face the night you came in and your table 13 was already taken. Big change to sit 2 numbers before, you could barely handle it. We realize you must have things your way, the same way, you must sit on table 13 on saturday night and you must have veal parmigiana with spaghetti, 2 glasses of water and a slice of cheescake. I know you must pay and sign before the cheesecake arrives to the table, I know you always have to go to the restroom after the meal, leaving your jacket on the chair, I know, we all know. But please don't make me part of it, I don't want to understand why you do what you do, I don't want to tell you my name, I don't need to know yours.
Does that make me their intimate confidant? I don't think so. I don't even know their name! As a matter of fact, one of my personal rules is:"Never get to know a customer by name". Because that can only lead to worse.
When Mark, the saturday night guy that always wants to sit at table 13 and would never - and I mean never - order anything else than his veal with spaghetti, followed by a slice of cheesecake, when he told us his name, everyone freaked out. BIG DISASTER! You are nice, you know, you come in, you don't talk much, in fact you don't talk at all, you are easy, freaky and predictable, so predictable that by the time you take your coat off, your veal is already frying on the pan, and you haven't even ordered yet. So why did you ruin everything?
I mean, you were perfect, never a word, just signs, credit card on the table to mean you are ready to pay, nod to the right to ask for more water, nod to the left to request extra bread. Perfect! Why did you need to tell us your name? That's not good.
Please don't, at least you, silent Mark, please don't start making me your friend. I'd say especially you, freaky Mark. I saw the horrified look on your face the night you came in and your table 13 was already taken. Big change to sit 2 numbers before, you could barely handle it. We realize you must have things your way, the same way, you must sit on table 13 on saturday night and you must have veal parmigiana with spaghetti, 2 glasses of water and a slice of cheescake. I know you must pay and sign before the cheesecake arrives to the table, I know you always have to go to the restroom after the meal, leaving your jacket on the chair, I know, we all know. But please don't make me part of it, I don't want to understand why you do what you do, I don't want to tell you my name, I don't need to know yours.
Dec 28, 2007
I Am NOT Your Friend
It didn't take me long to understand how waiting tables here in the U.S. is a different task than in Italy. Simply put, the TIP is what keeps the dining worlds apart.
In Italy, when they don't work under the table, waiters receive a regular salary and people who dine out don't have to leave tips. They may or may not, but if they do, it's just an extra courtesy and the small change they leave is not even enough for a bus ride. Good service or bad service, it doesn't matter. At the end of the month the waiter will cash in the same amount of money.
Here tips set the rules. You work for the tip, you smile for the tip, you keep filling water for the tip, you ask:” Is everything OK?” for the tip, you make eye contact for the tip, you offer your advice (i.e. you lie) on wine and food for the tip, you introduce yourself (just to clarify, I've never done that...) for the tip. Even if they hate doing that, waiters end up being all friendly and social, so that their duties begin to resemble more those of a VP of Customer Relations than those of a food runner.
But for some obscure reasons, customers at the dining table love to be fooled; they go out and feel lonely; they forget the obvious even if they've barely touched the wine. It happens all the time: customers do not want to think that you’re there smiling at them because your goal is at least a 20% on top of the bill. They actually like the fact that someone finally talks to them in a nice way; worst of all, some of them may even start talking back and try to engage you in a conversation that is not about the thickness of the pizza crust or the amount of butter in the cream sauce.
As soon as you notice the signs of an imminent too friendly conversation, if you are not smart and fast enough to come up with an excuse to run away, (why the pizza for your table is never ready when you need it?), you are trapped. The friendly customers will start telling you all about their family (and you think: "I don’t care, you know?"), their long day at work ("I don’t care, I am at work, you know?"), their happy children ("I don’t care, those kids at table 5 left a mess and I need to clean it up, you know?"), their new girlfriend ("I don’t care, I am single, you know?"), their ex-wife ("I don't care, did I mention I am single for a reason, you know?"), their social life ("I don’t care, I am here forced to be social and I hate it, you know?"), their last workout session ("I don't care, you should rather stop eating all that cheese, you know?"), their Italian heritage and family traditions ("I don’t care, I was born and raised in Italy, I think I know better, you know?"), their plans for Xmas ("I don' care, all I want is a day off to stay away from this place, you know?").
Why don’t you get it, people? I don't want to hear your stories, I don't want to know your name nor that of all your extended family, I don't want to help you planning your next trip to Italy, I don't want to know what you do for living and where you went to school, I don't want to share my favourite tomato sauce recipe with you, I don't want to hear your movie recommendations and I don't want to teach you italian. All I want is being able to deliver the spaghetti when they're still hot, add meatballs if you like them, and hand you the bill.
Just remember: I am NOT your friend; I DON’T want to be one.
In Italy, when they don't work under the table, waiters receive a regular salary and people who dine out don't have to leave tips. They may or may not, but if they do, it's just an extra courtesy and the small change they leave is not even enough for a bus ride. Good service or bad service, it doesn't matter. At the end of the month the waiter will cash in the same amount of money.
Here tips set the rules. You work for the tip, you smile for the tip, you keep filling water for the tip, you ask:” Is everything OK?” for the tip, you make eye contact for the tip, you offer your advice (i.e. you lie) on wine and food for the tip, you introduce yourself (just to clarify, I've never done that...) for the tip. Even if they hate doing that, waiters end up being all friendly and social, so that their duties begin to resemble more those of a VP of Customer Relations than those of a food runner.
But for some obscure reasons, customers at the dining table love to be fooled; they go out and feel lonely; they forget the obvious even if they've barely touched the wine. It happens all the time: customers do not want to think that you’re there smiling at them because your goal is at least a 20% on top of the bill. They actually like the fact that someone finally talks to them in a nice way; worst of all, some of them may even start talking back and try to engage you in a conversation that is not about the thickness of the pizza crust or the amount of butter in the cream sauce.
As soon as you notice the signs of an imminent too friendly conversation, if you are not smart and fast enough to come up with an excuse to run away, (why the pizza for your table is never ready when you need it?), you are trapped. The friendly customers will start telling you all about their family (and you think: "I don’t care, you know?"), their long day at work ("I don’t care, I am at work, you know?"), their happy children ("I don’t care, those kids at table 5 left a mess and I need to clean it up, you know?"), their new girlfriend ("I don’t care, I am single, you know?"), their ex-wife ("I don't care, did I mention I am single for a reason, you know?"), their social life ("I don’t care, I am here forced to be social and I hate it, you know?"), their last workout session ("I don't care, you should rather stop eating all that cheese, you know?"), their Italian heritage and family traditions ("I don’t care, I was born and raised in Italy, I think I know better, you know?"), their plans for Xmas ("I don' care, all I want is a day off to stay away from this place, you know?").
Why don’t you get it, people? I don't want to hear your stories, I don't want to know your name nor that of all your extended family, I don't want to help you planning your next trip to Italy, I don't want to know what you do for living and where you went to school, I don't want to share my favourite tomato sauce recipe with you, I don't want to hear your movie recommendations and I don't want to teach you italian. All I want is being able to deliver the spaghetti when they're still hot, add meatballs if you like them, and hand you the bill.
Just remember: I am NOT your friend; I DON’T want to be one.
Dec 14, 2007
Back Stock Therapy
A couple of years ago I worked for a while as a salesperson in an upscale retail store, selling yoga clothes to wealthy women.
I used to fall asleep on the bus on my way home after work, my energy sucked away by hundreds of crazy shoppers who would auction their friend in exchange for the latest style of sweats in time for their next ashtanga class. I had never thought that yoga was really all that spiritual anyways.
Few times I even missed the bus stop, as I was too exhausted to wake up and interrupt my sweet end-of-working-day dreams. One day, though, I had a real nightmare; customers were throwing thousands of black stretchy pants out of the dressing rooms, clothes were piling endlessly on the table and I was suffocating. I woke up in panic, sweating and cold at the same time. "That's it", I thought, "I quit". That's how I found myself at the end of the bus line, in an unfriendly neighborhood, scared and unemployed.
Compared to other retail environments, monstrous creations of modern times such as Victoria's Secrets or Abercrombie & Fitch, the job wasn't all that bad. We enjoyed free yoga classes, lots of healthy snacks and some nice massages here and there. But we still had to deal with customers and fake our smiling happy face all day long. One of the rules of our job was that we could NEVER EVER say anything bad about customers while on the floor. People were fired for that. No matter how rude customers were, how big the mess they would leave behind, how snobby and high maintenance. No bad talking. Period.
But as all rules, even that one had its exception. We used to call it Back Stock Therapy. Once a week, everyone had to work his/her shift in the backstock, taking care of the inventory and organizing the new merchandise. During backstock we were not dealing with customers,we didn't have to smile all the time and we could dress the way we wanted. Most of all, we could talk about anything and we were allowed to rant and rave freely. Backstock shifts were heaven, they saved us from going insane and were always a lot of fun.
This blog is supposed to be my personal Back Stock Therapy, my own way to survive after years and years spent waiting tables and dealing with hungry and pretenciuos customers.
Remember: I'm not bad, I just turned that way.
I used to fall asleep on the bus on my way home after work, my energy sucked away by hundreds of crazy shoppers who would auction their friend in exchange for the latest style of sweats in time for their next ashtanga class. I had never thought that yoga was really all that spiritual anyways.
Few times I even missed the bus stop, as I was too exhausted to wake up and interrupt my sweet end-of-working-day dreams. One day, though, I had a real nightmare; customers were throwing thousands of black stretchy pants out of the dressing rooms, clothes were piling endlessly on the table and I was suffocating. I woke up in panic, sweating and cold at the same time. "That's it", I thought, "I quit". That's how I found myself at the end of the bus line, in an unfriendly neighborhood, scared and unemployed.
Compared to other retail environments, monstrous creations of modern times such as Victoria's Secrets or Abercrombie & Fitch, the job wasn't all that bad. We enjoyed free yoga classes, lots of healthy snacks and some nice massages here and there. But we still had to deal with customers and fake our smiling happy face all day long. One of the rules of our job was that we could NEVER EVER say anything bad about customers while on the floor. People were fired for that. No matter how rude customers were, how big the mess they would leave behind, how snobby and high maintenance. No bad talking. Period.
But as all rules, even that one had its exception. We used to call it Back Stock Therapy. Once a week, everyone had to work his/her shift in the backstock, taking care of the inventory and organizing the new merchandise. During backstock we were not dealing with customers,we didn't have to smile all the time and we could dress the way we wanted. Most of all, we could talk about anything and we were allowed to rant and rave freely. Backstock shifts were heaven, they saved us from going insane and were always a lot of fun.
This blog is supposed to be my personal Back Stock Therapy, my own way to survive after years and years spent waiting tables and dealing with hungry and pretenciuos customers.
Remember: I'm not bad, I just turned that way.
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