Last day at The Restaurant

Tonight, I venture into the (sort of) unknown.

Tonight, I wait my last table (sort of).

I've picked up another show, which means I am now directing three shows simultaneously, while teaching film acting classes in South County, theatre and musical theatre classes in the Inland Empire, and going to school.

Getting the contract for the third show equals cash for the wedding...so The Restaurant had to go. Temporarily.

It's nice to not have to schedule The Restaurant into my already-packed schedule, but I am sure going to miss that steady cash flow.

Now...snapshots from the night!

I want to conduct myself like the model employee I am, so I show up 15-20 minutes early for my dinner shift. My nails are paint-free, my hair shellacked into place--there is nothing about my appearance that would call for a manager to give me the whole "but-you're-a-trainer-so-we-must-make-an-example-of-you" routine.

I fill out the nonsensical papers having to do with my selling scores and the store's scores. Until this paper is filled out, I cannot actually take tables. I don't mind doing it, I get why it's needed--to keep all servers aware of how their sales directly impact the store and the company as a whole--but it's so inconsistently administered that it's a bit of a joke. In my six years at this store and eight with the company, I have only seen these silly cards filled out when the REGIONAL MEN start breathing down Boss's neck.

I fill it out, cheerfully hand it off, note my so-so station (currently full and in use by another server, so it'll be an hour before I get a table), and go off to banter with the staff.

And the night--for me, anyway--turns out to be a bit busier than usual on Sundays. The mall closes at an astonishing 6 PM--and we're open until 9. In the last hour, I get sat with a 13-top of a particular group who prefers iceless drinks and constantly repeats, "We're vegetarian--no meat!"

(You lurking servers know what I'm talking about!)

I am bone-weary and over the whole damn shift. I dreamily envision an immediate future in which I simply walk out...but there I am, walking over to the table anyway.

"Hello! How's everyone doin' tonight?" is my standard breezy greeting. I accompany it with my flashiest, widest grin. Might as well.

And then they order. Five Chicken Tequila Fettucine Pastas modified to hell (two, no chicken, extra sauce and lime, one with chicken and extra sauce and extra sauce on the side, one with no chicken, but sub broccoli and mushrooms with...yep, extra sauce...and then a fifth one, snuck in when all the food has been brought out--no chicken, extra sauce, and Waitress, bring me a bowl of limes--yes, a bowl--and extra pasta sauce--oh, yes--extra sauce for me, too), four Tostada pizzas--you don't have jalepenos? Well, add serrano peppers, then!--all with more modifications...the order went on.

And to top it off, we'd run out of the complimentary bread.

Folks, our bread SUCKS. It's hard, cold, and tasteless. It's like chewing cardboard--I kid you not. And because we have to keep things all fabulous and healthy, the butter is ice-cold and is barely spreadable.

And they are DEMANDING the bread.

"But it's Sunday," I once told a table, "and we have Sunday bread (meaning stale)/we're out of bread, so I'll get you a side of pita..."

But, alas, there was no bread--and no PITA either!

I got them to buy four small Foccacia breads (2.50 a pop and actually pretty decent) but I knew they weren't happy about the free bread being...well...unfree.

Thank goodness they had four adorable small ones, because I do really well with kids. I teased and joked and flirted (with the one-year-old) and earned every cent of the $40 gratuity.

And then my last table of the night, my last table until the summer, came in. I'm glad I don't have a horror story to relate on this one: they were a nice, sweet young couple. The kitchen gods had mercy on my poor, jaded server's soul.

When they left, I was rewarded with

so I guess I did all right.

I paid off my favorite server to do my sidework and condiments, ate some Chicken Tequila Pasta myself...and clocked out.

Now I venture into supporting myself solely through my directing and teaching work. It's a bit scary, but in a kind of mad, exhilarating way. 

I'm lucky to have a job to return to, but I have to say that the vacation from The Restaurant--especially as I am fast closing in on eight years there--is just what the kitchen doctors have ordered.