Once upon a time I was a waitress*. The summer after my senior year I was one of the first people hired for
Galaxy Diner, a 50s theme place.
The place was all decked out: stainless steel bar with quilted backsplash, red and white décor, a soda fountain, a jukebox, checkerboard run amok, and a menu full of cutesy theme named foods.
Try the Bark at the Moon Burger! Blueberry Hill Pancakes! Hound-dog Hash! My favorites were the college students that would come in and ask, “What can we get for free?” My hell people, I’ll give you a straw and all the napkins on your table.
I didn’t mind the work for the most part. I became a regular expeditor when we discovered my talent at charming the recalcitrant and the anti-social (cooks.)
It’s a talent I still use on engineers. I liked serving customers a great deal. I once made four hundred dollars in tips on one Saturday morning. I loved getting a ten dollar tip on an eight dollar check. I hated getting a one dollar tip on a hundred dollar check by a group of Zz-Top rednecks and their ugly girlfriends.
The most famous thing about Galaxy Diner was that if
Greased Lightning came on the jukebox, all the soda jerks and serving staff would have to stop and perform a little dance. Those of you who know me know that
I’m not above a little show for the folks. However, when you’re trying to keep six tables happy on a Saturday night, the last thing you want to do is stop bringing drinks and start a dancin’.
The diner didn’t always require us to dance like monkeys; it started a year after I started working. Our manager thought it would be a good idea for us to dress in 50s gear and walk the route of the Orem City Fourth of July Parade. In order to not just walk the route, a couple of the soda jerks came up with a dance routine to
Greased Lightning. Back at the shop one yahoo decided that we should do the dance in the diner every time someone played the song.
Look, I’m all about customer service in a job.
If I was at a table waiting for my entrée or my root beer float, I wouldn’t want my waitress hand jivin’ to a stupid song from a stupid movie, I’d want my food! I would find every excuse not to dance. Mostly those excuses involved
actually serving my clients. I’d go make salads. I’d deliver their lime and vanilla cokes. I’d happily harangue the kitchen for new fries on a burger. I know, how crazy of me. Most of my clients were happy I was putting their food above spectacle. The only ones disappointed would be the teenagers, but they didn’t tip well to begin with, so who cared?
I’d gotten tired of waiting tables by then. Every night people would play Billy Joel’s
Piano Man on the jukebox at least thrice, more on weekends. Hearing that song to this day sends me into a Pavlovian foul mood of doom. For a time I hated The Carpenters.
For PETE’S SAKE, the soundtrack to Grease gives me the dry heaves to this day!
One afternoon
Greased Lightning came on the jukebox.
I had had it. I’d given my two weeks notice already and just wanted to help my customers. I went into the back and started making my clients’ side salads. Our jerk of a manager, Malcolm, came into the back to herd us out to dance. He came up to me, all 6 foot 5 of him, and said in his vaguely southern drawl, “Get out there and dance.”
I said, “
No.”
Malcolm, never a patient man, started breathing a little heavier as his ears went red,
“I said ‘Get out there and dance’.”
I decided right then and there that I didn’t care what happened. All 5 foot 2 of me said,
“
No.”
Malcolm breathed in sharply while I said,
“I want to serve my tables. I don’t want to bring them cold food. I want to refill their drinks. I am not going to dance. Don't you think that's more important than dancing? Are you telling me that dancing is more important than serving our customers?”
Malcolm said, “You can go home.”
I said, “Fine.” I probably said it with a little attitude.
Ok, a lot of attitude.“In fact,” Malcolm the Ogre said, “Don’t come back for three days.”
I said, “Fine, I already gave my two weeks notice” and I walked away. He was so angry it was a little scary.
I think I went back for one more shift, but that was the end. I called it quits over
Greased Lightning. I didn’t waitress again.
It wasn’t all bad; I picked up
a love of Chuck Berry and really early rock n roll that hasn’t abated. I know how to make an amazing shake—use only hard ice cream, your flavor, and a little milk.
I found out that the reason breakfast isn’t served all day long everywhere is that
pancakes take up too much griddle space. I learned that ordering a side salad in a restaurant is a dicey prospect; you do NOT want to know what the salad assembly station looks like;
I didn’t eat croutons for years.
I learned to look around when you think your server is being slow, did they get two other tables at the same time as you? I know that the
stupidest person in the place is probably the seating hostess as they are too young to be serving and too stupid to figure out how to cashier. A good hostess is a rare, rare thing. I learned that the hardest working guys in the kitchen come from south of the border.
I know that if your chicken arrives at your table in five minutes or less, you’re getting an old bird. I figured out which items you can order on a menu and have them arrive at the same time. If someone orders a steak well-done at your table it will probably be partially micro waved so it doesn’t hold up the entire food order.
I discovered that your food is handled, literally, by several people before you eat it.
You should see the people.
I learned a lot of other lessons that would take me a year to tell. Let's say that I was not as naïve when I left the job as when I started it. You have to either decide not to care and continue eating out, or you should never eat out again.
I still eat out.*I know, I know, the correct term now is the gender neutral ‘server.’ I just like ‘waitress’ better.
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