Times of Buffet

For a second everything slows down, or I try my best to imagine an appropriate slow motion pan of the scene outside. If you are dining at a restaurant on the patio this is what the scene looks like: Pleasant dim-lit ambiance, fire place, a warm breeze and a mojito in a lively restaurant space. You're in your own world at the table. Enjoying the view of the river, the city lights.  This is what it looks like to a server:

Imagine a mosh pit. Now give every person in that mosh pit glass wear and three drinks. Randomly scatter chairs, backpacks and children around it. In the middle of this bustling mosh pit in 90 degree heat place a server with a tray full of martinis.

In my opinion, most disagreements come from a lack of perspective. For example, from the point of view of my table last night their drinks took a long time (5 minutes) to make, so I deserved a ten percent tip. From my perspective their drinks sent them in to a deep depression about how hideous they looked and their only resolution was to punish me for being attractive with a 2-dollar tip. There, that's perspective.

I realize that my goal of becoming less judgmental is being hindered by the industry I work in. I was discussing this with one of our hostesses outside the other day, mostly to distract ourselves from the fact that we were about to bust into flames from the heat. We were taking turns putting the unfortunate looking people who walk by on competing teams in the zombie apocalypse. The restaurant had taught us to scrutinize people in our minds, if only to mentally bring them down a notch. People were rude, boisterous, poorly dressed, annoying, badly behaved creatures that needed to be punished. It it was our job to judge these boors into oblivion.

This hostess and I had a strong bond, a war-like bond, after working the buffet together for several months last year. We're so used to how well the buffet runs now that we forget where it came from. A year ago we could barely keep the rickety old shaver we stole from banquets full of food, we ran out of every type of bread, croissants, and espresso. There was no busser. Tables became piles of filth. Our hostess was spending so much time running in the back to get tea and ketchup that she didn't have time to actually do her job so people started seating themselves at dirty tables. Confused and poorly coordinated old people dropped coffee cups on the floor that shattered. As we ran, not walked, ran with arms full of dirty sticky things people would ask us for more coffee and hold out a coffee cup as if the coffee would spurt forth from my mouth like a fountain. People became hideous ravenous creatures at the sight of the buffet, as if the offering of all-you-can-eat scrambled eggs were the full moon turning hotel guests in to werewolves. The restaurant was turned into a petri dish of bossy hormonally challenged women and fat businessmen wearing pinky rings. 

During the times of buffet only the sturdiest of servers could be trusted. It wasn’t about being smart or fast or talented, those servers worked the dinner shift. Breakfast was another world. Dinner servers were the micro surgeons, and we were the landscapers. There wasn’t much finesse or smarts needed, it was messy and mostly our goals were to just get the job done. Sensitive or weak servers just buckled, hid in the back, or cried. They broke quickly. The buffet servers were tough, durable, could take a beating and still hit the floor for more abuse. We were rugged versions of the nighttime servers, like pick-up trucks slinging thermoses of coffee and pastries. There was no knowledge of the menu, it was eggs, pancakes or some variation of those two things. There was coffee or juice. It was very straight forward. If someone asked what we thought of something it was ‘good,’ no more no less.

People left without paying, they charged the meal to rooms that didn't exist, they left zero dollar tips, one just drew a frowny face on the tip line. It was buffet-pocalypse. Total anarchy came over the restaurant. It was in this fray that we became sturdy durable and slightly jaded servers. We somehow kept our spirits up using the last power we had over these bizarre rude foreign people: the power of judgment, that and the ability to add 20% gratuity. 

This was how we cut our teeth in the restaurant, all of those part-time servers with no seniority. They threw us into the mosh pit and if we made it out alive were were guaranteed to walk with two to three hundos in our pocket. The food and beverage industry is about bottom lines, and as long as everyone is making money, nobody cares if and how much we have to suffer to do it. All servers get in the weeds, but nobody, not even the patio servers got it as bad as the morning crew. The mornings, the 6am breakfast shifts existed to crush your spirits, your hopes and dreams. It was one of those shifts that broke you and brought you back up again. There was something militaristic about it, like we were charging into battle each morning. 

You could tell the people who have been doing it the longest, the designated morning servers. Aside from a slight glassy expression in their eyes, they each had coping mechanisms to get through the shift. Some only did the bare minimum in an attempt to save energy and often shirked side work duties. Some narrowed their eyes and became perpetually disgruntled. Some people just moved slower. The more stressed out they were and the more they had to do the slower they moved, like a marathon runner pacing themselves.

It's in these moments when I am knee deep in shit on the patio that I take a breath and think back to the times of buffet and carry on. It's kind of like the "KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON" poster, only ours would read: "KEEP CALM AND CARRY DRINKS."