Someone once coined the term waking up on the wrong side of the bed to describe a day the starts off wrong and just gets worse. Morning mishaps aside, nothing compares to starting your day off with the breakfast of champions (or hotel employees): chicken balls. Yes, the chicken balls have returned. If you missed my prior exposé on the chicken cordon ew that my work likes to serve/torture us with from time to time let me offer a recap:
A piece of chicken is hammered into an unnatural egg shape, covered in some kind of gray meat, and deep fried into caloric oblivion and in the middle of this egg of despair is a bubble of hot melted butter that will explode upon impact. It's like a ticking time bomb of diabetes, something concocted by a demonic Paula Deen in the umpteenth circle of hell. And, for service professionals such as myself, the sight of said chicken balls is usually the catalyst for the realization that today is just not going to be your day.
From the hells stovetop, to a skillet with less torturous intent our chef was initiating the three courses for a wedding tasting. Being a hotel restaurant we often host tasting meals for the wedding dinners that will be held upstairs in the banquet room. These meals usually consist of two to four people, sometimes a wedding planner with a swatch book of tablecloths, and are widely regarded as easy money by the servers. It's next to no effort, the food and wine is all pre ordered and the gratuity is included. So, starting my day off with this table should have been a breeze. The banquet event order asked the table be set for five so we se the table in a quiet booth in the back of the restaurant. The hostess let the culinary team know as soon as the party arrived. I prepared water to be brought out to the table. This is the last moment before we completely lost control of the table.
Working in Chicago, I'm no stranger to the bubbies. They come downtown in shawled clusters on every bus line that stretches to the far reaches of the city. These Oak Brook ladies who lunch throw a scarf over their white helmets of hair and flock to the department stores, first Neiman Marcus to feel all of the clothes and then Nordstrom to buy them. They are notoriously odd (not necessarily bad) tippers. They use their ancient shades of lipstick as rouge. They've been wearing Chanel no.5 since it debuted. By now you should know exactly the ladies I'm talking about. And no matter how much money you make off of the table it's never, EVER, worth it.
So imagine my delight when eight of these chattering Northshore yentas throw their swatch books and gigantic Louis Vuitton hold-alls (and they do hold everything imaginable) all over my section and take up four of my tables. I swooped in like an overeager sheep dog and tried my hardest to herd them into the booth. But, they insisted on sitting at this table first to talk and then moving over to that table later to eat. Yes, that accounted for two of the tables utilized. I looked at the other.
"We're just going to use those to store our bags and such. You don't mind right, shut up Sharon he doesn't mind. Tell her you don't mind."
"I, uh, don't mind."
"See, he doesn't mind. Where's our sales girl, that nice girl I talked to on the phone she's meeting us here right?"
"Oh, yes she'll--"
"Be a doll and go get her, we don't have all day sweetheart. And see if you can find us some bread to pick at I'm famished."
I knew just how to deal with this situation. On the patio there was a fire department nozzle and I'm sure we kept a hose somewhere in the back for spraying away mass protesters or in case of a zombie apocalypse or whatnot. The hose might not reach all the way into the back of the restaurant but with it's power and range I'm sure it could clear the bar area and at least ruin a few of their pashminas sending them running for the nearest Macy's to see if they could exchange it for a non-ruined one, and any stragglers could be--
"Hello? Hello? Anyone in there? Also do you have any mints? My friend would appreciate a mint she's got breath like a mummy eating day old fondue. Where's he going? Oh he's probably going to get bread. Don't forget the butter!"
I saw their sales rep walking through the kitchen,
"Hurry! They're here."
"Who's here?"
"Your wedding tasting they're here, they've taken over my section there's coach bags and scarves everywhere help."
"Fuck my life. They're early. Just put them at a table I'll be right down," she said hustling away as fast as her pumps would take her.
"I'm a server, not a shepherd."
The chef hurried to get the first course prepared, thinking that food would be the best way to corral them into a table. I was about to pour the first bottle of wine, but when I got the the table they were all gone, except for their stuff which was everywhere. It looked like Bloomingdales accessories department has exploded in my section, spraying fabric, purses and tissues everywhere. I found our hostess and asked where they all went.
"They're in the ballroom looking at the space."
"But the food's all ready," I said, now frazzled and feeling anxious. The woman from sales came back and looked around at the fray.
"Do I smell hairspray?"
"I'll eat it the food," the hostess chimed in hopefully.
Back in the kitchen the h'orderves were ready but before a lamb lollipop even made it out the door I stopped them, informed them our tasters had gone MIA and regretfully informed them that there may be more than 5 people eating. The chef looked down woefully at the skewered coconut shrimp and herbed cheese phyllo spread. He tossed them on the line and the vultures descended upon them. Twenty minutes later the bubbies were back, seated (at yet another table), taking matchbooks out of their purses to fix the slight wobble on the table, asking if the food was kosher, asking if I was married, asking if I liked this shade of lavender, where'd I grow up, what's this orange sauce, is that tap water, where's your fish from?
"You okay?" the chef asked when I came back to get the salad course.
"It's like serving eight of my grandmother."
"Cheer up, you've got another party of lawyers coming in at 7." My pout stayed the same. "Maybe one of them will be single and gay and, well, into aprons." I grabbed a leftover lamp lollipop and put it down. At least I didn't have to eat chicken balls.
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