Please Be Afraid To Touch

A few Saturdays ago, someone deeply touched me on my brunch shift, literally. It was my first table of the day, a Jewish family, party of six. It goes something like this:

“Hi my name is Josh, I’ll be your server today. Can I start you all off with something to drink?”

Only three of them had arrived when I first approached the table.

“Just water,” one of them answered without making eye contact. Bad sign. So I wandered the mostly empty restaurant looking for my busser, whose name I didn’t recognize which meant he was either new or one of the few whose names I just can’t ever create a category for in my head. It isn’t right, I’m just being honest. There are a few guys on the bus staff who I have worked with multiple times, and yet their names still mean nothing to me. Anyway, mystery busser was nowhere to be found, which, is no real surprise. I recognized that I was being stupid, and that it would be way faster and take less of my own energy to just get the six waters and the brunch bread basket, and go back to the table.

When I got back, all six guests had arrived. I remember noting that they were not a particularly attractive family. Thinking back, they all kind of looked like rabbits, but that comparison could be largely affected by the fact that they all ordered small vegetable dishes from our anitipasti bar for brunch. There was something rabbit-like about the way they all nibbled their assorted veggies, one small bite at a time.

I put the waters down, and as is my routine, posed the question, “Would anybody like anything other than water.” Translated, Just how cheap are you? I was at the young side of the table. Two young girls who wore faces entirely too cynical for their age looked up and just shook their heads, “no.” Instead of screaming to the other end of the table and being ignored (a major pet peeve of mine) I walked around to the other side of the table, and once again, posed the question, “Anything other than water?”

That was precisely when he did it. It was so unexpected that I experienced a three to four second delay as it happened. He wore khaki pants, a jean button down shirt, a green fleece zipper vest, glasses and a brown brimmed baseball hat (he would call it a cap) with some kind of corporate giant’s name written across its front. His answer to “anything other than water,” was to place the palm of his hand directly over my knee cap, and then to move his hand up my thigh, until his fingers brushed against my prized possessions. Once the delay ran its course and I was conscious that I had a married (his wife was sitting right next to him) middle-aged Jewish man with his hand on my package, I took a step away from the table, focusing my line of sight directly ahead. There was nothing else for me to do.

“Just water then,” and I half-ran to the server station in some kind of shock.

It only got worse when I stubbornly attempted to take their order from the end of the table with the cynical children, and everyone followed suit, except him. He pretended as though he could not hear me, or as though his order was too complex to be spoken with a projected voice over three other people. I carefully walked to his side of the table, maintaining more than an arms length distance between the two of us at all times. He ordered something simple like our asparagus and fontina cheese omelet, and instead of handing me the menu like every other member of his family so naturally did, he simply sat, hands in his lap (ready to attack, I was sure) looking at the menu and then back at me repeatedly. Taunting me and somewhat challenging me.

I kid you not that from a good three feet away from the table, I bent my body like I would in dance rehearsal doing a flat back stretch, keeping my groin out of harms way, grabbed his menu (thanking the higher powers that be for my long arms) and walked away from the table in the direction that was absolutely opposite to him. I can’t even begin to fathom what the poor couple sitting at the table behind me as I bent over thought about as I obnoxiously shoved my ass in their faces. I wasn’t their waiter so I’m sure they just shrugged and mutually agreed (whether out loud or not) that they were happy they didn’t get the oddball server.

What is it with people at restaurants thinking it is ever okay to grab, touch, or grope their waiters and waitresses? To me, the moment I am touched by a customer all rules breakdown. Now, you as the toucher have removed all blockades I once respected in how I spoke to you. Now, it is every man for himself.



One lunch I had the lovely privilege of waiting on our general manager and a few guys from corporate who were there to do taste testing. I hate that kind of shit because basically it just means that I have to jump through hoops to prove to these idiots that I am a “good server.” What the hell kind of title is that anyway? I asked the guys what they wanted to drink and my general manager ordered a bottle of flat water, and one of the guys from corporate ordered a bottle of sparkling water. The other two ordered soft drinks. Thinking it would be easier, I brought two empty highball glasses to the table for the two guys who did not specify what kind of water they wanted. Additionally, I nicely placed six slices – three lemon, three lime – along the ridge of a wine glass. When I got to the table, I started with the waters. I gave the sparkling to the guy who ordered it, and the flat to my general manager. While I still had the large bottle of water, I placed two empty water glasses in front of the other two guys. The closest one to me was an Asian guy (and that really has nothing to do with anything other than the fact that I will be referring to him as the Asian one from here on out). I asked him, “Sir, would you like flat or sparkling.”

“I said I wanted a diet coke.” He sounded like a five year-old boy – the type you would never think is cute because he is just that outstandingly heinous.

“Right, I have that right here on my tray. Would you like water as well?”

“No. Just the diet coke.” I passive aggressively plopped the diet coke in front of him and moved on to the other man, who, had ordered lemonade. I figured, let me tackle his lemonade first (people have a tendency to jump on the asshole bandwagon when someone else at their table leads the way, so I figured I wouldn’t bother giving him the chance to pull the same crap with me). I have a theory that people like to create reasons to be displeased together, because a bad tip is so much more justifiable if they can all agree that the server was an idiot. Once the lemonade was safely and soundly within his reach, I asked,

“How about you sir, any water?”

“No.” The only thing left on my tray was the wine glass with the lemon and lime slices. I placed it directly in the center of the table, and as I did it, lemonade guy pointed, his lip curling in disgust, focusing his attention on my general manager, and said,

“What is this?” His hand was waving, like all Italians hands do, for emphasis.

“Oh, I, ah, think it is a for our water.” Shockingly my general manager was trying to defend my honor.

“Is this some kind of new policy,” lemonade guy asked.

“No, ah, I think it is the choice of our server. In case we want them.” It actually warmed my heart that the monster who I knew as my general manager had kindness after all. I figured I would jump in and do some self-defense, rather than leave him hanging with his obviously difficult colleagues.

“Yeah, since you ordered both flat and sparkling water, I just figured I would bring options for both. Usually people want limes with sparkling and lemon with flat so…” And this is when touching occurred. The Asian man grabbed my arm, his palm inches back from my wrist on the top part of my forearm. He squeezed so hard that his wedding ring was crushing my vein. I squinted momentarily then manned up for the sake of not looking like a little bitch. I knew it was on now.

“What we are trying to get through to you, kid, is that if people want lemons or limes with their water…they will ask.” If my life were a sitcom, time would have stopped and I’d have had a Zach Morris from Saved By the Bell aside in which I said (as flamboyantly as possible) “OH NO HE DIDN’T!” Instead I took my eyes from his, and let them slowly travel down to my arm, where he was attempting to pop a major vein open.

“Well, if I wanted to be touched, sir, I would have asked to be, but thank you for your advice, I will keep it in mind as I continue to strive to be the best server I can be here at Roman’s.” I flung my arm, sending his hand frantically back into his lap.

My manager didn’t say a word, I just saw him turn slightly red. I am still so shocked that I wasn’t completely reamed out for that encounter. The Asian guy did the paying, and he actually left me over twenty percent. Maybe he understood that he’d broken the rules, and that since he’d broken his code, it was only appropriate and perhaps even necessary that I did the same. I guess it might have been pragmatic for me to find a better, less caustic way of letting him know how disgusting he was being. I’m told my friend Sekou once told a woman in a calm and soothing voice, “Ma’am, yelling at me isn’t going to get your food out any faster.” That is the kind of finesse I lack in dealing with these third rate New York Upper West side aliens who believe the world is Manhattan and that sitting at a booth that some ancient opera singer can boot them out of at her will means their shit doesn’t stink. But no, their shit does stink, trust me, I know, we have very small, poorly ventilated bathrooms.

That evening in pre-shift management informed waiters not to bring lemon or lime with water unless customers specifically requested it. No one followed that rule, and it has never come up again.

On Being Old & Lonely: Picky Pam and Two-A-Day Tom

In the spirit of this posting, I searched the term "lonely" on google images, and placed throughout the story are some of the photos that I came across.

It's what each of us fears most, being alone. And yet, if you look around you, so many of us do end up that way. I find that I look towards my own future and the possibility of spending a great majority of my mature years by myself, and instead of accepting it, I deny, deny, deny. I'll have a life partner and he won't die first. Or, I'll have lots of children...children who will be content spending significant amounts of time with their old, lonely Dad.

But then I think of my grandmother, who lost her oldest of two daughters (my mother) to breast cancer, and who lost her husband two years later to heart failure. She, a woman who spent her life giving her entire self to her family, spent these past eight years sitting abandoned, re-watching episodes of Little House on the Prairie, welcoming any distraction no matter how familiar it is. There are, however, things I believe my grandmother, had she pushed herself to do so, could have done to better surround herself with peers and friends so as not to feel so utterly alone. She could have joined a book club - she reads more than anyone I know. She could have worked some kind of desk job that her bum knee would not have prevented her from being able to do. At Cafe Roman, we have two extreme regulars, who, like my grandmother, are elderly and alone. Every day they come in, both with their own quirks, ready to visit their respective surrogate families of waiters.


Mr. Buchmann, or as we compassionately refer to him, "Two-A-Day Tom," comes at least twice a day to Cafe Roman. Unlike other regulars such as "Iced tea lady," (who only ever orders a glass of iced tea and the Roman Burger) he varies what he orders. Not to mention, Buchmann is part of a rare few who comes multiple times a day, while other, less hardcore regulars like "Iced tea lady" come once or twice a week. Best of all, he thoroughly reads the menu twice every day, and not once has he failed to wear the look of someone who is sitting down for the first time at what is sure to become one of his favorite places to eat. He has a slight hunch, one that reveals his quiet sadness. Tom has a way about him that leads me to believe he was never fit to be alone, and never expected to be. Because of that, I feel a personal tie with him, like he offers some kind of calm warning about what the future could hold in store. When I take time to talk to him, his eyes light up in this mesmerizing way that almost seems to take fifteen years off his face. He really listens, and without failure, he will remember the details I choose to share with him about my life. Columbia, hip-hop dancing, writing, Ghana - Mr. Buchmann knows it all and now that I'm one of his surrogate children, he always takes care of me. He leaves at least a 30% tip no matter what, and adds, "Put that towards your first book," or "This is for Columbia!" He won't leave until I've picked up the check, and so if I get busy, he waits patiently, sipping on his Torcolato desert wine, pleasantly drunk (we are only supposed to serve him one glass of wine and one Torcolato). I never withhold a glass or two extra, because as far as I'm concerned, the man has earned his right to take the edge off. And besides, he lives in the building...it isn't like he is going to put himself or anyone else in danger in his drunken trudge back to his apartment.

Pam is a whole other story. Pam has an auburn/orange quaffed hair-do that is reminiscent of Sylvia on the Golden Girls. She walks with a certain urgency that is void of the typical New Yorker's "get out of my way" urgency, but filled instead with the kind of urgency that leads one to believe she might start violently attacking people in a completely arbitrary manner. Pam is notorious for telling phony managers to "fuck off" or "quit being a fake piece of shit." She doesn't hold back, ever. Every day, Pam strolls in, grabs the seating chart, and evaluates where in the restaurant she wants to sit, and more importantly, who she wants her server to be. I used to look at Pam's daily charade through judgmental eyes. I used to think Pam was just another nasty customer with her own especially annoying quirks (she will actually turn around and leave the restaurant if she is not in the mood to be served by any of the waiters on the floor). Lately, I've come to refer to myself as "Pam's last resort." We get long fine, each of us amping up our already sarcastic selves to keep the other laughing. I'll usually open with, "Wow Pam...must have been slim pickings today, huh?" She'll usually shrug, roll her eyes, and go "It's impossible to get a decent server at this place anymore...they've driven all the good ones away!" She'll go on to tell me she hates me four or fives times throughout the meal and that I've utterly failed her "once again!" She cracks me up, and when I'm really on my A-game, I'll get a few belly laughs out of her too. Though it's taken a long time, I've grown to have a sort of love for Pam. She chooses who she sits with because she sees some waiters as her friends, possibly even her children. When Kim was harassed by a busboy, Pam went straight to the general manager to demand that he fired that busser. When it comes to her kids, she does not joke around. I guess Pam and I are acquaintances at this point in our story, but it is nice to know she sees a potential friend in me. Supposedly she was an extremely successful career woman in a very male dominated business until one day she had a complete psychotic breakdown. She retired more-than-comfortably, but she acquired a number of social anxiety problems as a result of the breakdown. Hence, she comes to Roman's every day, often twice, sometimes three times, sits where she wants and works on crossword puzzles. She never even seems that happy to be there, and maybe that is because being there makes her miss those she grew closest to who have since moved on. Perhaps coming in each day, Pam feels like someone entering a house once shared with a deceased loved one. She knows her kids won't be there, she knows there will be a void, but she can't help but return. Maybe because she feels closer to them even when they aren't there, or maybe because she holds some kind of hope that they might be, and that all this time that's passed never really passed at all.


Some of us, namely Adam, have tried to connect Pam and Tom. He is a bit old for her, but they are both alone and they spend almost equal amounts of time in the restaurant. Why not have a friend to eat with rather than to eat alone? Pam refuses to befriend Tom, and I do not know if anyone has ever said anything to Tom about it. What I wonder, though, is why they both seem so complacent in their loneliness. I think about the possibility of one day being in their shoes and I believe I will do all in my power to seek the presence of others - to seek new friendships after old ones have ceased, after old friends have passed. And maybe I will have my favorite places that I attend more than others, places where I care deeply for certain waiters, barristas, etc. But, I will certainly not eat daily at one restaurant and depend on its waitstaff for company. At the end of the day, a waiter is a waiter, and he or she is there because he or she is going to be tipped. I do not want to have to pay for friendly company when I'm old and alone, or if I'm old and alone.

If only Pam and Tom would venture even five blocks from their building (the same building in which Cafe Roman is situated), who knows the people they might encounter? Is it a quality so many people acquire with age that we give up on others, and recede into our selves, or are Pam and Tom just "those" kind of people? Is my grandmother "that" kind of person? And what if we started a club for lonely people who regularly attend certain restaurants in the city alone, and allowed them to invite the other club members to their favorite restaurant for a group outing? Maybe we could call the group Party of One...

Un Peu Malade?

You are about to share with me, by far, the craziest encounter I have ever had in my combined seven years of working in restaurants...

I got to work last night and everything was like it always is. Got my family meal, half carafe of sprite with two limes, and went to the pre-shift meeting, always the best part of the night. It's when we choose the song of the night (the song we will all sing throughout the evening on the floor). Last night's song was "Tiny Dancer" because I told everyone how I used to think the line was "Hold me close, I'm tired of dancing." It's when we share stories, well, I always do. They're usually humiliating to me, but I enjoy sharing my more compromising moments with my crazy Cafe Roman family. They don't judge because most have them have been there. Who's hooking up? Who's not talking? Who's leaving next? What's the fish of the day? Pre-shift has the answers. Pre-shift is also the time to discuss stories, good and bad, from the floor...bad tips, bad accents, bad breath, breast-feeding mothers, the old couple who always pees their pants (Jono brought in huggies one night as a joke), The Solomons, etc, etc. The unlucky sections 2 and 4 in the Cafe, are excused from evening pre-shift 30 minutes early so that the daytime staff can go home, and the closers (sections 1, 3, and 5) can conserve their strength for the long haul that lies ahead. Last night, Katie and Jack were excused promptly at 4:30, and still, everything was like it always is. Katie left belting "Tiny Dancer."

At 5:00, when I stepped into the cafe, Jack was wearing his self-dubbed "waiter pout," the usual look for Jack, but unusual for so early in the shift. "What's going on?" I asked with a motherly Jewish accent (the one I hear in my sleep thanks to Cafe Roman). "This woman asks for something else every time I go back to the table!" "Oh, my," was all that came to mind...I was still his Jewish mother. Running back and forth to a table is a standard occurrence; it blows, but I would not think that it would induce premature pouting. Jack continued, "And, she's having a full-out conversation with herself, no blue-tooth, nothing!" "Where is she?" I had to see this one for myself. "C-38, by herself, and I'm pretty sure she just sat herself there." Jack was pissed. C-38 is a four-top.

C-38 also happened to be in my section. I thanked my lucky stars that I was saved by my status as a closer from dealing with her. I walked over to eavesdrop on her conversation with herself to find a woman in all white with expensive-looking Chanel sunglasses screaming at herself in French. I stood behind her, but within seconds I was afraid, and had to walk away. I went to find Jack.

"Wow...have fun with that one."
"Yeah," his eyes rolled in an epic fashion.
"I wish I knew what she was saying." I was spacing out, letting the writer take over, looking at the nightly hustle and bustle on Broadway.
"I don't," he smacked his lips in his idiosyncratic way, slammed a half-bottle of pelligrino on his tray, and stormed off into the cafe.

She tipped Jack something like $4 on a $65 check. Classy. Not surprising. "Well, at least that's over," he sighed, stapled her signed receipt to the printed copy, stuffed it and the memory of her into his checkbook and walked away.

Imagine my chagrin when she flagged me down two minutes later to ask for a menu. I got her one, and as I handed it to her, she snatched it out of my hands, overestimating my hold on it and underestimating her power, hitting herself in the face with it. She proceeded to slam the menu violently on the table, causing my entire section to look over at us, concerned. She made them feel! Note to self: next time I am at work and in need of sympathy, have a schizophrenic breakdown.

"Ma'am, is everything okay?" She stopped slamming the menu and held her hands in the air, flexed as if she were in the middle of choking someone to death.
"NO! I JUST WANT TO KILL EVERYONE!" she screamed.
"Excuse me?" was the only response I had it in me to muster.
"It's not you, it's the EVIL ONES!" She started twitching her head back and forth, up and down as if to address their physical presence in the air.
"Oh, okay," I said and ran away ready to pee my pants.

She ended up ordering one scoop of vanilla sorbet. She ate it, slowly, of course and cursed at the imaginary evil ones throughout the entire hour she sat there. I begged managers to make her leave, but they argued that until I physically had four people who needed to be seated they could not ask her to leave. I was too busy to recruit a table for myself, so I was stuck with crazy lady until she willingly, or by the sword s of the evil ones, left the cafe.

Most of her crazy outbursts were in French, and I only wish I spoke French so that I could convey to you the degree of her insanity. At one point, though, she did start repeating "This is MY LIFE! MY LIFE! This is MY LIFE!" in a heavy accent that reminded me of Maya Rudolph's impressions of Donatella Versace on Saturday Night Live.

She eventually left, and I had the pleasure of serving Amanda, her two roommates and a date of hers. They were extremely generous with their tip (as is expected! haha.), especially because they witnessed me get three tips below 15% in a row (one of which was $40 on $452). They got complimentary Prosecco, cheese, olives and tomatoes from the manager who used to despise me. Speaking of that, he and I have been getting along really well lately. Almost too well. He even kind of hit on me the other day, something about putting his package somewhere...I've blocked it out.

Anyway, I made myself feel better about the bad tip by finishing off half of a bottle of Prosecco that they didn't drink as well as a Pinot Grigio, Sauvignon Blanc and a Pinot Noir! Think it's irresponsible that I drank on the job? Think it's tacky that I finished someone's bottle of Prosecco? Well too bad. THIS IS MY LIFE!!!

I'd Like to Try Your Dark Chocolate Bag, Please...

Amanda and I decided to go out for a bite to eat on Saturday night after my particularly grueling Saturday brunch shift in the 90 degree heat. We set off with no particular destination in mind, and ended up at Isabella's, where we decided to really go all out, desert wine and all!

When it came to ordering desert, we asked our attractive, Italian-looking, actor/waiter for the menu. I opened the menu, and as if it were some cosmic joke, the first desert that caught my eye was the "Dark Chocolate Bag!" We laughed and laughed (both of us were well on our way to tipsy) and I vowed to bring it up with the waiter. I was cursing the heavens that our waiter was white because if he'd been an attractive black guy this could have literally been the greatest gift I've ever received.

When he arrived to take the desert order, Amanda and I were laughing. So I desperately tried to get in character and speak without cracking up. "So, how's your dark chocolate bag?" He didn't pick up on the innuendo at all, but I giggled like a schoolgirl anyway. "It's great," he answered with a completely straight face, and then added "It's our specialty desert." As a waiter, I understand that dark chocolate bag jokes are probably like poison to his ears after a year at Isabella's, but I could not resist. And neither could Amanda. I glanced at her, choking on laughter and asked whether we were going to get the dark chocolate bag or the fresh fruit platter (we'd already decided on the fruit platter, but it was awkward just ordering it after he hyped up the dark chocolate bag).

Amanda made the token "it's your choice" face that all waiters hate because it means more indecision, more time wasted standing at the table, and more time passed since the last time you've checked on that horribly high maintenance table with a ridiculously expensive check. Plus, since Amanda and I are young; he probably didn't even think we were going to tip him over 15%. Young people are poor, cheap or a combination of the two when it comes to tipping.

"I think we'll just take the fruit...no dark chocolate bag for me tonight!" I said. He shrugged, indifferent to the fact that we didn't take his advice. And then as he walked away Amanda, in a moment of unexpected brilliance (not because she isn't brilliant, but because she shocks me every time she gets dirrty), said "He's had enough dark chocolate bag!" The waiter fake-laughed without processing what she'd said and then it hit him like it does us all Wait! That was ACTUALLY absurd and hilarious. Did she really say that?!?! From ten feet away or so he replied "Reeeeeallyyyy?" with a smile. I turned fire-engine red and said something like "OH MY GOD!" laughing hysterically. That was when I knew we'd easily trumped any previous dark chocolate bag jokers Jeff had ever waited on.

I've decided I am going to periodically venture back to Isabella's - holding onto the faint glimmer of hope that, one day, some otherwise uneventful day, I will sit down and a tall dark chocolate boy will come to the table and ask me if he can get me anything to drink. I'll resist the temptation to jump right to desert, gratuitously flirt through the drink order, the appetizer, the entree, and finish by telling him I'd like to try his dark chocolate bag.

Chardonnay VS. Chardonnay

Last week on our way to see the latest on-screen adaptation of Hairspray, my friend Isak and I decided to stop for some dinner. He is a legal assistant with the highly reputable Gibson, Dunn & Crutcher - where they work him like a dog. After a particularly trying day at the office, he was in need of some food and wine. I called out "sick" that day, but tough workday or not, I am always willing to get my sip on! He made me promise to write about this on the blog. So here goes.


Isak and I recently went for a quick bite to eat at Caffe Pertutti, a replaceable (if you've eaten there, you know exactly what I mean by that) Italian restaurant located in Morningside Heights on Broadway between 112th & 113th streets. The two of us have a funny history with this little place. Our first dining experience there (September of 2004) consisted of a 40 minute wait for pasta dishes that were measly in serving size, and that I could have cooked for us at home (and I do not have much talent in the kitchen). Two years ago, however, they switched management, revamped their menu, and since then, it is a convenient place to get a decent meal. I particularly enjoy their Tuna Tartar special.

Well, the owner, a sketchy middle-aged Italian man, always used to make eyes gratuitously at Isak as we ate our dinners. He has this way of lurking, especially if you choose to sit in the quaint outdoor cafe. In the summer, from his post on the restaurant's threshold, he gawks and marvels at his pick of clientele and passers-by. Over the years, he has even gone so far as to stop Isak as he’s walking by the restaurant in order to strike up a very forced, very awkward conversation with him, always asking, "How is your friend?" as if he has some secret hope that he might find I had moved away, disappeared or died. He has offered Isak a job, the works. Basically, we all know what he really wants from Isak. We also know he likes the Latin flavor.

Thus, it came as no surprise to Isak or me when we arrived last week to find a newly hired Latin server: clean-cut, buff and showing off a big smile. Upon his arrival at the table Isak and I both let out little “Oh God!” laughs, eyes rolling.

Picking out a wine, I noticed that they advertised the exact same Chardonnay by the bottle and by the full carafe for the exact same price ($25). So I wondered: What’s the difference? Is one more wine? Puzzled, I turned to sketchy manager’s new prize for clarity:

Me: What’s the difference between the bottle of Chardonnay and the carafe? Is one of them more wine?
Latin Boy: Well yes, the full carafe is more wine, but it is also about the quality of the wine. You see, the bottle is much better quality.
Me: Oh…but they are the same Chardonnay, right?
Latin Boy: Yes.

I paused and just looked at him…I guess I was naively waiting for the moment when he would turn to self-deprecation and admit his flaw in logic. No such moment came. When I ordered the full carafe he half-frowned as if to say, “Why didn’t you take my advice about the quality of the wine?”

I turned to Isak and said, “I mean, unless they garnish their carafes with dirt, we’re either pouring the wine from the bottle into our glasses OR they are pouring the wine from the bottle into the carafe AND THEN we are pouring it into our glasses so…”

He just laughed. Good thing that waiter is Latin and handsome. For the sake of his tips, the sake of sketchy manager and most importantly, for Isak's sake, hopefully! ;)

Two Bad Tips and a Write Up

To all my British friends, I love you, I hope you tip well, this story does not apply to you...unless you tip badly.

* * * * *

I got written up. Anyone want to venture to guess who did it? Yeah, he climaxed. For anyone who hasn't worked in a restaurant, or, who has not experienced the kind of tyranny so typical of Cafe Roman, a "write up" is essentially a written warning that the server and two managers have to sign, acknowledging what the naughty server has done wrong. I had never been written up until this past Tuesday night. And here is why it happened.

* * * * *

What kicked off my less-than-stellar mood was when I served a man five 7&7's, and his wife two Apple Martini's only to overhear him arguing that she should not tip me on the alcohol after dropping their check. WHY? He was fine tipping me on the food, and yet I do not make that OR bring it to the table (a food runner does). Why leave a tip at all then? Let me pause and impart knowledge: When you tip a waiter (at ANY restaurant) a percentage of that money goes to the bar, the bussers,and the food runners. Now, at Cafe Roman, we actually tip out based on our sales, NOT our tips. So, if you decline to tip me on the $76 dollars of alcohol you consumed, you are SERIOUSLY screwing me over.Now, to continue. Their bill was $189 and they tipped me $20. Huge whomp, but I shook it off and moved on. (I literally shook from head to toe by the computer systems, told myself out loud to shake it off and went to pick-up another table's profiteroles).

* * * * *

Well, shortly thereafter three young British kids sat in my section. Young meaning I might have done them a huge favor by not carding them, but they definitely looked early-20s tops. They ordered $163 worth of food, drinks, dessert, and when I gave them the check I noticed each of them take it, and then watched as each one's face twisted into its own version of utter perplexity. It was as if they had been handed the math SAT I or something. I honestly had no idea what was wrong (especially since we have gratuity suggestion by percentage on our checks), but I knew it could only be a bad, bad omen.

* * * * *

Walking past their table, I heard a foreign gentleman lean over and say "Oh no, the gratuity is not included, but it is not an obligation...it is not an obligation." So when I pick up the bill, Icount the money and it is $171. $8 on $163 = BY FAR the worst tip I have ever received in my life. Since I started at Cafe Roman, I've witnessed many servers approach tables about bad tips. Most of them simply ask whether there was a problem with the service, and then segue into an explanation of American tipping standards. I personally never feel comfortable doing that, but this pushed me over the edge. Istill felt weird, and my heart was pounding, so I decided to turn to a manager. And take a guess who was the ONLY manager around...great.

* * * * *

His reply was, "Well, we work across from Lincoln Center, a place that attracts a whole lot of foreigners...what can I say? You win some, you lose some." It isn't like I was shocked that he wouldn't go out on a limb for me, considering our history and his actual hatred for me. So I shrugged my shoulders and approached the young Brits, on the brink of a panic attack.
"Here's your change, and here's our gratuity guide," was what I opened with. One of the girls, pretty, brown hair, smiled and said "Oh, that was for you!" So I took a deep breath and went for it: "Guys, normally I would never say anything...I had a great time waiting on you tonight, but if you only leave me $8, I'll be paying to serve you. I have to tip the bar, the bussers, the runners and this isn't even enough for that on your check. I'd really appreciate it if you wouldn't mind tipping between 15 and 20 percent, unless you felt there was a problem with the service." They were totally embarrassed and left enough so that now I had 20%, and it was done. So I thought...

* * * * *

Said manager freaked out, grabbed my arm cappuccinos and all, causing them to spill all over me. "I need you in the back RIGHT NOW." "Ummm, do you think I could drop off what is left of these cappuccinos and ask someone to cover my section, which is full?" I was pissed beyond words. "Fine," he says, "But HURRY!" So he wrote me up claiming that even though it used to be fair game to do what I'd done, that policy had changed in February (while I was in Ghana!), and now doing so was grounds for dismissal. When I pointed out that I'd never been informed of the change in policy upon my return from Africa he snapped "It's in your new employee handbook." Of course it isn't. Asshole (spoken with a British accent).

* * * * *

So the conclusions I've come to is that foreigners (especially the British with their killer exchange rate) need to abide by our damn rules when in our country. Here is my thing, I'm so not the "WOOHOO AMERICA!" kind of person. But apparently the reason why this policy has been changed and enforced so strongly is because in January at some restaurant, some other poor waiter like myself went ahead and added a 17.5% gratuity onto three French people's bill. They flipped out saying it was completely insulting that he would do such a thing when they knew that gratuity at this particular restaurant was only added for parties of seven or more. Why should that waiter assume they were not going to tip him by an appropriate standard?

* * * * *

Well, because, nine times out of ten they don't. It's true. I hate stereotypes, but I can personally vouch for this. It isn't only the British, or the French. Last night I waited on a family of five from Alabama. Their check was $225, they left me $25. Bad, but at least it wasn't 5%. One thing Olive Garden does have over Cafe Roman is that it is smart enough to add an 18% gratuity to all tables rather than to allow its waiters to frequently lose money to ignorant tourists who either don't know any better, or tip badly knowing we will assume it is because they are foreign, and they just didn't know...

OH NO HE DIDN'T!

Last Thursday night, I went out for drinks with fellow waiters and friends Crissy, Adam and Beate. We went to Harry’s Burritos on 71st & Columbus for some Happy Hour margaritas in honor of Beate’s birthday. We had enough rounds and tipped well enough so that the bartender (Tom?) offered us a round on the house after we’d cashed out. I went for a Maker’s Mark Manhattan. It had been one of those weeks; I still hadn’t really brushed off the drama that my previous post details, and I’d willingly left two night shifts before they’d even started just to avoid working with the manager who seems to have it out for me. (We’ve hit that point in the season when business is slow and they take volunteers to leave before the shift even begins).

* * * * *

Before I take you to the cherry on top of this hateful ice-cream sundae: the manager from my previous post specifically told my friend Jenn that he hates me, referring to a pre-shift meeting in which senior servers were arguing that junior servers should be allowed to work pick-up double shifts in the case of this one particular Saturday since it was one waitress’ wedding, and most people with seniority (all of whom work Saturday nights) were invited. Apparently, I rolled my eyes a lot (go figure!) and muttered things under my breath (oops), and Jason took notice, deciding he hated me. I’m pretty sure I was even sending text messages to another server (Doug) saying things like, “Is this real?” or “Where am I?” or “Kill me now!” or “I’m in hell!” These are things I do rather than allowing myself to get invested in dead-end arguments between the management and the waitstaff. Ultimately, the management is going to do what it wants, especially at Roman’s where a manager would rather watch a server get clubbed than confront the customer who is behaving inappropriately. Club your server and you might just award yourself some complimentary Prosecco – maybe even some cheese and olives! In fact, at Roman’s managers slap waitresses and no one flinches. The slap was a joke, but it was hard enough so that Jamie had red marks on her face minutes after being “jokingly’ slapped across the face.

* * * * *

Said manager took his personal vendetta against me to unforeseen heights that Thursday night when he accused me of buying cocaine on the premises from my friend Bryan (a Dominican busboy...racism anyone?). After drinks with Adam, Crissy and Beate, I stopped by Roman’s to pick up Sekou for more drinks. Bryan came from the restaurant’s outdoor café to give me a half-handshake/half-hug. That is when the manager pulled Sekou (who was on his way out of the restaurant to meet up with me) aside and said, “I’m pretty sure Josh just bought coke off Bryan.” WHAT?!?! The sad part is that after Sekou told me, I felt overcome with helplessness. As if I was the one who should be worried, as if he was not the one who was accusing me of breaking the law and in doing so, slandering my character. Let’s not leave out how absurdly racist it is to accuse Bryan (who is perhaps one of the most well-mannered, kind and responsible people in the entire restaurant) of being a drug dealer! I haven’t decided how to counter-attack. I'm open to suggestions, but he most certainly will not be receiving complimentary Prosecco.