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!!!