#servergirlstruggz -- What a Cock(tail) Tease

July 20, 2012

     "Hi, I'm Lindsay, and I just got back from the war. How are you guys doing tonight?" I don't usually greet my tables like this, but when I do, I hope to God that they get my joke. Luckily, my guests had had enough time to survey my appearance to understand why I was making such a bold (and probably inappropriate) statement. There were splashes of red something all over my face, hair, and blue polo, making it seem like a grenade had been thrown in my general direction. The real story wasn't that far off.

      When the restaurant opened at nine a.m. that Saturday morning, someone had forgotten to turn on the cooler for the salad bar. Fast forward to nine p.m. later that night when I was on salad bar duty and the oversight was discovered. My manager charged me with the duty of dumping and replacing all of the dressings that had become too warm. This was a tedious but very simple task, and I did not mind doing it. That is, until I noticed the absence of the cocktail sauce. It was not stocked in the walk-in refrigerator with the rest of the dressings, which meant that I had to open a giant can of the red stuff and put it into a stainless steel container myself. I carried the large can into the prep area and began looking for a can opener. Assuming that we didn't actually have one, I asked one of the bussers who walked by what I should do. He said just to stab it with a knife and work to get it open that way. Not trusting myself with a knife, I asked one of the cooks to do it for me. After the initial stabbing, he asked me why I wanted to open a can that way. I replied, naively, that there wasn't any can opener and that's what the other guy had told me to do. The cook looked at the busser in disbelief, and the busser said, "What? I'm from the ghetto. That's how we do things there." We laughed, and then the cook brought me the elusive can opener. 

     I then proceeded to open this can with the worst can opener in the entire world. I got the can three-fourths of the way open, but the remaining one-fourth was spread out between all the open parts. This meant that I couldn't really do anything but stare at the can and hope that my telekinetic powers were finally kicking in. One of my fellow servers walked by and noticed the problem I was having with the cocktail sauce, the can opener, and the rabbi. She offered to get her boyfriend (who was a cook) to help me. I gratefully accepted. 

      Throughout this entire episode, I had been going back and forth between the prep area and the actual restaurant to make sure that I had not been given any new tables to serve. By this time of night, the flow of people had slowed down considerably so I had been table-less for the past fifteen minutes. When the girl's boyfriend came back, he immediately took control of the situation and the blunt side of a large knife. It came down on the top of the can swiftly and sloppily. The original problem was solved, but a new one emerged as I emerged covered in cocktail sauce. Some had even gotten into my eye, necessitating a trip to the closest paper towel dispenser. On my way over, I was greeted by laughs from my ever so lovely server peers. (I became the joke of the night, and everyone bonded over my unfortunate experience. I'm a giver.) 

      To add inconvenience to injury, I had only now gotten a table. Because my restaurant has a thirty second greet policy, I had no time to run to the bathroom to clean myself off before approaching them. Hence my unconventional introduction, which, thankfully, was a hit. After getting their drinks, I did have time to wipe myself off in the bathroom. My shirt was still stained, but at least I no longer looked like I was bleeding from the head. 

      Now that I was busy with a table, I had no time nor desire to see the cocktail sauce debacle through to the end. There was another girl on salad bar duty, whose job it was to stock the walk-in refrigerator anyway. Seeing that all she had to do was pour the contents of that infamous can into the stainless steel container, I didn't feel too bad pawning that part of the work on her. Meanwhile, I served my table, smelling of the sea and pretending that I didn't hate my life. As soon as I got home, I threw my shirt into the wash, because it needed to be clean for when this all started again-- bright and early the next morning. 

Why I Became a Vegetarian (and Why I'm Going Vegan)

Originally Published in This Dish is Vegetarian


     I kind of hate the reason why I became a vegetarian. I wish I could say that I became a vegetarian because I inherently knew that there was something wrong with eating meat. I would like to claim that I had an epiphany, brought on by deep contemplation and introspection, that a plant-based diet was the more wholesome and health conscious lifestyle. Unfortunately, I owe my vegetarianism to a film.
     I am that stereotypical kid who, in her freshman year of high school, watched a film about animal cruelty in the food industry and decided to become a vegetarian as a result. Of course, after becoming a vegetarian, I still had to transcend from being a “bad” vegetarian to a “good” vegetarian.
     For the first year or two of my vegetarianism, I ate a ton of processed vegetarian food like fake chicken nuggets and imitation lunch meats. Of course, I was incorporating more fruits and veggies into my diet, but I still was not feeding my body properly. Now, I eat as many whole and fresh legumes as I can get my hands on.
     Of course, some processed sugar still finds its way into my mouth and stomach, but, because of my vegetarianism, I've come to appreciate and enjoy natural sugars a whole lot more. My body reminds me daily that becoming a vegetarian was one of the best decisions I have ever made, and it's why I am currently easing myself into veganism.
     I kind of hate the reason why I'm becoming a vegan too. Surprise, surprise: it was also because of a film. At least I can say I'm consistent. The film in question was Forks Over Knives, a resource I was using for another TDIV article and a movie I had been meaning to watch for some time anyway.
     What I learned about the Western diet and our unnecessary (and unhealthy) dependence on animal by-products convinced me that I needed to get milk and eggs out of my system. So far, I've been making small changes—switching to soy milk, neglecting cheese, avoiding omelets.
     The only thing that is stopping me from quitting cold turkey is my impending trip to Europe. Being a vegetarian while traveling in Europe is difficult enough; being a vegan would be nearly, if not completely, impossible. Plus, if I'm honest, I do have some last cannolis and croissants with whom I would like to get acquainted before I disown dairy for good.
     As with my decision to go vegetarian, my decision to go vegan was not entirely my own. A movie got me. I want to say that I'm going vegan because I looked deep inside my soul and a bright light showed me the divine path to dietary Nirvana. However, if there was any bright light in my “epiphany,” it was from the Netflix logo on my computer screen. I am that girl -- that stereotypical bandwagon girl who makes life -- changing decisions after only an hour and a half of glowing pictures.
     So, I won't say that my reasons for going vegetarian and now vegan are ground-breaking or inspiring, because they're not. Still, no matter how inane or insignificant my reason, I became a vegetarian, and I have enjoyed every day, and every food industry based film, since.

#LINVASION - Day 2

Continued from #LINVASION- Day 1...    

      The note was a nice touch. Among other helpful instructions, it told me to call Z as soon as I woke up. I did, and she informed me that her and Beast were downstairs and that I should join them. After changing into a new bathing suit, jean shorts, and a tank top, I walked down to the well furnished basement. Then, we all sat and reminisced about the previous night while we waited for Matt for wake up so we could go out to breakfast. While reliving last's night former glory/filling me in on what I had missed, Z somehow convinced me to try to change my flight so that I could stay another day. (Okay, so it didn't take much convincing...but still.) I had to be back at work by four p.m. on Sunday, which unfortunately limited my flight selection. Furthermore, I couldn't get a refund if I cancelled my flight. After half an hour of online searching and comparing, Delta Airlines had bested me. Of course, this just gave us greater incentive to make my last day in Wisconsin legen (wait for it) dary.
      By eleven a.m., Matt had emerged from his bedroom. Slowly but surely, we all gathered up the courage to begin physical preparations to be seen in public. We left the lake house by eleven-thirty and arrived at the "ghetto but really delicious" pancake house by noon. Once our food was placed on the table and the waitress' hands were safely back at her sides, I ate EVERYTHING. I had ordered a spinach omelet with a side of chocolate chip pancakes, and Z and I had decided to split an order of breakfast potatoes. I didn't actually eat ALL of this, but I definitely ate way more than a little girl like myself should. (The peanut butter sandwiches from last night had lacked staying power, and we had basically skipped breakfast so I can't really be held responsible for my actions.) 
      Then, Z and I accompanied Matt and Beast on their expedition to a giant hardware store. They were buying PVC pipes to make a wake board rack and quizzing the two writers about what PVC stood for. (It's Poly...something...Chloride. I can't remember.) While they focused on their project, we dreamt and discussed all the amenities of our future apartment. I learned that Z doesn't like shower curtains, and she learned that I don't like glass shower doors. So I guess we'll just have to compromise on a clawfoot tub. 
      After our return from the land of PVC and plenty, the boys got down to work and we got down to float. Around three, Z's dad, known as Doc, arrived and asked us if we wanted to go tubing. I thought that this meant lounging in an inner tube attached to the Kuester family boat. (Oh, you poor, innocent child.) Instead, I got the work out of my life. These tubes were actually large floating circles to which I held on for dear life. I want to say that I was able to withstand twenty minutes of tubing before my first fall, but I have never trusted my sense of time. For all I know, it might have only been thirty seconds. The final tally of my falls were six, while Z had only been thrown once. I'm just going to chalk it all up to experience and the "lime infused water" Doc had made and served us while we were tubing. (A side note: The right side of my chest is still sore from this endeavor.) 
       When we arrived back at the dock, the rest of the Kuester clan and friends were waiting for us. This included Z's mom, Cam, who greeted me with the most lovely of hugs. Do you know how good it feels to be immediately accepted by your best friend's mother? It felt like a unicorn shitting sparkly butterflies (made of actual butter) right onto your clear, poreless face. It felt great. Then, everyone piled into the boat, and I witnessed another wake boarding/ water skiing session. It was less professional than the first one, but way more entertaining since I actually knew these aquatic athletes. Doc went first with his water skis. From watching him, I learned that you are, indeed, supposed to lose one water ski shortly after beginning your run. I thought he had done it on accident the first time, but apparently, that is just what you do. Next up was Z on her wake board, for whom I cheered like a crazy stage mom. (Incidentally, this is an accurate way to describe our relationship. Okay, it isn't, except when my little girl tries her hand at cooking. Like she did here. Shameless plug #2.) Matt rounded off the Kuester trio of water acrobats, and he wasn't half bad. 
      All the while, Z and I had one of our most beautiful and deep talks about something so important and integral to both of us-- writing. We discussed our hopes and our insecurities in relation to our craft, each encouraging the other that her future was nothing but bright. I think that what characterized this talk (and what characterizes our friendship) was that there was no competitiveness between us. We both acknowledged our own talents and shortcomings, and we both were (are) focused on simply trying to become the best writer each of us could be. We're different people, different writers, and we respect and encourage each other for that. What I'm trying to say is: it was a good talk. 
      By the time we got back to the lakehouse, it was about seven p.m. More of Matt's friends had arrived, and an interesting night was beginning to take shape. Z and I attempted to help Cam make dinner, but almost immediately, we became distracted by our own little worlds. We succeeded in slicing hamburger buns, but not much else. I was consumed by a recent cellular incident, and Z was consumed in helping me navigate through it. (Oh, the trials and tribulations of our young, female lives.) I will say, however, that the text which drew my attention away from the kitchen was an...interesting one. 
      After we decided to give up on our pursuits to be the Next Food Network Star, we joined Matt, Beast, and all their twenty-something friends and girlfriends in the basement. Everyone was sitting around drinking "root beer," and somehow Z's lake house guide wormed its way into the conversation. Everyone, knowing that they had been mentioned in the guide, was curious about its exact contents. Z and I refused to give away its secrets, mostly because we were both pretty badly implicated in the guide ourselves. (When we know so much about each other, it's hard not to.) Z also happened to mention the existence of her "Brothers" powerpoint. This was a powerpoint sent to me and other prospective lake house guests briefly explaining each of Z's "brothers," including but not limited to her actual biological brother, Matt. Once this entered the conversation, all the brothers demanded that they be shown this mysterious powerpoint. Z promised to do a viewing session later when she would be more "agreeable," but this showing never (thank goodness) actually happened. 
     Not wanting to waste the lovely Wisconsin evening, there was a mass exodus to the Kuester's deck. The equipment for a game of "Bags" was already set up and waiting to be utilized. Z had explained "Bags" to me in her lake house guide, and I was very excited to get a chance to actually play it. Z and I played on the same team against Beast and one of Matt's other friends. The game consisted of one player from each team throwing beanbags onto a wooden platform with a whole in the middle. A person scored one point for each bag that landed on the platform and three for any that went into the hole. If the opposing team also landed on the platform or in the hole, the points cancelled out. The throwing continued until one team reached twenty-one points. It was a long and hard game, but Z and I emerged victorious. 
      By this time, dinner was ready. We all took a brief sojourn inside to grab the delicacies of Cam and Doc, and although I can't speak for anyone else, I certainly was not disappointed by the quality or the selection. The vegetarian was fully satisfied. 
     After dinner, we all went back outside to play some more games. This time, we started off with "Smack Cup," which is one of the funnest games I have ever played. About thirty cups were pushed together in the center of a big table, each one filled with a small amount of "root beer." The goal of this game was similar to "Nickels" but with ping pong balls instead of nickels and cups instead of "film canisters." This game was very similar to "Slap Cup," but again, playing that would have been an inappropriate and unworthy use of our underaged time. Z and I both ended up drinking the most amount of "root beer" because we each got caught between people who were in the zone, passing the cup back and forth. (I don't even want to think about the calories we each consumed in those few minutes.) Eventually though, we each were able to get our ping pong ball in the cup, and resurfaced. Once this game was over, Z and I both decided to sit out the next round because we know who we are and who we don't want to be. Later, Z and I joined in on a couple more games and had a jolly good time.
        I have no idea what time the suggestion to go out to the boat came up. In retrospect, I'm guessing about three a.m. None of us had our phones on us for fear of them falling into the lake, so time had progressed strangely the entire day. At any rate, those of us who were still awake (which did include me this time!) clamored onto the boat. We sailed to the sandbar, and I got to experience it for the first time. Unlike the rocks and pebbles that lined the bottom of most of the lake, the sandbar's floor was soft and white. The water was waist-high and warm. It was a truly lovely place. However, we only stayed for half an hour because it was four a.m. by this time, and people were dropping like flies. On the ride back, Beast took over stirring for Matt, and he came back and sat with me. We had a nice chat about Chinese hookers and cultural constructions of reality. (This is what I do to people. I don't mean to do it, but it happens.) It was a good talk. 
      By the time we got back from the sandbar, it was five a.m. No one knew how it had gotten so late, but here was the sun. I was so exhausted by this point that I just decided to crash in Matt's room... because it was closest to the basement. The poor guy, having to share his room with a young woman. I really put (him) out. 
      The next four hours passed quickly, filled with a deep but too short sleep. Z and I both had to wake up at nine a.m. so that we would have enough time to get me to the airport by eleven. Luckily, the majority of my stuff was in Z's room so it was a quick round up. We drank some pomegranate juice to revive us in our sleep deprived states, and then we were off.
     The next hour and a half was one of my favorites. Just me and my best friend sitting together, reminiscing about last night. If only her car had been the Emerson College dining hall, it would have been just like old times. We had a great time, until we inevitably reached the airport. I didn't want to return to my pseudo real life in If You Lived Here You'd Probably Kill Yourself, Pennsylvania. However, I had already paid for my ticket, and my parents would have thought I was the victim of the Wisconsin version of Taken had I done anything but say goodbye to my best friend, close the car door, and walk through the revolving doors.
     My only solace was that this wasn't "goodbye," this was "see you later." In fact, this was "see you in three weeks." I've been waiting for our second reunion ever since, and if it's anything like the first, I know that I won't do it any justice when I write about it.

That One Time I Pretended I was a Food Blogger

Sweet Balsamic Vinaigrette Veggie Stir-Fry

     Yesterday, I experimented with this dish, and my taste buds deemed it a roaring success. The best part about this meal is that as long as you have sweet balsamic vinaigrette and like sweet balsamic vinaigrette, you're pretty much set. You can use any veggies you have lying around the house in this stir fry, which makes it a super easy and convenient lunch or dinner. The biggest time commitment is with chopping the veggies, but once they're in the pan, you've got a delicious and nutritious meal in about five minutes. 

      And did I mention that you can use whatever is lying around the house because all the veggies will take on the delicious taste of the dressing? The veggies that I used in my stir fry were: mushrooms, spinach, carrots, kale, peas, broccoli, asparagus, and roma tomatoes. (The last one is technically a fruit, but they just had to join in on the fun.) So this is a great way to pack all your veggies into one simple and delicious meal. 



       I eyeballed the amount of vinaigrette I poured into the pan, about two tablespoons.  However, you don't have to worry about using too much because the magically perfect amount just sticks onto every veggie, adding just the right splash of flavor. The leftover vinaigrette just slides right off, staying in the pan.



                                         I did a happy food dance the entire time I was eating. 
      

       Because they're are so many variables with this dish, I don't have a specific recipe for anyone to follow if they are interested in making their own. But I think that's kind of the beauty of it, right? "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled veggies yearning to break free" from the refrigerator. Seriously, you could throw everything but the kitchen sink into this pan, and it will come out tasting like sweet balsamic vinaigrette and acting like a super food. 

      The one recommendation I will make for this dish is for the brand of balsamic vinaigrette. The brand I used was Chef Tim's Sweet Balsamic Vinaigrette, and it is probably the most delicious balsamic vinaigrette I have ever tasted. However, I do believe that this stir fry will work with regular balsamic vinaigrette, if that is more your dressing style. 

      To sum this dish up: it's quick, it's healthy, it's vegan, and it's freaking yummy. Enjoy responsibly. 

#servergirlstruggz -- I Should Come with a Warning Label

July 13, 2012

     This time, I saw it coming. Somewhere between complimenting my waitressing skills and asking what high school I had gone to, I realized that he was flirting with me. The poor soul-- he had no idea what he would not be getting himself into. I probably should have taken the moment when he asked how long I had taken dance class (the context of how we reached this topic will take too long to explain) to have said something like: 

"Woah there, slugger. You're taking an unnecessary interest in my life, and I've got to stop you right there. Trust me, it's for the best. I'm just passing through, and I'm the emotional equivalent of Lindsay Lohan. I don't want a boyfriend or a hook-up, and you don't want any part of this. I know I seem like I have my shit together, but don't you think that I'm working at ten p.m. on a Friday night for a reason? I'm not with anyone, and, at the moment, I'm not trying to be with anyone. Sorry, for my overly friendly confusion, but I really was just trying to be a good waitress and make conversation. Honestly, I'm flattered, but I'm doing you a huge favor." 

     Of course, if I had said all that, I wouldn't have had time to ask if they wanted their drinks refilled.

     So that's why I will not call the second guy who has ever given me his number via check. This one, an obviously more confident lad, simply wrote "Call me" above his seven digits of delusion. He seemed nice and was mildly attractive, but I'm just not looking right now. I know that I'd be too much for him to handle if I was functioning normally, so there's no way he'd last more than a week with the basket case edition. I'm doing us both a solid with my silent rejection. 

      Of course, these incidents have got me thinking. It might not be a bad idea to make an addition to my name tag. Writing"Not Available for Dating Purposes" under "Lindsay" might just be the quick fix I need to help eliminate confusion. Then again, "Damaged Goods" is shorter and more accurate. Either of these imaginary addendums would dissuade unwanted suitors, leaving me more time to star as the female (and only) lead of the Lifetime movie that strangely resembles my life. 

These dirty plates aren't the only thing that's a hot mess. #servergirlstruggz

#LINVASION - Day 1

July 5, 2012
    
       Forget Area 51, Wisconsin might just be America's best kept secret. (But actually.) I recently visited the land of cheese and...the plot of Bridesmaids over the Fourth of July weekend for a long overdue reunion with my best friend, Miss Z Kuester. (Once again, I will shamelessly plug her blog here.)
       Her beautiful self greeted me at the Milwaukee airport, and the weirdest part of the pick-up was that we both realized that we had never been in a car with each other before. "I didn't know you knew how to drive a stick," I blurted after my initial scream of happiness. She did, and quickly. We made it to Stoughton, the location of her lake house in an hour. (This was about half the time it was supposed to take.) Because it was Thursday, we had brunch at this cute sandwich shop. Lately, our brunch dates had been forced to the dining amenities of our respective kitchens and computers. The face to face meal was a nice change of pace and a return to (our warped sense of) normalcy.
      Then, we were off to the lake house. Z gave me an abbreviated tour since I had virtually been there already and had diligently read my lake house guide. (This was a 4,000 word guide Z wrote and sent to me the day before my arrival. It was jam packed with useful information, some of which I actually remembered.) After the tour, we changed into bathing suits and got our thirsty selves some "orange juice," which we poured into some festive coconut cups. We spent the afternoon floating and lounging in the lake, intermittently on a float and her family's boat. As always, we real talked about everything, utilizing the LindZ dictionary. (I just thought of that name for it. Z doesn't even know I've called it that yet. And if she doesn't like it, then we're not going to call it that because it is pretty cheesy. At any rate, the hardcover edition will be coming out in the next year, but we might have an online version available soon...? I'm probably making promises I can't keep with that statement but we'll see.) We talked about wide receiving, greying out, and being America's Next Top Sadbag. Of course, all of this means nothing unless you're us, which, thankfully, we were.
      Eventually, we went inside and watched Tommy Boy whilst eating peanut butter sandwiches and drinking "fruit smoothies." As early evening approached, so did Z's gentleman caller and his family on his boat. As a family of professional wake boarders, they were going out on the lake to practice and invited us to tag along. (Did I really care about their wake boarding skills? No. Did I care about my girl's night going well? Yes. It's called being altruistic.) At any rate, we watched a few family members wake board in turn and then were dropped back off at the dock to Z's house. By this time, it was now "Grapejuice Night." We took two big containers of Welch's to the back of Z's boat. Promptly, we sat down on the wooden part, dangled our feet in the water, and began sipping. Of course, with "Grapejuice Night" came girl talk. I'm not at liberty to say what was said during girl talk, but if you think that you could have been a topic, then you probably were.
      By nine-thirty, Z's brother and his best friend, Beast, were home from their concert. After they grabbed two sodas and Z's man friend extricated himself from his family, we all began playing a rousing game of nickels. Nickels was a fun game because it involved bouncing a nickel into a film canister while another person attempted the same action. The two nickels went from person to person around the table and if one person bounced his nickel in before the person on his right, then that person had to take a sip of his drink. The nickel and film canister then moved on to the person on the sipper's right. There were more rules, but if you really want to know how to play this game, you can just look up the rules of Quarters, which is similar but not appropriate for underage children like myself and my best friend.
      Then, Z and her gentleman caller went down to the dock to get his boat so we could all go to the sandbar. The other boys and I eventually followed suit, then waited on the dock for them to come back. (I think they took a little bit longer than was actually necessary, but no one seemed to really notice or mind.) By this time, I was extremely exhausted so I fell asleep on the boat almost immediately.
     Everything that happened after this point, I was filled in on later by the charming and awake Z. Apparently, we drove over to the sandbar and randomly came across these other guys in a boat. Everyone hung out and had a really good time except for the loser sleeping in the boat aka ME. (This is what I get for waking up at three a.m. to drive to Philadelphia so that I would be in Milwaukee by eleven a.m. This is what I sacrifice for love.) Once back at the dock, Z apparently woke up a very agreeable Lindsay and got her into the house and into bed. Z even gave her her own pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt to wear that night. Beast took similarly good care of Z's brother, Matt, and then the two of them made late night/early morning sandwiches in the kitchen before crashing on the two couches in the basement.
      The next morning I woke up around nine, and the fun began again...

#servergirlstruggz -- The League of Extraordinarily Soaked Gentlemen

July 10, 2012
    
      This could have been a good story. This could have been a rousing tale of fondness and friendship. This could have been a retelling of a triumph. Instead, it's just another one of those time I spilled a drink on someone reports. (For the previous one: go here.)
      Of all the patios in all the world, these three gents walked onto mine. I was thrilled when I saw these old men sitting at one of my tables because I love getting nostalgic for things I was never a part of. (Prohibition, the two World Wars, and Russian Communism are my jam, only because I wasn't there.) At any rate, I really like serving old people because they usually tip me well. Often, we get along swimmingly because they can tell that I'm an old soul too. At any rate, I bounced up to these fellows' table and took their order. All they wanted were two beers and a black and tan, bless their aging hearts. Don't we all love old men who still know how to have a good time?
        After grabbing their drinks from the bar, I walked across the entire restaurant, opened the glass door, and proceeded to their table, all without incident. Then, I handed the first gentleman his pint of Samuel Adams Summer Ale. It stuck the landing. Next, I safely delivered the pint of black and tan. All of a sudden, the tray, now unbalanced, tipped slightly. I lacked the forearm strength to match it. Before I knew it, half of the stein of Newcastle had soaked my tray, and the man innocently sitting closest to it. Luckily, I was able to right the glass before the entire thing spilled, but the damage had already been done. The poor guy was soaked, and I was left gasping. I apologized immediately to the man, who now spelled like a frat house. (This brought on a wave of nostalgia for things I actually have witnessed.) I also apologized to the other man whose drink had been the sacrificial lamb to the god of female arm strength. I told the former that I would a lot of napkins and the latter another beer. He told me just to fill up the one I already had, which I did while scrambling for napkins. My manager was working behind the bar, and when I explained the situation he accompanied me outside to their table. Unlike previous tables who shall not be mentioned, these gentlemen did not ask for a discount or anything. Of course, my manager comped their beers for them anyway, which was the right thing to do. (Snaps for my manager's integrity.) Still, the guys weren't even mad. They laughed it off, said they'd been through much worse, and basically let me off scot free.
      I wasn't expecting a tip from these gentlemen, and I did not receive one. I have never been more fine with a withheld tip in my entire life. Even though it was just an honest mistake, I know that I didn't deserve one. However, worse than my lack of tip is the knowledge that I ruined something beautiful between us. I know we could have had a real connection-- if not for that sopping wet one. Oh well, as with all the guys in my life, I keep this mentality: if it doesn't work with this one, then on to the next. I'm sure that there will be more elderly gentlemen in my future, and, if I'm lucky, they'll drink scotch.

These dirty plates aren't the only thing that's a hot mess. #servergirlstruggz

#servergirlstruggz -- The Illiterate's Guide to Eating

July 8, 2012

Step 1: Don't read the menu. Don't even look at the pictures. Ignore the giant laminated piece of paper that has been given specifically to you for this purpose.

Step 2: Order a random item with an interesting sounding name. Only now should you look at the menu. Ask for the items that distinguish your item from any other item (in the world) to be removed.

Step 3: When your innocent server brings you your ill-conceived meal, feel shock and horror at the appearance of cheese on your item. Swear that the cheese-- this foreign, unwanted object-- was not listed under the item's description. (It was.)

Step 4: Look at your companion's meal and decide, on the spot, that this is what you truly wanted all along. Ask if your server can get you that instead. Don't worry, you're not inconveniencing her at all.

Step 5: When she brings you back your new meal, be thankful but not overly so. This happens all day every day, and it was the least she could do. It's not like she had anything else to do anyway.

Step 6: Get out. Please. Just get out. To make this direction more understandable for the literally impaired: GTFO.

That is all.

These dirty plates aren't the only thing that's a hot mess. #servergirlstruggz

#servergirlstruggz -- The Case of the Missing Quesadillas

July 1, 2012      

     I was innocently walking over to my first table of the afternoon shift when it happened. The elderly woman I was serving had witnessed a sudden disappearance. The chicken quesadillas had been ruthlessly snatched from our menu, and she wanted to enact justice on those responsible. However, I persuaded her that the best revenge was living well. Thus, I committed myself to helping her create a chicken quesadilla alternative by customizing a barbecue chicken wrap to show the fiends that she had not given up.
       The order was, to say the least, complicated. With our heads bent over a menu, we conspired to make the chicken hot, take out the ranch dressing, put the barbecue sauce on the side, and add avocado, blackbeans, and sour cream as dips on the side. By the end of it, the traditional barbecue wrap had been transformed into a cylinder shaped quesadilla. Sure, it was not piping hot, and the cheddar cheese could have been melted a little bit more, but she was happy.
       Unfortunately, the case of the missing quesadillas still has not been solved. They remain absent from our menu, probably chewed up and spit out in an alleyway somewhere. I highly doubt that corporate is going to hire a private investigator to find them. Still, if I, personally, can fill the void in my guests' lives and provide some closure, then I guess I've done my job right.

These dirty plates aren't the only thing that's a hot mess. #servergirlstruggz

#servergirlstruggz -- All the Single Ladies

June 29, 2012    

      Thanks to Channing Tatum and Matthew McConaughey, the estrogen and the liquor were flowing tonight at the restaurant. Strategically located next to the larger of two local movie theaters, our burger and fries emporium is always flooded with people when a new movie comes out. Tonight, with the launching of Magic Mike, Ted, and Spider Man, was no exception. The amount of tingling ovaries that strolled through our doors between the hours of six and ten tonight, biding their time before they could really be satisfied, was enough to...make me wish I could throw back a cocktail and join them. Believe it or not, I actually had fun at my job tonight. One table in particular was filled with eight women who put the vice in service. (That was a really lame joke, but better than putting holla in the alcohol, which was the only other thing I could think of.)
     These ladies came in with the intention of getting fed and getting tipsy, and I was more than happy to help them. Besides getting my tables laid, I also do my best to get them drunk. I just have a really hard time saying no to someone who looks so happy with a straw between her lips and a garnish between her fingers. One woman in particular started the night off with two double Captain Morgans and Diet Cokes. Her drink was so well received that at least half of the table ended ordering one each for themselves. She had about three or four (or five, but the last one I made sure was a single), and by the third one, she had already welcomed me as just another gal pal. Another woman, who arrived late, ordered nothing but drinks. She told me that she was going to meet her husband in a little while and needed to be prepared. I incorrectly guessed that his name was Channing Tatum, but she didn't mind enlightening me that her true love was Matthew McConaughey. After taking her order and being shone the light, I said, "Yup, we never meet the boys sober," showing that I was a kindred spirit. The ladies and I spent the hour and a half leading up to their eight o' clock movie joking around the table and charging up the bill. Of course, serving eight women, I hopped from end to end like a crazy person, offering drink refills and taking orders until my fingers were numb. Still, I was happy to do it all because I genuinely liked these biddies. They seemed like the kind of women that, if I'm still single by age forty (which you all better pray doesn't happen or else I will be #bitter), I would love to accompany on a girls' night.
      By the end of their meal, something happened that has never happened to me before in my serving career and probably will never happen again. I received a round of applause from these lovely ladies, which meant more to me than any tip ever will. ("They liked me; they really liked me.") Of course, my tip wasn't too shabby either. Although separating a $150 check eight different ways was no simple task, the added tips from each person made the extra concentration and effort worth it. I have never really wanted to thank a table before, but I'm grateful that these ladies ended up in my section. So I guess my life isn't always filled with #servergirlstruggz; sometimes, there are #servergirlsuccesses.

These dirty plates aren't the only thing that's a hot mess. #servergirlstruggz