"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.
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