Archive | May, 2012


22 May

Tonight I worked at the restaurant had 6,000 in sales and nobody in my section paid a dime. How is that possible you might ask? Well, it’s basically a game of “biggest-dickus;” the owners want to impress the blue money investors and fifteen-minute-famers who attract business.

America is a backwards nation: the people who truly need food go hungry, while the people who have bought of half of New York eat for free, and throw away untouched food in the trash. It really devastates me to leave the restaurant and see people begging for food in the streets, literally asking for left overs from severs like myself, while the morally depraved drink twenty-five dollar tequila shots, that they don’t even pay for (That 25 dollar cocktail is paid for by people who wait in line to get a table to eat among the glitterati — it’s middle school social anxiety at it’s best; and if you wanna eat with the cool kids, you are going to pay for it).

Today after work I tried to give away two perfectly cooked untouched 40 dollar entrees in the streets, silverware and all. Alas, the homeless didn’t eat Fluke tonight. And this Robin Hood is going to bed without his kharma kick. I do have an extra stolen fork now.



21 May

I always have waiter nightmares after a hard shift. Usually it involves having an influx of people in the restaurant and being ill equipped to serve them. The patrons in the dreams are usually some sort of “difficult” type: a bus load of obese Midwesterners who have come for BBQ-ribs; a Medieval banquet hall full of fabulously bejeweled black ladies requesting all types of unknown hot sauces; Spaniards. 

Once I dreamt there was a whole football field full of white linen tables, awaiting a mass service. Every ten yard line was an individual sever “section” with Micros point-of-sale terminals at the ends of each ten yard line. The servers would spint up an down the ten yard lines, taking orders and entering them into the terminals. It was endless. There was a lone Asian man in the corner of the field, waving at me. I decided that he was just going to have to wait, maybe forever if necessary.

When I used to work at a fancy french place in midtown, I had a specific reoccurring dream that involved retrieving wine. It was always stressful retrieving wine in that restaurant because the wine cellar was so far away from the main floor, several floors underground in a dark, unorganized den of bottles, all piled on top of each other. I would always dream that a guest had ordered a glass of wine, and I would go downstairs to get the wine, but the stairs wouldn’t end. The stairs just kept going. And I would keep walking until it was doubtful whether I would have the strength to climb back up to the top where I entered. I kept telling myself I was getting closer to the wine cellar, but it never appeared. And all I could imagine was the guest upstairs, waiting for his wine, and yelling about being late for the curtain at Mama Mia!

My most recent dream last night involved George Bush Senior. For some reason, George Bush was part of a team of waiters who were all being shipped in trains to a sort of waiter concentration camp (I don’t mean to make light of the Holocaust, it’s just that, my imagination very clearly was invoking images from WWII movies). It was all very attractive waiters, and George Bush, leading us barefoot waiters, through the snow, and mud. We all were sprinting with trays full of cocktails and glassware to some unknown Master guest, who was situated on top of a mountain. Go figure. 

Inevitably all the dreams have a sense of frantic, helpless urgency. And also a comic sense of epic failure.