New York, New York, why must your IDs look so fake? I almost fought a girl tonight over her fake ID, and you don't have enough checks and balances for foreigners to discern reality.
I took up this girl's ID because: 1. It expired in June 2008, 2. The nose was too different (and if she could afford a nose job, she could have afforded a new license), 3. It was an expired learner's permit for a 24-year-old, and 4. The chick on the ID was Indian, not black. Girl pitched a fit, but she couldn't prove it was her. Of course, I didn't want to disobey the law myself and take a real expired ID, but I still couldn't believe this girl was the same on "her ID." But not even having a debit card to prove it was her, I safely assumed it was fake. I even got Officer Byron involved to demonstrate that it was on legal grounds that I could not return her learner's permit. The girl claimed that she was driving and needed her expired license; she couldn't even provide Byron with proof of registration to match the names. But then she said she was only visiting and had flown in. She later drove away in a old, beat-up, New York-licensed car.
I put returning the ID back up to Byron; he's the officer, he's the boss. But I did stress that the girl was not the same as the picture.
Like hell an officer is going to give you your ID back if you're rude to him.
Like hell you're not getting kicked out if you call your server a bitch for confiscating your illegal identification.
Byron had managed to get the girl and her trashy friends to the door when one of these trashy friends walked back into the bar and couldn't keep three extra empty feet to herself and bumped into me while I was talking to a legal table. She obviously wasn't even tipsy, as she hadn't a drop to drink once she walked in, so I saw no reason for such an erratic step. Byron escorted them all out before I could land a punch. Benevolent as I am, I was ready for a fight by that point.
You know what she asked on her way out the door? "Can I have my ID back?"
Never was I so happy for my $25 fake ID reward.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Saturday, November 21, 2009
The Friday Round-Up
My whole body aches. My feet, my knees, my thighs, my lower back, my spine, my shoulders, my neck, my head, and everywhere inbetween. I'm getting a massage tomorrow, end of.
It was crazy, one of those nights where you round prices up a dollar or two when cocktailing because you know no one is giving you an extra buck for your time. I sold $900. I made $160. Not bad, but definitely, not good.
Here's a bullet list of why I got home at 3am:
I'll state it again: Thank god we have Byron.
(Edited 11/22, because at 3am, no one could have had enough brain power to write decently. Also, that massage was amazing.)
It was crazy, one of those nights where you round prices up a dollar or two when cocktailing because you know no one is giving you an extra buck for your time. I sold $900. I made $160. Not bad, but definitely, not good.
Here's a bullet list of why I got home at 3am:
- Eli didn't realize she was working (new schedule manager still working out the kinks in schedule-making), so she was stuck at a school event and couldn't come in. We were based on anarchy-hierarchy for a while. The GM came in, and then we all texted Benjammin' to come in instead. We took care of him with tip out.
- People got so drunk they called me by name as their server, but they actually had Ana. (Let me tell you, when it's that busy, I don't know anyone by his or her face, only by where the person sits.)
- I got so busy that I fell on my ass, hopped up, grabbed more drinks, then felt the pain after delivering the drink.
- Some drunk girl, looking for her server, stormed into the kitchen, and upon not seeing her, kept going toward the bar to find her server. I had to block her with my arm.
- The gravel parking lot turned into one giant dance party -- until the cops drove by and everyone scattered.
- LL got wasted, so I counted her money, fended off the sketchy men, and helped with her side work in addition to all of mine. To her credit, she did try to help, but we made her sleep.
- Someone masturbated in the men's room. I got the pleasure of cleaning it.
- I drove LL and JD home.
- Someone sent back a menu because "it had boogers on it":
I'll state it again: Thank god we have Byron.
(Edited 11/22, because at 3am, no one could have had enough brain power to write decently. Also, that massage was amazing.)
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Iced Out
Let me be clear: If you have gold teeth, I will not respect you.
That's right, Mr. Ghetto McGee, from Sunday night, that includes you. He walked in with this cute, bookish girl late Sunday evening. Sitting at a back booth, she sat in a normal way. He ghetto-leaned over toward the middle of the table, and palming his phone near his chin, talked to someone. Their piles of cash was exposed on each of their sides. (Note: Display of money is usually a warning sign.) He wore a faux-fur collared coat. His vocabulary consisted of nouns and simple modifiers. He might have had the capacity for the "to be" verb, but none of its conjugates.
Needless to say, I was happy to alert Jenny of her new table.
As he left the jukebox (refer to previous posts), he passed by me, muttering "sexy," as if that would somehow sway me to catfight his sugar momma and be swept off my feet.
In case you were curious, it did not.
When they left, Jenny had no extra money on the table, just some unlabeled ID card the girl had left. While she was showing it around, I pointed out the social security number listed. It is outside of the scope of my little blog to complain about the idiocy of keeping your social security number (and address and name) on your person, and even further, to leave it on a table for your poorly-treated server to collect.
There was another guy in during the day with gold teeth. He, like many other of our patrons, has a penchant for Joy, and apparently a record of not paying his tab. He kept hugging up on Joy and Jenny, and I was glad to have a different section. I have not met many classy people with gold teeth. I just can't respect it.
Now, gold teeth. Grillz. Really? This is a trend I do not understand. Just like the "z" I see advertised. After five minutes of research, I learned that in several former Soviet territories, gold teeth are a status symbol. I will chalk that up to post-communist technology insufficiencies. However, in the US, we have plenty of technology. After a two-minute Google search of Hip Hop Dentistry and cosmetic dentistry prices, I have concluded that there is no good reason for choosing gold teeth over more natural looking false teeth. The prices are comparable per tooth, and it appears the grill is actually the price per tooth. But the grill is completely ridiculous. Why wear fake fake teeth over a perfectly fine row of teeth?
I assume gold (or platinum or diamond) teeth are also a status symbol in hip hop culture. According to the scholarly source, Wikipedia:
If I have not convinced you not to get your grill, please click here for a list of places to buy your grill in Atlanta. I believe two of those are near Underground.
That's right, Mr. Ghetto McGee, from Sunday night, that includes you. He walked in with this cute, bookish girl late Sunday evening. Sitting at a back booth, she sat in a normal way. He ghetto-leaned over toward the middle of the table, and palming his phone near his chin, talked to someone. Their piles of cash was exposed on each of their sides. (Note: Display of money is usually a warning sign.) He wore a faux-fur collared coat. His vocabulary consisted of nouns and simple modifiers. He might have had the capacity for the "to be" verb, but none of its conjugates.
Needless to say, I was happy to alert Jenny of her new table.
As he left the jukebox (refer to previous posts), he passed by me, muttering "sexy," as if that would somehow sway me to catfight his sugar momma and be swept off my feet.
In case you were curious, it did not.
When they left, Jenny had no extra money on the table, just some unlabeled ID card the girl had left. While she was showing it around, I pointed out the social security number listed. It is outside of the scope of my little blog to complain about the idiocy of keeping your social security number (and address and name) on your person, and even further, to leave it on a table for your poorly-treated server to collect.
There was another guy in during the day with gold teeth. He, like many other of our patrons, has a penchant for Joy, and apparently a record of not paying his tab. He kept hugging up on Joy and Jenny, and I was glad to have a different section. I have not met many classy people with gold teeth. I just can't respect it.
Now, gold teeth. Grillz. Really? This is a trend I do not understand. Just like the "z" I see advertised. After five minutes of research, I learned that in several former Soviet territories, gold teeth are a status symbol. I will chalk that up to post-communist technology insufficiencies. However, in the US, we have plenty of technology. After a two-minute Google search of Hip Hop Dentistry and cosmetic dentistry prices, I have concluded that there is no good reason for choosing gold teeth over more natural looking false teeth. The prices are comparable per tooth, and it appears the grill is actually the price per tooth. But the grill is completely ridiculous. Why wear fake fake teeth over a perfectly fine row of teeth?
I assume gold (or platinum or diamond) teeth are also a status symbol in hip hop culture. According to the scholarly source, Wikipedia:
Murray Forman, a professor specializing in popular music and hip-hop at Northeastern University, has suggested that grills, like other bling jewelry, symbolize monetary success, which is especially important for the social underclass. He has also suggested that the attention grills draw to the mouth is reflective of the importance in vocal dexterity in the African-American community, citing the importance of West African oral storytelling traditions, African-American orators, and trash talk among basketball players.Maybe this is because I am extremely biased, but I cannot think of a single time I looked at a grill and heard anything of vocal dexterity come from behind it. Usually I heard bastard English and improperly conjugated verbs (if I was lucky). Well, there is one exception. I do enjoy OutKast.
If I have not convinced you not to get your grill, please click here for a list of places to buy your grill in Atlanta. I believe two of those are near Underground.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Why I Hope My Table Went to Jail, or, Why I Miss Byron
An example of karma and an example of the importance of police road blocks.
At last call, I offered my last table one last drink. They ordered four margaritas and one Grateful Dead. About fifteen minutes later, I informed them that we aimed to have all the patrons out in about eight minutes. They took exception. Assuring them that I still had plenty of cleaning to do before I could ask them to leave, I told them that it was ultimately the manager's discretion as to how long they could remain.
They told each other they would sleep here or take their drinks with them. (Both of which, illegal.)
I tried to collect the payment books with their credit card receipts, but, grabbing them all, one girl asked for five more seconds, stating that she had to double-check that her friends tipped me correctly. Funny, because I had overheard them complaining about the added gratuity. (You can't trust drunks with your paycheck.) A few minutes later, I returned to collect the receipts so that I could actually check out. I didn't have the time or energy to deal with selfish drunks. I found one book at one end of the table, but I couldn't find the remaining four on the table at all.
Turns out, the diligent tipper had hidden the four books in her leather jacket. Surprise, no extra tips were added.
I got them back, ran my checkout, counted my money, and told the hilarity to my manager, who then kicked the girls out, thirty minutes after receiving their last-call drink.
While finishing my cleaning, I heard the regulars/friends at the bar shouting at people through the shut iron gate. My coworker yelled that we can't open that door, that they'd have to go around, and that we were closed. The regulars/friends shouted other mean things to the people, notably, calling the people "pieces of shit." A reminder, none of the employees did so. And the offending yeller left immediately afterward.
Then my girls went storming in the back door, yelling about the name-calling. A coworker and I found the manager, but by that point I believe amends had been made (sort of). The manager then proceeded to kick the girls out again. Out of my never-ending belief in mankind, I'm going to say that knocking the condiment caddy off Table 10 was a complete, drunken accident. However, grabbing the caddy from their earlier booth and throwing it was nothing of the sort. This was when I worried about calling the cops.
The manager quickly followed, proceeded to continue kicking the girls out again, this time for disorderly conduct. As the girls walked onto the deck, the manager unconventionally removed one girl's margarita. She informed the girls of Atlanta's open container laws. I believe that was when they got in Jenny's face then pulled the race card. (I thought nothing of race while they sat at my table; they were lovely until I told them they'd have to leave.) Both the benevolent coworker and the feisty coworker had to restrain themselves.
When the bickering went to the parking lot, one girl threw her beer at my manager, and, missing, hit my car.
Thank god for our plastic cups.
Calling 911 as the girls walked away, my manager saw them with their drinks drive toward a road block. So the cops were already expecting these girls. Sweet.
I hope they went to jail. And, had they hit my car with anything more than plastic, I wouldn't have shown much restraint.
It was much more exciting than the guys who took a liking to me, openly gawked at my ass, and tipped me poorly. Oh, I need job with a different type of excitement.
At last call, I offered my last table one last drink. They ordered four margaritas and one Grateful Dead. About fifteen minutes later, I informed them that we aimed to have all the patrons out in about eight minutes. They took exception. Assuring them that I still had plenty of cleaning to do before I could ask them to leave, I told them that it was ultimately the manager's discretion as to how long they could remain.
They told each other they would sleep here or take their drinks with them. (Both of which, illegal.)
I tried to collect the payment books with their credit card receipts, but, grabbing them all, one girl asked for five more seconds, stating that she had to double-check that her friends tipped me correctly. Funny, because I had overheard them complaining about the added gratuity. (You can't trust drunks with your paycheck.) A few minutes later, I returned to collect the receipts so that I could actually check out. I didn't have the time or energy to deal with selfish drunks. I found one book at one end of the table, but I couldn't find the remaining four on the table at all.
Turns out, the diligent tipper had hidden the four books in her leather jacket. Surprise, no extra tips were added.
I got them back, ran my checkout, counted my money, and told the hilarity to my manager, who then kicked the girls out, thirty minutes after receiving their last-call drink.
While finishing my cleaning, I heard the regulars/friends at the bar shouting at people through the shut iron gate. My coworker yelled that we can't open that door, that they'd have to go around, and that we were closed. The regulars/friends shouted other mean things to the people, notably, calling the people "pieces of shit." A reminder, none of the employees did so. And the offending yeller left immediately afterward.
Then my girls went storming in the back door, yelling about the name-calling. A coworker and I found the manager, but by that point I believe amends had been made (sort of). The manager then proceeded to kick the girls out again. Out of my never-ending belief in mankind, I'm going to say that knocking the condiment caddy off Table 10 was a complete, drunken accident. However, grabbing the caddy from their earlier booth and throwing it was nothing of the sort. This was when I worried about calling the cops.
The manager quickly followed, proceeded to continue kicking the girls out again, this time for disorderly conduct. As the girls walked onto the deck, the manager unconventionally removed one girl's margarita. She informed the girls of Atlanta's open container laws. I believe that was when they got in Jenny's face then pulled the race card. (I thought nothing of race while they sat at my table; they were lovely until I told them they'd have to leave.) Both the benevolent coworker and the feisty coworker had to restrain themselves.
When the bickering went to the parking lot, one girl threw her beer at my manager, and, missing, hit my car.
Thank god for our plastic cups.
Calling 911 as the girls walked away, my manager saw them with their drinks drive toward a road block. So the cops were already expecting these girls. Sweet.
I hope they went to jail. And, had they hit my car with anything more than plastic, I wouldn't have shown much restraint.
It was much more exciting than the guys who took a liking to me, openly gawked at my ass, and tipped me poorly. Oh, I need job with a different type of excitement.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Brush with Fame?
Monday I had some foreigners. Nothing particularly exciting, given the teeming numbers of exchange students at Tech. However, these three guys sounded like some of my Dublin friends but spoke a language together I didn't think was Irish Gaelic. Turns out these guys are Swedish.
They wanted to drink micro-brews, such as Sweetwater, but specifically out of the bottle. Thinking we were out of Leinenkugel Sunset Wheat, I brought the backup Sweetwater IPA instead of the correct first choice. I rang up the right beer, but I just didn't bring it. They were great and added it to the four other beers they were sampling. They had me take a picture of them on their iPhone.
When it came time for the check, I asked them the inevitable: "Why in the world are you in Atlanta?"
Turns out, they're in a band Teddybears. They were recording a track with Cee-Lo at one of the many studios nearby. What's weird is, I'm sure I heard about them on WRAS or Ohm Park recently, but I haven't figured out where. Turns out this trio wears bear masks during their shows. A bit gimmicky, but I'd definitely catch their dance grooves at a show if they toured in Atlanta anytime soon.
And, since they tipped me $6 on $36, which is atypical for European tourists (especially when the server messes up!), I can definitely suggest you check them out.
They wanted to drink micro-brews, such as Sweetwater, but specifically out of the bottle. Thinking we were out of Leinenkugel Sunset Wheat, I brought the backup Sweetwater IPA instead of the correct first choice. I rang up the right beer, but I just didn't bring it. They were great and added it to the four other beers they were sampling. They had me take a picture of them on their iPhone.
When it came time for the check, I asked them the inevitable: "Why in the world are you in Atlanta?"
Turns out, they're in a band Teddybears. They were recording a track with Cee-Lo at one of the many studios nearby. What's weird is, I'm sure I heard about them on WRAS or Ohm Park recently, but I haven't figured out where. Turns out this trio wears bear masks during their shows. A bit gimmicky, but I'd definitely catch their dance grooves at a show if they toured in Atlanta anytime soon.
And, since they tipped me $6 on $36, which is atypical for European tourists (especially when the server messes up!), I can definitely suggest you check them out.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Never Trust the Bearded Woman
Werewolves, higher tides, more babies, higher homicides, and bright, beautiful nights. Ah, the full moon. Lore also has it that it brings out the craziness in mankind.
The first time we recognized this fact on a lunch shift, I really did have all the crazy tables. Without going into it all, here's a limited list:
It got to where I imagined the "lemme have" in my mind between each individual order, and I almost started laughing at her. And that's only part of it. Tip? 10%.
Once, after a bizarre lunch shift, I grabbed Kelly's computer to research moon phases and had correctly guessed that it was the day of the full moon.
While Monday was the full moon, the Monday shift was amazing. I made $110, where I usually struggle to sell that much. However, today was bizarre. I only had four tables, and one was normal. One!
1. Business men from Tech. ($10 on $30! My idols.)
2. My-age businessmen. Nice, but nothing special, except for one of them I recently met. Very nice, but I hope he remembers to retroactively tip me.
3. Couple with a mustachioed joiner.
4. Two ladies, Gladys and Virginia.
The couple. The woman ordered a water. He wasn't sure yet. I delivered the water, and then he asked about the beer list. (We have one on the back.) I pointed it out, he took a minute to figure it out, and I ID'ed him. (1982.) I brought the 420 to him. He was talking to the girl about what kind of wings when she picked up her phone and started talking. I said I'd be back. (Like I was going to wait on her cell phone conversation to finish to take the order. She obviously wasn't concerned, so I went back to the guests who were.) They had a female joiner; I went to greet. Normally when greeting guests, you take a drink order. The man gave me his order. When I looked over at the ladies, he told me, "They're not ready yet." Obviously. But to do my job well, I couldn't ignore the woman and had to get her drink order. So I politely placed my hand beside her and asked for her drink order. She was sweet, but I just couldn't stop staring at her mustache.
His food order. It still aggravates me. He asked for twenty tequila lime wings. When asked for blue cheese or ranch, he specified that his ranch would come on the side. He hadn't realized that I specifically wanted to have his wings tossed in ranch as well as buffalo sauce. And when I brought his correct food order, he waited a couple minutes before asking me if I really brought the right sauce.
Mustachioed food order. She couldn't grasp that we do not provide spicy brown mustard and could not, therefore, put any on her turkey sandwich. I don't know how many times I jokingly told her that if we had it, I could provide it. She still kept asking for it, as if it was funny. It wasn't.
When it came time to pay, I asked how to separate the checks, and when I returned, he had left a twenty in his place. His tab was $21.95. The ladies gathered exactly $1.95 to cover his tab, and left me $2.06 on the $12.94 they had racked up. Quick summary: Because he couldn't wait for me to print tickets, and the ladies didn't feel they should tip when their friend couldn't pay his full check, I got a 6% tip. Also, you could say to never trust the bearded woman.
Gladys and Virginia were interesting. Virginia was lovely. Her friend, Gladys, was not; had I been named Gladys, I would probably also harbor the same bitterness toward the world and take it all out on my waitress. Gladys waved and beckoned me from across the restaurant many a time, even after I was obviously in the process of walking toward her. I purposely repeat my name many a time so that I am not rudely summoned. Calling my name and nice waves will get the most genuineness from me. Gladys was just mostly a disagreeable person, and I think Virginia noticeably tried to make up for the shortcomings. Summary: Gladys $1 on $10; Virginia, $2.45 on $7.55.
Pardon my rants. I needed to purge and teach before starting the night shift.
The first time we recognized this fact on a lunch shift, I really did have all the crazy tables. Without going into it all, here's a limited list:
- Mullet kid (mullet a la Joe Dirt)
- Crazy old ladies en masse -- at one table
- Gold-toothed, gum-smacking ghettolicious babe
It got to where I imagined the "lemme have" in my mind between each individual order, and I almost started laughing at her. And that's only part of it. Tip? 10%.
Once, after a bizarre lunch shift, I grabbed Kelly's computer to research moon phases and had correctly guessed that it was the day of the full moon.
While Monday was the full moon, the Monday shift was amazing. I made $110, where I usually struggle to sell that much. However, today was bizarre. I only had four tables, and one was normal. One!
1. Business men from Tech. ($10 on $30! My idols.)
2. My-age businessmen. Nice, but nothing special, except for one of them I recently met. Very nice, but I hope he remembers to retroactively tip me.
3. Couple with a mustachioed joiner.
4. Two ladies, Gladys and Virginia.
The couple. The woman ordered a water. He wasn't sure yet. I delivered the water, and then he asked about the beer list. (We have one on the back.) I pointed it out, he took a minute to figure it out, and I ID'ed him. (1982.) I brought the 420 to him. He was talking to the girl about what kind of wings when she picked up her phone and started talking. I said I'd be back. (Like I was going to wait on her cell phone conversation to finish to take the order. She obviously wasn't concerned, so I went back to the guests who were.) They had a female joiner; I went to greet. Normally when greeting guests, you take a drink order. The man gave me his order. When I looked over at the ladies, he told me, "They're not ready yet." Obviously. But to do my job well, I couldn't ignore the woman and had to get her drink order. So I politely placed my hand beside her and asked for her drink order. She was sweet, but I just couldn't stop staring at her mustache.
His food order. It still aggravates me. He asked for twenty tequila lime wings. When asked for blue cheese or ranch, he specified that his ranch would come on the side. He hadn't realized that I specifically wanted to have his wings tossed in ranch as well as buffalo sauce. And when I brought his correct food order, he waited a couple minutes before asking me if I really brought the right sauce.
Mustachioed food order. She couldn't grasp that we do not provide spicy brown mustard and could not, therefore, put any on her turkey sandwich. I don't know how many times I jokingly told her that if we had it, I could provide it. She still kept asking for it, as if it was funny. It wasn't.
When it came time to pay, I asked how to separate the checks, and when I returned, he had left a twenty in his place. His tab was $21.95. The ladies gathered exactly $1.95 to cover his tab, and left me $2.06 on the $12.94 they had racked up. Quick summary: Because he couldn't wait for me to print tickets, and the ladies didn't feel they should tip when their friend couldn't pay his full check, I got a 6% tip. Also, you could say to never trust the bearded woman.
Gladys and Virginia were interesting. Virginia was lovely. Her friend, Gladys, was not; had I been named Gladys, I would probably also harbor the same bitterness toward the world and take it all out on my waitress. Gladys waved and beckoned me from across the restaurant many a time, even after I was obviously in the process of walking toward her. I purposely repeat my name many a time so that I am not rudely summoned. Calling my name and nice waves will get the most genuineness from me. Gladys was just mostly a disagreeable person, and I think Virginia noticeably tried to make up for the shortcomings. Summary: Gladys $1 on $10; Virginia, $2.45 on $7.55.
Pardon my rants. I needed to purge and teach before starting the night shift.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Example of Tip Karma
When going out my boyfriend PYT usually grabs the tab: he makes more money, and he tips about 50% usually. I wish I made enough to tip the same. I figure it's better karma to depend on him than tip within my meager budget of 20%. (Remember, even though I'm poor, I tip appropriately.)
Yesterday PYT and I grabbed lunch. I decided to pick up the check for once. The tab was about $23, so I left $30. (My reasoning: $23 rounds to $5, making the tab $28; no need to wait for the two bucks back.)
My first table yesterday was really sweet. People who actually seem like they make a difference in the world. They asked me about Cavalia and if I knew the showtimes for Paranormal Activity (who the hell knows movie showtimes off the top of their head?). Because I didn't know, I checked on a server's computer to tell them the next times at the nearest theatre.
Their tab was just under $23. They left me $30.
Yesterday PYT and I grabbed lunch. I decided to pick up the check for once. The tab was about $23, so I left $30. (My reasoning: $23 rounds to $5, making the tab $28; no need to wait for the two bucks back.)
My first table yesterday was really sweet. People who actually seem like they make a difference in the world. They asked me about Cavalia and if I knew the showtimes for Paranormal Activity (who the hell knows movie showtimes off the top of their head?). Because I didn't know, I checked on a server's computer to tell them the next times at the nearest theatre.
Their tab was just under $23. They left me $30.
Inspired by the Four Drunks Playing Goldentee and Bad Music
Jukeboxes are great things. At a bar, you can pick whatever you'd like to listen instead of whatever crappy music the management may pick. However, where I work, I'm lucky that everyone has good (or at minimum, acceptable) taste in music. When we pick jukebox songs or our satellite radio station, it's usually palatable. Right now the GM has it on the oldies station, which he finally changed from weeks of 90s music.
Certain managers have better tastes in music. For instance, the GM likes classic rock. The rock band managers lean toward metal. We also have feminist music and varying levels of indie rock, depending on who's picking.
During our three trivia nights, we pause the jukebox to let the Trivia Masters pick the song between questions. Undoubtedly Thursdays are the best. I haven't worked a Tuesday or Wednesday in a long time, but I remember the old Wednesday woman used to play Britney and other similar such music. She was nice, but man, her taste in music was definitely lacking. (Another reason the Thursday folk are the best: They always tip the server for taking up the table.)
Corporate restaurants usually have a license agreement to play a specific playlist or CD for which they have purchased the rights. Unless you work for a club or venue that pays rights to BMI, SESAC, or ASCAP, you're in for a terrible time. When I worked at Friday's a couple years ago, I hated the soundtrack. There would be a few diamonds in the rough, but let me tell you: There are only so many times you can hear "Margaritaville" to promote the summer margarita flavors. And, heaven forbid if I didn't get enough Christmas music from B98.5, I'd still get a healthy dose from work.
I've actually never put money into a jukebox, even though I praise royalties. My boyfriend likes to play "Brown-Eyed Girl" and "Pretty Young Thing" because they're our songs. My friend Jane pumps jukeboxes full of money for her music every time we go out. Certain patrons here play the same music all the time. For example, when Kid Rock and Korn are playing, I know the pointy-beareded guy is at the bar; when hip hop and Prince blasts from the jukebox, I know Slim is here. When Phish and the Grateful Dead play, I know Brian or a similar hippie has put in a few bucks. Slim in particular avoids trivia nights so that he can play Jukebox DJ.
Bad taste gets old quickly.
To sum up what I feel about jukeboxes and poor music, this is a sign I wish we had on our jukebox:
[Photo taken at The Nook with my terrible cell phone camera.]
Certain managers have better tastes in music. For instance, the GM likes classic rock. The rock band managers lean toward metal. We also have feminist music and varying levels of indie rock, depending on who's picking.
During our three trivia nights, we pause the jukebox to let the Trivia Masters pick the song between questions. Undoubtedly Thursdays are the best. I haven't worked a Tuesday or Wednesday in a long time, but I remember the old Wednesday woman used to play Britney and other similar such music. She was nice, but man, her taste in music was definitely lacking. (Another reason the Thursday folk are the best: They always tip the server for taking up the table.)
Corporate restaurants usually have a license agreement to play a specific playlist or CD for which they have purchased the rights. Unless you work for a club or venue that pays rights to BMI, SESAC, or ASCAP, you're in for a terrible time. When I worked at Friday's a couple years ago, I hated the soundtrack. There would be a few diamonds in the rough, but let me tell you: There are only so many times you can hear "Margaritaville" to promote the summer margarita flavors. And, heaven forbid if I didn't get enough Christmas music from B98.5, I'd still get a healthy dose from work.
I've actually never put money into a jukebox, even though I praise royalties. My boyfriend likes to play "Brown-Eyed Girl" and "Pretty Young Thing" because they're our songs. My friend Jane pumps jukeboxes full of money for her music every time we go out. Certain patrons here play the same music all the time. For example, when Kid Rock and Korn are playing, I know the pointy-beareded guy is at the bar; when hip hop and Prince blasts from the jukebox, I know Slim is here. When Phish and the Grateful Dead play, I know Brian or a similar hippie has put in a few bucks. Slim in particular avoids trivia nights so that he can play Jukebox DJ.
Bad taste gets old quickly.
To sum up what I feel about jukeboxes and poor music, this is a sign I wish we had on our jukebox:
[Photo taken at The Nook with my terrible cell phone camera.]
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Tipping Addendum
Tipping should be in the form of money.
I guess if you buy me several shots, I'll be okay if you tip me 15%, provided it wasn't a $2 Dimetapp Grape Ape. However, memorabilia should never take the place of a tip.
For example, here is a tip I got a month ago:
This came along with a decent, but not great, tip. And, it's a special issue from New York's recent Get Some! campaign. Here is a corresponding commercial:
However:
This is what Kelly received as her tip. Unacceptable. If it came with the dollar change she wrongly assumed was hers to keep, it would have been welcome. However, on its own, it is unacceptable.
Tip should primarily be money. Not your extra honey.
I guess if you buy me several shots, I'll be okay if you tip me 15%, provided it wasn't a $2 Dimetapp Grape Ape. However, memorabilia should never take the place of a tip.
For example, here is a tip I got a month ago:
This came along with a decent, but not great, tip. And, it's a special issue from New York's recent Get Some! campaign. Here is a corresponding commercial:
However:
This is what Kelly received as her tip. Unacceptable. If it came with the dollar change she wrongly assumed was hers to keep, it would have been welcome. However, on its own, it is unacceptable.
Tip should primarily be money. Not your extra honey.
Cities in China
Tipping. Not a city in China, you know. It's my paycheck.
This is how it currently works in Georgia (and most of America):
15% = average service/usual minimum
20%=good service/my minimum
You should tip 20% as your minimum, especially if you're happy with what you received! 10% is no longer acceptable. Whether or not Oprah really did say that.
Servers should always tip 20% bare minimum because Tip Karma will definitely interfere and lower our tips/paycheck. No lie. It's real. When I went to Prague for a month and tipped well by their customs, I got 10-15% tips upon my arrival.
I can't tell you how many times I've received 10%/less than 10%/nothing and asked the table if there was a problem with the service only to hear, "Nope, it was great!" with a smile. Sometimes it leads into more.
And, you should also consider the time which you take up the section before adding your tip. Maybe your $2 is good on your $10 tab, but if you've been sitting there for five hours, you should be much more considerate.
As a Philadelphia Eagles' bar, I'm accustomed to tables sitting for hours and hours tipping only on the dollar amount. There are the lovely few who do consider the time it takes to refill the Mr. Pibb eight times during the first half. However, most fans either are unaware or maintain their ignorance.
The first time I ever, ever, was yelled at was during the first Eagles' game I worked of the season. Now, keep in mind that I'm usually loved by my tables and take particular exception to when I'm disliked in general. And then to be yelled at as if this customer were my father really hurt.
After reviewing the situation many times in my head, I can only believe that my only real shortcoming was the delay in bringing the check. And that I couldn't control the fact that the Eagles were losing pitifully to the Saints. I brought the beers quickly, the pizza was up before the game started, I managed to keep up with the standing patrons near the table, and I refilled the first Diet Coke many a time until the upgrade to adult beverages.
When this guy asked for his check, honestly I forgot. It was only the third quarter; I figured that there was plenty of time to bring the check. When he angrily asked for it, I brought it immediatelly, and consequently, immediately forgot to add the gratuity for the extra folk standing around the table. He gave me $3 on $28. I asked about it. This is the best I can recreate the situation. Parenthesis are my thoughts.
Me: Sir, was there a problem with your service?
Him: You tell me.
Me: (Well, this isn't going to plan.) Well, you're the only one here who has paid. I was just wondering if you were unhappy with anything, and, if so, how I could improve.
Him: Why are you asking me?
Me: (Oh, god.) Since you tipped me only about ten percent, I just assumed that you were unhappy with your service, and I wanted to know what I could do to improve.
Him: You need to brush up on your service skills.
Me: (Obviously.) How specifically can I do that?
Him: Brush up on your serving.
Me: Yes, sir. What specifically could I do to improve my service skills?
Him: You're all about the money and not the honey.
Me: Sir, how can I be more about the honey?
And that's when he told me I could put my three bucks back on the table. I walked away and ignored him for the rest of the fourth quarter. His friends all apologized for his typical behavior and didn't notice the auto-gratuity I retroactively added. Although they were the only reason I made decent money that shift, I never actually learned my serving shortcomings.
I was pretty happy when I walked by and saw him spill his Harp all over his beer belly.
Karma, tip or not, exists.
This is how it currently works in Georgia (and most of America):
15% = average service/usual minimum
20%=good service/my minimum
You should tip 20% as your minimum, especially if you're happy with what you received! 10% is no longer acceptable. Whether or not Oprah really did say that.
Servers should always tip 20% bare minimum because Tip Karma will definitely interfere and lower our tips/paycheck. No lie. It's real. When I went to Prague for a month and tipped well by their customs, I got 10-15% tips upon my arrival.
I can't tell you how many times I've received 10%/less than 10%/nothing and asked the table if there was a problem with the service only to hear, "Nope, it was great!" with a smile. Sometimes it leads into more.
And, you should also consider the time which you take up the section before adding your tip. Maybe your $2 is good on your $10 tab, but if you've been sitting there for five hours, you should be much more considerate.
As a Philadelphia Eagles' bar, I'm accustomed to tables sitting for hours and hours tipping only on the dollar amount. There are the lovely few who do consider the time it takes to refill the Mr. Pibb eight times during the first half. However, most fans either are unaware or maintain their ignorance.
The first time I ever, ever, was yelled at was during the first Eagles' game I worked of the season. Now, keep in mind that I'm usually loved by my tables and take particular exception to when I'm disliked in general. And then to be yelled at as if this customer were my father really hurt.
After reviewing the situation many times in my head, I can only believe that my only real shortcoming was the delay in bringing the check. And that I couldn't control the fact that the Eagles were losing pitifully to the Saints. I brought the beers quickly, the pizza was up before the game started, I managed to keep up with the standing patrons near the table, and I refilled the first Diet Coke many a time until the upgrade to adult beverages.
When this guy asked for his check, honestly I forgot. It was only the third quarter; I figured that there was plenty of time to bring the check. When he angrily asked for it, I brought it immediatelly, and consequently, immediately forgot to add the gratuity for the extra folk standing around the table. He gave me $3 on $28. I asked about it. This is the best I can recreate the situation. Parenthesis are my thoughts.
Me: Sir, was there a problem with your service?
Him: You tell me.
Me: (Well, this isn't going to plan.) Well, you're the only one here who has paid. I was just wondering if you were unhappy with anything, and, if so, how I could improve.
Him: Why are you asking me?
Me: (Oh, god.) Since you tipped me only about ten percent, I just assumed that you were unhappy with your service, and I wanted to know what I could do to improve.
Him: You need to brush up on your service skills.
Me: (Obviously.) How specifically can I do that?
Him: Brush up on your serving.
Me: Yes, sir. What specifically could I do to improve my service skills?
Him: You're all about the money and not the honey.
Me: Sir, how can I be more about the honey?
And that's when he told me I could put my three bucks back on the table. I walked away and ignored him for the rest of the fourth quarter. His friends all apologized for his typical behavior and didn't notice the auto-gratuity I retroactively added. Although they were the only reason I made decent money that shift, I never actually learned my serving shortcomings.
I was pretty happy when I walked by and saw him spill his Harp all over his beer belly.
Karma, tip or not, exists.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
The New Addition to the Family
Byron. His name is Byron! And I love him. He makes me feel safe, comforts me, and walks me to my car. What a man, what a man, what a mighty good man. I could say it again.
Byron is our new Thursday/Friday security guard.
This is actually pretty exciting news. The neighborhood has quickly been worsening; I used to live across the street and moved near Oglethorpe University to get someplace safe. My place of business was robbed twice in a week by the same guy (later caught), so now we have special metal doors at night. Also, there have been an upsurge of robberies along the road, and a high-profile shooting (murder?) two blocks away.
The local news stations are in a particular uproar about this part of town, as concerns the safety of Georgia Tech students. So when two Fridays ago, I drove to work and saw students interviewed a block away and Fox 5 and CBS vans across the street, I knew that the armed robbery of our three patrons had become the newest major story in the series. After a phone call from my mother, she confirmed that the news reported a shooting in the area and correctly assumed it was related to my place of work. Props, Mom. Then later that day, while pouring a beer during the six o'clock news, I saw the Fox story. The road became stock footage -- as well as our front door and sign. Then the reporter walked out our front door and displayed the restaurant logo again. Good job at making the news visually exciting and appealing to all, Fox 5. Good thing most of our patrons don't watch the news.
We have a hunch those robbers had been customers just beforehand. However, I don't understand why they'd target foreign exchange students. Tourists carry money on them, not exchange students. For all that trouble, they only got $20 and a cell phone. And hopefully a warrant for arrest. The robbed French exchange students had never seen a gun before in their lives. "He pointed a gun at me! A gun!" one of them said.
The bartender's thought: "Welcome to America."
The servers were, as a result, in a bit of an uproar about our safety. We even toyed with the idea of a strike. Many bars on the other side of town had shootings/armed robberies inside, and we didn't want to worry about walking to our cars in the dark gravel lot or what could happen. We feel that we've been too lucky so far, having missed encounters by minutes and a matter of yards. We wanted an officer to protect us. Certain servers called the owners to explain the situation, and I was poised to write an email or petition for the cause. However, that Saturday's manager meeting resulted in an outcome that made me feel like it was pointless. And my email-writing partner was out of town, so I lost some fire a week later.
Well.
Last Friday I went to the Atlanta Opera's The Elixir of Love with a coworker. (It was lovely.) I picked her up at the bar, then after a sudden downpour ruined our fancy dress, we went back to the bar for a simple beer. We walked in just a few minutes after eleven, worked our way through the crowd, pointed out a friend at the end of the bar, and on the way, he had managed to be knocked over from his bar stool with a standoff going on. (Needless to say, from what I heard, it wasn't undeserved.) My friend was quickly dragged behind the bar, and minus a bit of his drunken behavior, we had a relatively quiet drink. For about half a beer.
Behind us, the new girl had a table of two mid-thirties men. I had had the guy with crazy short dreds the previous night when he had treated a lady to chicken fingers and a Goose/cran. Now, when a man orders Grey Goose, you can expect one of two things: 1. He's loaded and only drinks the best, giving you a fat tip (unlikely), or 2. He spent all his money on top shelf liquor and you're lucky to get the change. The only reason I recognized him was because he gave me two bucks on $26. I was already biased against him.
I turned around at one point to notice the manager telling these two guys they had to leave because it is inappropriate to tell a server that you would "like to lick her pussy." They gave the manager lip and didn't get up. By this point it was last call, and the bartender managed to kick out the guy who actually did say it (2 on 26), but the friend refused to leave. New Girl told him that although, yes, he wasn't the actual offender, it was still closing time and he had to leave. I can't remember if that was exactly when he flung his pitcher across the restaurant or not.
Both manager and bartender began to dial 911 when the irate customer got up, yelled some, then threw a bar stool across the distance of the bar. That's when they hung up, ran outside after him, and another server called the Georgia Tech cops. I quickly finished the beer as I heard he was being arrested.
As I left the restroom on my way to the car, there was another loud uproar because no one at a large party could figure out how to pay the tab. It was 12:15.
And that's how Byron came into my life today.
Byron is our new Thursday/Friday security guard.
This is actually pretty exciting news. The neighborhood has quickly been worsening; I used to live across the street and moved near Oglethorpe University to get someplace safe. My place of business was robbed twice in a week by the same guy (later caught), so now we have special metal doors at night. Also, there have been an upsurge of robberies along the road, and a high-profile shooting (murder?) two blocks away.
The local news stations are in a particular uproar about this part of town, as concerns the safety of Georgia Tech students. So when two Fridays ago, I drove to work and saw students interviewed a block away and Fox 5 and CBS vans across the street, I knew that the armed robbery of our three patrons had become the newest major story in the series. After a phone call from my mother, she confirmed that the news reported a shooting in the area and correctly assumed it was related to my place of work. Props, Mom. Then later that day, while pouring a beer during the six o'clock news, I saw the Fox story. The road became stock footage -- as well as our front door and sign. Then the reporter walked out our front door and displayed the restaurant logo again. Good job at making the news visually exciting and appealing to all, Fox 5. Good thing most of our patrons don't watch the news.
We have a hunch those robbers had been customers just beforehand. However, I don't understand why they'd target foreign exchange students. Tourists carry money on them, not exchange students. For all that trouble, they only got $20 and a cell phone. And hopefully a warrant for arrest. The robbed French exchange students had never seen a gun before in their lives. "He pointed a gun at me! A gun!" one of them said.
The bartender's thought: "Welcome to America."
The servers were, as a result, in a bit of an uproar about our safety. We even toyed with the idea of a strike. Many bars on the other side of town had shootings/armed robberies inside, and we didn't want to worry about walking to our cars in the dark gravel lot or what could happen. We feel that we've been too lucky so far, having missed encounters by minutes and a matter of yards. We wanted an officer to protect us. Certain servers called the owners to explain the situation, and I was poised to write an email or petition for the cause. However, that Saturday's manager meeting resulted in an outcome that made me feel like it was pointless. And my email-writing partner was out of town, so I lost some fire a week later.
Well.
Last Friday I went to the Atlanta Opera's The Elixir of Love with a coworker. (It was lovely.) I picked her up at the bar, then after a sudden downpour ruined our fancy dress, we went back to the bar for a simple beer. We walked in just a few minutes after eleven, worked our way through the crowd, pointed out a friend at the end of the bar, and on the way, he had managed to be knocked over from his bar stool with a standoff going on. (Needless to say, from what I heard, it wasn't undeserved.) My friend was quickly dragged behind the bar, and minus a bit of his drunken behavior, we had a relatively quiet drink. For about half a beer.
Behind us, the new girl had a table of two mid-thirties men. I had had the guy with crazy short dreds the previous night when he had treated a lady to chicken fingers and a Goose/cran. Now, when a man orders Grey Goose, you can expect one of two things: 1. He's loaded and only drinks the best, giving you a fat tip (unlikely), or 2. He spent all his money on top shelf liquor and you're lucky to get the change. The only reason I recognized him was because he gave me two bucks on $26. I was already biased against him.
I turned around at one point to notice the manager telling these two guys they had to leave because it is inappropriate to tell a server that you would "like to lick her pussy." They gave the manager lip and didn't get up. By this point it was last call, and the bartender managed to kick out the guy who actually did say it (2 on 26), but the friend refused to leave. New Girl told him that although, yes, he wasn't the actual offender, it was still closing time and he had to leave. I can't remember if that was exactly when he flung his pitcher across the restaurant or not.
Both manager and bartender began to dial 911 when the irate customer got up, yelled some, then threw a bar stool across the distance of the bar. That's when they hung up, ran outside after him, and another server called the Georgia Tech cops. I quickly finished the beer as I heard he was being arrested.
As I left the restroom on my way to the car, there was another loud uproar because no one at a large party could figure out how to pay the tab. It was 12:15.
And that's how Byron came into my life today.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Wild Men
Where I work is a special place. Special good, special bad. For instance, I'm currently sitting at the bar before my shift tonight to utilize the wi-fi while I apply for more real jobs and start this blog properly, and one of the local bums, Wild Man, walks in.
What's interesting about my bar is that we allow bums in. On principle, I'm actually mostly okay with it. Just because you don't shower and smell, doesn't mean that you can't enjoy a beer at a bar with proper payment. If we banned all smelly and homeless patrons, our hippie following (and friends) would also be banned. The issue, though, there is that, as a server, I need my compensation. Our solution: go to the bar for service. It's not worth our time to hurry to get your cheap pitcher or shot of well bourbon for no addition to my measly $2.13 wage. Bartenders act as managers here, so their sextupled wage is worth losing a dollar to the homeless. On Sundays the bums from down the BP come in for $5 High Life pitchers all day. We've taught them to go to the bar after months of no tip.
Wild Man is my favorite of our bums. He's respectful to everyone, doesn't call me "baby," and always has money to pay his tab and tip his bartender. Granted, I can barely understand a word he says besides his shouts of "Wild Man!", but he's still lovely as he marches out the door is camo pants, volleyball sweatshirt, and combat boots. Then he waves to some person or car on the corner. Completely atypical of my experience with bums on the Atlanta streets and inside the restaurant walls.
Despite our sketchy patrons, I still like working here. It's the most laid-back and only independent restaurant I've ever worked in, and, to boot, I love my coworkers. When I'm not working, I'm often sitting here with them or making plans with them. They make nights worth working when I walk home from a fourteen-hour shift with fifty bucks.
However, as my two-year mark has eclipsed, I've felt the need to move on. I need to stop smelling like stale pizza and alcohol when I hop in my car, and I need a job where I'm respected.
And, at that, it's time for me to change into my smelly shirt and jeans for a night of college football and cheap shots.
What's interesting about my bar is that we allow bums in. On principle, I'm actually mostly okay with it. Just because you don't shower and smell, doesn't mean that you can't enjoy a beer at a bar with proper payment. If we banned all smelly and homeless patrons, our hippie following (and friends) would also be banned. The issue, though, there is that, as a server, I need my compensation. Our solution: go to the bar for service. It's not worth our time to hurry to get your cheap pitcher or shot of well bourbon for no addition to my measly $2.13 wage. Bartenders act as managers here, so their sextupled wage is worth losing a dollar to the homeless. On Sundays the bums from down the BP come in for $5 High Life pitchers all day. We've taught them to go to the bar after months of no tip.
Wild Man is my favorite of our bums. He's respectful to everyone, doesn't call me "baby," and always has money to pay his tab and tip his bartender. Granted, I can barely understand a word he says besides his shouts of "Wild Man!", but he's still lovely as he marches out the door is camo pants, volleyball sweatshirt, and combat boots. Then he waves to some person or car on the corner. Completely atypical of my experience with bums on the Atlanta streets and inside the restaurant walls.
Despite our sketchy patrons, I still like working here. It's the most laid-back and only independent restaurant I've ever worked in, and, to boot, I love my coworkers. When I'm not working, I'm often sitting here with them or making plans with them. They make nights worth working when I walk home from a fourteen-hour shift with fifty bucks.
However, as my two-year mark has eclipsed, I've felt the need to move on. I need to stop smelling like stale pizza and alcohol when I hop in my car, and I need a job where I'm respected.
And, at that, it's time for me to change into my smelly shirt and jeans for a night of college football and cheap shots.
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