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.
Monday, October 26, 2009
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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