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.
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