Weeds - Weeds - Weeds -

For those of you who don't know what it is like to work in a restaurant on a busy night, here is a glimpse into that life......atleast the way I see it........Enjoy.


“I will have the Filet Mignon special, medium rare, with a side of béarnaise and for an appetizer the beef carpaccio. For the wife how about the snapper special, but if you don’t mind, please put the sauce on the side, then for an appetizer she will have the shrimp cocktail. With dinner please bring us each a glass of the oakiest chardonnay you have,” Mr. Benson screamed across the table trying to battle the crowd, hoping Russell Hodges, the most veteran waiter at this top notch steakhouse, would hear. Russell gives him a thumbs up, signifying he had everything locked in his brain, atleast for the time being. He better hurry over to the computer to type their orders in before his brain lets him down. Russell has six tables right now and is in the weeds, and at this point everything running through your brain begins running together. Waiting for Russell at the bar are two grey goose martinis that are extra dirty for the Bensons – the thin sheet of ice over the top of the martinis has now melted, signifying the elapsed time since the vodka was strained into the glass. Additionally, there is an Amstel Light, a Budweiser and a bottle of California Pinot Noir for the couple in the corner that is celebrating their 20th year anniversary. They called ahead and notified the maitre’d of the occasion and he in turn adorned the table with rose petals, started them with two glasses of sparkling wine, and treated them to a complimentary appetizer as well. They were pleased, but suffered from Russell being overly busy and unable to maintain his section. The maitre’d could tell and kept a close eye on Russell’s section. His walls were about to come down, and there was nothing he could do about it except to keep going. Two of his tables had paid, one was relaxing over coffee while the other sipped on the last sips of an 18 year old scotch… neither seemed to be in any hurry. This would help buy some time. Sweat dripped from his chin as he began his voyage to the bar.

The bar area is completely full with no passageway for the cocktail waitresses and servers. They are forced to dive through the crowd that is talking, drinking, and enjoying the music coming from the baby grand piano that is tucked away in the corner. Couples dance, while businessmen ash their cigars at a nearby table looking on – the customers are having a good time and are oblivious to the intense work that every single employee is currently dealing with. It is stressful, and all Russell wants right now is a beer and a shot of jager. That time will come in a couple hours, but for now he is buried with guests, 18 of them right now. After fighting his way to the bar and back to the dining room he delivers the martinis to the Bensons’ table, hands the overweight businessman in pinstripes his Amstel Light, his colleague the Budweiser then presents the bottle of wine to the anniversary couple. He nervously and frantically begins opening the bottle of wine, knowing his food for them was probably up in the kitchen window and starting to cool. He still needed to mark his six top with steak knives since their meals would be arriving soon, and drop off a cocktail fork for Mrs. Benson’s shrimp cocktail. After pouring the wine, Russell placed the bottle in a bucket next to the table that was filled with ice, keeping the bottle cold until they were ready for another glass. He then draped a white napkin over the bucket, and made his way to the kitchen, but not before another bead of sweat slipped off his bony cheek and soaked into the same white napkin covering the wine. Russell brushed the sweat off his face with the sleeve of his white oxford, and tossed his curly gray hair behind his ears. Weaving in and out of tables he made it to the kitchen where Jeff, the newest server had begun garnishing the plates, handing them to him. Hurrying to the table, Russell with four plates in his hands cursed under his breath remembering that he had forgotten to bring them steak knives. The plates were placed on the table accordingly, and he began the trek back to the kitchen but was interrupted when the host of the party asked for two bottles of Stags Leap Cabernet – a Napa Valley favorite. Russell nodded his head, and returned to the kitchen, moving faster than he has all night. More weeds. There are too many things to do – he asks one of the waiters if they could drop off six wine glasses to his party, and tells the food runner that the Bensons were ready for their appetizers, that they would probably be sharing and that they would need two appetizer plates, which he forgot before when he dropped of the cocktail fork. At the computer he prints out a check for his four top that is now done, and have passed on dessert, then orders the two bottles of Stags Leap. The bottles of wine are at the bar when he arrives within the minute, grabs them, drops off the recently printed check and begins presenting the wine to the host of the party. He asks and ensures that all of the steaks were cooked properly. They were. The kitchen is good – really good, and Antonio on the grill has beef cookery down to a science. He has been doing this for as long as Russell has been waiting tables. Russell pours each of the gentlemen a glass and thinks that he is almost caught up, and might be able to smoke half a cigarette in the next couple of minutes. The thought of nicotine plays with his mind. Cigarette smoke from the bar wanders into the dining room, as he walks by the Bensons who are now enjoying their appetizers. The beef carpaccio has a beautiful drizzle of truffle aioli that Mrs. Benson soaks up with bread the bus boy just dropped off. Russell walks by each of his tables making sure no one needs anything, then pours another half glass of wine into the glasses of the anniversary couple that smiles with half full mouths. He returns to the computer remembering the two glasses of wine that he needed to deliver for the Bensons when their entrees arrived. The wine would be waiting for him at the bar upon returning from his cigarette break. He passes by the window looking food that might be ready and then checks with his fellow servers to see if there was anything he could do to help them. He prances out the back door fleet footed and excited for that first taste of nicotine since the night began. Outside it is dark, and cold, and loud from the noise within. The nearby dumpster smells of rotten fish and stagnant water has collected near the door. A bowl filled with sand is overly filled with cigarette butts – most of which are half smoked, because no one in the middle of a restaurant shift has time for a full cigarette.

The night winds down. Tables are cleared, and then redressed with silverware napkins and appropriate glassware. Tea lights illuminating individual tables slowly disappear, as the wicks, then flames slowly run out of fuel. One after the other extinguishes darkening the room that is now nearly empty aside from bus boys who are sweeping the floor and refilling the salt and pepper shakers that sit uniform on every table. They joke in Spanish and wave goodbye to the Bensons, the last patrons to leave the dining room. The front door creaks behind them and the valet brings their Mercedes around to the front of the building. The bus boys scamper over to that last table which has been cleared aside from the two glasses of chardonnay which are finally empty and smudged with fingerprints. One is painted with red lipstick nearly all the way around the rim. The servers congregate near the bar chain smoking and retelling the night, counting their money. The restaurant did 190 covers, a better than average Saturday night- everyone made money, everyone is tired, and everyone is ready for a drink. Danielle pours each a shot of jagermeister. The glasses are drained instantaneously, and the group heads out the front door and into the world outside these walls, towards the bar across the street. Danielle will follow closely behind, escorted by two of the three bus boys. Margaro the dishwasher will see himself out the back door, hoping to catch the last bus home. At the bar Russell finds a seat with the rest of the service staff, enjoying the simple pleasure of sitting down after a long night, orders a beer and another shot – and a couple shots of tequila for the bus boys that would be arriving momentarily. After a couple rounds they call it a night and wander towards their appropriate cars waving goodbye to one another. Russell unlocks the driver’s side door to his Jeep, hops in and the cold leather of his seat chills his body. Tossing his apron and it’s contents into the backseat, he starts the engine, lights a cigarette and screeches out of the parking lot puffing smoke out the side of his barely cracked window. It was a normal Saturday night. Stressful, tiring, and exhilarating. Russell will do it again next Saturday. It will most likely be busy again, and the same need for Jagermeister will be present. The taste of black licorice never gets old after a hectic night in a restaurant.