I’m a waitress, or server, at a “high end” steakhouse which shall remain unnamed. I’ve been there for over three years but have been waiting tables for almost eight. And I could basically do the job under any extreme circumstance. If terrorists took over the place, I could still sell you a great experience. I’m a bit of a pro. Trust me, I never thought that day would come when I was slinging pancakes at my local I-Hop off of I-45 in Texas, forgetting peoples fruit compote on their “Rooty tooty fresh and fruity”. In fact, it was a very sad day when I realized mid greet that I had actually become good at waiting on tables. I took a moment, then continued to described the lobster special with that certain gleam in my eye which says “Come on, you know you want it.” It was actually a tear, but I digress.
This was clearly not part of my “five year plan.” I was suppose to be doing Twelfth Night in the park this summer after my limited engagement in Exit the King on Broadway. But working in a restaurant continues to be a necessary evil that pays for my extravagant New York lifestyle until I’m “discovered.”
The good news is that with this ease comes a lot of free head space to think about other things. Like how crazy most of my guests are, for instance. And I thought, hey, maybe some people would find my observations as amusing as I do.
So read on. Some nights are juicier than others. But from where I’m standing, people rarely disappoint.
Categories: Waiting is the Hardest Part