Baaastin in Review.

It was an adventure. It always is, though, when I get together with the BFF. We drove up Saturday morning, and got there around 1. BFF swears by her GPS, so we plugged it into my car and it was surprisingly useful. I harbor a suspicion for many electronic devices, because they aren't totally reliable — and TomTom did crap out a couple of times — and I think it's so important to maintain basic knowledge. Like knowing how to read a map. (I remember driving around NY two summers ago, and asking my sister to look at the map. Her response: "I don't read maps." My response: "Whuh?") But we managed pretty well with the GPS device. We got to the Hilton in Woburn, MA, which was only 20 minutes from the Boston. The hotel had a slightly retro vibe, with mustard-brown colored carpet and taupe walls, but it was clean, nicely appointed, and we had a room overlooking the atrium. The room has this sliding door, and you can step out onto your carpeted balcony above the hotel bar, pool, and restaurant, but you're protected from the elements by a huge slanted glass wall, so it's like being outside without the weather. The view from the balcony: Nice, huh? One other bonus was that staying in a room above the atrium means you can catch the free wifi signal coming from the lobby. We relaxed in the room for a bit (a 5 hour drive is tiring), made reservations at Legal Seafood, per Wife's suggestion, and then headed to Boston. No particular destination in mind, we ended up on Boylston Street, parked, and started walking. Always in the mood for Thai, we stopped in at Bangkok Blue, where BFF had mediocre pad thai, and I had amazing chicken panang. We wanted to sit outside, but the hostess looked ominously at the overcast sky, asking, "Are you sure? It's going to rain soon." It looked cloudy, but not rainy, and I almost objected, but decided to defer to her. And, wow, am I glad I did. It was sprinkling by the time we finished eating, but when we were ready to head outside, it was pouring. I didn't have an umbrella — since I've gone natural, I've proudly eschewed all forms of rain gear — and BFF had a tiny one, which I insisted she use for herself ("I'd rather have you dry, then both of us partially wet"). I stepped outside gamely, and was soaked to the skin within 30 seconds. I was wearing a skirt and a white tank top, and a white kid riding by on his bike took note of this, asking where my umbrella was, then shaking his head at my lack of common sense. And of course, as he rode away, shouted, "wet t-shirt contest!!" (And yet, he was oddly polite the entire time. I had trouble gauging Bostonians, because they all seemed really mellow and nice, which is antithetical to the New Yorker.) By the time I got back to the car, I looked like a drowned rat. BFF was mostly intact, however, due to her ingenuity and force of will. We drove back to the hotel, put on PJs, hung up our wet clothes, and chilled for a while, watching Fox News*. We eventually dragged ourselves back to the car, drove to State Street, and walked around the Long Wharf, Faneuil Hall, and Quincy Market. The wharf was really cool, and we summarily decided to purchase a boat together. Dinner was at 9, and because it was really busy, our poor waiter started off by simultaneously greeting us and the young couple next to us. I felt bad, because he had clearly been double-sat (sat with two parties at the same time), which is one of those things hosts try to avoid at all costs. I expressed outrage at the injustice, and he was great to us the entire night. Of course, the fact that we splurged on lobster and wine may have helped, but he seemed genuine. We chatted when he came to our table, and it turned out he was born in North Africa, which explained the accent and the middle eastern look. He was henceforth known as our Sexy North African Server. He even tied our lobster bibs on for us, sexily, of course, and he gave me his e-mail address to send him the pictures we took with him. 20% for you, sir! Post-dinner, BFF drove us back to the hotel, and we passed out like negroes after a church picnic. The next morning was absolutely gorgeous. Puffy white clouds in a bright blue sky, and warm but breezy. We got brunch in Cambridge, at a place called the B-Side Lounge. We ordered a bunch of food, but BFF's pancakes were like cardboard, and she ate less than half of them, so we asked the server to take them off the bill. She acted like it was a huge inconvenience, and said she'd have to 'ask the chef.' Considering the fact that our bill was over $50, I didn't think it would be much of a stretch to take a $5 item off of it, and the chef concurred. But I thought it was strange she seemed so put-upon. When I thanked her, and told her everything else was delicious, she gave me a very ... sarcastic look. 15% for you, ma'am! We drove to Harvard, and caught the free Unofficial Harvard Tour. The tour guides, Harvard students, were funny, and it seemed like we got a lot of tidbits that probably weren't on the official tour. The guides walked backward the entire time, and enunciated very well (how old am I? "Enunciated very well"?? Sheesh!). Peep the "Hahvahd" shirts. Yes, that is how people talk in Boston. 'Charges' = 'Chaaahges.' We walked around Cambridge, and down to the Charles River, which is etched in my mind as the site of super-trippy Harvard Man, one of my fave guilty pleasures. After that, it was time to head home. The weather was mostly beautiful and sunny, with a lovely cool breeze. Somewhere in Connecticut, I was leaning out of the passenger side window enjoying the sun and the breeze when the Mack truck next to us honked. I looked up, and this Cletus-the-Slack-Jawed-Yokel-looking-dude had pressed a piece of yellow construction paper to his window. "U R HOT" it read, in black magic marker. I started laughing, he was grinning, and a good time was had by all. I guess you have to make your own fun when you're on the road for days at a time. By the time we arrived in New Jersey, around Newark, it had started pouring again, but we got a nice welcome-back present... *A note on Fox News: I finally understand why people call it Faux News. It's amazing that there is a channel which calls itself news and is yet and still, consistently, undeniably, wrong and a proud propagator of false facts.

Time to Regroup

Today was rough.

I'm only posting today in the interest of blogging semi-regularly.

It's the busy season at work, and on top of that, the person who usually does traffic control on our jobs left NJ for sunnier climes. This means that on top of having 3 times as much work to do, I have to do more work on each job -- talking to vendors and printers, visiting clients in person, and scheduling everything (so that I have enough time to get stuff done, and clients get what they want in time for their oh-so-pressing deadlines).

I'm whining today, but bear with me. I've decided that Monday is my day of rest from the gym, and in a few I'm going to meet some former co-workers from The Grill for dinner. Time to unwind!

(Did I mention I quit my hostess gig? Liberation!!!!!)

Things I didn't know before I worked in a restaurant

#3: Your server hates you. Yes, she does. Yes, he does. It doesn't matter if you come in there all the time, if s/he smiles at you when s/he sees you. Your server hates you. On numerous occasions, I've had guests come in and specifically request a particular server's section, leaning in conspiratorially to say, "Oh, we just love her. She's great." The first time this happened, I was excited for the server, and I went to her to tell her that the family wanted to wait for a table in her section. Rolling her eyes, she said, "They're such pains in the ass. The guy asks the same questions every time I come to the table, the kids order like 14 chocolate milks each, and the woman is an idiot." She walked away. Another night, I had an older couple, with their two adult children, ask for a particular server. When I mentioned it to him, he made a face, saying, "their son always hits on me." See? See how that works? It doesn't matter how much you like your server. It's highly likely they hate you. A one-sided sense of familiarity develops, after a guest has sat with the same server a number of times. That which they perceive as 'niceness' is really just automatic training. A server is solicitous, courteous, and thorough. A server is not your friend. And bugging them every time they walk by your table — or worse, grabbing someone else to get them — isn't ok just because you've sat with them before. (Maybe it's just human nature, desiring that someone you have an affinity for like you back.) So now that you're aware of the fact that your server hates you, here are some things you can do to mitigate that hatred, and possibly turn it into fondness. a) Tip well, but don't overtip. Servers are people with feelings, so if they find themselves liking their customers, an excessive tip will hurt that familiarity. 20 percent is the base in a higher-end restaurant, but try not to go higher than 25-30 percent if you're a regular. b) Ask them how they're doing, but don't push it. Servers are actors, and in order to maintain the facade, they have to pretend like they didn't break up with their SO the previous night, or that they didn't just fail that chem exam. c) Remember that they have other tables. Generally, a server on a busy night has 3-5 tables. All of these tables need the same things you do, so monopolizing your servers time isn't fair, and actually may hurt their tips with others. d) Be nice. Respect your server and s/he'll do the same. By all accounts, I hear the best customers are those who remember that there's a line between server and patron. And previously #4: People hear what they want to hear. #5: The hostess doesn't just randomly pick a place for you to sit.

Things I Didn't Know Before I Worked in a Restaurant

#4: People hear what they want to hear.

To be completely honest, I did know this, but I'm still using the statement to illustrate my point. But let's begin at the beginning; from what I'm told, it's a very good place to start.

You want to eat at the Grill on a Saturday night.

Hmm, did you make reservations at least a week in advance, preferably two? No? Well, we only have spots available at 4:45 and 10 p.m.

Oh, that doesn't work for you? Well, we don't book the entire dining room, so that we may accommodate walk-ins. You're more than welcome to come in, although the wait may be 45 minutes, up to two hours. No, sorry, we don't do call aheads..

Fast forward to Saturday at 7:30 p.m. and the restaurant is on an hour-and-a-half wait. At this point most impatient guests are assuming one of the following things:

A) I have a lot more power than I actually do. (e.g. I can make people get up from the table they've been camped at for three hours, or I can pull a table for six out of thin air.)

B) That cornering me in the coat check closet with a $20 bill will procure them a table. Or, like this guy the other night: "Maybe the Abe Lincoln in my back pocket will change your mind..."

C) I'm dumber than a box of rocks.

To elaborate on this last point: do NOT tell me that you have been waiting for two hours when you got here an hour and fifteen minutes ago, and I quoted you an hour-and-a-half to an hour-forty-five. What, pray tell, do you think this computer in front of me is for? Eff outta here with that! My favorite response when someone comes at me with that nonsense and I shut them down with some actual numbers? The sheepish: "Well, it FELT like two hours."

Also, do NOT tell me the person who answered the phone told you there would be no wait. First off, it was probably me. Second, there is absolutely no one in this place -- including the bus boys -- who would tell a customer there wasn't gonna be a wait. Once again, eff outta here!

Over the course of a Saturday night, I am subjected to the best and worst (mostly the worst) in human behavior. Pagers slammed down on the podium by people who are mad we went five minutes over the quote time; repeat visits by guests who don't seem to own a watch or understand the concept that two hours isn't 45 minutes; and sooooo many failed attempts at bribery. It's like, even if I weren't imbued with a sense of fairness (sheesh, wait your turn!), I literally cannot move you up the list without it being recorded. Go back to the bar, homie.

But as I said in the beginning, people hear what they want to hear, and that's pretty much the source of all the problems. When I say 45 minutes to an hour, all anyone seems to hear is 45 minutes. I've actually taken to repeating it, just to make sure it gets through.

If it weren't for the people who worked there, I'd probably hate my job.

Coming soon... #3: Your server hates you.

Previously, #5: The hostess doesn't just randomly pick a place for you to sit.

Ports, and chiantis, and syrahs, oh my!

"Let's go to sleep in Paris, and wake up in Tokyo..."

Since the Barack (I wonder if anyone still calls him Barry? I SO want to!) speech didn't count as a "real post," I'm back. I had a fab night at the Grill. It's the kind of place that makes you want to come in on your off day just so you can enjoy the atmosphere and the people (with a pretty bomb discount!).

I sat with one of the servers who came in with his S.O. and we talked about my full time job, wine, chocolate souffle, teaching, wine, Jay-Z, Beyonce ... and wine. Did I mention it was half-price wine night?

Mmmm.

Wait, what was I saying? Oh, right, I'm a wino. ____

Listening to: the water cycle through my fishtank.

Things I didn't know before I worked at a restaurant

#5: The hostess doesn't just randomly pick a place for you to sit. When you come in for dinner extra early, or extra late, and I sit you at a particular table when there are lots of other open tables around, it's not because I picked one at will. Servers don't all come in at the same time. Servers don't all leave at the same time. Just because the table is open doesn't mean there is someone to wait on it. DON'T EVER ASK ME IF YOU CAN HAVE A BOOTH AFTER I'VE TAKEN YOU TO A TABLE. If a booth was the best place to seat you, I would have done so. If you must have a booth, do tell me before I seat you. We don't do these things to screw with the customer, we do it to keep the servers rotated properly. A well-seated server is a happy server. A happy server means you'll be getting great service, and I promise you, good service can make any location work. My very favorite customers are the ones who sit where I put them. My second favorites are the ones who show lots of appreciation when I take them to a different table upon their request. I haaaaate the ones who look at me like I did something wrong when I bring them to a table, if they wanted a booth (or vice versa). My favorite exchange was when I sat a group in a booth, and one of the guys was like, "uh, can we have a real table?" I actually laughed, because his tone was so supercilious. And then he and the rest of the group stood over me and the server while we flipped it. I managed to remain calm, while she snapped, "you don't have to STAND ON TOP OF US while we do this. Sir." She was not a happy server. And while nothing bad would happen to your food at the Grill, an unhappy server isn't a good thing. And I repeat, no, you may NOT have a booth. ____ Watching: Dawson's Creek, S3 on dvd. I miss Pacey...

Things as they should be

Note: I was supposed to write this last night, but I kinda crashed when I got home. So hopefully you'll be getting not one, but TWO posts from me today.

Saturdays at the Grill are mad busy. We had about five straight hours of wait time, usually between an hour and an hour-forty-five.

Things are winding down when a youngish black family comes in. The daughters (I found out later) are 11 and the mother is pregnant. Dad is the big strong silent type, whose only question is if the food was worth the 45-minute wait. I say it's pretty good, but since I'm trying to accomplish five things at once, I don't give them any recommendations. They take a pager and go sit in the bar and lounge. (A note on the Grill's set up: it has a large main dining room that's separate from a pretty big lounge area. The bar itself faces a long high communal table that seats about 20 and there are four high round tables beyond that which seat 4 or 5 and then there are couches and chairs near the band area and a huge fireplace.) They end up sitting at the big table, as that's the only place available.

I'm at the front doing my hostess thing, talking to another hostess about random stuff, when Dad comes back up and asks where the restroom is. It's way in the back, so I show him to it. When I get back to the host stand, the shopping center security guard is standing there, watching the game on the plasmas above the bar. He'd been in the restaurant already, so I didn't pay much attention to him. (I don't know if this matters, but he's black as well... but he's a little guy. I think it matters, because while we get some people of color, most of our clientele is white.) Security Guard wanders away.

.A little while later, one of the daughters runs to the front door, yelling "Ma!! Come on!!" I'm still doing stuff, so I glance up, but keep working. I keep my eye on her though, and in a few minutes, she's crying. I went up to her and asked her what's wrong. "Some guy is bothering my mom!" she says, upset and shaking. I go to the lounge where Dad has returned and is menacing the security guard, while the other daughter is sitting at the table clutching her mother and crying.

I radio the managers, one of whom is luckily right at the host stand, and he comes. He gets between Security Guard and Dad before the other manager arrives. Dad is visibly angered, while Security Guard is poking out his chest and acting indignant. Manager One gets Security Guard out of the restaurant where he hops into his little white truck and peels away. Manager Two is talking to Dad, who says he is not going to have anyone make his daughters cry. M2 asks the mother what happened. I'm standing next to her (trying to be the reassuring female presence) and she demonstrates on me how SG was ALL up in her personal space, telling her directly in her ear how she shouldn't have kids in the lounge because it's "inappropriate" and he wouldn't back off, even after she told him she was with her family. I point out that this is ridiculous, and mention that kids are allowed everywhere in the restaurant, including AT the bar. M2 seconds that, then says he will be calling SG's boss, which he goes off to do.

I get the girls some tissues, Dad tells them to calm down, and Mom reassures them she's fine.

I go back to the stand and tell the other hostess what happened. We notice Dad keeps coming up and going outside for a few minutes. He does this a few times, and I mention it to M2 when he comes up to get the area police department number. M2, who has two daughter of his own, says something which will probably make me love him forever: "I don't blame him. I'd be doing the same thing."

And this is the point, for me. I believe in certain things, and fathers taking necessary steps to protect their families is one of them. It was unlikely that the guard would return; if he had any sense, he'd be in Montreal by now. Yet Dad stood there, keeping watch.

Call me brainwashed, call me archaic, but I believe in gender roles, and I believe they were developed not out of chauvinism, but out of suitability, both physical and emotional. Have I effectively dealt with a man who got too close for comfort? Oh, most definitely. Would I rather have my man do it for me? Yes. I'm sure the mother (who was very calm through all of this) could have held her own, pregnant and all, but why should she have to, especially when she has two young girls who need to know that everything is ok?

These are just my thoughts, though. As Lu would say: "Nothing more, nothing less."

This was a long post, but it was a long night, and now you get to share it with me.

______

Listening to: Dave Matthews Band, "The Maker"