Training at "The Restaurant" really hasn't been that bad so far. However, going on day three I began to have my doubts, not only about myself, but about the place as well. When I came in on Friday I was told that I would be training with Jeffrey. Now Jeffery is one of about six waiters who have been there for years. THIS is their job. They don't DO anything else. So they take what they DO very seriously. At least most of them anyway. I had met and worked with Jeffrey the night before but I didn't know anything about him, other than his name, and even that I forgot. It was when I walked in and everyone told me I would be with him that night and he personally introduced himself to me that I got that vibe...the one where you know this person is not someone you cut corners with. When people outwardly compliment a person excessively and in front of them, it's usually because they want to make nice with that someone who has an upper hand on them and if they take it without a modest thanks, this screams arrogance and authority no matter what nice things these "friends" of his are saying about him. However, I had no right to judge at this point. I only just met the man, but my intuition hardly lets me down. So, when I found out shortly after, that Jeffrey had worked there for years and was also a swing manager, I saw that my intuition was doing right by me. Working directly under someone who has the authority to make or break me has always made me nervous, but for the first half of the evening I was just going to be Jeffrey's shadow, so I wasn't too worried...yet.
For the first three hours of the pre-theater rush, we all hit the ground running. I was mostly watching but I had to be on point with the very specific way they pencil food orders and remember drink orders for the bar. The night before Dean had taught me a simple trick of quickly jotting down those drink orders and how to keep them in order, but when Jeffrey saw me do this he whipped my scrap pad from me and told me to just scribble on the back of the food order pad instead. How rude! The way I remember what to do is not necessarily going to be the same way everyone else does it. What matters is that I remember and I get the guests what they want. What happens when there is no scribble space left on the back of the food order pad? Then what? Remember a gin in tonic in a tall glass, light ice, four olives, not three, four olives, a glass of chardonnay with a side of ice, a vodka martini shaken, not stirred, a Johnny Walker Black on the rocks, two spritzers one, white, one red and then run over to another table and take their plates and their dessert order? I may have a decent memory but that's asking a lot. Especially since I'm not much of a drinker and I hardly know the difference between a whiskey, bourbon or a brandy. They all taste the same...nasty.
Once the rush of pre-theater was over I knew it would be my turn to do everything on my own. Thankfully, Jeffrey hung back and gave me the space to do my thing and didn't hover over my shoulder, micro-managing my every move or every conversation I had with my tables. But that didn't stop him from criticizing the alignment of my order taking.
"It needs to be over to the right more."
What difference does it make? I need space on that side to write in the prices afterwards, so what do you want from me? I wrote it down right! Sheesh, this is nuts.
Friday nights at any restaurant in the Times Square area is generally a busy night, and it gets just as busy for post-theater as it does for pre-theater, so it got to be a little hectic. However, I tried not to show how crazy I was in my head. Calm and steady is what I was trying to go for, but apparently it just looked plain slow to Jeffrey and having him buzz in my ear like a gnat to go faster, I nearly lost my calm a few times. He was lucky I had friends there who would have suffered if I did, so I thought of them before I threw up my arms and a carafe of ice-cold water over his head.
Later in the evening, while standing at the ready by the door, in case one of my tables suddenly needed something, in came a small group of tall, well groomed men I sensed were of some importance. Even though I couldn't see any of their faces, there was a smell and air about them that gave me the impression of privilege and success at the get go. Yup, I was right. David Schwimmer suddenly emerged, ducking his head under the doorway, wearing a black beanie on his head and a small smile on his face as he uttered a "hi" to me in passing. David Schwimmer just said "hi" to ME? Following his entourage to the back of the dining room under the guise of darkness, he sat at a table facing away from the crowd and comfortably regarding his company. Every time I passed his table going into the kitchen, his voice seemed to rise above the others in the sea of eaters and drinkers and all I could hear was Ross and it felt like I was home, listening to an episode of Friends in the background while I went about my housekeeping. I never realized how comforting his voice sounded until then.
Maybe it's just me, but if a celebrity wanted to anonymously buy a couple at another table a round of drinks...I would do it...and enjoy it. I like to give people things and be mysterious about it, so this was right up my alley of expertise. So when Jonathan Tucker later approached me out of the blue and asked me to order a round of drinks for the couple sitting at my table with a fake name to give them, I said, "sure thing [...Jonathan Tucker. Will you marry me? I love you.]" Apparently, he was positive that the bearded guy sitting at my table was an acquaintance of his who he hadn't seen in a while. He was curious to know if he happened to have a South African accent, but I told him I wasn't sure. I didn't really pick up on anything from the handful of words I got from the man's order but he wanted to buy drinks for them anyway. However, the man's date was the only one actually drinking at the table so I ordered her another glass of wine. When my fabulous trainer got wind that Mr. Tucker wanted to do this, I got the eye roll and sigh of annoyance from him. What's his problem? When I approached my couple with the free glass of wine and told them that someone under this fake name (probably an inside joke between the two men) had sent it over, they were confused but grateful. However, when I mentioned that Jonathan meant to buy both of them a round but only his date was drinking, the bearded man decided to take advantage of the situation and ordered himself a beverage too. Why not? The guy can clearly afford it and he wanted to do it for the guy in the first place, so I went ahead and put in the order. One more glass, coming right up. Lord, what had I done? Apparently, making guests happy was not something my trainer liked to do, because he nearly ripped my head off for doing it and wanted to charge the guy at my table for the glass of wine instead of Jonathan Tucker, who was offering to pay for it. Sheesh, someone's a little bitter about not making it on Broadway.
Coming around the last hour of the night, while setting a table with a fresh new paper lining, I suddenly spot Jonathan Tucker's head poking around the stone partition a foot from my face.
"Did he figure out who I was?"
Holy crap, you scared the shit out of me! Giggle, hi Jonathan Tucker. Boy you're really close to my face.
"No, he was really confused but grateful for the drinks."
"Did he sound like he had a South African accent when he spoke?"
Crap, I forgot to pay attention to that.
"I couldn't really pick up on one. I'm not really sure." I don't know about those things. If it's not a British, French or Spanish accent, I don't know. South African accents... There are nearly a dozen different languages spoken in South Africa alone, some of which sound like crickets talking. How would I know what their accents would sound like?
"Oh well, I'm pretty sure it's him anyway. Let me know if he figures it out."
"Sure thing."
Just as Jonathan turned away and made his way back to his table of friends, I looked down to notice that an edge of the paper lining I was in the middle of placing on the table when Mr. Tucker approached me, had ignited itself on the candle sitting at the edge of the table. Ahh! Slap, slap, slap. Out! Thank God. I don't think anyone noticed. I'll just get a nice, fresh, new lining for this nice clean table. Ha-ha, silly me. Be right back.
I did eventually pick up on an accent from the bearded guy the next time I approached the table, but by the time that happened, my training for the day was over and I didn't have the courage to interrupt the conversation that was going on in the circle at Jonathan Tucker's table, so I just let his waitress know to give him the message. I'm sure he was happy to know that his money went to the right place...if he even noticed. Bidding a mental adieu to Jonathan Tucker, I left "The Restaurant" for the night to return in four days for a final battle round. Parting is such sweet sorrow.
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