Let's Play Find That Smell!

I walked into work at 4:00pm.  There was a table outside with a crying baby.  Apparently the baby had been cranky on and off the entire time it had been there.  At one point, the mother began breast-feeding and the baby became quiet again.  Sadly, the air of silence was only temporary, as soon after the baby was belting out again. 

There was only one lady sitting at a table next to them - upwind.  Once the baby began its full throttle lung exercises again, the lady, not surprisingly, immediately asked for the check.  Because the crying baby table had already cashed out with the previous server, I had no reason to go over there.  Once the lady next to them left, I avoided the outside.  The baby’s cries were unbearable. 

It’s common knowledge among the baby world that babies cry for only three simple reasons:  they’re hungry, they’re tired or they need a diaper change.  At least I thought this was common knowledge. 

Who hangs out in a restaurant with a crying baby when you’re all done and paid?  Common knowledge (along with common courtesy) would tell you to get the hell out of there and move on.  Right?  These new parents must have been lacking some serious common knowledge.  I felt bad for them.  And I felt bad for the baby. 

Meanwhile, an older couple walked in the door.  They asked for a table outside.  The only open section at that time was in the crying baby section.  I had no choice but to seat the couple near the crying baby.  Of course if they complained of the noise I’d move them elsewhere.

I told the older couple they could sit anywhere on the side patio.  They chose to sit right next to the crying baby – downwind.  When I walked over to greet them with menus, I noticed the smell of poop.  Oh my god.  Gag me with a spoon.  I could barely focus on what I was trying to say.  My eyes wandered to the baby’s table wondering if there was a dirty diaper bag lying around or if the baby was wearing the dirty diaper.  Either way I was completely disgusted.  As I went inside to get the new table its drinks (and to get some fresh air) I thought, “What is wrong with these people?  They finished eating and drinking over 30 minutes ago, have paid and are now simply hanging out with a crying baby with an atrocious dirty diaper.”  How much more offensive can this get?  I was at the point where I wanted to ask my manager if he could politely ask them to leave.  It was that bad.

As the baby started to hemorrhage with cries again, the mother’s friend took the baby for a walk on the boardwalk, back and forth literally in front of the restaurant.  Ding! Ding! Ding!  We have a winner! The most idiotic parent award goes to ... drumroll please … Table three!   I mean c’mon.

I delivered the older couple their drinks and took their food order.  The stench was horrific.  At this point I realized the smell must have been coming from the diaper bag, as the baby was being held elsewhere at the moment.  Could this old couple truly not smell anything?  I figured if they didn’t ask to move, then I assumed they were okay.  Though I couldn’t believe it, I rolled with it.  Once I got back inside, I took a deep much needed breath of fresh air.  Holy hell, it’s bad out there. 

As the mother’s friend brought the baby back to the table, the mother finally started to pack up.  Thank you Lord.  As they were finally packing up, another couple sat down at the upwind table.  It was a European couple.  As I approached them, I noticed the stench of B.O.  You’ve got to be kidding me. 

The crying baby and its lovely parents finally left.   The stench of B.O. mixed with the lingering caca was almost too much for me to handle.  Every time I went out there I literally had to keep myself from breathing in through my nose.

Two more groups of people came in and sat down on both sides of the older couple.  I felt so bad for these new diners knowing what I knew, and just holding breath (figuratively and literally) waiting to see if they’d say anything or asked to be moved.  As time progressed, I was getting more and more baffled by the stench.  It wasn’t going away.  In fact, it seemed like it was multiplying like a bad virus and gaining strength.  I asked my busser (who’s had three children) how long baby poop could linger.  He nauseatingly replied, “A while.  But not this long.  We need to call housekeeping.”  

As I stood perplexed at my computer, it hit me.  There’s no way baby poop could linger this long.  Not to be rude… but could this be the fault of the older couple?  Perhaps one of them needed to change his/her diaper.  Oh. My. God.  Thinking back, I didn’t smell anything until I sat them.  Could it be?  This whole time I’d been blaming the poor little baby.    

Luckily at this point, the older couple had asked for the check.  I was so eager for them to go so I could solve my Tuesday afternoon mystery.  If they left and the smell left with them, they were without a doubt the guilty ones.  God I don’t want to get old.    

They left and the smell dissipated.  Cased solved… kind of.  Shockingly, the dirty diaper smell continued to linger, much to my disgust.  I finally asked my manger to go outside and smell it out.  He did and swore he couldn’t smell anything.  Had I gone completely mad?  Was the stench so bad at one point it had burned my nostril hairs and was stuck inside of my nose?  Gross.  Lord help me. 

For the remainder of my shift, I could have sworn it still smelled like stale poop, just around that one table, the table where the older couple had sat, and yes, downwind from the crying baby table.  The only thing getting me through the remainder of my shift was dreaming of a bottle of Febreze in my hand so I could douse the affected area.  I also kept visualizing white linens blowing in the breeze on top of a green hillside in the sunshine - perhaps even a rainbow in the background - to get myself through.  I tried to think of anything that reminded me of freshness, flowers and cleanliness. 

I guess I will never know who dealt it, who was sitting in it, or who (or what) the culprit was.  The smell will forever remain a mystery, a legacy. 

I have to work again today at 4:00pm – in that same section.  Let’s just hope the legacy continues only in my head, not in the real world. 

Nothing like a day in the life of serving stinky humanity...  ~ HK ~

An Upgrade to Serving Humanity

I changed the title of my blog to Serving Humanity.  

It was long overdue.  I had the idea of Serving Humanity a few months ago, but I wanted some time to let it settle into my head before I changed it arbitrarily.

As I approach my first anniversary of beginning this endeavor, I knew it was time for a change – actually scratch that - an upgrade.   Throughout the months I’ve written, I’ve realized this blog is about much more than just the food and beverage industry.  My original title “F&B Industry Blog” was purely informative, alerting my readers of its content, or so I thought.  The title implied it was solely about the insider’s perspective of the restaurant industry, not much else.  However, after almost a year of writing, I’ve realized the majority of my writing is about the people I meet, not solely about the restaurant industry itself.  Yes, I blend the two themes together as best I can.  But I’ve realized my passion lies with the people I meet; whether they’re high maintenance, shockingly friendly or the rudest people on the planet, they all fascinate me.   

On average, I interact with 25-50 strangers everyday as a server.  Personally, that’s what makes my job so stimulating.    If you’ve recently become a server and can honestly say you hate people, get out quick.  This is not the job for you. The restaurant industry is, after all, about hospitality.   Food and beverage is a key component, of course, but most importantly it’s about the people we serve; humanity.   

I’ve been learning to trust my first gut instinct as I’ve ignored it a lot in the past and have suffered the consequences.  My gut told me Serving Humanity was the perfect upgraded title.  Yes I did say I thought of this a few months ago (and based on this new philosophy I’ve been trying to embrace, I should have posted it a few months ago).   But I am a work in process.  Aren’t we all?

Heavy stuff for a Monday morning.  ~ HK ~

Everyone Loves a Happy Ending

I’m not sure if it was the fact that I hadn’t worked a Sunday brunch in a month or so, or if it was an abnormally bad Sunday, but either way, it was one of those days when everything that could go wrong did.  That was, until my very last table of the day.

It was another typical gorgeous, sunny San Diego Sunday.  And while it seemed like everyone else in the city was enjoying his or her weekend, I was stuck in purgatory.  I felt like I couldn’t catch a break.  Masses of hungry, cranky diners sat themselves and demanded immediate attention all day long.  Even though we servers expect the Sunday crowd to act in this animalistic manner, it still drives us to the insane asylum - or the bar - by the end of the day. 

To make matters worse, issues within the restaurant began to pile up and the stress among the servers skyrocketed. 

For starters, food wasn’t being delivered in its allotted 15-minute window.  This made the already uneasy guests even more agitated.  There were a couple factors at play.  Frist, the kitchen itself was experiencing one of its many issues and second, we had a somewhat of a rookie food runner who wasn’t accustomed to working a busy shift alone.  The combination of both can be disastrous for a busy restaurant; and on this day, it was.  Don’t get me wrong, I felt bad for the food runner.  I know I wouldn’t have been able to handle that many tables by myself either as a rookie on a busy Sunday.  Regardless, it still affects service, my stress level and the stress of all of the other servers as well.  And when all of the servers are stressed, the guests can sense the negative energy.  Then, in return, the guests get feisty back at us.  It’s a vicious conundrum, and inopportunely almost out of our control.  Yet, it is the server who gets the brunt of it all, from all parties involved. 

Equally as frustrating as a slow kitchen is a lack of assistance from our assistants.  My busser, along with every other busser, was apparently “having a bad day” that day.  When the server doesn’t get the support he/she needs, especially during a busy shift, it completely throws our timing off, which equates to slower service and dealing with even more unruly people. 

On top of that, I was getting triple sat what felt like all day.  My timing was severely off – it felt five people needed something at the same time all day long - it never let up.  There were no clean coffee mugs when I needed them.  We ran out of iced tea at some point.  The bartender was slow because he was busy with his guests, and on and on and on…

Many, many factors contributed to the stresses of that fateful Sunday.  And all of these factors combined are what we in the industry call being “in the weeds.“  I’m sure you’ve heard of this phrase.  Ask any server what this means and they will immediately roll their eyes and have to take a deep breath.  It’s when all possible areas of our jobs collapse and we begin to feel like we are on the verge of what seems like a nervous breakdown.  That was this past Sunday.  

Although I could go into much further detail about how weeded I was, I’d rather skip it and tell you how my day ended. 

As all of these issues progressed throughout the day, I was at the point where I began to hate anyone who sat down in my section, although I didn’t show it, I am a professional after all.   I had been in the weeds for about six hours when a man sat himself at the farthest table on the patio.  Of course, the farthest table.  We were getting ready to shut down the patio as dinner service was approaching.   I remember feeling like a dagger just went through my chest as I was almost done with my few remaining tables of the day.  I was dreaming of my freedom and a glass of wine when all of that changed in a heartbeat - a brand new spanking table. 

The gentleman, in a Padres cap and a goatee, said he just got off a fishing boat for ten days and a few others would be joining soon.  Great.  Joiners… and all of whom just got back to land after ten days at sea (a.k.a...this has the potential to be a raging party and I’m going to be here till God knows what time).  He ordered a Grey Goose martini and some sushi.  After ten minutes or so, about five or six more men joined him.  They all were weathered, yet somehow, distinguished.  The rest followed suit by ordering more Grey Goose martinis and cocktails and some additional appetizers.   The guy in the Padres hat decided he wanted a cheeseburger all of a sudden and he wanted it cut into six pieces.  Normally at that time of day, we don’t make cheeseburgers and I told him that.  But somehow he convinced me.  Maybe it was the fact that he kept saying how much he loved my pink lip gloss, or maybe it was the fact that he kept complimenting my blue eyes, or maybe it was the fact that he proposed to me (yes he actually did this), but I just couldn’t say no to this man.  I convinced the kitchen to make me a cheeseburger and to cut it into six pieces.  They told me they’d make it, but it was going to be while.  So I told the man in the Padres hat he was going to get what he wanted, but it was going to take a few minutes longer than usual.  He was very polite about it and, in the meantime, ordered another round of Goose cocktails. 

At this point my day completely changed, my mentality shifted.  Everything I’d suffered through didn’t seem to matter.  Food taking 25 minutes to get out… Who cared.  The fact that my busser was MIA for twenty-minute intervals all day long..  Forget about it.  I was truly having fun with these rowdy affluent men.  I was providing a service to them, who clearly hadn’t seen or spoken to a woman in over a week.  I felt like I was making a true impact on them (albeit small I’m sure) but I felt like I was making a difference in their return to the mainland.  We laughed, we talked about our hometowns and one of them even offered me a kiss (which was not the man who proposed to me, and to which of course I denied).  They say stress brings people together:  maybe it was their dangerous ten days at sea combined with my six-hours of dreadful weeds that connected us.  Whatever it was, it made my entire warzone of a day worth it. 

By the time the cheeseburger came out, cut into six pieces, stabbed with little wooden skewers for easy snacking, my worn and torn “fisherman” were finally satisfied.   They all complimented me on a job well done.  The man in the Padre hat - my potential “fiancé”- finally asked for the check.  I was impressively taken care of. 

What a day.  No one could have predicted that ending.  And that’s why I love serving humanity.  It’s a gamble everyday.  You never know what shenanigans are going to happen or who’s going to sit down at your table, even the last one of the day.  I went from being weeded as hell for six hours to giggling and being proposed to.  And as they say, “All’s well that ends well.”

A happy ending indeed.  ~ HK ~