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 ~