Waiter Rant (22 page)

I didn’t always feel so divorced from time. When I was in the seminary, I felt time was holy. The principal liturgical seasons of Lent, Easter, Advent, and ordinary time gave structure to the year. The Liturgy of the Hours, the daily prayer of the Catholic Church, gave structure to the day. I’d shuffle into the chapel with my fellow seminarians to pray every morning, evening, and night. You always knew what season it was from the readings, songs, and antiphons being used. My favorite time was Night Prayer. Just before bed, when the world outside had grown quiet, we’d gather in our dark church and reflect on how we had spent our day. We’d ask for mercy. We’d pray for guidance. We’d cling to hope. When we were finished, we’d turn to the statue of the Blessed Mother and sing a hymn to her in Latin. The sound of thirty men quietly singing themselves a lullaby is something I’ll never forget. I miss the sacredness of time. Time seems cheap to me now.

Soon I’m too busy to wax philosophical. Fluvio returns from setting up at the new restaurant and starts barking orders. Every year the local merchants sponsor a big fireworks show down by the river. Half an hour before the pyrotechnic display starts, The Bistro always fills up with customers. I hope I can get all my tables settled before the show starts. I love fireworks.

Of course, just as the first shells start exploding overhead, a couple gets seated in my section. Beth and the other servers are already outside. Most of the customers are outside, too.

“You,” Fluvio says, pointing at me, “take those people.”

I feel like a disappointed little boy. I want to see the fireworks, too. Fluvio doesn’t stick around to listen to my protests. He goes outside to watch the fireworks. I go over to my new table. Two old people, disinterested in the commotion outside, peer at their menus.

“Good evening,” I say, trying to be professional. “Can I get you something from the bar?”

“What are your specials?” the man says, not looking up from his menu.

As I recite the specials I watch the brilliant starbursts reflected in windows across the street. The kaleidoscope of fire high in the sky projects shifting patterns of color onto the onlookers’ upturned faces. The Bistro shakes and rattles while the benign artillery barrage roars overhead.

I’m angry. I’m missing the fireworks. Another holiday’s passing by, and I’m stuck inside The Bistro. I need to see those fireworks. I need to be outside celebrating with everybody else. I need to be a normal person, not a servant, for
one minute
. Seeing the fireworks becomes a psychological imperative.

“Excuse me,” I say to my table. “Would you mind terribly if I go outside and watch the fireworks?”

“We want to eat!” the old man protests.

“It’ll just be a few minutes,” I plead.

The old woman reaches across the table and pats her husband on the hand. A communication passes between them. For some reason I think the old woman understands where I’m coming from.

“Of course, dear,” the wife says, looking up at me. “We can wait. Go outside.”

“Thank you, madam.”

I run out the front door. The grand finale is just beginning. My eyes widen. For a moment I’m like a schoolboy. The night sky has blossomed into fire. The bass from the concussive blasts vibrates my chest and sets off all the car alarms in the neighborhood.

I feel a hand hard on my arm. It’s Fluvio.

“What are you doing out here?” he shouts. “You have customers!”

“They’re fine,” I say. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Get inside,” Fluvio orders.

I pull Fluvio’s hand off my arm and look him straight in the eye. The smudged lenses of his eyeglasses dull the reflection of the fiery magnificence exploding above him.

“I’m gonna be a normal human being for a few minutes,” I say.

Fluvio stares at me openmouthed. He starts to say something but then thinks the better of it. He storms off, muttering under his breath.

I spy Beth and the other waiters across the street and walk over to join them.

“Something, huh?” I yell over the din.

“It’s beautiful,” Beth shouts, jumping up and down excitedly.

I stand alongside my coworkers. The kitchen guys have come outside, too. For a moment we forget we work in a restaurant. We’re regular people celebrating the Fourth of July. I smile to myself. My old sociology professor would’ve said that fireworks displays are a sort of “secular liturgy.” Standing outside with the great swell of humanity, I feel the way I did when I was in the seminary chapel—connected to something bigger than myself.

Suddenly, I realize I no longer feel hungover. The explosions above are knocking time back into joint. I no longer feel alienated and disconnected. As the summer sky blazes I feel human again. The Chinese believed that fireworks chase away evil spirits. I think they were right.

The display ends. The air reeks of gunpowder. The crowds disperse as ashes sprinkle down from the sky like snow. I head back inside The Bistro and go to my table.

“Thanks for waiting,” I say to the old couple. “I appreciate it.”

“That’s okay,” the old woman says. “You only live once.”

I
t’s lunchtime a month later, and I’m half an hour late for work. Walking briskly toward The Bistro, I can see Armando peering angrily at me through the plate glass window.

“You were supposed to be here at twelve,” he says as I walk through the door.

“Sorry, man,” I reply. “I overslept.”

“What a lame excuse,” Armando grunts. “Why don’t you talk about your lame excuses on your blog?”

“Maybe I will,” I snap back.

“Be on time next time.”

“Okay, little boss man.”

Armando shakes his head and walks away. The sous-chef might be Fluvio’s cousin, but under the restaurant’s hierarchy he has no supervisory authority over me. Armando runs the kitchen; I run the dining room. But ever since Bistro Duetto opened a few weeks ago, I can feel the dynamic among the staff members shifting. It doesn’t help that Fluvio’s shanghaiing waiters from the old place to work in the new. Due to chronic understaffing, we’re all stretched thin, and tempers are flaring. As I predicted, Fluvio’s lack of organizational skills is hurting both restaurants. He has the cooks from Duetto sneaking into The Bistro after closing
to swipe our supplies and pre-prepared food. Three waitresses who defected to the new restaurant are tearing out one anothers throat’s in the quest to be Duetto’s manager. And at The Bistro, long-simmering resentments that had been held in place by Fluvio’s presence are now bubbling to the surface. The change between Armando and me has been sudden and profound. Armando’s always been a hard worker, but he’s never had to deal with ordering food or negotiating with vendors full time. Since Fluvio’s been so preoccupied, Armando’s been forced to take on extra duties. Couple this with a new live-in girlfriend, and Armando’s a very busy man. I’m trying to be understanding.

Part of me is pissed at Armando, though. Ever since Saroya moved in with him, she’s been getting harder and harder to deal with. While I’ll admit I’ve never been the most punctual of workers, Saroya wins the booby prize when it comes to employee tardiness. After several months of cohabitation with the chef, she’s been coming in whenever she feels like it, leaves the moment the money slows down, and almost never pitches in to help fellow servers when they need a shift covered. What’s worse is that she won’t listen to anything I tell her. Whenever I confront her behavior, she threatens to run to Armando and tell him I’m harassing her. And Armando’s aggravated with
my
being late? Please.

I clock in to the computer and grab a cup of coffee. Beth is busy telling the lunch specials to a table. The Bistro is crowded. I catch Beth’s eye and toss her a “Do you need help?” look. She shakes her head. Everything’s covered.

The house phone starts clamoring for attention. I cover the distance from the computer to the hostess stand in eight paces and pick it up by the third ring.

“WHY YOU NO ANSWER THE PHONE?” Fluvio yells.

“But I am answering the phone,” I reply matter-of-factly.

“It ring and ring…”

“I got it by the third ring. Relax.” As I’ve mentioned before, Fluvio’s got a thing with phones.

“You’re late anyway,” Fluvio says.

“And I’ll leave here late, too,” I reply. “Remember that.”

“Whatever. What else is going on?”

“I sent my book proposal to the agent,” I say brightly. “He’s going to start sending it to publishers tomorrow.”

“Uh-huh,” Fluvio says.

“Aren’t you going to wish me luck?” I ask.

“It’s probably not going to happen.”

“Gee, thanks.”

There’s a moment of silence. I listen as Fluvio breathes moistly into the receiver.

Then he blurts, “You’re never going to leave here.”

I pull the receiver away from my face and stare at it. Fluvio often speaks with the air of a man who thinks his words become law the moment he speaks them. That’s characteristic of people with delusions of grandeur, but the armchair psychologist in me knows that Fluvio’s pronouncements are a soothing technique. He’s experiencing major stress in opening the new restaurant, so he’s telling himself the things he needs to hear. He
needs
me at The Bistro. I’ve tried telling Fluvio that I will still be able to help him through this difficult time, even with all that’s going on with me, but my assurances aren’t stopping him from freaking out.

Many chefs and owners possess outsize personalities and demand David Koresh–like obedience from their employees. Like starry-eyed neophytes trapped in a culinary version of Jonestown, waiters and staff can find it hard to extricate themselves from the delicate web of abuse, reward, and guilt that can constitute a restaurateur’s cult of personality. When servers try doing something for themselves—auditioning, studying, or spending time with their spouse and children—the control freaks often see it as a
betrayal
. Now smart chefs or owners, who are secure in their sense of self and scouting possible long-term strategic alliances, will encourage subordinates to develop their human capital. What’s that old saying? Be nice to people on the way up so they’ll be nice to you on the way down? Setting aside simply acting like a human
being for a moment, from a strictly utilitarian point of view, it pays to be nice.

But Fluvio doesn’t have that sense of perspective. His deep-seated control issues make him force everyone who works at The Bistro to be nervous, agitated, and dependent on him. He doesn’t encourage people to follow their dreams. Since my Web site never made any money, it never impressed Fluvio and flew underneath his psychological radar. Now, when it looks like my hard work might finally pay off, Fluvio’s secretly rooting for me to fail. People tell me about what he says behind my back. He’s hoping I fall flat on my face. I suddenly remember how Caesar fired Fluvio when he started to want something for himself. Ah, how abuse perpetuates itself.

“We’ll see, Fluvio,” I reply. “We’ll see.”

On the other end of the line there’s an indrawn breath and more silence. In the background I can hear the three waitresses arguing. Too many egos, not enough talent.

“I’ve got to go,” Fluvio says, hanging up.

I cradle the receiver and close my eyes in silent prayer. I don’t think I could stand it if Fluvio’s proved right. Seeing his smug “I told you so” look would be intolerable.

A short while later Beth and I are in the kitchen drinking coffee. The lunch shift’s drawing to a close. The restaurant’s almost empty. Beth can’t wait to go home.

“I’ve worked six doubles in a row,” she groans. “I can’t take any more.”

“The craziness won’t last forever,” I reply. “Bistro Duetto will eventually stand on its own two feet.”

“It can’t happen soon enough.”

“I hear ya,” I answer. “I’ve worked twelve days in a row.”

Beth and I sip our coffee quietly.

After a minute Beth asks, “So what’s up between you and Armando?”

“We’ve got a mini power struggle going on,” I reply.

“Things have gotten tense between you two.”

“I’ve noticed.”

Beth takes another sip of coffee. She looks pensive. “You know Louis and Saroya are talking shit about you,” she says.

“That’s nothing new.”

“Yeah,” Beth says. “But now they’re saying your blog has given you a swelled head—that you’re focusing on your writing instead of your job.”

“I remember when they just crabbed about me stealing the best tables,” I chuckle.

“It’s not funny,” Beth says. “Don’t you ever worry that someone who works here might wreck your anonymity and screw up your blog?”

Beth’s question sparks a tickle of anxiety. Ever since I started Waiter Rant I’ve taken great pains to protect my anonymity and the true name and location of The Bistro. But the blog isn’t a secret at work. Everyone at the restaurant knows about the Web site. Initially, everyone got a kick out of it and chuckled at the names I assigned to them. It also helped that I never wrote any nasty or critical stories about the staff. I passed up some juicy stories, but I like working in a peaceful work environment. I’ve been less than kind to the customers, however, and if they found out about my Web site, I might be compelled to quit. Anonymity has shielded me from customer retribution and protected my job. Now that tensions between the staff and me are increasing, I’m beginning to wonder if someone might rat me out just to get rid of me.

“Everyone’s been real good about it so far,” I say optimistically.

“Let’s hope your good luck holds.” Beth says.

Suddenly I see a flash of red hair out of the corner of my eye. Holly, one of our summer hostesses, walks past the kitchen door with a customer in tow. I see the man’s face for only a second—but it’s enough.

“Isn’t that Russell Crowe?” I ask Beth.

“I think you’re right,” Beth replies.

Beth and I casually saunter out of the kitchen and pretend
we’re rearranging napkins. As we perform our little reconnaissance I throw a covert glance toward the back section. Yep—sitting on one of the banquettes is Russell Crowe.

“It’s him,” I say, walking back into the kitchen.

“Wow,” Beth says, star-struck.

“Can you handle it?” I ask. “You know our policy about movie stars.”

“Yeah, I know,” Beth sighs. “Pretend like they’re not famous.”

“No problems?”

“No problems.”

Beth goes out to take care of Mr. Crowe. I go downstairs to the prep area to look for Armando, our sous-chef.

“Guess who’s here?” I say.

“Who?” Armando asks.

“The Gladiator.”

“NO FUCKING WAY!” Armando almost shrieks, our earlier animosity forgotten.
Gladiator
is one of his all-time-favorite movies. It’s one of mine, too.

“Yes fucking way.”

“How cool is that?”

“Get behind the stove, man,” I say. “You’ll want to add this guy to the list of famous people you’ve cooked for.”

Armando bounds up the stairs. He’s really thrilled.

I walk back upstairs. Mr. Crowe’s been joined by a guest. Beth’s taking good care of them. If she’s nervous, she doesn’t look it.

The Bistro has always had a fairly ironclad policy regarding celebrities—we don’t care. Waiters are not allowed to ask for autographs. We just treat them like any other customer. Don’t get me wrong. It’s always nice to have famous people patronize your restaurant. It creates a buzz and drives in business. The Bistro has had many famous patrons—ranging from Academy Award–winning actors and directors, famous rock stars, Nobel Prize winners, and crazy-gorgeous supermodels.

But the dangers of becoming a celebrity hangout are the same dangers a restaurant faces if it becomes a Mafia hangout. You
end up with rich and powerful people who might start treating the restaurant as their 24/7 preserves for late-night parties and backroom deals. That’s bad for business. Celebrities are notoriously unfaithful where restaurants are concerned. It’s the noncelebrity customers who pay the light bill. It never pays to alienate the bread-and-butter clientele by fawning over celebrities.

So The Bistro doesn’t care, and the celebrities pick up on that vibe. Most of our famous patrons appreciate that we treat them like everyone else. Maybe that’s the reason so many well-known people eat at The Bistro. If we made a fuss over them, they’d just go elsewhere, or, worse, start treating us like some L.A. eatery. Screw that. The last thing any restaurant needs is some Jeremy Piven type coming in without a reservation and leaving a DVD of his TV show as a tip.

I head into the kitchen and find Beth gabbing excitedly on her cell phone to a girlfriend.

“He’s so handsome,” Beth swoons. “He has really hypnotic eyes.”

Actually, I think Mr. Crowe looks smaller in person than he does on-screen.

“If he asked me to spend the weekend with him in Mykonos, do you think my boyfriend would mind?” Beth asks the phone innocently.

I shake my head in the affirmative. Beth smiles.

“It’s just a thought,” she says to her girlfriend. “I’ve got to run. Later. Bye.”

“How you doing?” I ask.

“I’m a little dizzy,” Beth replies.

“You’ll be fine.”

“When I looked into his eyes, I completely forgot the specials.”

“I’m sure he’s used to that happening.”

“Wow,” Beth says.

“If Charlize Theron was here, I’d be acting the same way.”

“Oh my God,” Beth says. “You couldn’t handle her at a table.”

“Probably not.”

Some time passes. Mr. Crowe and his guest finish lunch, pay the bill, and leave.

“Have a nice afternoon,” I say as he walks past me.

“You, too, mate,” he replies, smiling.

Beth scoops the check off the table. She got a very nice tip.

“I love you, Russell!” she shouts. I’m glad The Bistro’s empty.

“Don’t start sniffing where he was sitting,” I joke.

“I love you, Russell!”

Beth kept it together while the superstar was here, but now that he’s gone, she’s just decompressing. I did that after I waited on Alan Ruck—the guy from
Spin City
and
Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.
I had to fight an insane urge to call him Cameron.
Dude, you killed the car!

“Wow,” I say, “Russell Crowe ate here. We should put up a sign.”

But Beth doesn’t hear me. She’s already talking on her cell phone.

“Mom,” she jabbers, “you’ll never believe who was just here!”

I leave my star-struck waitress to her conversation. Honestly, I’m kind of star-struck myself. When I get home that night, I write up the entire encounter on my Web site. I title the post “Gladiator.”

The next morning my phone rings at the ungodly hour of nine
A.M.
The caller ID tells me it’s Fluvio. I debate whether or not to answer it. When Fluvio calls me at home, it’s never a good sign.

“What?” I answer.

“Your computer on?”

“What?”

“Go to your computer.”

“Why?”

“Just do it,” Fluvio says.

I roll out of bed, slap my laptop out of hibernation mode, and sit down.

“What do you want me to look at?”

“Go to this Web site,” Fluvio says, spelling out the URL for
me. Within seconds I’m reading an article on some Russell Crowe fansite highlighting the “Gladiator” story on my blog—and giving The Bistro’s exact name and address.