It’s Christmas Eve and Café Machiavelli is bursting at the seams. Since we’re overbooked the wait time to be seated has crept past the half hour mark. Several customers, upset with the delay, have stormed out in frustration. Christmas cheer is in short supply. The
Somehow I survived Christmas Eve at Café Machiavelli. What an experience! The kitchen crashed, babies cried, customers complained, several people walked out, and Santa valiantly tried to save the day. When I woke up this morning I thought my feet belonged to someone else. That’s
Its 4:30 and I get sat my first customers of the day – a young couple with a screaming, kicking, red faced, snot dripping three year old boy. I take a deep calming breath, flick on my waiter smile, and head over to the table.
The quartet of chattering yuppies on table 24 have finished dessert and ask for their check. They’ve been running me ragged all night with special requests, menu substitutions, and water refills for glasses three quarters full. I’m glad they’re leaving. “Here you are, sir,” I
Here’s a funny little video from a comedy troupe about a “super” waiter. Enjoy!
I came across these definitions in at Urban Dictionary today. Thanks “angryboy!” Waiter Gods Waiter Gods are the all knowing, unseen entities who control the ebb and flow of the great tip continuum. They are mysterious and unknowable, but their wrath can be swift, cruel,
I walk into my gym at 9:00 AM on a cold Sunday morning. It’s an ungodly hour for a waiter to be awake, but after returning to the restaurant life I promised myself I wouldn’t backslide into bad habits like sleeping until noon, skipping breakfast,
“And last but not least,” I say, wrapping up my recitation of the specials to the party on Table 34, “We have a seafood paella with lobster, shrimp, chorizo sausage, scallops, artichokes, bacon and saffron Arborio rice.” “How do you remember all those specials?” a
It’s a busy Saturday night and Café Machiavelli is packed. Waiting on a line three waiters deep to input my orders into the computer system, I watch as the food runner delivers my entrées to the customers on Table 26. Everyone beams with pleasure as
I don’t know where I caught the virus that knocked me flat. It started out last night as a foul taste in the back of my throat. At first I thought it was the homemade pesto sauce I ate with dinner, but the low grade