Waiting; The True Confessions of a Waitress (2 page)

“Extra mussels,” I repeat, “no problem.” To convince her, I pull out my order pad and make a note. “What a bitch,” I write and smile at her. I turn my attention to her date. “And for you, sir?”

“Let me tell you what I want,” he says unctuously. This is a phrase that flags trouble as surely as a red cape in front of a bull. It means he’s not even going to look at the menu and the dozens of entrees listed there. No, he’s got something in his mind and he means for me to get it for him, whatever it is. Especially if it’s not on the menu and we don’t have it. Whether this is to impress his date, generally act like a big shot, or just to be a pest, I can’t tell. He is, however, offering a challenge and setting up a dynamic between the three of us that will last for the duration of his meal. The game has begun and we’re off and running.

“I want a shrimp scampi. You got anything like that?”

“You mean the large prawns?”

“Yes.”

“Garlic and butter?”

“Yes.”

“No,” I tell him, “we don’t have that. We only have the small shrimp. Sorry.” I’ve picked up the gauntlet. Why should I make this easy? He’s certainly not going to.

“Tell the chef to make something for me, then. Something like a shrimp scampi.”

“Well, we really don’t have any—”

“Just tell him.” He smiles again and this time the smile says, “If you don’t do what I say, I’m going to call the manager over and make a really big scene.”

I take inventory of the situation. His date is pouting smugly. She’s really enjoying this. He is a bit of a parody, wearing a gold pinkie ring, a heavy gold bracelet, and enough gold neck chains to choke a horse. When he speaks, he sounds like a bad imita
tion of Billy Crystal doing Fernando Lamas. He’s got Witness Protection Program written all over him. She has a very pretty face, which is spoiled by an inch-thick layer of makeup. She’s wearing very little jewelry and often clutches at her purse, which she’s kept within reaching distance as if she might need to bolt at any second. Her body-hugging pantsuit is understated but looks expensive. The thought of getting into it with these two is suddenly exhausting. I just don’t have the stomach for it tonight. And in the split second I stand there contemplating my next move, I change my mind about my entire plan. Why not give them what they want? It’s not as if I don’t have the time to go the extra mile for them. I decide I’ll even go talk to the chef, despite possible risks to my own mental health. Their date is obviously not going that well. Perhaps, I think, I can help to make this a better evening for them.

“Just a second,” I tell them, “I’ll be right back.”

I approach the chef, who is so bored on this slow night that he’s removing the bones from a sea bass at tableside. Normally, he’s not overly fond of appearing in front of customers.

“I need you,” I whisper to him.

“Oh really?” he says, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

“Yes, really.”

As soon as the sea bass has been sufficiently ripped to flaky shreds, the chef follows me to the table. My couple seems quite surprised to see him there.

“I’ve brought the chef out personally to speak to you,” I tell them.

“Oh, this is wonderful,” Mr. Gold Chains says. The chef is totally ingratiating, although I can tell he is barely containing his inherently sarcastic streak.

“I just want some shrimp scampi,” Gold Chains says.

“Well, I don’t have the large prawns,” the chef says. “I have only the smaller ones, but I can make a plate with those if you want.”

“Fantastic,” Gold Chains says.

“So I make a plate with the shrimp and a little olive oil and garlic?”

“Maybe a little pasta.”

“You want pasta as well?”

“I don’t know. You decide. Yes, OK, pasta.”

“You’ve got to give me a little more information,” the chef says. “I can make it for you, but you have to tell me what you like.”

They hash out the details a little longer while I watch. Finally the chef departs.

“He seems very nice,” Gold Chains tells me.

“Tonight,” I respond.

“Oh really, ha ha, he isn’t like that all the time?”

“I’m just kidding,” I say, smiling.

“Thank you for bringing him over,” Gold Chains says.

“Yes,” his date says acidly, “thank you.”

They’ve gotten what they wanted. Everybody’s happy. Life is wonderful.

“We’ll have another glass of cabernet,” Gold Chains tells me. The date shakes her head no and he overrides her again.

I have to wonder what the story is between these two. Their body language offers a few clues. They’re sitting on the same side of the table, but she holds herself back from him, uncon
sciously shielding her prominent breasts with crossed arms. He leans toward her as she inches back, his arm slung over the back of her chair. There is a palpable tension between them. Judging from the proprietary tone he takes with her, this can’t be their first date. Nor are they married. For one thing, her left fourth finger is bare. For another, married couples very rarely sit on the same side of the table. So, I’d guess third or fourth date. He seems to want to get her drunk. Another sign. Maybe they met through the personals.

Their dinners arrive shortly and I have to chuckle as I walk the plates over to them. For Gold Chains, the chef has prepared a barely modified version of a dish we already have on the menu. If the customer had bothered to look at said menu, he could have easily ordered this meal himself.

“Looks wonderful,” Gold Chains says. Something has shifted in the relationship between Gold Chains and his date since I was last at the table. They seem to have come to some sort of tacit agreement. Her posture is more relaxed. He orders another glass of wine for himself after finishing hers.

“Tell the chef that this is wonderful,” Gold Chains says. “Tell him I want to buy him a drink. Go, go tell him.”

I leave dutifully and head to the kitchen, where the chef is busy poking his finger into several pounds of uncooked calamari.

“He loves it,” I tell the chef.

“Of course he loves it,” the chef says.

“He wants to buy you a drink.”

“You know I don’t drink,” the chef tells me.

“He insists.”

“Then order a bottle of Dom Pérignon and I’ll share it with you after work.”

“I don’t think that’s what he had in mind.”

“Then charge him for the most expensive glass of wine we have and tell the bartender not to pour it.”

“I can’t do that, it’s unethical.”

The chef shrugs. “What do you want me to do? Tell him thank you, but no thank you.”

“That works for me,” I tell the chef.

For all their demands, Gold Chains and his date eat hardly any food. After a bite or two of her dinner, the date disappears into the ladies’ room. I take the opportunity to check back with Gold Chains and make sure that his specially designed meal is satisfactory.

“Yes, it’s wonderful,” he says, “but let me tell you something.” He beckons me to come closer, to lean over to him. “This is not the first time a chef comes over to my table,” he says, blasting my face with his garlic breath. I stifle an involuntary gag reflex.

“They always come over and they always make me what I want,” Gold Chains continues. “It’s not such a big deal for the chef to come over. They can always do it for me. You should remember that.”

“Right. Terrific,” I tell him, “I’m glad it worked out for you.” I hightail it away from the table. I’m thinking I should have taken the chef’s advice. I should have charged this guy extra for everything. I should have added the glass of wine. There’s no respect here. With one garlicky blast, Gold Chains has managed to defeat any altruistic intent I had toward him. He doesn’t care that I’m going the extra mile for him. As far as he’s concerned, the extra mile is included with the price of the meal. I probably don’t even rate as a person.

I’m tired of trying to relate to people on a human level. A familiar feeling washes over me. Waiting on tables, I think, is
surely a bizarre way to make a living. I remember a scene from
Deconstructing Harry,
the Woody Allen film I saw several months ago. Woody Allen’s character is with a prostitute and he asks her how she manages to do the kind of work she does. The prosti
tute responds that it’s better than waitressing. Woody Allen’s character then goes on for a while about how every prostitute he’s asked about the trade has had this response. Given this, he concludes that waitressing has to be the worst job in the world. I saw the film with two other waitresses. At first we laughed when we heard this interchange. Then we applauded. Woody makes an interesting point. Waitressing may not be the worst job in the world, but prostitution does seem to have more inherent hon
esty about it. My mother, queen of euphemistic phrases, defined
hooker
for me this way when I was about twelve years old: “A hooker is a woman who is nice to men for money.” Really, I think to myself, is that so different from what I’m doing at this very moment?

Gold Chains motions for me to clear the plates. They’ll think about dessert, he informs me. Maybe later they’ll have some cof
fee. He snuggles up close to his date and begins whispering in her ear. I am no longer needed or wanted at the table. I suspect it’s going to be a while before these two leave. I watch them from afar as I fold napkins and wait for a sign that they want some
thing else. As I do, I reflect again on the strangeness of my job.

I was a teenager when I had my first waitressing job. Had any
one told me then that I’d still be hustling plates at the end of the millennium, I would have thought they were crazy. I can barely believe it now. There must be a reason, I tell myself, that I still show up for these shifts. A reason why I still play the kind of game I’ve played with Gold Chains, several times on a nightly basis.

As I stack the napkins beside me, I disengage myself from the chatter and hum of the restaurant. I begin a process of sort
ing and sifting through my memories that I’ve perfected over
these years of waiting on tables. I flip through the colors and sounds of my past until I come to the scene I’m looking for. I stop there, on this particular frame of memory, and allow myself to experience it once more.

I turned sixteen in 1978.
Grease
was released for the first time. While none of my girlfriends would admit it, they all wanted to look like Olivia Newton-John after she put on those skinny black clothes. I was the only one I knew who thought Stockard Chan
ning was sexier. At the very least, the character she played was much more interesting. But these were unpopular opinions and I kept them to myself.

I began hassling my father in the spring, telling him I wanted to get a job and work in the summer like all my friends. His response was predictable: “Why do you want to get a job?” he said. “You’ve got your whole life to work. Why don’t you enjoy your freedom while you can?”

I didn’t find my father’s logic comforting. The thought of spending another sticky summer at the poolside of the Jewish Community Center, lacing my hair with lemon juice and Sun-In in order to achieve a perfect shade of blond, was beyond depress
ing. The previous year had been bad enough. Serial killer Son of Sam had been on the loose until August and I’d listened to anx
ious matrons hypothesizing about where he might strike next— “The last one was in Yonkers, you know, it’s only a matter of time before he makes it up here. He could be here now.” The reflected sunlight from their tanning panels was blinding (nobody gave a thought to skin cancer at that point), but it beat the sight of their pudgy fourteen-year-old sons doing cannon
balls into the pool. Foreigner’s “Cold As Ice” blared from the sound system several times daily. It was altogether an unpleas
ant memory.