sea bass in my tummy

Servers gotta eat, too.

It just so happens that I have an eye (and stomach) for appreciation. Enjoy this Chilean Sea Bass from Watawa on Ditmars/33rd in Astoria.

Server Submission: Selma's Regulars

Submission: Selma, sljaljicic@gmail.com
Location: Uno Chicago Grill, Queens, NY

I wanted to tell you about a man and his mother who are regulars at the restaurant.

The man is in his late 40's to early 50's. He comes in with his elderly mother and sits at the same table - every time. He finds the server immediately and orders two cups of Sierra Mist, a vegetable soup, boneless wings with no sauce, our smallest steak, and two sides of mashed potatoes. He then pays and tips the server quite nicely... and then leaves his mother there. Mind you, this woman doesn't speak a word of English.

The first thing I was curious about... why does he order two cups of Sierra Mist when the refills are free? The answer: one is used for soaking her dentures.

She began to eat the soup just fine. When it came time to eat her boneless wings, she peeled the breading off as if they were peanuts and sucked the chicken out from the inside (EWW). It was a slow morning in the restaurant and I was so caught up in the way she was eating these wings, I spent about twenty minutes just staring at her in complete disgust. That's when it dawned on me... this woman's next course was a well-done, eight ounce steak. I could not even imagine how she would tackle this. I thought perhaps that soaking her teeth in sugar-laden Sierra Mist must somehow make them strong enough for her to be able to chew steak. I gave the steak to her then hid behind a wall for a while just watching her attempt at eat.

She first cut the steak into small pieces... without eating any of the meat, she moved on to her mashed potatoes. After a few bites, she fell asleep. Her son picked her up almost three hours later (one hour after shift change, of course). He actually asked if she was being good. I went and told one of the other servers the story, and before I could finish he replied, "Oh yeah, table 63? Apparently we're cheaper than a nursing home."

Thanks for another stellar tale supporting why we enjoy our jobs!
Props to you, Selma!

Who's fault?

I'm the messenger. I relay your messages to the people who can interpret them best. I even take special notes on your special requests. Essentially, I will pass on your every word and worry to the chef.

Guest 1: "This doesn't look like the picture."
NYCW: "That's because it wasn't pictured in the menu."

Guest 2: "My shrimp scampi is cold."
NYCW: "Let me get you a new one."

...and the ever famous, most-dreaded in all the land of kitchens,

Guest OMG: "... I think there's a hair in my food -- and it isn't mine."
NYCW: "...... shit."

As the messenger, I take pride in my work. You ask for no onions, no mushrooms, nothing spicy. I trust my pen and pad. I trust my ears and my ability to read your body language. After all, working in Times Square makes me an expert on reading multiple languages, numerous special needs, and sleventy-seven social statuses all eating inside the same restaurant at the same time. You know, that hot spot restaurant just off New York City's most famous tourist stop, Times Square. I relay messages for a living. Consider your special order a private message on Facebook -- it'll be taken care of immediately.

Unless, of course, you're unhappy with the presentation. You read the description, perhaps you even asked questions about the ingredients. It fails to meet your expectations and now as your server, I must die. Snarky comments, snarky exhales and other huffy grunts surround your table, encircling my rounds.

Even though it was really the kitchen's fault. Or your expectations were just too freakin' high. Your idea of NYC might have been born out of The Times or Vogue... but the real city of New York is run by people like me: putting on a serving uniform one leg at a time.

Enjoy your new scampi and please don't kill the messenger,

DINER PLACEMAT: WIN

I believe this photo speaks for itself. NYC Waitress approves this message [as seen in Michael's Restaurant, B'way btwn 33/34th in Astoria].

Excuse me, but can you only fit 16 drink recipes on this placemat? I suppose I'll settle,

I'M BA-ACK.

First, my apologies. I had a small battle with 'the real world' -- also known as yet another attempt to become famous via full-time day job. Well, that clearly worked out. 

In NYC server fashion, NYCWaitress is currently seeking her next gig in hospitality. Hang tight and prepare: the best is yet to come.

Does your establishment pool tips or no?

Staff Sundays: Dominated by Male Servers

The following is this week's installment of things that I overheard my anonymous coworkers say; enjoy.

Male server, "Dear [restaurant name], why is there even a "check for app" button when all the food is going to come out at the same time?"

Female host, to server, before seating a table in the server's section, "I'm going to apologize in advance for doing this to you. We really do like you."

Manager, in utility closet, "I may or may not have just unplugged the cable TV boxes." 

All TVs with sporting games have now gone blank.

Male server, to fellow server, "Can you hold out your arm so that when I hit you with this, I can see if it leaves an imprint?" 

Manager, "I wish there was a button on the computer for that -- 'comp my f-up'." 

Male server, to potential date, "Can you read this phone number? Sorry... it's on a paper towel."

Female server, "I did not expect them to tip me. I forgot their side of ranch... and they're from the south."

Manager, "Are you being SASSY with me? That's it... you're off the food-chain."

Male server, "Do they realize who I am? I mean, I get that I'm black but... this ain't 1915." 

Female server, "Today is Sunday. Jesus and them... they like... rested."

Male server, in response to the previous, "Yeah... and Jesus told Mary that he needed to change his availability." 

Night Out? Fail.

This is what NYC Waitress does when she goes out to a restaurant... she judges.

Can you recheck your side-work? Your salts look like crap.

The Return of The Cougar

The host looks worried. "Someone is asking for you," she winces. Her uncertainty for whoever is waiting to speak with me is... exciting.

Then, right behind the host, there she is. Her eye shadow screams for the help of a steady hand.

Cougs: "[NYCW], baby, here you are. Pop-pop Geno is on his way, baby. We're eatin' in tonight!" 

NYCW: "That's great! It's so nice to see you. Have a seat at the bar while I check out my tables... I'll see if any of my tables are open."

Backstory: If you're not familiar with the story of Pop-pop & The Cougar, please read it here. The basics: she's 64 years old and Pop-pop just turned 30 last month. His family owns the building Gucci rents on 5th Ave. The Cougar just cashed-in on her late-husband's life insurance policy. She has a lazy eye that is terribly distracting. One night a few weeks ago, this dynamic duo sat down in my section, and embarrassingly over-tipped me. My June rent still owes them a thank-you note.

Now, back to the Cougar's most recent visit.

Cougs: "I'll just sit here and wait for an open table then, baby. The meds won't let me drink alcohol before 6pm."

NYCW: smiles, runs away.

Fellow-servers are asking questions, involving colorful cuss words, mostly beginning with the letter "F". Managers are also asking questions, in the same manner. Everyone is judging this woman's ability to put on makeup. You can almost guess that people are positively correlating her ability to put on makeup with her lazy eye. This makes me smile.

I explain, quickly and quietly to as many servers that will listen. Clearly, I discover, NYCWaitress and her blogs are not yet viral. I'm okay with this. I tell the story of the big tip, the Gucci real estate, the Floridian catch. Servers are thrilled: the evening's entertainment is being provided, free of charge & tip-share.

Soon after, there's a new development: apparently the Cougar has taken off her bra while sitting at the bar. Please allow me to take this opportunity and plug the reputation of the TSQ restaurant I work in: a family-orientated, family-friendly, aka CHILDREN EVERYWHERE. Nearby tables are not happy to see this. Children are not happy to see this. I am giggling. This woman is outrageous.

Cougs: "I'll be back. Geno is picking me up in-style tonight. He's bringing his brothah. He's bringing him to meet you. He's family. You know. Family. You'll love 'im. I'm going to walk around downstairs. I have no [bleeping]-idea how I even found this restaurant again. I am out-of-my-mind right now (makes hand-sign that suggests drug use). We'll all meet here in a few hours at 9:30p."

NYCW: I smile. "Okay. Don't forget. See you then!" 

In short, she did not come back for supper. This was the return of the cougar, only to be filled with the false-promises of Pop-pop's brothah. Stay-tuned for the next sighting.

Can I help you with those barside bra-snaps, lady?

Married & Managerially Untouchable

What would a restaurant in Times Square be like without any good relationship drama? Who's with who, who likes who, what bar did they sneak off to after their Saturday night shift? Unfortunately, just as any restaurant fueled by the hormones of twenty-somethings, work-related relationships happen. No one is out to stop them, and every single server is out to find one. 

Unless you're a manager... and you're married.

There's this wonderful girl that I work with. We'll call her "Marla". Now, "Marla" is one of the smartest people I know at the restaurant. She has a degree in Communications. She studied abroad in London. She claims to be an ostentatious snob who also enjoys cheeseburgers. And she's in-love with a manager, a married man. 

His name is "Herb" -- the southerner mister-fix-it type, the manager that has all the good stories, the ex-cop, the table-charmer of troubled tourists. "Herb" is a manager that most are extremely fond of. Unless you're "Marla" ... then it's love.

As of now, this post serves simply as the beginning of what could be the greatest NYC Waitress saga of all-time, Married & Managerially Untouchable. Stay-tuned as the drama unfolds on Broadway, literally.

Can I get some more drama, and an extra piece of moral limitation?
Thanks.

Charity Cabaret

You might see this happen in Atlanta... you could see it in Chicago. 

In New York? A bunch of servers getting together and putting on a cabaret for charity? Most definitely.

Eighteen waiters and waitresses banded together & requested-off for a special event: to sing, dance & monologue their way into the hearts of many. All proceeds will fund a Habitat For Humanity project in New Orleans this fall. Even most of the management was there supporting their staff. Unfortunately, a few people had to hold up the restaurant fort in TSQ and could not attend... that's right, the newbee's.

The cabaret was held at a local theatre right off the Square, and raised over $1200 for the volunteers. I must say, I am very proud of the people I work with. We all have talents and skills that brought us to New York City. We might have to work harder than other people beginning in their careers, but we chose New York. Serving at a restaurant is not a dead end. Of all places to be serving, Times Square is pretty prime. In the meantime, until we are famous or employed full-time... why not put on a cabaret and raise money for a charitable cause?

Can I whip up an amazing ensemble encore of Beethoven Day?

Staff Sundays: Things my coworkers said.

While this blog is primarily about the people who dine in Times Square, tonight the focus will shift; the following comments and dialogues you are about to read really happened -- the names and other incriminating details have been subtracted. This will now become a Sunday night ritual known as: Staff Sundays. Enjoy this reoccurring piece on restaurant realism. 

Male server: "Well, he sort of has hobbit feet. You know, like kankles. Kankles on guys are hot."

* * * * * * * * * * *

Female server, to a taken-Male server: "Do you have any brothers that are available?"

* * * * * * * * * * *

Female server: "Well, they left 20%. They should have left more to cover the three trips I made to the kitchen for extra ranch dressing. Seriously, who are these people & where do they breed?"

* * * * * * * * * * *

Male server, to manager in kitchen: "Yeah, remember when you'd hit me really hard and I'd make you comp my meals?" 

* * * * * * * * * * *

Female server: "This place doesn't drive me to drink, it's the people in this place that do it. I'm not an alcoholic, but... it's a borderline situation."

* * * * * * * * * * *

Manager: "I am thirty years old, I manage people who are in their twenties, who have graduated high school, and most of them? Most of them have gone on & graduated college, too. Can you please explain to me... why am I settling arguments about CUPS?"

* * * * * * * * * * *

Bartender: "Where do we keep the guns? Side pantry?"

* * * * * * * * * * *

Male Server, dumbfounded, to server: "Yeah, this lady asked if she could get less noodles in her scampi... less noodles." 

* * * * * * * * * * *

Female server, angry & talking to herself at the soda machine: "You want water? With no ice? Really, like I care about mixing two states of matter... I have a [bleeping] college degree, lady." 

* * * * * * * * * * *

Male server: "Look, I know Raven Simone may be fat, but she's the one on national television in Times Square and I'm the one serving at a restaurant; props to her."

* * * * * * * * * * *

Two female servers talking about a private matter & a manager approaches.

Female server: "... and then... (notices manager)... HEY... hey... I came up with a new birthday song, it goes, "Hey... it's your birthday... Hey, it's your... okay, I'm going."

* * * * * * * * * * *

Male server, to table: "Of course we can do that. We're really good at special orders here. I like pushing all the modification buttons on the computer."

* * * * * * * * * * *

Male server: "Is tonight really happening? Is this real? It's 7pm and I haven't had one table that speaks English. I knew I should have listened to my parents... but I wanted to be an actor."

Can you speak up? I'm trying to compete with textsfromlastnight.com,

Pop-Pop Geno & "The Cougar"

The night started out normal: someone's steak was over-cooked. A thirteen year-old drowned herself in seven Sierra Mists. Actually, the shift was beginning to feel uncomfortably ordinary. The lack of chaos was unsettling.

My fellow servers would agree that tonight, I had the worst three-table section: two two-tops and a four-top. I heartily disagree. The tables in my section faced Times Square, allowing guests to entertain themselves. Windows lined the tables. After 8pm, the inebriated are let loose to pet the NYCPD horses. Asians are snapping pictures with their over-sized Cannons. The famous "Can I Have A Beer?" homeless guy is riding the waves of foreign tourists, full-throttle. Restaurant-goers couldn't pay for this kind of window-side entertainment.

And just ten minutes before our doors close for the night, it happens.

Let's take a Zack Morris time-out:

The host walks a man and a woman to a table in my section (note: all tables are currently empty). If you missed the gentleman's swagger, you surely saw this woman's hobble. I'm quickly trying to diagnose a problem... then I stop. He's wearing a minx wrap-around and she is wearing long, black, bedazzled gloves. He looks like her very young son, except his hand is up her leather skirt. She looks like his grandmother, except her tongue is clearly in his mouth. I stop diagnosing a problem. I am thrilled. Tonight's blog will write itself.

Zack Morris time-in.

We start table chat. They enjoy this. I learn much, including the following facts: he just turned 30 last month, she is 64 -- about to turn 65 in October. He grew up in NYC and she has lived the last 45 years in Florida. Reiteration: he was wearing a minx wrap-around; she is wearing fish nets and long, black, bedazzled gloves. His family owns the building that Gucci rents on 5th Avenue... she just collected on her late husband's life insurance plan. His appearance alone suggests that he is worth well-over a million dollars; the woman knows this and clings to his young, muscular arms. 

Side note: our cougar has a lazy eye. Additional note/disclaimer: NYC Waitress does not hate on lazy eyes. In Times Square, you see all types of people... you learn how to serve them all. My struggle: which eye do you look at? Just when I think I've got the good eye, I freak out, look at the other wandering eye (he/she clearly notices).. then it's all over. The rapport has now twirled itself down the drain. 

Older, Floridian woman: "He takes good care of me."

Younger, Italian man draped in Minx: "Yeah, she's my girl."

NYC Waitress: "There's love at the table, that's for sure."

Cougar: "There's more than love, baby... this is a real Coach."

(shows new Coach purse, with tags).

Pop-Pop Geno: "... Coach, baby."

NYCW, playing dumb: "Who's that? Was he in Sleepless in Seattle?"

Pop-Pop Geno & Cougar look confused. 

Cougar, quick to save: "Yeah baby, I think he was. He's the guy who owns Coach. I think he was a doctor in that movie or something." Cougar looks at Pop-Pop. "Right, baby?"

Pop-Pop Geno: "Yeah baby, he made millions off that film." Kisses her hand, then her ring. Her gloves are still on. She is wearing her rings over her bedazzled gloves.

At this time, I should also reiterate that this blog is essentially writing itself.

Cougar: "We're looking for apartments in Manhattan. After my husband died, God rest him, Geno found me. I never thought I'd find a second soul mate. You find one, you think.. I'm the luckiest girl in the world. What happens when you find a second soulmate?"

NYCW: "You ask for his routing number for verification."

Cougar: "Oh baby, it's not about the money. We're going to find a nice high-rise in Midtown, maybe Soho. Money isn't a problem. We ain't got problems."

NYCW, internal monologue: the only problem here is that this woman is failing eighth grade grammar... and wearing Prada.

Pop-Pop Geno: "I went to Florida for a few weeks. I didn't expect to find the love of my life, but I did, and now we're apartment hunting in Manhattan."

NYCW: "I have the name of a good broker... she helped me find an awesome apartment, for cheap. I'm looking into moving out of Queens, and back to Manhattan... keeping my eye out for a steal."

(the moment I said "keeping an eye out..." I looked at her wandering eye; epic fail).

Pop-pop G: "You know baby doll, you find an apartment for me and the Mrs -- and you've got yourself a room."

NYCW: "Come again?"

Pop-pop G: "We need at least two bedrooms. A jacuzzi... a sauna. If you can find a three bedroom apartment for less than five G's a month, we'll pay the rent, and you can have the third room."

NYCW: "Here's my cell phone number; don't lose this napkin."

Networking is an NYC past-time. Networking with cougars & their young: an elite NYC trend.

For two people, they managed to work up their food/drinks tab up to $140. Three appetizers, crab legs, and dessert all make an appearance. Pop-Pop asks for the bill.

* dropping check *

Cougar: "What if we just got married tonight? Baby, what if we just went up to one of those chapels? You know, like Britney Spears?"

Pop-Pop G: "You want to, baby?"

NYCW: "I will totally be your Maid of Honor... now THAT'D be a good story."

Cougar: "Where's the napkin with your cell? I'm callin', baby. You'll be the bestest Maid of Honor. We'll find you other clothes to wear, too."

NYCW: "I love clothes. This work uniform will not do. You know, I CAN clean-up."

Cougar: "Okay, let's do this. Let's get... let's... let's find a chapel and let's... I think I need another glass of merlot."

It is now 45 minutes past the restaurant's closing time. I ask the manager if we can get the love birds two shots of Patron on the house. It's important to clear these goodwill deeds with the higher-ups... we're a chain restaurant, not Sardi's. I happily skip the expensive tequila over, already imaging the wedding chapel. I'm certain that my dress will be the shade of Floridian coral.

Pop-pop G is glowing as he takes out his wallet, laying bills down on the table. My peripherals  spy big bills. "Keep the change, baby -- and bring us one more merlot for the road." 

I take the money as I turn away. I count it to make sure that it matches what is owed. Something is wrong. I recount the money. Something is still wrong. They have over-paid by $69. One more time, now looking over to Pop-Pop & Cougs. She smiles, putting on her bedazzled black gloves. Pop-Pop smiles and gives me a long wink. I feel dirty. I return the smile. 

As they get up to leave, Pop-pop shakes my hand. Something is wrong. His hand is scratchy. I then realize it is not his hand, but the $20 bill inside his hand that is scratchy. 

Pop-pop G: "For the Patron, baby. We'll be in touch."

Conclusion: after my shift ended, I went to our local bar with fellow servers. I waited by my phone all night, like a pimply, tenth-grade hopeful, three days before Homecoming. They never called for their Maid of Honor. I will survive; Pop-pop Geno said he's Manhattan's Godfather... and he'll be back for more Patron.

Can I get you a Floridian cougar to manage your financial investments?

Austin's Wish

Something twisted in my stomach when they wheeled him to my round, six-top table. I'm not a nervous person; I have experience coaching volleyball with the Special Olympics. Children with disabilities aren't disabling to me.. if anything, my smile is a little brighter and my touch a little warmer. 

...but my stomach was twisting. His shirt read "Make-A-Wish Kid" which made me think of good kids... bad things happening to good kids... trying to give good kids good things who were in a bad situation. This particular boy didn't look a day past seven or eight years old.

I approach the table. Looking up at me, here are six, smiling people and one little boy in a high-tech mechanical wheel chair. I swallow hard. 

NYC Waitress: "Welcome, everybody, to Times Square! Are you all hungry or what?" 

Boy in wheelchair: "Excuse me! Can you come closer? I'd like to talk to you. Can you come closer?"

No better way to cut the nerves than to just dive right in.

Boy: "Hello. My name is Austin. Can you guess what?"

NYCW: "What's that, Austin?"

Austin: "I just met Regis Philbman. Can you guess what else next?"

NYCW, smiling: "What's that, Austin?"

Austin: "He asked ME a million dollar question... and I got it right."

NYCW: "Holy smokes! Do I have a celebrity at my table?" 

Austin: "Yep! And there was a limo that took us to meet him. I got to sit next to a super-chef, her name was Rachel Ray. She held my hand. She helped mom take me to the limo after that. Can you guess one more thing last?"

NYCW: "Austin, I'm afraid to guess.. you have so many good surprises!"

Austin: "You and me are friends now, sound okay with you?" 

He has two, big, beautiful, almond-shaped eyes. It's hard for him to see, even with his thick glasses. He has soft, brown hair that is combed-back to one side. There is an an energy that rips through his hands and fingers, keeping him always ticking and moving. Austin is sick, yet he never stops smiling. Every few seconds you'd hear him shriek at something happening outside the window on the Square -- things like, "look!" or "WOW did you hear that HORN HONK?"

If you're not familiar with the Make-A-Wish Foundation, let me explain a few things. It's a grassroots organization that sprouted in 1980 when a little boy with a life-threatening heart condition had only one wish, to be a police officer. How hard was it to give him a helmet, a badge, and a mini-police uniform? It cost the local police department pennies to put together... and a child relished in complete and whole happiness. 

Austin's dream was to come to New York City and meet Regis Philbin, the original host behind Who Wants To Be A Millionaire. He wanted to ride in a taxi cab and pay for it himself. To seal his wish, he wanted a meal in Times Square.

Fellow servers keep asking, "So, what's he got?" or "Do you know what's wrong with him?" Truthfully, whether it would make a better blog or not, I choose to keep this part private. I will say, however, that his condition is life-threatening and requires around-the-clock care. 

Austin asked about our restaurant's chef. He wants to know who prepared his meal.

A kid's meal: a miniature hamburger, or chicken tenders, or fish sticks; you know the kind. Our kid's meal comes out with a side of jello and an orange slice, packaged in a little cardboard contraption, complimenting our restaurant's theme. To any other person, it's just an over-priced kid's meal.

He wants to say thank-you in person. He wants to thank the chef for taking the time to make his food amazing.

Austin: "This is DELICIOUS! I am so happy with this wonderful MEAL!" 

I'm glowing all the way to our kitchen. A manager is on expo tonight, running the line. With his chef apron on, he meets with our boy. It's safe to say that as the restaurant staff, we received just as much (if not more) from Austin's wish-visit as he will take home.

The family prepared to leave, happiness all-around. Earlier, I promised Austin a few moments on the loud-speaker & mic. Our sound system can be heard over parts of the restaurant, used for calling out parties' names & seating. 

We turned on the wireless mic and made an announcement... we have a special guest, and he needs to speak for a moment.

Austin: "I just wanted to say thanks, everybody. This was pretty cool. We had some pretty good food. It was YUM-MY. I hope you have what I had. You know, I met Regis tonight. That was cool, too. I'm happy... really happy, everybody. Thanks again!"

Austin covered his ears as the crowd hollered and cheered around his chair; the volumes of people might have caused Austin to cover his ears, but the volumes of happiness that radiated out from his smile surpassed them all. 

Employee Benefits: The 'ol 50%-off

It was my night-off. I was hungry. I fought through the tumultuous crowds of Times Square to my "safe-place": THE RESTAURANT.

Ordered food. Enjoyed margarita. Laughed at my fellow co-workers, stuck serving on a Friday night. Same fellow co-workers responded by asking me questions, like why I chose to spend my Friday night eating at work. I told them to go back to work. Mean smiles came next. This made my margarita taste better [stronger].

Time to pay the bill. As a restaurant employee, I get 50%-off my dine-in check, excluding alcohol; because I am poor, I happily oblige and indulge in this glutinous perk.

I then spent the remainder of my Friday night nowhere NEAR Times Square. Does it matter where? No.. it's my day-off.

Sorry, I can't refill your third Dr.Pepper... I'm off the clock.

Jack & Rose were never real.

A father and his two girls come in; the amount of personality at this table could knock-out a server on the other side of the restaurant -- a BIG restaurant.

The trio had just arrived from NBC's Titanic Exhibit in Times Square. The girls were excited to show me their 'boarding passes' -- which consisted of real passengers' names who were once aboard the historic vessel. 

For the sake of this story, I introduce Girl1, Girl2 & Cool Dad. 

Cool Dad hands me a Titanic boarding pass. Girl1 & 2 shriek with excitement. 

Girl2: "... and then, and then, after you start going through the exhibit, about half-way through, you find out whether you get to live or not."

I wanted to see this exhibit before today... but the pressure is mounting, now knowing there's the added bonus of who gets rescued and who sinks. 

Girl2, adds: "Don't worry; I know the name on your boarding pass -- you live."

I love this family. 

After talking about everything but food and frozen lemonades, I'm able to grab some orders. Conversation is extremely interesting. My other tables are staring. I'm okay with this.

Then the bomb drops: 

Girl2: "Did you know that Jack and Rose aren't real?"

Girl1: "Yeah, like, they weren't real."

NYC W: "WHAT?!"

Girl2: "Yeah, I know."

Girl1: "Yeah. Not real."

Girl2: "... we almost cried. I think we did a little, actually."

Sadness crawls from my insides-out; did I truly waste eight months of my seventh grade youth in AMC movie theaters, indulging in a FAKE love story? All the Titanic books I checked-out at the library. The playground role-playing: "Jack, never let go!" I even closed my eyes every time the infamous "car scene" steamed in.

Cool Dad hands me a napkin for tears, just in case. He tells me that he used to be a school counselor. I feel validated.

At least four parties would come and go at this very table after Cool Dad & the girls leave. There are more refills, noted special orders, polite conversation, but... I couldn't shake it. 

Jack & Rose were never real. I've been living a lie since seventh grade. Thanks for nothing, James Cameron.

Can I get you a fictitious love story topped with 11 oscars? No, I'll just have the fictional love story, please.

"I can't speak German, but I'm amazing at charades!"

It's like a crackerjack box.. you can't tell by their clothing or their hairstyles.. you just don't know.

For instance:

People from the UK look just like Americans + better posture, usually thinner.

People from Sweden look just like Americans + usually blonde, always thinner.

People from Germany can also look like Americans once they take off their hiking backpacks.

New York City is a melting pot.. and Times Square is a magnet for the jet-lagged foreigners' first stop.

Jet-lagged foreigners = hungry... and for real, greasy, American food.

Step aside Fromers, hello charades. 

NYCWaitress: "Hey, folks! Welcome to Times Square. How're we doing?"

Table of 4: clueless, but smiling. 

-- that's all a server needs to know before it's charades go-time. I usually start with beers. No matter where the table is from, it seems that the english word 'beer' is universal for 'good time'. I'm glad we all agree on this concept.

The remainder of the evening will consist of menu-pointing, drawing pretend check-marks in the air signaling the bill, and explaining how the bathroom is on the complete opposite side of the restaurant -- by crossing legs and making a constipated face, no less. 

I work with many other actors; fellow servers are auditioning for Broadway and beyond, but not me. My acting skills aren't amazing enough to land me a national tour. 

Are you visiting NYC from overseas? Did you bring in a camera bag and plan to upload your restaurant videos on Youtube? Try and challenge me to a game of menu-charades; I'll show you how to sell hot green tea to Helen Keller.

Wo ist das Badezimmer?

"I'm going to tip you in Midwestern dollars."

Party: three people; mother, husband & emo son.

Visiting from: Nebraska.

The story.

The mother's face is stuck in a wild smile, like it's both her name and occupation accompanied by bright-blue eye shadow. The son avoids eye-contact at all costs, with his hands in his lap and his hair covering a good portion of his face. The father gives off the warmest vibes, something that screams Midwest. I decide to begin with an open-mind, generously imagining the starting point of my gratuity. 

Tip Prediction: a possible 20%.

Light talk begins about where they're from -- Nebraska. I notice that the father cannot speak unless one hand is on the top of his belly. We're talking about a large belly, here.

Father: "... people out here just don't understand the real pace of life. You gotta enjoy life, you gotta slow-down, you gotta stay away from these cabs like you got here." This makes me smile on the inside: the pace is what I love about New York.

But, lucky for them, I let them in on a secret: I, too, am a Midwesterner. They name towns near where I grew-up. We're bonding. The excitement raises with the tip meter prediction.

New TP: BINGO -- solid 20%.

The meal arrives; all three seem to be happily shoveling and indulging upon my recommendations. I notice that the awkward teen is eating mashed potatoes with a butter knife. He occasionally shoots dirty looks at his smiling mother. I find a challenge in opening this kid up.

I immediately regret this most recent challenge. Emo Nebraska kid now stops eating when I make a joke about accidently cutting his tongue while eating the potatoes; his mother continues to smile. I'm uncomfortable. 

In between checking on other tables, I keep darting over to their facial expressions. I am now thinking that the mother's smile is either permanent or a facial disfiguration. The corners of her lips don't fall, and the arches of bright-blue pigment on her lids seem to be getting brighter. The light is blinding. Midwesterners + blinding light = Jesus. I am now imagining Jesus enjoying a nice mashed potato, via butter knife. I smile.

I drop the check at the table.

NYC Waitress: "If ya'll have any questions about anything, let me know... these things can be confusing."

Father: "Oh, I think we'll be alright, you've been so right-nice to us all evening. I only hope we can find another person in this city with half your kindness."

Father: "I only wish we could pay you in New York dollars."

NYCW: "Come again?" 

Father: "You know, it's not the same out here as it is back home. I just wanted you to know that before we left the tip. You were amazing. I'm going to tip you in Midwestern dollars.. and tell you again how wonderful you are."

I immediately revisit tip prediction mode; their bill is $116. I decide to abandon predicting the tip. 

The family leaves, quickly. The mother waves goodbye as they hit the stairs for the decent back into Times Square. I wave back, smiling her smile. I look at the signed credit card slip left for my enjoyment. 

There's a smiley face on the top of the slip. For some reason, it makes the $6 in Midwestern dollars much friendlier. I can't help to be upset; in truth, the exchange-rate/expectation among the regions in the United States greatly vary. 

I'm wondering if I can pay my back-July rent in Midwestern dollars. Standby for results.

Can I get you a fork to eat your mashed potatoes, Jesus?

Salt & Pepper Side-Work TRICK

If you're a good person, you won't do this. I've been a zone captain at the end of the night, and would happily have towel-whipped any server who thought this was a good idea.

Why share the secret? Why not pass the moral dilemma on to you? This is New York City.. why not?

SALT AND PEPPER SIDE-WORK TRICK
Objective: to make salt/pepper shakers look full when they're actually... not.
Difficulty: easy
Time: 5 seconds per shaker
Evaluate: If the salt/pepper is too low, it may be difficult. You can always try the trick and if it doesn't work, stop being a lazy sonofauh and just refill it, oldschool.
Directions: With your palm, tightly cover the holes on the top of the shaker. With your other hand, grab the shaker and slowly turn it upside-down, while keeping  it plugged. Give it a few good downward shakes into your palm. Slowly turn shaker right side-up, with palm still covering holes. Remove palm when shaker is right side-up. Check salt/pepper level. Awesome. 

Additional note: if you're in my zone tonight, I'll be slamming all the salt & pepper shakers on the table a few times -- just to remind you what a bad person you are if you do this.

Can I get you a side of dishonesty with those poor, side-work morals?

The Inaugural Dish

As a waiter or waitress, you'll meet and serve the most interesting people.

In Times Square, you'll meet the most annoying, selfless, obnoxious, kind-hearted people.. with the occasional "walk-out".

On a nightly basis, the craziest things happen in Times Square. As I wake up at 3:30pm in order to shower and get dressed for the dinner rush, I've decided I must begin what will forever be known as: nycwaitress.blogspot.com.

I must share these stories of love, disaster, and the downright unbelievable.

Would you like that fried or broiled?