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,

"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?