The Soccer Team

I had a big table today.  I'm talking twenty-seven top big.  Yup, twenty-seven people, at one time, on a Wednesday afternoon.  I was amazed too.  I was even more amazed by the fact that they had the extreme foresight to call ahead.   You see there is something about Hooters that seems to make people think we're always ready to handle huge groups of people.  There is nothing I love more than thirty people just dropping in and being surprised that we don't just have some huge table in the corn that seats 113.  Unfortunately for you and your very extended family, this is not the case.  Sorry to break it to you.

Back to what I was saying before I interrupted myself, I had a twenty-seven top today and they were nice enough to give me an hour notice.  Now, an hour may not seem like much, but those sixty delicious minutes are plenty of time to move seven or so tables together, put out a whole bunch of silverware, liter the table with wet naps and set out all sorts of water pitchers.  It's amazing how doing those simple things before hand will make your whole life easier.  Of course even an hour notice can't help the fact that you only have two cooks, but more on that later.

So there I was, flying high with my perfectly set up table looking all sorts of good.  Then I saw the bus.  This is generally not a good sign.  As you may recall, the last time I had a big bus pull in it didn't go so well for me.  And by that I actually mean the little high school shits made everything as complicated as effing possible for me.  And then they left me $14 bucks.  I was having flashbacks of this moment as I watched that bus round the corner.  I was very, very afraid.

I only became more afraid as I watched twenty-seven high school boys in matching warm-ups file down the stairs and towards the door.  Dear Lord, it was a freaking soccer team.  I was about ready to nail shit to the floor they looked so hungry.  When was the last time the fed these growing boys with what I can only imagine are monstrous appetites?! 

As they all clamored to get around the table and let me know all but four of them would be having water (bad omen), one of the couches pulled me aside.

Coach:  "So can you do separate tickets?  Each boy has to handle his own funds.  So split tickets?"

Sauce:  Forcing a smile.  "Well, with this many people it's going to take a lot longer for me to do that.  I of course can, I just want to let you know it will make things a little slower.  Is there any chance they would be paying with cash?"

Coach:  "Oh, it's all cash."

He'd spoken the most magical of words.  Cash.  Thank my freaking lucky stars.  I then explained to him that with everyone having cash it might be easier for them to all "throw in" as it was much easier and quicker for me to get change once than it was to get change twenty-seven separate times.  Luckily, he got my logic right away.   Thinks were looking up.  Of course by looking up I mean I still expected $14.  Again.

After completing my first mission of not having to split the ticket a gillion ways, I made it my next mission to steer the table toward wings.  This was not so much because it was easy for me, but because - as I mentioned before - we had two cooks on shift.  I hoped to make their job easier.  I failed most miserably.

I started my way from one end of the table to the other and back again and each and every boy had to order something different.  And modify things.  And then change their minds.  I cringed with every order I wrote down, crossed out and then wrote down again.  The kitchen was going to hate me.

Eventually, I slung the ticket into the food window, all five pages of it.  You see rather than printing one, huge, frightening ticket, I organized everything.  Burgers I sent with burgers.  Wings I sent with wings.  Random shit I sent with random shit.  It was the least I could do for my poor cooks.

Luckily, the cooks appreciated my organizational skills and knocked out that huge ticket like world champs.  Miraculously, all the items came out within five minutes of each other.  I was beyond impressed.  And my table was happy.  The hard part was over.  Now I just had to wait for the part where I would get $14.

Finally, I printed out the ticket and noticed that my manager had been nice enough to add auto gratuity.  Some of you may recall that our owner decided to do away with auto gratuity for pretty much no good reason.  Luckily, my manager understands food service and decided to throw me a bone.  I could be expecting a nearly $40 tip based on the auto gratuity and made sure to point out the tip when I presented the check.

Sauce:  "All right, guys, here's your check.  Now I'm going to give you a chance to use all that math you told your teachers you'd never, ever use.  It'll be easy enough to figure out what you owe, but keep in mind that we add an automatic gratuity for big parties.  It's 18% and if you need help figuring that out on what you owe I'll be happy to lend my fingers for counting purposes!"

I asked who wanted to be in charge, and left the ticket with a boy at the head of the table.  I expected they'd be scrounging for change, in awe of the price at the bottom of the ticket.  After a few minutes they slowly shuffled towards the door and one casually noted that the cash was on the table and that I might find some extra.  Sure thing.  I couldn't wait to find the extra quarter.

I picket up a huge stack of cash.  It was fives.  And lots of ones.  Not a good sign.  I started counting.  I got to the ticket amount, I kept counting.   I realized I had been left a tip of more than $60.  By a team of high school boys.  I was shocked and amazed and awe inspired.  Shame on my for my stupid stereotyping.

So to that lovely Idaho soccer team, Karma is on your side for calling ahead and taking such good care of me.  You'll probably win state because of your kindness.  The world owes it to you now.  Mark my words.

Oh and I tipped my cooks out really well today.  They thank you too.

Don't forget your daily vote for Sauce as Buzz Lightyear in the Hooters Costume Contest!  CLICK HERE TO VOTE FOR ME ON FACEBOOK!

I Remember My First Debit Card

While I was out on my epic Montana adventure, this happened back at Hooters:

If you are unsure what is going on here, let me enlighten you.  This is a "Merchant Copy" credit card slip.  You know, that thing you're meant to sign and leave for your server.  That thing that is really effing easy to figure out.  It has a couple of pretty clearly marked lines that you're meant to fill out.  It's simple.  Very, very simple.  For most.

Backstory.  Twin Tower was serving a table of six high school boys.  You know how I feel about high school diners at Hooters.  I'm sure they ordered water.  After asking how much it costs.  Anyway, at the end of the meal, Twin Tower split and delivered the tickets to the table.  One, Mr. Johnston, opted to pay by debit.

Twin Tower:  "Go ahead and sign that top copy and keep the bottom copy for yourself!"

This is pretty typical.  We've all heard it.  We know what to do.  Mr. Johnston it seems did not.  Let us ignore for a moment the fact that he left no tip.  Let's instead focus on the fact that he ignored the obvious "Signature" line and instead felt compelled to sign the very top of the credit receipt.  What the?!

Mr Johnston, let me give you the benefit of the doubt and assume this is your first debit card.  Let me further postulate that this is the first time you have used said first debit card.  I am giving you every possible out here and yet I can still not fathom what led you to sign your receipt in that way.  You make no sense.  You make negative sense.  Yes, I said negative sense.  

Fine, I'll assume Twin Tower's long legs and general hotness got in the way of you doing a simple everyday task.  That's the only explanation.

I STILL Hate Teenagers

Today started out as a typical Monday, steady but overall pretty slow.  It was the sort of day when having three girls one the floor was painful and eventually even having two of us became unbearable; one girl could easily handle the floor with the bartender taking tables if need be.  So at slightly passed 2:30 p.m. the floor was cut and I was the sole waitress in the restaurant. 

At first things were fine, at my busiest I had three or four tables - very manageable.  Then it happened, looking out the window I saw the bus turn the corner.  Not a school bus, not a city busy, but one of those big tour buses that screams hungry people.  It didn't turn at IHOP.  I crossed my fingers it would turn at Johnny Carino's , but it just kept coming.  Finally it disappeared from view and I cautiously walked to check the back parking lot through the patio garage doors.  There it was, the bus.  I could vaguely make out figures moving toward the front of the bus through the tinted windows.   Then I saw them.  Teenagers.  Lots and lots of teenagers.  My worst nightmare.

Now, I've written about teenagers before and how they generally tip like shit.  This hasn't changed, teenagers still tip like shit.  What do twenty-four teenagers tip like?  Yes, I said twenty-four teenagers on a tour bus.  Of course as they entered the restaurant led by their fearless chaperone the first thing I heard was "split tickets."  Why does one go to a restaurant with twenty-four effing people and think that they will get separate tickets?  Believe it or not this a lot of extra work.  But that's another story.

In addition to having separate tickets, I am informed that no one wants to sit at one table.  Try as I might they don't want to wait for me to push some tables together to accommodate them.  They want to sit at seven different tables.  Apparently, there were cliques in the group.  Now I am quite annoyed.  I now have seven separate tables, wanting individual tickets in addition to the three tables I already had.  Fabulous!

Even though things are a little stressful I manage to get everyone their food in a timely matter and get everyone on their very own ticket.  Each and every teenager seems to be having a good time.  They like their food.  They like to hula-hoop.  They joke with me.  I have tip hope as I carefully print twenty-four individual tickets.  I apologize to the Earth.

I deliver the tickets.  If I get a dollar on each ticket I'll be happy, I tell myself.  Tickets are paid, most with cash (remind me why you need separate tickets when most pay with cash?) and souvenirs are sold.  These kids had enough cash to buy over $200 in shirts, shot glasses (underage) and lanyards.  The whole time I am curious what I'll find on the tables.

What do I find?  I find fourteen effing dollars.  $14?!  Had each tipped me a dollar, this would mean that ten of them left nothing.  Of course some teenagers understand the world and those ones left me more than a dollar.  That means even more than ten of them didn't tip me a dime.  WTF.  At least you'll have a nice t-shirt to remember your cheapness by!

Dear High School Students,

I realize that you have no job and your parents support you.  Hell, your parents may even give you an allowance still.   I understand that they may throw money at you to go to the mall or to a movie or even to eat at Hooters.  I get that money is just paper to you and that mommy and daddy have lots and lots of it in their wallets.  Rent, car payments and bills are a world unknown to you.

One day, however, this will all change.  One day you too will have to find yourself a job, cut the financial ties and handle your own shit.  That's right oh young ones, one day your parents will no longer pay for your sorry ass.  On that day you will find a job.  It probably won't be glamorous and probably won't leave you with scores of discretionary income.  Most likely, you will find some job that pays the bills, but leaves little left over for much else.  You will bust your ass in retail or you may even become a server.

Yes, you may become a server just like me.  You will work your ass off waiting on people hand and foot.  You will clean up messes like the ones you left for me.  You will have days that you hate your job, but you will still go to work everyday because you have bills to pay.  Of course your bills won't be paid by the less than mediocre hourly wage you receive but by the tips your guests leave you.  Some will tip twenty percent, some fifteen and some will tip like you do.  Yes, some will leave you a super awesome nine cent tip.  You will wait on them hand and food and split their tickets and teach them the bar stool rodeo.  Yes, the six of them could easily all leave you just one dollar apiece - but they won't.  Instead they will leave you nine fucking cents.  You will resent the shit of them.

So perhaps - as a simple suggestion - you could at least leave your server a measly ten percent because I'm sure one day you'd really appreciate the same consideration.

Sincerely,
Your POed Server

Tales of a Late Bloomer

In high school I could be easily described as shy. Actually, debilitating would be a perfect word to describe the level of my shyness. Now, after having one utterly hellacious three year relationship that served as one major kick in the figurative pants, I am effortlessly outgoing. In fact any of my current friends who didn’t know me as an awkward teenager (awkward is putting it mildly for a girl just shy of 5’11 who looked like an anorexic boy, can you say late bloomer?) never believe me when I tell them I was shy or that I was never asked to a dance or wasn’t kissed until I was nearly seventeen.

What is really funny though, are the reactions of those that knew “high school Sauce” when they find out my current place of employment.

“Wait, like Sauce, tall Sauce works at Hooters?”

“You mean that sorta awkward girl who ran track, Sauce, works at Hooters?”

“Don’t you have to talk to people to work at Hooters?”

“Um, Sauce can’t work at Hooters, she didn’t even have boobs”

and my personal favorite…
“I went to school with someone named Sauce?”

Yes, this is that Sauce and yes I work at Hooters. Lets just say that the gods of sexy hotness blessed me with curves a little late, but when the curves came they were decidedly Hooters worthy. So for all you poor, awkward, self-hating teenage girls, don’t get too down on yourselves. You never know what might pop up when you turn 20 – it could be C cups bathed in sexy confidence.