What Barbie Taught Me About Refills

My little sister and I are Red Robin addicts.  There, I said it.  Isn't that step one?  Anyway, our dependence began young.  I wasn't able to drive yet and my parents' business was conveniently close to a Red Robin and nothing else in the way of food (unless you count Bob's Pizza, but I'm not sure you could even count that as food let alone pizza).  Out of simple necessity we would walk over to Red Robin to spend the money Mom gave us on burgers and bottomless Freckled Lemonades.  And that's how they got us addicted.  Apparently they add crack or meth - I hear that's highly addictive - to their shit because once you start you just can't stop.  Ok, so it's probably just the grease and sugar that got to us, but whatever.

But this story isn't about my love for Red Robin burgers and the fact that they give you all the steak fries you can shove in your face.  This story is about how Red Robin taught me to give refills.  Yes, you heard me right.  Refills.

Back in the day at our Red Robin they only hired really, really good-looking people.  That's not even a joke.  Everyone was super hot.  So super hot that even at the age of twelve I knew what was going on.  There used to be one girl in particular that I thought was Barbie pretty, long blonde hair, blue eyes, perfect everything else.  Of course I knew this because I still played with Barbies.  Anyway, I always wanted this girl to be our waitress simply because she was the prettiest.  I was apparently vain as a child.

One fateful day, they sat us in a booth directly under the carousel horse.  This was a good sign as we coveted sitting as near to the carousel horse as possible.  My sister was looking up at the horse contemplating why she couldn't ride it, when I noticed Barbie walking up.  Score.  Mark that goal off my twelve-year-old to-do list.

So there we are in awe of this walking doll when we start to realize she's really not very good at her job.  Now you before you jump down preteen Sauce's little throat realize that afore mentioned business my parents owned happened to be a bakery/cafe.  We knew food service.  And we knew Barbie sucked.  It was mildly disheartening.

Barbie did countless annoying things that now all blend together, but one in particular still stands out even today and has markedly influenced the way I wait tables.  Barbie was an over-refiller.  What I mean by this is that she would CONSTANTLY bring drinks out to us with no prompting.  At first it seemed pretty cool; my bottomless Freckled Lemonade was more bottomless than ever.  But then it got to the point where she was bringing them before our last glasses were even close to half empty.  Suddenly, we found ourselves surrounded by so many half empty glasses that the food runner had a hard time finding room for our burgers.  Seriously.  That's how many freaking lemonades this lady had brought us.

I remember sitting there getting increasingly annoyed.  I didn't want any more lemonade, but it just kept coming.  Of course being twelve and extremely introverted I was way to shy to even begin to ask her to stop.  So we just let it slide.  But at the end of the meal we actually filled out the dreaded comment card.  Yes, an eight and a twelve year old left a negative comment once at Red Robin.  I recall writing something to the effect of "we got too much lemonade and we didn't want anymore."  I also think I said to "be nice and ask next time."  Something like that.  What I wouldn't give to see that thing now.  I can only imagine our "smile meter" marks weren't very high.

And that is how Barbie at Red Robin taught me how to refill drinks.  I almost always ask if my guests want a refill because guess what?  Sometimes they don't effing want one.  It really is possible, even in "I want it now" America, that they may only want one refill.  Or that they possibly only need one, solitary Coca-Cola.  Scary thought, I know.  Either way, I'm going to ask or point or awkwardly gesture or otherwise let you know that I made plans to fill up your glass.  That way I can avoid drink overload.  Trust me, it can be just as annoying as not having enough.  Barbie proved it.

So thanks, Barbie at Red Robin.  Way to train me.

UPDATE:  My mom reminded me that we even went so far as to hide our drinks behind the table tents after awhile so she couldn't see how full they were.  Yeah, it was that bad.

You Gonna Remember All That?

I have been waiting tables for a long time now.  I wouldn't say this makes me an expert, but I would say it makes me very, very good at my job.  Not that serving is a difficult thing, but it is definitely not easy to take service from average to great.  There are a lot of mediocre servers out there and a lot less amazing servers.  Think about it and I'm sure you'll agree.

Anyway, like I said, I consider myself to be of that small, second group of servers that are pretty amazing.  And I'm not just being self-absorbed; I have received numerous compliments both personally and through management and our customer comment line.  Just accept how awesome I am and we'll move on.  Since I like to think I'm pretty marvelous, one of my biggest pet peeves is when people question my ability to do my job.  This can happen a number of ways.  People might question my knowledge of the menu or test just exactly how nice I can be.  I'd like to see you try, buddy, because I can be VERY effing nice.

Probably the biggest way people like to question my abilities though takes place when I'm taking a table's order.  You see, after years of being a waitress I don't really need to write shit down under most circumstances.  Now when I say "most circumstances," I mean if there are less than ten of you I probably won't need a pad of paper to remember your order.  I realize not all servers have this ability, but I do.  And yes, I will remember that you wanted that cheddar bacon burger medium well with potato salad instead of beans.  I'm really that good.

So there I'll be, doing my thing at a table and some yahoo will interrupt me to say, "you really gonna remember all this?"

Yes, I am effing going to remember all this.  It's my job to take your order, remember your order, ring in your order and serve your damn order the way you ordered it in the first place.  I realize you're really concerned about your wings coming to the table breaded, all drums just like you wanted, but don't you think I'd write the shit down if I needed to write it down?   Yes, I would in fact write down your order if I felt like it would be prudent for me to do so.  But guess what, your order at Hooters really isn't that effing difficult and even when it is difficult I have a memory that can handle that shit.  I went to college.  I got a degree.  Let me use my impressive ability to cram and memorize at least once and awhile please.  I mean I have to put all that schooling to use at some point right?

Please for the love of God stop asking me if I'll remember your order.  I can promise you with almost 100% certainty that I will get it right.  And if I don't get it right it probably has something to do with the fact that you totally disrupted my train of thought by asking me such a stupid question in the first place.  Tell you what, let me do my job and I won't show up at yours and ask you how you remember where to file all the accounts payable shit.  Or how to put on a serpentine belt.  Or how to build an effing house.  Does that sound like a good deal?  Good.

Now what did you order again?

Split Tickets

Today started with a party of fifteen.  This can either be a good thing or a very bad thing depending on the people making up the group.  They started out on a good note - they called ahead.  For some reason we never seem to get the consideration of a warning at Hooters.  People seem to think that we're just always ready to handle larger parties.  They seem to believe we have tables already all pushed together and staff already in the appropriate sections.  They seem to think we're just waiting only for them.  They are all that matters.  Of course this isn't true, but generally no one seems to realize this.  Naturally, this left me impressed that they'd called ahead.

So I was able to get the tables all situated and perfectly set up before my party arrived.  I have to say it felt pretty great.  Usually, I'm rushing around shoving together a few tables while a large group waits anxiously by the door.  Of course this is no one's fault but their own.  Naturally, they don't understand this.  Given all this, I thought my big table would run pretty smoothly.  I was of course, mistaken.

As they sat down I heard a few people mumble about splitting tickets.  But they didn't tell me this; that would be effective and actually get us somewhere.  Rather one person mentioned it casually to another and I happened to overhear.  Being proactive I used this information and took the time to put everyone on a separate seat.  Basically what this means is that I divided the table and put each member's ordered items under them.  Does this take more time and can it get confusing when people decide to do awesome things like move around?  Yes, but I figured a pain in my ass now would save me a bigger pain in the ass later.  Once again, I was mistaken.

I delivered the check and noted to them that I had carefully separated each of them in case they wanted separate tickets.  I also mentioned that I hadn't actually split them off yet just in case anyone was paying for anyone else.  This way they could just let me know how they'd prefer I split the ticket and I could easily do so.  Of course Bob wanted to pay for Mary and Sue wanted to pay for Jim's fried pickles and a bunch of other silly things that made splitting the ticket simply by seat totally impossible.  But I was cool with this.  I'm smart.  I was taking notes.  I had it down.  Then I saw a whole bunch of cash come out.  There is NOTHING more annoying that doing fifteen split tickets when eleven of those are being handled in cash.  As such I casually mentioned that those paying with cash might want to try and combine all the money as it would be much quicker for them to receive change as I would have to do it once rather than eleven times.  This would be logical, however this is never what happens. 

This part of the story is the whole point of this post.  Why, when most of the table is paying with cash do people insist on split tickets?  Not only is it a pain in my ass, but it also takes A LOT longer for you.  I'm not counting out change once, but a million times over.  This not only means that I have to count out change a million times, but odds are I'm having to go to the bar to change things out as I don't carry a shit ton of money on me.  This just adds more time to the whole effing process.  Now I realize that some may say, "well what if I have a twenty and my portion is only sixteen?!"  I would much rather break a few twenties than count back jingle (coinage) and ones and fives to every person at the table.  I'll gladly break that for you so you can use that mental math and figure out the tab amongst yourselves.  Aren't we all adults after all?  Didn't we learn to add in elementary school?  Are you really that effing lazy that mental math is beyond you?  You know if it is beyond you I'll gladly give you a pen to add it all up.  It should be easy because as I mentioned I put you all on a separate seat clearly laid out on that pretty receipt I left you.  But no, you all effing want change for yourself.  Heaven forbid I ask you to give up the all important autonomy of having your own freaking change.

So do your server a favor.  Actually, do her/him several favors.  First, if you want your tickets split let them know ahead of time.  This will make it much easier and much faster for you later.  Some restaurants won't split checks on big tables, but if you let them know upfront you're much more likely to get your way.  Next, if the majority of you are paying cash put your heads together and figure out how to all throw in what you owe.  Easy for you, easy for me.  You're out the door in a moment.  Oh and don't tip like a cheap ass.  Your big table is more of a pain in the ass than you think. 

For Love of Ranch Dressing

Hooters is not an eatery one is generally meant to visit if they are at all health conscious. Yes, Hooters has its healthy options and the menu even has a cute little doctor owl who will let you know that a salad is a nice healthy choice (he won't tell you that you have to get without all the yummy things like dressing and cheese). Really though, as a restaurant where a good 75% of the menu options are fried, healthy is not that first thing a person thinks when Hooters is involved.

Curiously in a very unhealthy restaurant the only type of ranch dressing we offer is "lite" ranch. That's right you can't get full calorie, artery clogging ranch at Hooters. Generally this isn't an issue and even if it was an issue my stellar "hands free service" that Hooters requires me to give means you never even saw the writing on the top of the foil wrapper anyway.

Apparently, some people are picky about their ranch. Some people want real, true, lots-o-calorie ranch even if the slightly better for you lite ranch tastes exactly the same. And that's the thing, our lite ranch is excellent. So when I drop off a salad at your your table of thirty and I don't quite have time to get the top off that ranch before you see it because I'm trying to deliver twenty plates while I simultaneously entertain your kids, I may be a little surprised when you complain.


"Excuse me but I DID NOT ask for lite ranch with my salad. Where is MY real ranch?!"

"I'm sorry, we only offer lite ranch, but it's really great and you can't even tell a difference. In fact I like it better, it's easily my favorite ranch."

"Do I CARE if you like it? I guess I'll HAVE to have thousand island then..."

*sigh*

So let me apologize once and for all about our horrible, low calorie ranch. Heaven forbid you save twenty calories as you gorge yourself on chicken wings.