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dragonlady7Ow. Am lying in bed with a heating pad on my ass. Yes.
it's not that my ass is particularly sore, it's just that it's the most central of the sore things. Because I sorta hurt everywhere, and the heating pad doesn't cover all of me. (I should go steal Dave's electric blanket.)
So it was kind of a slowish morning. I came in and Desmond was there, having opened the bar. He's been a bartender fourteen years, used to work at Friday's and knows all the bottle-spinning flair bartending tricks they teach there. He doesn't do them here: our berg system (electronically monitored pourers), first off, isn't compatible with it (you have to have a cuff on a wire over the speed pourer for it to dispense anything, which means you can't spin the bottle because it's tethered), and second off, the management doesn't approve. (Thirdly, it's just not that kind of place.)
He did have an interesting observation: usually bars have rubber mats behind them, to keep the floor from getting slippery if something gets spilled, and to cushion the floor a bit to reduce strain on the bartenders' feet and joints. (I don't know that it helps; I often trip on them and hurt myself in trying not to fall down. But they are pleasantly squishy sometimes.) He wouldn't spin bottles without a floor mat. But even with a floor mat, he says, "Bottles bounce once. If they land a second time, the party's over."
He's kind of deadpan funny that way, a very loud guy, black [the only nonwhite bartender] with a big Afro hairdo, very efficient and competent as a bartender. I do like him, although I don't know that he likes me. (I'm, well, less-competent, and tend to waste a lot of motion, and run around a lot, and kind of run into people and things, and be unable to see things that are right in front of my nose. I imagine I frustrate him quite a bit. But at least I'm not lazy.)
Anyhow.
He was behind the bar looking very serious and polishing things. Um, ok, I thought. Why not. So I came in, cheerful enough, and put on my nametag and my apron and buttoned my vest and adjusted my hair and made myself look professional. I then turned around.
There, at one of my tables, was sitting the district manager, and a woman I recognized as having been a secret shopper a few days earlier. Also, two men in suits looking serious. All of them had notebooks and were talking and writing things down.
"Oh," I said.
"Yeah," Desmond said, quietly. "The place is absolutely crawling with corporate. Get on your toes."
"Yessir," I said, and set up my bar station with absolute precision. I even aligned the ice cubes. (Well. I shifted them around so they looked more attractive. I'm serious.) I then polished every glass that had been water-spotted since Monday morning, when I had last polished them. I then thanked Christ that I'd been bored enough on Tuesday to have scrubbed all those tables including that one they were sitting at, so the permanent stickiness went away and they were shiny again.
Then the Corporate types got up, and came over, and came behind the bar and started looking at things. Jesus. It's grotty back there. It just is. Judy and I get bored and clean it and it just don't come clean. That's how institutional back-room-type surfaces are. So Desmond and I stood out of the way and tried to look professional, blank, and pleasant. (Jesus Christ Almighty, she looked into my beverage gun. I've never looked in there. I've never questioned what comes out of it. I soak it in club soda every night to keep the gunge off, but still.)
It was kind of funny to see my district manager (uberboss) standing there with a pleasant expression pasted on over his terrified face. He's a smug fellow. This inspection was a surprise to, apparently, everyone but me. (The place has been swarming with secret shoppers all week. What do you think? Duh.)
I mean, nothing to be worried about, really-- some of my coworkers are lazy but Management is omnipresent enough that we don't go too far wrong. And it's been slow, so nothing's been let go disgracefully. It's perfectly reasonable and I'd bet it's nicer than a whole lot of bars out there. So there, to any of you who might think of flying through Buffalo-- I tell you, I've worked there and would eat there.
So yeah. Quiet morning. A little lunch rush-- five tables sat down in quick succession, had two that were over $50 in their total tab, had to run a bit. Then things died down, and Desmond started getting disgruntled and grumbly. He wanted to leave. I figured I'd wait until he was gone and the night guy came to eat my lunch.
So twenty minutes before Desmond's supposed to leave, US Air delays a flight.
Forty people came in and sat down. I had two tables of fifteen (they just dragged tables around and filled up corners as it suited them), and four or five tables of between two and four people.
1 chicken wings, mild : 6.95
1 chicken wings, medium : 6.95
2 martinis, Ketel 1 : 16.66
1 bacardi & coke : 5.09
1 smirnoff bloody mary : 4.17
1 mich light : 4.86
1 miller lite : 4.86
3 soft drinks, 20 oz : 5.25
subtotal : 60.81
charge tip : 9.00
total tax : 5.02
total paid : 74.83
Just YOU try to get all those drinks onto a tray. I made it in one trip, but forgot the mich lite and had to go back and get it from where I'd left it sitting by the tray. It wouldn't have fit anyway.
And then after those 40 people left, people kept coming in, in groups of maybe 4-8 at once, and just kept sitting down, everybody'd order at once, everybody'd need drinks, their food would start showing up while I was still negotiating with drinks (the pizza comes in like 5 minutes and then the grill food comes in like 15 except when the porters are asshats and it takes 25 or, sometimes, 45-- I ask you, would you wait 45 minutes for fast food?), I'd be running around like a twit, and then they'd all want their checks at once and I'd run around like a twit some more, and then I'd be negotiating with the cash register and MORE PEOPLE WOULD SHOW UP. You bastards.
Always in little rushes like that.
By 6:15 I was extremely close to tears. I'd had a lot of close calls of nearly totally screwing up-- one example is Steve, the night bartender, pointing out a woman sitting at a table with no drink and no food, and saying, "Is she a new customer?" (He wasn't quite so busy, though he was hopping around a bit.)
I looked over. And paled a bit. "No," I said with mock-cheerfulness, "she ordered a chardonnay and a pizza and I was just about to pour the wine." And order the pizza. Right. Shit. Had entirely forgotten. My problem is single-track-mindedness. If I take an order, and then get interrupted before I get to the register to key it in, I'm screwed because I'll never get the train of thought back. -- so I'd had a few close calls and I wanted not to take any more tables, to do my cleaning, to close out my remaining checks, and to go catch the goddamn 7:06 bus.
But it was not to be. More people came in. And sat down. A family who spoke only Russian came in with their friend who interpreted for them. I had to take their order; I couldn't leave them to fend for themselves with Steve.
I got out at 8. Overtime, sure, but I'm wiped out. Just one more day. I feel like parts of me were gently pummeled with sledgehammers. Not so gently, however, that I didn't feel it. Ooog. My back is killing me.
Today's cash deposit was something like $450 in cash. I did a ton of business in credit cards but didn't see the total. Cash tips were around $70; credit card tips were up around $90. I was tired enough by about 4 that I was cussing out loud, which I never do. oddly enough I kept saying 'crikey' because I'd start to hiss "christ" and then change my mind, as that sort of thing can be offensive. However I did say s words and f words all over the place, though fortunately in an undertone.
One more day and then I have some time off and can just lie here, dammit.
I was going to go to sleep at 9 and then Glorfindel and Ecthelion revived themselves from the dead and started poking me. Bastards. Bastards! I'm so tired I'm making typos like "nearly" for "merely". Ha, 500 words in three hours. Yes, it's going well. Not. Hack. Cough.
Mm, my ass is nice and warm.
Am IMing with my sister Fiona who is apparently back from the not-online-dead. And I used the phrase Oh Noes! in conversation, and think it is so funny, and cannot stop giggling inwardly at it. Oh Noes! She has a job interview for a Job That Is Not Old Navy Who She Has Worked For For 2.2 Years And They Have Cut Her Hours And Never Given Her A Raise. So everybody please wish her good luck because I think she's only at ON in the first place because of low self-esteem and God only knows what wonders things like a salary and health insurance would do for her. Oh Noes! No more retail!
Edited to add: I had to edit this four times to fix all my formatting errors. Like, misspelling "lj-cut", or writing "a href" instead. A-doy. Someone needs bed now. Shut up, pretty Elf boys! You can kiss later!
it's not that my ass is particularly sore, it's just that it's the most central of the sore things. Because I sorta hurt everywhere, and the heating pad doesn't cover all of me. (I should go steal Dave's electric blanket.)
So it was kind of a slowish morning. I came in and Desmond was there, having opened the bar. He's been a bartender fourteen years, used to work at Friday's and knows all the bottle-spinning flair bartending tricks they teach there. He doesn't do them here: our berg system (electronically monitored pourers), first off, isn't compatible with it (you have to have a cuff on a wire over the speed pourer for it to dispense anything, which means you can't spin the bottle because it's tethered), and second off, the management doesn't approve. (Thirdly, it's just not that kind of place.)
He did have an interesting observation: usually bars have rubber mats behind them, to keep the floor from getting slippery if something gets spilled, and to cushion the floor a bit to reduce strain on the bartenders' feet and joints. (I don't know that it helps; I often trip on them and hurt myself in trying not to fall down. But they are pleasantly squishy sometimes.) He wouldn't spin bottles without a floor mat. But even with a floor mat, he says, "Bottles bounce once. If they land a second time, the party's over."
He's kind of deadpan funny that way, a very loud guy, black [the only nonwhite bartender] with a big Afro hairdo, very efficient and competent as a bartender. I do like him, although I don't know that he likes me. (I'm, well, less-competent, and tend to waste a lot of motion, and run around a lot, and kind of run into people and things, and be unable to see things that are right in front of my nose. I imagine I frustrate him quite a bit. But at least I'm not lazy.)
Anyhow.
He was behind the bar looking very serious and polishing things. Um, ok, I thought. Why not. So I came in, cheerful enough, and put on my nametag and my apron and buttoned my vest and adjusted my hair and made myself look professional. I then turned around.
There, at one of my tables, was sitting the district manager, and a woman I recognized as having been a secret shopper a few days earlier. Also, two men in suits looking serious. All of them had notebooks and were talking and writing things down.
"Oh," I said.
"Yeah," Desmond said, quietly. "The place is absolutely crawling with corporate. Get on your toes."
"Yessir," I said, and set up my bar station with absolute precision. I even aligned the ice cubes. (Well. I shifted them around so they looked more attractive. I'm serious.) I then polished every glass that had been water-spotted since Monday morning, when I had last polished them. I then thanked Christ that I'd been bored enough on Tuesday to have scrubbed all those tables including that one they were sitting at, so the permanent stickiness went away and they were shiny again.
Then the Corporate types got up, and came over, and came behind the bar and started looking at things. Jesus. It's grotty back there. It just is. Judy and I get bored and clean it and it just don't come clean. That's how institutional back-room-type surfaces are. So Desmond and I stood out of the way and tried to look professional, blank, and pleasant. (Jesus Christ Almighty, she looked into my beverage gun. I've never looked in there. I've never questioned what comes out of it. I soak it in club soda every night to keep the gunge off, but still.)
It was kind of funny to see my district manager (uberboss) standing there with a pleasant expression pasted on over his terrified face. He's a smug fellow. This inspection was a surprise to, apparently, everyone but me. (The place has been swarming with secret shoppers all week. What do you think? Duh.)
I mean, nothing to be worried about, really-- some of my coworkers are lazy but Management is omnipresent enough that we don't go too far wrong. And it's been slow, so nothing's been let go disgracefully. It's perfectly reasonable and I'd bet it's nicer than a whole lot of bars out there. So there, to any of you who might think of flying through Buffalo-- I tell you, I've worked there and would eat there.
So yeah. Quiet morning. A little lunch rush-- five tables sat down in quick succession, had two that were over $50 in their total tab, had to run a bit. Then things died down, and Desmond started getting disgruntled and grumbly. He wanted to leave. I figured I'd wait until he was gone and the night guy came to eat my lunch.
So twenty minutes before Desmond's supposed to leave, US Air delays a flight.
Forty people came in and sat down. I had two tables of fifteen (they just dragged tables around and filled up corners as it suited them), and four or five tables of between two and four people.
1 chicken wings, mild : 6.95
1 chicken wings, medium : 6.95
2 martinis, Ketel 1 : 16.66
1 bacardi & coke : 5.09
1 smirnoff bloody mary : 4.17
1 mich light : 4.86
1 miller lite : 4.86
3 soft drinks, 20 oz : 5.25
subtotal : 60.81
charge tip : 9.00
total tax : 5.02
total paid : 74.83
Just YOU try to get all those drinks onto a tray. I made it in one trip, but forgot the mich lite and had to go back and get it from where I'd left it sitting by the tray. It wouldn't have fit anyway.
And then after those 40 people left, people kept coming in, in groups of maybe 4-8 at once, and just kept sitting down, everybody'd order at once, everybody'd need drinks, their food would start showing up while I was still negotiating with drinks (the pizza comes in like 5 minutes and then the grill food comes in like 15 except when the porters are asshats and it takes 25 or, sometimes, 45-- I ask you, would you wait 45 minutes for fast food?), I'd be running around like a twit, and then they'd all want their checks at once and I'd run around like a twit some more, and then I'd be negotiating with the cash register and MORE PEOPLE WOULD SHOW UP. You bastards.
Always in little rushes like that.
By 6:15 I was extremely close to tears. I'd had a lot of close calls of nearly totally screwing up-- one example is Steve, the night bartender, pointing out a woman sitting at a table with no drink and no food, and saying, "Is she a new customer?" (He wasn't quite so busy, though he was hopping around a bit.)
I looked over. And paled a bit. "No," I said with mock-cheerfulness, "she ordered a chardonnay and a pizza and I was just about to pour the wine." And order the pizza. Right. Shit. Had entirely forgotten. My problem is single-track-mindedness. If I take an order, and then get interrupted before I get to the register to key it in, I'm screwed because I'll never get the train of thought back. -- so I'd had a few close calls and I wanted not to take any more tables, to do my cleaning, to close out my remaining checks, and to go catch the goddamn 7:06 bus.
But it was not to be. More people came in. And sat down. A family who spoke only Russian came in with their friend who interpreted for them. I had to take their order; I couldn't leave them to fend for themselves with Steve.
I got out at 8. Overtime, sure, but I'm wiped out. Just one more day. I feel like parts of me were gently pummeled with sledgehammers. Not so gently, however, that I didn't feel it. Ooog. My back is killing me.
Today's cash deposit was something like $450 in cash. I did a ton of business in credit cards but didn't see the total. Cash tips were around $70; credit card tips were up around $90. I was tired enough by about 4 that I was cussing out loud, which I never do. oddly enough I kept saying 'crikey' because I'd start to hiss "christ" and then change my mind, as that sort of thing can be offensive. However I did say s words and f words all over the place, though fortunately in an undertone.
One more day and then I have some time off and can just lie here, dammit.
I was going to go to sleep at 9 and then Glorfindel and Ecthelion revived themselves from the dead and started poking me. Bastards. Bastards! I'm so tired I'm making typos like "nearly" for "merely". Ha, 500 words in three hours. Yes, it's going well. Not. Hack. Cough.
Mm, my ass is nice and warm.
Am IMing with my sister Fiona who is apparently back from the not-online-dead. And I used the phrase Oh Noes! in conversation, and think it is so funny, and cannot stop giggling inwardly at it. Oh Noes! She has a job interview for a Job That Is Not Old Navy Who She Has Worked For For 2.2 Years And They Have Cut Her Hours And Never Given Her A Raise. So everybody please wish her good luck because I think she's only at ON in the first place because of low self-esteem and God only knows what wonders things like a salary and health insurance would do for her. Oh Noes! No more retail!
Edited to add: I had to edit this four times to fix all my formatting errors. Like, misspelling "lj-cut", or writing "a href" instead. A-doy. Someone needs bed now. Shut up, pretty Elf boys! You can kiss later!
