I know we all have to work, but if you HAVE to work (at something
other than your chosen vocation, it's nice to work at a place that has
The Mont is such a place. The waitresses have monster stations, and
are expected to be very efficient, and pretty fucking bright. I've
said it before, but 1/3 of the wait staff have Master's degrees. As a
consequence, the owners leave customer relations pretty much up to our
judgement. If customers give us shit, we give it back, though for the
most part, we take alot more than we give. We wear whatever we want
to, and there's an easy camaraderie between us like you find in old
veterans, and crisis management teams.
Restaurant work is a lot like warfare. It's US against THEM...they
must never find out HOW we win the battles...they must never discover
our weaknesses, they must never break our spirit. I'm serious; after
you've worked a 7 table station at the Mont on a Nebraska/Oklahoma
game day...you deserve a fucking medal.
So how do we get Slack? Sarcasm is the preferred method. By using
sickening sweetness to an asshole, you can make a point much better
than by giving him an excuse to fuck you over. Demanding folks get my,
"Why certainly, Sir...I LIVE to serve YOU."
Today, Sister Mac (our token black nun(tm)) was telling us about a
customer she served last night. He ordered Manhattan clam chowder.
When she brought it out, he said, "Oh, I thought it was the white
kind...not that I mean anything racist by that." She just looked at
him like he was loony. Later, he asked for a pen. She handed it to
him, saying "I'm sorry...I only have a black one...not that I mean
anything racist by that." I love her.
Tiffany was serving a bunch of jocks one night last week. We serve a
top sirloin butt steak. So one of these clever fellows asks Tiff,
"Tell me about this butt steak." She smiled at him sweetly and said,
"It's the best piece of ass YOU'RE going to get in this town for under
Slowing down also works, though that one is usually reserved for
people you KNOW aren't going to tip you, but want to make you their
personal servant for the evening. We have this beautiful patio.
Everyone wants to sit out there. It can be bone-chilling cold, and
they'll ask if we can light the heaters, and serve them outside. They
sit out there in the rain, the wind, in 100+ weather...anything to
make a waitress work harder than usual.
One night it started pouring down rain. Most of the intelligent
people paid their tabs, and either went inside to continue drinking or
left. Sister Amy and I were closing down the outside waitress station
when TWO tables came in and sat under tables with umbrellas. They
actually expected us to serve them in a thunderstorm. Amy found an
umbrella to make her point as she walked out juggling plates and the
unbrella. I was more vicious. I stood in the rain just outside the
station saying something to Amy while the rain poured down on the
plates. Then I casually s t r o l l e d over to the table and set
the wet plates and wet silverware down on the table. "Can I get you
anything else?" I asked sweetly. The woman glared at me, "More water,
please, " she said acidly. I took her glass from the table, smiling
at her the whole time, and held it out in the rain until it filled,
"Straight from heaven to your lips, " I said, and walked back to the
What else? Well, we dance. We tape little signs to each other's
backs, for the pleasure of the entire restaurant. We have Saturday
night shot club (where we all take a quick break and a shot.) We tell
the customers that the mist system is: a) Malathion and DDT b)smoke
from the kitchen..."Your lunch MAY take a bit..." c) aerial
spermicide. We fake quick lesbian love scenes (mostly kisses and bump
and grind stuff) . Shock, attitude, and excellent service are the
hallmarks of a Mont waitress.
Reverend Mutha Tarla Star of the Little Sisters of the Perpetually
Juicy; a Proud jism schism of the Church of the SubGenius.
Worshipping Juicy Retardo and "Connie" Dobbs since 1986.