Ever been to a community or campus event, and a religion fanatic will try to convert you to Jesus Christ, or Scientology, or iSlam? Usually, by a person you don't even know?
It happens in restaurants too.
A lady at one of my tables today tried to convert me to Christianity. Foreally.
With a great big goofy smile on her face, she promised me stores of wealth and glory and fulfillment. Great. Just a few minutes beforehand, same woman was arguing fervently with me about something so nit-picky and stupid I won't even bother going into it. Well, the sermon was great stuff, but....after the first 5 minutes, I had to look for a way out. We don't hold Wednesday services at Landry's. There's no God in that place anyway. He gave up a while ago.
As I stood there, tenderly holding up a heavy stack of dirty plates and silverware, pretending to pay genuine attention to what she was saying, I could see a look of something close to amused pity slowly dawning on her husband's face. "She's from Mexico," was the only safe explanation he could give me. I shook my head. I didn't know who to feel more for, myself or this guy.
And with that, I ran my dishes back into Hell's kitchen.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Me N0 Can ReEd
I was heading to an Ultimate game tonight, up by where 610 and 290 cross, and I missed my turn. So I had to make a U-wey under two highways to get back. Lame.
Instead, I found something that totally made my week. I only wish I had my camera on me.
An eighteen-wheeler was stuck shut in the U-turn lane. In the worst possible way. It was almost completely overturned on its side. The truck and the cargo box were at a wild 90 degree angle, threatening to come apart. The driver was arguing with officers from the two squad cars parked there. Not 10 feet from them was a big sign that clearly said, "NO TRUCKS IN U-TURN." Lawl.
Could it get any better?
As I sat at the red light to make my U-wey the long way, another truck, a pickup, tried to round the same turn. It got to halfway through before the hick driver finally realized he was totally fucked. He tried to quietly reverse out of the lane with as little dignity lost as possible. Too bad a cop sneered over the megaphone: "Yeah, I guess you didn't see the big 18-wheeler in your way."
I almost died laughing.
Instead, I found something that totally made my week. I only wish I had my camera on me.
An eighteen-wheeler was stuck shut in the U-turn lane. In the worst possible way. It was almost completely overturned on its side. The truck and the cargo box were at a wild 90 degree angle, threatening to come apart. The driver was arguing with officers from the two squad cars parked there. Not 10 feet from them was a big sign that clearly said, "NO TRUCKS IN U-TURN." Lawl.
Could it get any better?
As I sat at the red light to make my U-wey the long way, another truck, a pickup, tried to round the same turn. It got to halfway through before the hick driver finally realized he was totally fucked. He tried to quietly reverse out of the lane with as little dignity lost as possible. Too bad a cop sneered over the megaphone: "Yeah, I guess you didn't see the big 18-wheeler in your way."
I almost died laughing.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Life with Landry's: Out of the Holding Tank, Into the Kitchen
The 2 weeks since I've last written in here has been a shitstorm. I could go into the grueling hours, endless mental juggling, and long nights I've spent working at Landry's.
But that's not what I thought about writing today.
Just something simple.
I was the closer tonight and had checked everyone out. As closer, naturally I would only be followed by the managers as the last person out the restaurant. So there I sat, waiting at the bar for Paul the manager to finish and unlock the doors to freedom. 11:00 dragged by. 11:15 inched its way onto the digital clock. 11:30...
Something caught my eye. The lobster tank, a fews days before occupied by only 3 lobsters, was now loaded with the grimy-colored shellfish. And jousting back and forth with useless rubber-banded claws were two fairly large lobsters, although the one that was kicking ass was clearly much larger than the other one.
Back and forth, they charged each other. The smaller guy was losing ground. He hesitated. The larger lobster saw his advantage and pressed it like an iron to a button-up shirt. Did I really just say that? I really need a day off. I've been working every day since training, even weekends.
Anyway, Junior gave way to Big Claw Bob, and the chase was on. Unable to push his opponent back, he scuttled backwards frantically, running over about 5 other smaller lobsters as he tried to escape Bob. The trampled lobsters lazily lifted their claws in half-hearted protest.
Meanwhile, I watched all this with some kind of sadistic primal fascination. It sure wasn't on par with anything on Discovery Channel, but whatever. It beat the hell out of standing around.
Junior's troubles were far from over. Big Claw Bob's buddy, Larry the Lobster, joined in the chase. Larry was in between Junior and Bob's size, but with Bob hot on his tracks, all Junior could do was try to avoid them both. I stared, mesmerized, as Bob cornered Junior from one side and Larry blocked an escape at Junior's right flank. Inevitability had sunk in.
Junior, realizing his pocket aces were no good against a full house, did a scuttling about-face and desperately tried to scale the glass wall of the holding tank that was his prison. Futile. Checkmate. Bob and Larry lobster-jumped Junior, pounding their rubber-banded claws on his grimy exoskeleton with the wild glee of a schoolyard bully. Every terrified move Junior made to try and escape screamed, "Help me! Someone, please! I don't want to be here! Let me out! Save me!"
"Time to go," said Paul.
Shaking myself away from the spectacle I had just witnessed, I let myself out of the restaurant and said good-bye to Paul for the night. It was 11:40.
As I walked to my Escape, I was gripped with a tickling thought: If Junior thought the world he lived in was hard and shitty, he had no idea what awaited him in the world outside the holding tank.
But I knew.
It was a world that had no pity for his clashes with Bob and Larry. First, he would be shown to a table of people for inspection and approval. Being the right type, he would be taken to the kitchen, confused and dazed. Then, just as he came to terms with his new environment, he would be flipped onto the back of his shell, then cut vertically with a knife from his tail to his mouth as his flippers flailed uselessly. His muzzled claws would be broken mercilessly with a sickening crunch. The rubber bands would be taken off, only for Junior to find his nerve endings controlling his claws were severed completely by the crack. If he was unlucky enough to still be alive by this point, his misery would find peace at the bottom of a pot of boiling water. Junior's tail, the only desirable part of him, would eventually be devoured by some hungry person, and the rest of his sad red carcass would be thrown away with the rest of the day's garbage.
I wondered, what kind of a holding tank was I in? And what kind of kitchen awaited me if things should somehow get worse?
I laughed and started playing "Learn to Fly" off my Foo Fighters CD. It had been a long day.
But that's not what I thought about writing today.
Just something simple.
I was the closer tonight and had checked everyone out. As closer, naturally I would only be followed by the managers as the last person out the restaurant. So there I sat, waiting at the bar for Paul the manager to finish and unlock the doors to freedom. 11:00 dragged by. 11:15 inched its way onto the digital clock. 11:30...
Something caught my eye. The lobster tank, a fews days before occupied by only 3 lobsters, was now loaded with the grimy-colored shellfish. And jousting back and forth with useless rubber-banded claws were two fairly large lobsters, although the one that was kicking ass was clearly much larger than the other one.
Back and forth, they charged each other. The smaller guy was losing ground. He hesitated. The larger lobster saw his advantage and pressed it like an iron to a button-up shirt. Did I really just say that? I really need a day off. I've been working every day since training, even weekends.
Anyway, Junior gave way to Big Claw Bob, and the chase was on. Unable to push his opponent back, he scuttled backwards frantically, running over about 5 other smaller lobsters as he tried to escape Bob. The trampled lobsters lazily lifted their claws in half-hearted protest.
Meanwhile, I watched all this with some kind of sadistic primal fascination. It sure wasn't on par with anything on Discovery Channel, but whatever. It beat the hell out of standing around.
Junior's troubles were far from over. Big Claw Bob's buddy, Larry the Lobster, joined in the chase. Larry was in between Junior and Bob's size, but with Bob hot on his tracks, all Junior could do was try to avoid them both. I stared, mesmerized, as Bob cornered Junior from one side and Larry blocked an escape at Junior's right flank. Inevitability had sunk in.
Junior, realizing his pocket aces were no good against a full house, did a scuttling about-face and desperately tried to scale the glass wall of the holding tank that was his prison. Futile. Checkmate. Bob and Larry lobster-jumped Junior, pounding their rubber-banded claws on his grimy exoskeleton with the wild glee of a schoolyard bully. Every terrified move Junior made to try and escape screamed, "Help me! Someone, please! I don't want to be here! Let me out! Save me!"
"Time to go," said Paul.
Shaking myself away from the spectacle I had just witnessed, I let myself out of the restaurant and said good-bye to Paul for the night. It was 11:40.
As I walked to my Escape, I was gripped with a tickling thought: If Junior thought the world he lived in was hard and shitty, he had no idea what awaited him in the world outside the holding tank.
But I knew.
It was a world that had no pity for his clashes with Bob and Larry. First, he would be shown to a table of people for inspection and approval. Being the right type, he would be taken to the kitchen, confused and dazed. Then, just as he came to terms with his new environment, he would be flipped onto the back of his shell, then cut vertically with a knife from his tail to his mouth as his flippers flailed uselessly. His muzzled claws would be broken mercilessly with a sickening crunch. The rubber bands would be taken off, only for Junior to find his nerve endings controlling his claws were severed completely by the crack. If he was unlucky enough to still be alive by this point, his misery would find peace at the bottom of a pot of boiling water. Junior's tail, the only desirable part of him, would eventually be devoured by some hungry person, and the rest of his sad red carcass would be thrown away with the rest of the day's garbage.
I wondered, what kind of a holding tank was I in? And what kind of kitchen awaited me if things should somehow get worse?
I laughed and started playing "Learn to Fly" off my Foo Fighters CD. It had been a long day.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Life with Landry's: First Day
So, in the past few days, many things have happened.
Thursday, I went in and took my written final exam. It. Was. A. BEAST. It took me nearly 4 hours, 5 glasses of Dr. Pepper and Sprite/Lemonade, 2 garlic bread loaves, and 10 cracker packages to sit through it and finish it. It must have been at least 20 pages long. It took me so long to finish it that I couldn't do my server audit that same day, so I had to come back in on Friday (my first day) and take it. Good thing. My brain might have set off the fire alarm at that point. I hope I did all right though. If I didn't get at least a 90, I have to take that sucker all over again.
Friday, I came in for my first day of official waiting, although I had to get through my server dry audit first. Mike the GM was going to be auditing me, and was already at a table in the corner. No pressure. Or so I thought.
As I turned the corner, sitting next to Mike was - Surprise! - Paul the floor manager. "Oh great," I thought. "Any mistake Mike isn't going to catch, Paul is going to pick it up in a heartbeat. I better get on top of my shit." I mentally looked over the cheat sheets I had come prepared with and took a few deep breaths. And in I went.
Turns out, I knew my stuff, but I think I had placed too much importance on one audit and in my nervous tension, started leaving out stuff in my script. Like forgetting to pull in the condiments during my opening welcome, or mentioning that I would bring a salad with the entree, or taking the opportunity to suggestively sell (up-sell) during scripted pauses. And I'd always know what I did wrong, immediately after I left Mike and Paul for the server's station. I smoothed out my mistakes as best as I could, and I did hit a lot of positives, but the 75% of positives I ended up with weren't enough to pass. So I'd have to retake my audit the next day. Awesome.
But was I still going to be serving? Paul and Mike were really understanding and forgiving, and stationed me two tables for the night. Oh boy. I looked with envy at the "normal" stations with 4 or 5 tables in the nice areas. Oh well, it's all I had to work with on my first day.
A few hours later, I was kind of glad they did only station me two tables. I worked one table first, and I had a few nit-picky mistakes again with them, the same kind I had with Mike and Paul. Gotta remember that for next time, I kept thinking. I got it right with the next table, but then my first table left and within seconds a new table was sat. So I had two tables sat within 10 minutes and suddenly I was in a slight "shook" mode. I was running things back and forth, within 10 minutes of each other, and I was consolidating tasks wherever possible. But it got kind of crazy at some points where I would be finished tending to a table and so I'd pause to chill, thinking I was safe for a moment, but then remember, Oh great, I forgot to grab that other table another glass of wine and some more dressing. And then I'd have to run back out.
By the end of the night, I had waited 4 tables and made almost $40 in raw tippage. But everything stopped with this one jerkwad Middle Eastern guy and his way un-hot date. I'll just say she was one of the largest catches I've ever seen. If I had to reference anything, it'd be like Captain Ahab pulling in to dock with Moby Dick. But the way the guy carried himself, you'd have thought he was a high roller. Just the opposite. Coming in acting like he was the shit, he and his date ordered two sodas and two entrees. No drinky-drinks, appetizers, specials, add-ons, desserts, or anything else. And they sat there, chatting away for a whole hour past the time I closed their check, for a grand total of two and a half hours, and left ten minutes before closing time. I tended to their every need and more, the entire time. The tip on a $50 bill and more than 2 hours of agonized waiting? A Lincoln. Asshole.
Besides that, my other tables were really nice and had tipped me pretty well. My first table gave me more than 20%, despite my slight mistakes. I averaged about 18% my other 3 tables, but Asshole went and single-handedly destroyed the average. And left me more than an hour behind on my sidework. Thanks to him, I was supposed to leave around 11:30, but couldn't even finish until after 1 AM. If he ended up laying out Moby Dick in bed that night, I hope her sheer fattage crushed his frugal little Middle Eastern balls.
I worked tonight (which went fantastically better) and I'll be working tomorrow night, but it's 3:30 in the morning so I'll leave my stories for another day. Sidework is poop.
Thursday, I went in and took my written final exam. It. Was. A. BEAST. It took me nearly 4 hours, 5 glasses of Dr. Pepper and Sprite/Lemonade, 2 garlic bread loaves, and 10 cracker packages to sit through it and finish it. It must have been at least 20 pages long. It took me so long to finish it that I couldn't do my server audit that same day, so I had to come back in on Friday (my first day) and take it. Good thing. My brain might have set off the fire alarm at that point. I hope I did all right though. If I didn't get at least a 90, I have to take that sucker all over again.
Friday, I came in for my first day of official waiting, although I had to get through my server dry audit first. Mike the GM was going to be auditing me, and was already at a table in the corner. No pressure. Or so I thought.
As I turned the corner, sitting next to Mike was - Surprise! - Paul the floor manager. "Oh great," I thought. "Any mistake Mike isn't going to catch, Paul is going to pick it up in a heartbeat. I better get on top of my shit." I mentally looked over the cheat sheets I had come prepared with and took a few deep breaths. And in I went.
Turns out, I knew my stuff, but I think I had placed too much importance on one audit and in my nervous tension, started leaving out stuff in my script. Like forgetting to pull in the condiments during my opening welcome, or mentioning that I would bring a salad with the entree, or taking the opportunity to suggestively sell (up-sell) during scripted pauses. And I'd always know what I did wrong, immediately after I left Mike and Paul for the server's station. I smoothed out my mistakes as best as I could, and I did hit a lot of positives, but the 75% of positives I ended up with weren't enough to pass. So I'd have to retake my audit the next day. Awesome.
But was I still going to be serving? Paul and Mike were really understanding and forgiving, and stationed me two tables for the night. Oh boy. I looked with envy at the "normal" stations with 4 or 5 tables in the nice areas. Oh well, it's all I had to work with on my first day.
A few hours later, I was kind of glad they did only station me two tables. I worked one table first, and I had a few nit-picky mistakes again with them, the same kind I had with Mike and Paul. Gotta remember that for next time, I kept thinking. I got it right with the next table, but then my first table left and within seconds a new table was sat. So I had two tables sat within 10 minutes and suddenly I was in a slight "shook" mode. I was running things back and forth, within 10 minutes of each other, and I was consolidating tasks wherever possible. But it got kind of crazy at some points where I would be finished tending to a table and so I'd pause to chill, thinking I was safe for a moment, but then remember, Oh great, I forgot to grab that other table another glass of wine and some more dressing. And then I'd have to run back out.
By the end of the night, I had waited 4 tables and made almost $40 in raw tippage. But everything stopped with this one jerkwad Middle Eastern guy and his way un-hot date. I'll just say she was one of the largest catches I've ever seen. If I had to reference anything, it'd be like Captain Ahab pulling in to dock with Moby Dick. But the way the guy carried himself, you'd have thought he was a high roller. Just the opposite. Coming in acting like he was the shit, he and his date ordered two sodas and two entrees. No drinky-drinks, appetizers, specials, add-ons, desserts, or anything else. And they sat there, chatting away for a whole hour past the time I closed their check, for a grand total of two and a half hours, and left ten minutes before closing time. I tended to their every need and more, the entire time. The tip on a $50 bill and more than 2 hours of agonized waiting? A Lincoln. Asshole.
Besides that, my other tables were really nice and had tipped me pretty well. My first table gave me more than 20%, despite my slight mistakes. I averaged about 18% my other 3 tables, but Asshole went and single-handedly destroyed the average. And left me more than an hour behind on my sidework. Thanks to him, I was supposed to leave around 11:30, but couldn't even finish until after 1 AM. If he ended up laying out Moby Dick in bed that night, I hope her sheer fattage crushed his frugal little Middle Eastern balls.
I worked tonight (which went fantastically better) and I'll be working tomorrow night, but it's 3:30 in the morning so I'll leave my stories for another day. Sidework is poop.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Life with Landry's: A Small Hurricane
Whew! It's been exactly one week since I last made contact here. And what a week it's been.
To be completely honest, my life for the past 7 days has consisted of jumbo-sized work, boiled in the shell and garnished liberally with boot camp, served on top of a heaping bed of crushed studying, then accompanied with small sides of fresh eating and sleeping. I might have also forgotten parsley.
Training-wise, the last 4 days boiled down essentially to shadowing fools around the restaurant, mostly JW. I did help put finishing touches on food and do other grunt work with Mama Rosa y el kitchen (aka Cafe Mexico). But for the most part, I got eased into the whole waiting bit until yesterday, when I basically waited my own 3 tables with Charlton as my safety net. Him and JW are two pretty awesome dudes. They've bailed me out a lot with all the leaks my boat of waiting skills kept springing.
The best part is when my customers "get it" early on and throw me extra hard curveballs. Or the occasional gyro. Like my first-ever table, which had 4 Landry's corporate VIPs, no less, who told me (very jokingly) they were going to be "really tough" on me, then proceeded to order a bevy of ridiculously specific dishes. Ha ha, very funny.
Anyway, they told me at the start that it'd be a lot to learn, and I was expecting a lot, but what I got wasn't a lot. It wasn't even a flood. It was a small hurricane.
Beef and fowl. Flavorings, cuts, and preparations of fresh fish. Sanitation protocol. Appetizers, hot and cold. Beers and wines and mixed drinks to no end. Corny acronyms up to my ears. And my personal favorite, Professional Service Standards. That's our script we have to follow with Guests. (Yes, that's Guests with a capital G)
And it's all in preparation for a 2-4 hour-long beast of a final exam, encompassing every area from my brick of a training manual and the 32 pages of menu items to meticulously memorize. Which is then followed by a private, dry audit with none other than Mike the general manager. Nothing less than an A on both obstacle courses tomorrow will get me the job.
Thanks to Hurricane Landry's, my room, which I spent a whole day mercilessly cleaning when I moved back in, is now a pigsty again. My table, which before only featured a lone desklamp, has also disappeared into oblivion, forgotten under a heavily blackened markerboard and a wrinkled blanket of note packets and menu item descriptions. Plus, I haven't showered in days.
Just kidding. About that last sentence, anyway.
I wish I was kidding that I've also had to sedate and cage my inner gym rat for the past eternity. My chest, shoulder and tricep group nags constantly, refusing to let me forget the neglect. My body begs for weights and basketball. And my fingers are starting to forget the feel of molded plastic. I thought muscles only got sore when they were building. Apparently, mine get sore from not being used, too.
And the worst part? "Trainee's tab" doesn't exist. Not anymore. There was actually a pretty funny mix-up involving me trying to convince another manager that it really did exist. It didn't end too well.
The strangest part of all this, though?
I like it.
Deep down, at the end of the day, the jumbled ingredients of a thousand dishes ringing in my ear as I collapse into bed, I smirk a little. Just a little. Here I am, in the eye of a small hurricane, doing something I used to know nothing about, in an industry I've never worked in, at a job I thought I could never do. The adrenaline rush of keeping up with a packed house, the wafting aromas of the kitchen, the rudely inappropriate jokes we crack on each other to keep ourselves sane, it's all starting to get kind of addictive. Even the lame robot/jerk customers who sometimes wind up in my section. Actually, no, not them. I don't even know why I included them in there.
But yeah, I think I'm gonna be alright.
To be completely honest, my life for the past 7 days has consisted of jumbo-sized work, boiled in the shell and garnished liberally with boot camp, served on top of a heaping bed of crushed studying, then accompanied with small sides of fresh eating and sleeping. I might have also forgotten parsley.
Training-wise, the last 4 days boiled down essentially to shadowing fools around the restaurant, mostly JW. I did help put finishing touches on food and do other grunt work with Mama Rosa y el kitchen (aka Cafe Mexico). But for the most part, I got eased into the whole waiting bit until yesterday, when I basically waited my own 3 tables with Charlton as my safety net. Him and JW are two pretty awesome dudes. They've bailed me out a lot with all the leaks my boat of waiting skills kept springing.
The best part is when my customers "get it" early on and throw me extra hard curveballs. Or the occasional gyro. Like my first-ever table, which had 4 Landry's corporate VIPs, no less, who told me (very jokingly) they were going to be "really tough" on me, then proceeded to order a bevy of ridiculously specific dishes. Ha ha, very funny.
Anyway, they told me at the start that it'd be a lot to learn, and I was expecting a lot, but what I got wasn't a lot. It wasn't even a flood. It was a small hurricane.
Beef and fowl. Flavorings, cuts, and preparations of fresh fish. Sanitation protocol. Appetizers, hot and cold. Beers and wines and mixed drinks to no end. Corny acronyms up to my ears. And my personal favorite, Professional Service Standards. That's our script we have to follow with Guests. (Yes, that's Guests with a capital G)
And it's all in preparation for a 2-4 hour-long beast of a final exam, encompassing every area from my brick of a training manual and the 32 pages of menu items to meticulously memorize. Which is then followed by a private, dry audit with none other than Mike the general manager. Nothing less than an A on both obstacle courses tomorrow will get me the job.
Thanks to Hurricane Landry's, my room, which I spent a whole day mercilessly cleaning when I moved back in, is now a pigsty again. My table, which before only featured a lone desklamp, has also disappeared into oblivion, forgotten under a heavily blackened markerboard and a wrinkled blanket of note packets and menu item descriptions. Plus, I haven't showered in days.
Just kidding. About that last sentence, anyway.
I wish I was kidding that I've also had to sedate and cage my inner gym rat for the past eternity. My chest, shoulder and tricep group nags constantly, refusing to let me forget the neglect. My body begs for weights and basketball. And my fingers are starting to forget the feel of molded plastic. I thought muscles only got sore when they were building. Apparently, mine get sore from not being used, too.
And the worst part? "Trainee's tab" doesn't exist. Not anymore. There was actually a pretty funny mix-up involving me trying to convince another manager that it really did exist. It didn't end too well.
The strangest part of all this, though?
I like it.
Deep down, at the end of the day, the jumbled ingredients of a thousand dishes ringing in my ear as I collapse into bed, I smirk a little. Just a little. Here I am, in the eye of a small hurricane, doing something I used to know nothing about, in an industry I've never worked in, at a job I thought I could never do. The adrenaline rush of keeping up with a packed house, the wafting aromas of the kitchen, the rudely inappropriate jokes we crack on each other to keep ourselves sane, it's all starting to get kind of addictive. Even the lame robot/jerk customers who sometimes wind up in my section. Actually, no, not them. I don't even know why I included them in there.
But yeah, I think I'm gonna be alright.
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