Life with Landry's: A Public Service Announcement (Sponsored By Your Friendly Neighborhood Waiter)

It could be worse. At least you're not owing money.

No, it should be better.

Why is it turning out this way?

No, I deserve better.

Don't I?

These were the arguments and rebuttals that flew around in my head as I poked along down Westheimer, another long day at Landry's behind me. After all, I had good reason to debate. What did I have to show for 12 straight hours of grueling restaurant labor? 40-something bucks of tip money. I didn't even break 50.

All day long, I was starving for tables. I watched, with confused bewilderment, as other sections filled up left and right, and my co-workers "complaining" about being double or even triple-sat. Boo hoo. I would look at the one occupied table in my 3-table section, and wonder, what the hell was going on?

Meanwhile, I had nothing much else to do, so I tended to my tables like they were royalty. Same way I always do. And man, how the compliments flew.

"You're spoiling us."

"Flawless service."

"Everything is perfect."

"What was your name again? We're asking for YOU next time."

"Don't you dare let him go." (That one was to Mike the GM, and right in front of me)

Compliments sound great. I love hearing them. They help keep me going.

But here's the snag in the line: Compliments don't pay the bills. They don't build up your tuition savings. They can't fill up your gas tank. You can't take a "You're the best waiter I've ever had" and order a Double Meat Whataburger and medium Dr. Pepper with it. Come to think of it, you can't even wipe your butt with it.

So, instead, here's what I heard all day long:

"You're such a great server, and because we love you so much, we're going to tip you 10%. Hope that isn't too much."

End result: An insultingly small earning.

This isn't the first time I've had days like this. Rather, it's more of a recurring trend. Not just myself, but for others as well. For whatever reason, when it comes to tipping, so many people nowadays choose to hang on to their money the way mother bears hang on to their cubs. And waiters, for all the trouble they go to, to make customers happy and full, have to "suck it up". Even if they do get stiffed, they have to smile and somehow force out a "Thank you very much" between their teeth.

That isn't to say I haven't had people who saw the light and tipped me as generously as I served them. I've had many Guests tip me even better than I thought I deserved. But my fight is against the undyingly faithful 10-percent-er's (or lower!), the people who tip based on the discounted price when they bring in coupons, and people who lie and bitch and complain to intentionally knock things off the bill. People who stay (read: SUFFOCATE your section) for 4 hours and tip 10% for their time. And people who come in to order half the restaurant and then walk out on the check? You are the scum of the earth. I hope your souls burn forever in the seventh circle of hell, torched with the fury of a thousand suns.

I had no idea about this kind of stuff before I started waiting tables. And now, to say the least, I'm much more experienced and opinionated about the subject of tipping. I just wish it didn't have to come at the expense of my wallet.

So where does rant end, and "lesson learned" begin?

Here goes: Even though you go out to eat to have a good time, have fun with friends and family, or whatever, remember that your waiter is a person too. Even though he may have his own priorities for being there with you and the way you're treated, remember that he controls 99% of what goes on to make your experience the way it is, regardless of how much (or little) you tip him. Okay, maybe 99% is a slight exaggeration. But you know what I mean.

Waiting is a tough job. Sometimes, you feel like you're on top of the world. Other times, you have to pick yourself up and force a smile after you've been slapped in the face and knocked down to the ground.

The thing is, people who wait tables don't do what they do, to be met with the short end of the stick. For most, their entire livelihood rests on the number you put above the dotted line. They could care less about the way you treat them. They could be elsewhere, at more rewarding (or consistent) jobs, leaving you with the REAL cream of the crap. But instead, here they are, sacrificing their time, dignity, and sanity, braving bitchy managers, burning-hot plates, slippery floors, near-spills and revolving double doors, to make sure your only job is enjoying a worry-free meal. Bottom line: We take good care of you, you take good care of us. Simple. Everyone wins.

So, the next time you're out eating, and the person serving you food is doing a good job, let them know! Even if they're not doing so great, be a little understanding and encouraging. It'll help in more ways than one. Of course, if they slap you in the face and call you a ho, there might be just a little cause for concern...

And one thing above all: Tip well, if they deserve it. Even toilet paper costs money.

Houston: Where Nonsense Happens

I was driving back home from Landry's today, angry, frustrated and disappointed at myself. Mike the general manager had sent me back home again for being late. Again. This time, by 45 minutes. Ugh.

For me, getting places is definitely half the battle. I kick ass at work, but getting there on time is a different story. I think I might have been on time or early 5 times in the entire month I've been waiting tables. If CP time was a real disease, I should be hidden away in some hospital's terminal ward. If it were a crime, I'd probably be serving 13 life sentences. Call me a con. Or a cancer patient.

I couldn't get Mike's parting words out of my mind. They scurried, gnawed, splintered away in every recess of my thoughts. Like a rat.

Strangely, it wasn't that the threat of losing my job was bothering me. I had just heard another chorus of the same song I've been hearing my whole life. It felt like when you hear one of those crappy tracks they put out on the radio nowadays, and after the umpteenth synthesized repeat, you think, "Okay, this song's definitely gone on long enough," and you change the station.

Why?

How?

When?

Screeeeech. I was yanked out of my thoughts. I looked around, realizing I had ridden 10 feet past the crosswalk line of a red light.

Reversing and shaken, I wondered how, in my distraction, I was somehow able to realize the light had changed without even paying attention. Or how I had driven several blocks down an empty Westheimer in the same lane, perfectly straight. Maybe I've been in autopilot for too long.

I sat and stewed at the intersection. A few seconds later, a ray of sunshine hit me right in the eyes. Squinting, I reached up and flipped down the sun covers, and looked outside.

It was a beautiful day. White, happy clouds. Nice blue sky. A gentle breeze licked my cheek through the open window. A Frisbee and a buddy would have been perfect then.

Rain hit my arm.

Wait, rain?

A few seconds later, and my windshield was completely drenched. Wtf?

Somehow, for all of one wacky minute, it was raining like Rita all over again. Then it stopped completely, gone as quickly as it had come. In the middle of a perfectly normal day. It didn't make any sense at all.

I laughed.

Only in Houston.

Tired of Waiting, Gone Clubbing

Wow. I haven't written in here in nearly a week.

My ears hurt. They're still ringing and slightly numb from the speakers at the club. I actually just got back about an hour and change ago, around 4:30. Going clubbing alone was weird at first. And I definitely felt the cost more. I had to come in coupled with a girl I was waiting next to outside so we could both skip the 50-odd-person line, and having to tip the bouncer $20 was icing on the cake. Bad icing.

I spent some time just chilling at first and scoping out the venue, because I haven't been to Rich's in a while. Once I got started on the dance floor and the heavy house rhythms got pumping, though, everything got way better. Especially when they made the lights strobe-flash to the beats when they hit a crescendo. God, that stuff gets me so pumped up. But I think dancing is a lot better if you do it with your eyes closed, or at least a little. Distracting visuals disappear and you're swallowed in a sea of thumping bass and electronic melody. Then you just let your body carry to the rhythm. Great stuff. I kind of wish I had stayed longer.

Didn't get to see my 4th of July fireworks this year because of Landry's, but I got my lights and sounds show anyway. Sweet.