This post is based on actual events, but it is a work of fiction. It’s a three-part story. This is Chapter One.
Before my freshman year in college, I wanted a job that let me sleep late, earn cash, and be social. I had no waitressing experience, so I was thrilled to accept a hostess position at The Filling Station on Route 59 in Nanuet, one town over from where I lived. I was able to tan during the day and then pop in at 5pm to work my shift in cute dress up clothes instead of the ugly uniform the servers had to wear. The Filling Station was a casual family restaurant with theme nights. Tuesday night was Pay What You Weigh for kids. Thursday was Wing Night featuring all you can eat buffalo wings.
Regardless of the theme, each table was given a generous bowl of warm popcorn upon arrival. If the servers were too busy, the hostesses helped them out. And they were always too busy. This was the summer I learned that “popcorn” was indeed a verb. As in, “Hey Jen, can you popcorn table 102?” I wasn’t head hostess, but my responsibilities included popcorning tables once I seated them, walking the dining room, light bussing when necessary, chatting with hungry guests when we were on a wait and wiping down menus.
For each shift we worked, we were allowed an employee meal to be taken before our scheduled start time or after we finished, but at least thirty minutes prior to last call so that the kitchen could close without twenty employee orders hitting them at midnight. I became partial to the post shift meal since I favored the chicken wings with extra blue cheese. They were so messy, and I ended up with yeah, sticky fingers. We all congregated at the back tables closest to the kitchen in section ten to eat, laugh, complain and hang out. Alyssa, the head hostess who was slightly round and very friendly told me that ice cream was not included in the employee meal, but as long as I didn’t use those crappy plastic, upside down baseball hats the kids’ sundaes came in, management sort of looked the other way. She told me to use a coffee mug instead. The soft serve machine would hum and whirl until I pulled the lever down. I released it only after a generously lopsided dollop graced my cup. I then doused hot fudge over the top, making the ice cream melty and soupy. (Many years later, my son would later adopt and perfect my technique by having me nuke his ice cream in his favorite bowl for eleven seconds.)
Tips were pooled at the end of the shift and the hostesses were given their fair share for dealing with the bratty kids, screaming adults, and Wing Night revelers. Most evenings I would leave with the stench of buttery popcorn embedded deep in my hair, squeaky sneakers from the sticky, soda-stained kitchen floor and a small wad of cash. I absolutely loved the job.
My parents came in on Wednesday nights to avoid the kids and the wings. They enjoyed a casual meal and chatted with me as I whizzed by. I always made them huge sundaes in the upside-down baseball hats. It was the only dessert I could make by myself without having to ask a server to ring in an item, but I couldn’t use the coffee mugs or management would know that I had gifted them a freebie. (My first act of thievery, and I didn’t feel guilty at all.) I was really fitting in quite well.
A lot of my high school cronies loved Wing Night. Knowing the place would be jammed on Thursdays, I stealthily peppered their names onto the waiting list when Alyssa wasn’t around, allowing them to be seated upon their arrival. I did this using a bunch of names, not knowing which friends were going to show up week to week. I also made up the size of the parties, so I was thrilled when friendly faces arrived to claim spots I had already reserved.
Free sundaes and jumping the wait list was the extent of my hostess with the mostest pull. I had no idea what pilfering, and larceny were going on around me. At the time I was content and uninterested. (Ummm… yeah, this changed later.) The summer moved quickly, and I wanted as much extra cash as possible. In July I asked if I could start picking up brunch shifts to earn a little extra money. I never really worked with Rick the weekend manager, but he admired my work ethic and was happy to add me to the schedule.
Rick was a middle-aged lifer in the restaurant game. He started as a server in Dallas and went through the three-month training program where he phased through every job in the restaurant. Then they moved him to Tallahassee for a year, and then finally to New York. He was Career. (As opposed to me. The servers called me “College,” like it was a bad thing.) He had the signature at home dye job, slicked back thinning hair, the short-sleeved button-down shirt with the rings of sweat under his pits and squeaky black sneakers. You always knew he was coming because the jangling of his key ring gave him away. He would swing it and catch it. Almost like it was a yo-yo. Swing and catch. Swing and catch. That was Rick.
So on my first Sunday, I sat in the back of section ten wiping down menus from the previous night. Rick stopped by to let me know that Alyssa would not be in until one. Ok, no problem. I had this. Couldn’t be as busy as Wing Night. Then he warned me, “You know The Buffs will be here first thing.” Not wanting to seem unprepared or uninformed, I straightened up and said, “Of course. I’m all set.” As he turned and jangled away I sat there panicking. The Buffs? Who the hell were The Buffs? And they were coming on my first brunch shift? Shit!
Before he caught wind of my mild panic, we heard some tires screeching out back. The Muzak tape was not yet cranked up to Brunch Favorites and the parking lot was just behind the kitchen. Rick bolted out the back door to check on his pristine white Camaro parked sideways (taking up two spaces) in the far lot. He was paranoid someone might have bruised his baby, stolen the T-tops or parked too close. False alarm. He huffed back in– his greasy hair now slicked with sweat. He slowed his pace in time for a swing and catch, rearranged his hair with a smooth swipe of his hand and strode back toward prep to make sure the garnish station was stocked for opening, the service bar had ice, and the dishwasher wasn’t sneaking steak tidbits into his apron again.
When I unlocked the double doors at precisely 11:30am, in strode hordes of hungry brunch folk, clamoring to get to the hostess stand. “Good morning,” I beamed as I raced back to gather menus and seat the growing crowd. When all of the tables were sat, fed, and popcorned multiple times, the first few started to close out their checks. Suddenly all of the waitresses ran to the hostess stand and asked me to restock the popcorn bowls. Restock those disgusting wooden, reusable bowls? Didn’t they mean refill them? I didn’t understand.
When I made my rounds, I saw that every single table from the early morning rush had a bowl missing and I was sure that I had popcorned all of the booths at least twice, some even three times. I soon learned that The Buffs was short for “The Movie Buffs.” They were the seniors who capitalized on the Sunday half-price movie specials at the theater across the street. Apparently they came in to eat popcorn and grab some lunch after the first show of the day and then sneak away with a full bowl of popcorn to get them through their next movie— the afternoon matinee. Those stealthy shoplifting seniors! I laughed.
So the a-ha moment at The Filling Station was that lots of people, both the staff and the guests filled up on things that weren’t necessarily on their tabs… and this sticky-fingered information prepared for my next restaurant caper. (Capers courtesy of lovefood.com)
jenslittleblackbook.com 