This post is based on actual events, but it is a work of fiction. It’s a three-part story. This is Chapter Three.
I blasted through the next summer at Hooligans like a champ, carefully ringing in every soda for the full four-month gig. I had to lay low after all of the drama from last year. I liked the job so much that my parents worried I was destined to be Career, but I assured them it was just a summer fling. For my final summer of freedom before I started my senior year of college, I decided a City job would be in order. A brand new Breezy’s opened on the corner of 94th Street and Second Avenue and I applied to be part of the opening waitstaff. When they saw The Filling Station, three years at The Depot in Atlanta including an elevation to manager (ha!) and two summers at Hooligans on my resume, I was an instant hire.
I was part of a massive training class for “Doors Open.” They flew in key-swinging senior managers with squishy gum soled shoes to oversee the operation. (I guess it was the unspoken uniform nationwide.) Some guy named Orlando from Austin was tapped to be the GM of the new store. Orlando was tall, lanky and wore a yellow tie tied way too tight and way too short. Orlando refused to give up his Texas roots, so he favored cowboy boots instead of the squishy soles. (Big mistake. Huge.)
He was a whistler, too. He had a variety of commands he could whistle. There was “No” (one loud burst that came with a finger swipe left), “Come Here” (two short bursts that came with a point in the offender’s direction and a point to the ground in front of him), an “Uh-Oh” (a short then long burst that came with one crooked finger wagging back and forth) and then a sing-songy whistle while you work sort of humming that followed him everywhere. He had the key jangle like Rick, but his whistling drowned out the clank most of the time.
The training for the opening was serious. We were given a week’s worth of classes and then tested. And we were paid full shift for each training. We had to know when to ask for fries, salad or a veg, what accompaniments could be substituted without an upcharge, what could be ordered on the side and wasn’t pre-mixed, and we had to be able to rattle off the list of salad dressings, beer on tap, and all ice cream flavors.
The hardest item to memorize was the Cobb Salad. But they gave us tips on how to remember all the ingredients. For the Cobb it was AABBCCDDE: avocado, arugula, bacon, blue cheese, chopped tomato, chicken, diced onion, dressing, and egg. I was a college student. Memorizing a menu was no sweat. Not only did I ace the test, but I also gave certain classmates a glimpse of my answers before I handed them in. In the restaurant world, it was all about teamwork and being a valuable member of the crew.
I made fast friends with a bartender named Matt. He was a sports fanatic, fiercely loyal to the Mets, and lived on the Upper West Side in a walk-up with a huge pup named Clyde. He was Career for the moment but trying to break into sports broadcasting. Helping him pass the test meant drinks for me—like an open bar tab both during and after my shift. Any drink “mistake” he made ended up my fun sipable.
Another Career I befriended in training was Denise. Denise was a striking woman with a cropped Afro, long braids or a colored weave depending on the day. She had a gap-toothed smile and milk chocolate skin and a looked a bit like Grace Jones. Denise applied for the cashier position. She also lived on the Upper West Side but made her home on a houseboat off the 79th Street Pier. She had major attitude about having to learn a menu when she was back of house, so she really appreciated my help. She had a contagious laugh, and a brutally funny head shake with a snap-and-stare-down move that showed she was a boss in her own right. She was studying ballroom dancing in her spare time. I loved her immediately. She called me Baby Girl and I called her D.
The uniform for this job was a pink and white striped shirt that Breezy’s handed out, and black bottoms of our choice. We were also encouraged to wear buttons, suspenders, and crazy hats. I didn’t go too nuts with the garb. It was just a summer job, not a cult.
Because we were a chain restaurant, snooty Upper Eastsiders were up in arms! They did not want a Breezy’s tainting their fancy neighborhood. So Breezy’s issued coupons; hundreds of coupons to locals to encourage them to come in, try the food, be part of the atmosphere, and to enjoy one complimentary entrée for their table. The coupons were intended to be used only once, so we were instructed to collect and destroy them after the guests had paid their checks. The coupons didn’t have bar codes or tracking numbers. They were completely generic, and all the servers saw the opportunity for the taking. So we did collect them, but we didn’t destroy them.
Head down but with a smile, my track record of restaurant thievery trailed me like a toilet paper comet stuck stubbornly to my left shoe. I was up for the next scam– hell the whole thing was my idea this time.
Here’s how it was supposed to work… you’d be presented a valid coupon from a guest. Orlando had to open your check electronically and credit the one item. When you handed your cash to D, she gave proper change. You then gave the change back to your table. The scam involved recycling the coupon for a different table. But it only worked if your guests were paying in cash. So Orlando would issue the credit, D would ring, and you’d hand your table proper change, minus your take. And your table had no idea you had used the recycled coupon on their behalf. Then, instead of destroying the coupons, we would crumple them up and trade, so there were constantly a few servers using them. We did this so that no server would be accused, and everyone shared the risk and the benefit.
So in one evening shift, each of us would get 10 or so coupon meals, even if not one guest presented an actual coupon that night. The math here was usually hundreds per shift in addition to our regular tips including a kickback to D, who kept our secret, and rang in every check with a smile. It was like Passing Go and collecting an additional $200!
That summer I raked in the cash. Baby Girl spent a fabulous weekend with D on her houseboat, and I drank enough accidental Oreo Cookie Express drinks from Matt to permanently cure my boozy milkshake habit.
After the summer at Breezy’s I officially retired from the restaurant racket (See Mom and Dad, I told you I wasn’t going to be a waitress all of my life!) and ditched my thieving ways. I promised it was truly the last grab and go and I meant it.
GREAT SCENE FROM THE MOVIE OCEAN’S 11
Tess to Danny Ocean: You’re a liar and a thief!
Danny Ocean to Tess: I only lied about being a thief.
Now every time I see a waiter throw a slow silent chin at another server and money seamlessly slips out of an apron and into a side pocket or a bartender looks both ways and then doesn’t open the register when he rings in my drink or makes two and gifts one to a pretty girl at the bar, I knowingly smile, ’cause I have just witnessed the skim or scam of the day in real time. But my lips are sealed.
Matt and I are still in touch and yes, he broke out of bartending and into sports broadcasting. Tracey and I have been friends since 4th grade and we meet often– ranch dressing and breadsticks are sometimes involved. D and I lost touch, but I think of her ballroom dancing when I walk by the 79th Street Boat Basin. I’m still a huge fan of buffalo wings and chicken quesadillas. I haven’t made Irish Nachos in a while, but I’m suddenly craving that off-menu treat.
I frequent restaurants so I always over tip on good service because I know how hard servers work. I also know that if my food is cold or wrong it’s entirely possible that the kitchen could be exacting a little revenge on my trusty waitress. I subconsciously keep an eye out for self-important looking guys with too short ties walking quickly– especially when I hear that familiar jangle of the managerial keys or the squeak of those godawful shoes. But no worries. I’m certainly not going to be the one who blows the whistle on the current hustle. Just because I’m out of the restaurant racket doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate a little in-house caper!
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