What's Your Beef?

“Have you ever had a ménage a trois?”

This is the second time I’ve been asked this question during training day on my new job. Yes, this gig fell into my lap just like most happy accidents do, via Facebook, accompanied by a quote about a blood-soaked hard-on. The restaurant seeking servers features a rock-n-roll theme…and it’s also the only one in the state that has a mechanical bull! Talk about a match made in heaven!

Now I’m in the back room of this brand spankin’ new, fine dining establishment. I’m a day behind, according to the corporate training calendar. In experience, it’s more like light years. Need I remind you, readers? I’ve never waited tables in my life.

But I really like my boss. He’s upbeat, flirtatious, and has two bands. During our initial ninety minutes together, we joke and gossip and tease each other as I distractedly fill out a job application (which, clearly, is just a formality. I’m in and I know it.).

It’s all good until my boss sends me back for a crash-course in serving with a handful of other new hires and the corporate head. Despite his hard-bodied hotness, the suit—and the company he represents—is rather uptight.

For starters (and I don’t mean appetizers), there’s a dress code. It includes a button-up shirt. On our off days, we’re expected to starch them. The only starch I know how to use is cornstarch…and I can’t afford dry cleaning. Then there’s the tie. I don’t own one of those silky nooses, I don’t have a boyfriend to borrow one from, and even if I did, I don’t know how to tie the damn tie.

Perhaps some of you are rolling your eyes, saying I should suck it up and be grateful I have a job. Still…I’m a rebel. I’ve been self-employed for five years…the last two of which I worked mostly in my bathrobe. I haven’t worn a uniform since I was 15 and a photo shop employee. Even if I could stuff down my pride for a few shifts a week, why do I have to dress like a man?

(Would you like a cheese platter with your whine, Man Eater? Yes, please.)

Speaking of drinks, this job involves serving alcohol. I didn’t realize how much that bothered me until I’m now being asked not only to serve it, but to sell it to people. And not just a beer or two. As much as possible…at the highest price. Like this thing called Ménage a Trois, which is a blend of the finest red wines and a favorite of Corporate Head. When he asks who's had a ménage a trois, I bite my tongue. No one in attendance admits to having the drink my boss calls “bastardized wine”. If only my sexpertise was worth something here, surely I’d get a rise (err, I mean a “raise”) out of Corporate Head.

My stance on drinking is: most of my peeps drink too much of it as it is; and the majority of Americans don’t need help acting stupider. But my opinions don’t matter here. This is all about making money for the company. And that’s when I know this isn’t going to work out. Money, despite its noticeable lack in my life, is also the least motivating force for me to take a job. There will always be opportunities to make money. Time, however is limited. I’m not sure I’m ready to sell my soul yet.

Corporate Head continues with the rules. There’s another one that rubs me the wrong way, and it involves appropriate language. Obviously, four-letter words are forbidden…but so are the words “Okay”, “No”, “I don’t know”, and “Customers”. Instead, we’re supposed to say “Absolutely!”, “Let me see what I can do”, “I’ll find out for you”, and “Guests”.

There are also time limits…like how many minutes one has from the time a beverage order is placed to the time it must be on the table (3 minutes for soda; 4 minutes for cocktails; 5 minutes for wine), or how one serves aforementioned beverage (never refill soda in the same glass; never touch the rim of a martini glass; wine bottles cannot make contact with the table whilst being opened).

There are also guidelines about which side of the diner to serve on and which side to clear from (Are we mounting a horse here or what?), plus a numbering system so the food is not “auctioned” (i.e. “Bacon cheeseburger with kettle chips?”) when it is brought to the table. Jesus Christ! Since when did eating out get so anal?! (Don’t answer that.)

Last, but not least: no cell phones on the job. And no food. No breaks, either. (Because, God forbid, you update your Facebook status and/or eat during your six hour shift).

WTF?!

My anxious ruminations drown out Corporate Head’s monotone recitation of the menu. I’m slightly zoned out in my own little world (which revolves around me, naturally), until Corporate Head says, “Now you’re going to take the test.”

“I’m totally going to fail,” the bartender sitting next to me says. Forgive me, but the fastest way to describe her is TPT. (Go Google if you don’t know what that stands for.) Bleached blonde hair, skin as bronzed as a rotisserie chicken, and a Southern accent. We do have one thing in common, however: she doesn’t like the language rules either. (“Why can’t I greet people as ‘Y’all?’ ”)

At least she’s had a 24-hour head start on me to memorize the menu. I don’t have a clue how many chicken tenders are in the standard order or what kind of dressing—chipotle or ranch—they come with.

Truth be told, my boss already gave me a copy of the test…but I was so busy teasing him about the animal sounds emanating from his cell that I didn’t finish filling it out ahead of time! Damn me and my Chatty Cathy nature.

“You’re in luck,” Corporate Head says when he returns from around the corner. “The printer’s out of paper.”

Don’t sigh in relief quite yet, readers. The exam won’t be overlooked…it’s just switched forms. To oral. If only I could lure the Corporate Head into the bathroom, I’d examine his head and pass this pop quiz, no problem.

“Name a domestic beer,” he says to a girl at the other end of the table. She does. They go down the line, one by one, rattling off brands like seasoned drinkers.

Hallelujah, there aren’t that many domestic beers served here, so by the time my turn comes around, my coworkers have already named them all.

“Name an import beer,” Corporate Head says to me.

Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit.

I am confident of one, and only one, being an import: XX. (Which is also an Indie band, BTW.) How do you suppose I pronounce it?

“Dos Equis,” I say.

Ole! I nail it. Apparently I did learn something during my marriage to The Mexican. (You may now heave that sigh of relief on my behalf, readers.)

Still, that’s as far as my alcoholic knowledge goes…and I’m scheduled to serve this Saturday.

“It’s not brain surgery,” my boss tells me more than once. No, but…fuck, learning all this by the weekend is going to suck the energy right out of me. Like my typical relationship, this is moving way too fast. I thought I was just coming in just to fill out an application today. Now I’m cramming on which entrées are served with coleslaw, the three flavors of buffalo wings, and we haven’t even tackled the “Aloha” computer system yet!

I knew serving was hard work, but wow. I’ve only been here for four hours and my brain is going to explode! Then I get to come back tomorrow and do it for twice as long as today. (Hmm…that sentence has so many sexy interpretations…) Meanwhile, outside, what may be the last 60-degree sunny day in Minnesota is passing me by.

This is so not going to work out. I won’t make shit for tips, especially since my two biggest money makers are my witty banter and my boobage. Wearing a button-up shirt while providing “silent service” is a recipe for failure. This is the complete opposite of catering, where the gift of gab was perhaps the only job requirement I met.

I’m trying to trust my inner compass; why, I don’t know. It sure as hell hasn’t helped me while driving.

My body is primed to run. My heart is racing, the blood is thundering in my head, and I’m starting to sweat. I want to get out of here ASAP. Am I just scared of responsibility or is this gig really not right for me? Maybe if this were a locally-owned restaurant, not a chain, I would feel differently. Maybe if this place cared about where their beef came from, I would be more likely to “up-sell” it. Maybe if I thought I could learn something that I could use in any of my diverse dreams for the future, I could stick with it.

But I’m not that interested in stuffing already overweight, over-imbibed mall-goers with more artery-clogging cheese, beef, and creamy sauces.

Then again, I’ve sort of scraped the bottom of the job search barrel. The next most enticing listing I saw on Craigslist lately was for a farm hand to feed and milk goats. Of course, I have even less experience in that arena (unless you count breast-feeding…) than I do waiting tables.

Perhaps my dating life can shed some light on this dilemma? Just because an opportunity presents itself doesn’t mean I have to say “yes” (Or rather, “Absolutely!”). I’m not doing anyone any favors by forcing something that doesn’t feel right. The search may be exhausting, but I refuse to give up. I’ll take a breather if necessary, but I won’t stop believing that The One is out there.

No. This job will not do; or rather, I will not do it. It’s not that I can’t learn it; it’s that I don’t want to. And considering my allergy for anything half-assed, I can’t move forward if my heart isn’t in it.

So. I sleep on it. Then I take the coward’s way out (read: email) and tell my boss that while I enjoy his company (there’s a pun there if you want it), this position is not my cup of tea. (Go ahead, LMFAO on me.)

My boss responds well. Better than well. He’s completely supportive and even invites me back to restaurant to eat in two days’ time. I accept the offer. In fact, I think I’ll make a blind-date with one of my Match men out of it…

Several hours later, I’m walking through the doors of another restaurant…one owned by a former blog subject…where I’m meeting a very high-profile suitor for the first time. I’m not earning any money, but I’m not spending any, either. My date can more than afford the steep menu prices here…and though the man in question is not exactly my type, I’d rather be a trophy wife than a waitress any day…

…but we’ll talk about that in my next post…

Hee. Hee. Hee.