I am the leader of the server revolution! Taking the power away from the customers and putting it back in the hands of the bartenders and servers. Yelp off!!!
For all of my years working in the service industry, I’ve never been an ACTUAL manager. I kinda had a “supervisory” role when I worked at Cafe Muse many years ago at The Olympic Collection, and I was kinda “supervisory” when I was a daytime bartender at Porta Via even longer ago, but I have never, EVER, been listed on a payroll as a manager.
Unless you count the time when I played a manager on TV. Okay, it was a webseries, but it’s the closest I’ve come to being employed as a manager. Check out this clip:
However, that doesn’t mean that I don’t sometimes act like a manager. This past Sunday was Valentine’s Day, or as Lou Santini calls it, “forced romance day.” Or as restaurants call it, “a day to shove as many tables in the restaurant as possible and charge a hefty price for small food served in many courses.” But what the hell? It’s about being in love!
Any-hooters, I was on the patio. I had five tables in my section. Suddenly, I see two guys over in the lounge section of the patio, and they were talking loudly and one of them was smoking. My supervisor is excellent in policing this kind of situation because there is no smoking allowed on patios in Los Angeles. I tell him the situation, and he handles it.
Next thing I know, one of the guys is on his phone, talking so loudly that he is disturbing my tables. These people were paying $75.00 per person, so I figured they could at least have a quiet/romantic atmosphere without some dickhole on his phone disturbing them.
I motion towards the guy and politely ask, “would you mind taking your conversation to the other side of the patio?”
Immediately he’s pissed. And not that it matters, but for sake of painting a colorful story, the guy is Iranian.
“What?! I’m on my phone. I can talk where I want!”
“But you’re disturbing my tables. Please talk over there.” And again, I point to where I want him to go.
“Who are you? Do you work here?” he snaps.
“Yes I do. That’s why I’m wearing the apron.”
“Are you a manager?” he asks.
“Yes I am,” I lie.
“No you’re not. If you’re a manager, then what’s your name?!”
“My name is Manager.”
“I live here,” he says as he walks away from me. “Don’t talk to me unless you’re a manager.”
“Then I guess I’m never going to talk to you because I’ll never be a manager.”
And he ended up where I wanted him to go in the first place.
Until next time… Server’s don’t pay their rent with compliments.
“Bitter. Party of 1? Your table is ready.”