I was up in the office on the third floor. Not doing much. Just staring blankly at a spreadsheet. I wasn't exhausted, nor sleep deprived, yet my energies felt hollow – an echo of it’s real strengths. Every year, during the week immediately following the oppressive month of December, we waiters experience ‘aftershock-lethargy’, as a consequence of the dramatic downturn in customer levels and requirements. The pre-Xmas period mainly consists of office and work end-of-year parties, so is dense with throngs of folk who normally don't get out that often and therefore necessitate so much more effort to serve. 'Amateur Month' is the handle we apply to the whole period up to New Year's Day. By the time the end is within sight, we're all pretty much running on fumes. Sleep starved, weight receding, new grey hairs appearing, drug intake alarmingly increasing and the fighting-spirit fading, every year seems to get harder. But we always get that one week afterwards to recover; one week to wander upstairs, whilst the last customers on a Sunday night are finishing their desserts and just stare at the computer screen.
Phone rings. Internal call. French accent.
French Waiter: The two Scottish women on Table 12, want to know if they can get something for free...
Hershonthetown: Sorry?
French Waiter: Like a drink or a dessert wine or something...
Hershonthetown: Why? Did you mess something up?
F.W: No. Nothing. Everything was fine. Not sure why, but they were just asking. They've already paid their bill to The Mexican, but they want another drink.
Hersh: Um, well, no. I mean, we're a restaurant - we kinda make money by selling things, as opposed to giving them away. They're welcome to BUY another drink.
F.W: Yeah, I know, but I thought I'd check if you knew them.
Hersh: This is the two women in their 50's? The one's with all the makeup on?
F.W: Yeah. That's them.
Hersh: Nope. They're nobody we know. They pay like everyone else.
Hang up phone. Sit looking up the receiver for a few seconds. Perhaps if I stare at it for a bit, that conversation would make more sense to me. Nothing comes. Still confused. I feel like I'm missing something. Better go downstairs and investigate.
On the way down the stairs, I pass one of The Scots on her way to the bathroom. She smiles at me. Dark red lipstick, spreads across her creased, round face. On this side of town, if they can't afford to retain the permanent services of some greaseball, plastic surgeon, then they treat their faces like a Mecca Counter at Westfields. Her whitewashed face, combined with short hair that is held by copious amounts of hair product in solid, erect spikes, makes her look like an eerie, Tim Burton cartoon, type figure. The other one, slightly thinner and with longer, golden hair now sits alone on Table 12. She is actually sitting completely alone, for they are now the last two customers in the restaurant. The French Waiter is at the Waiter's Station, furiously scrubbing down the white and black marble top.
Hersh (muted whisper): What the fuck was that all about?
F.W: I don't really know. Apparently, they know The Canadian. They gave me this to give to him.
Out of his apron, he fishes out a white business card and hands it to me. I turn it around to it's blank side and expose black scribbled handwriting, expressing regards for The Canadian from "The Scottish Sisters". I push the card into the inner pocket of my suit jacket and a turn back around to surmise the room. The Short Haired Sister returns and, after a brief conversation with the Long Haired one, who has now risen from her seat, she grabs at her coat and turns around to where Frenchie and I stand. They both wave their goodbyes, accompanied by calling out some indistinguishable, accented parting and head off into the cold night.
The Mexican reappears from executing some of the Checklist Tasks downstairs. He yells out something in Mexican/Spanish, that I cannot clearly make out. Apparently it's a Latin version of my name, that he has invented and taken to using. I turn the lights up. To no one in particular, I loudly express my desire to expedite exit from the venue for the night. Head over to the Touchscreens, to print off the end of night reports necessary to commence my cash-up. Table 12's bill sits still open. The Mexican must have forgotten to close it off after receiving payment.
Hersh: Mexico! How did those Scottish freaks pay? Credit or Cash?
Mexican Waiter: I don't know. They didn't pay me. They paid Frenchie.
Hersh (turning to F.W): I thought you said they paid the Mexican?
F.W: They didn't pay me! Mexico gave them the bill. I was in the bathroom.
M.W: I thought you were gonna get payment!
Hersh: You guys are fucking useless. Go see if you can still find them outside.
They's gone. Nowhere to be seen. Off into the night. The Mexican returns inside and I lay on the Jewish Guilt Trip. I direct it at both the waiters. If I’m going to have to close off the bill unpaid, I need to get as much value out of the lost money as I can. In this game, you win some and lose some. The key is to only rarely lose and try to get a silver lining off that cloud. This was our first such a loss for a quite long time. I did have the business card addressed to The Canadian that they left behind. Perhaps they are friends of his and we can try to get money out of them at a later date.
The next day, I tell The Canadian the story. I show him the card. He looks down at it perplexed. He rotates it around and around again. Neither the names inscribed in the greeting on the back, nor my description of their appearance, seems to jog his memory. He always talks about how great his memory is, so if he can't recall, he must not know them. We write it off as a loss and I staple the business card to a copy of the unpaid bill and stick it up on the pinboard above the filling cabinet.
End of ACT I
ACT II
Friday night. Towards the end of January. Busy. Real busy. We're down one waiter, but that's fine. It forces The Mexican and I to work the mezzanine on our own. We split the work of three waiters between just the two of us. Breaking into a sweat triggers sense memories of all those crazy nights, in all those crazy places, all over this crazy globe, with some of the craziest waiters on the planet. Nostalgia - the softest and warmest woollen vest I know. I bound down the stairs to grab the drink order I just put through. The Italian (we have one of everything working here in Chelsea) is seating a booking, so there's noone standing at the door to greet the two ladies that have just pushed back the heavy, ornate, brass handle. They don't wait for someone to greet them. They charge right around the bar and towards me.
Customer: Hi. There's two of us. Table please.
Takes a moment for my mind to translate the Scottish brogue into English. She looks familiar, this ghost-like character. After a while in Chelsea, they all end up looking familiar. But these two were in recently.
Hersh: OK. well, we are full at the moment, but if you grab a seat up here at the bar, I'll have The Italian come around and tell how long the wait shall be.
It clicks. Like the final plastic, red disk slipping down into place, to complete the winning move in a game of Connect 4. It's those Scots! The ones with all the makeup. The ones that ran off from an unpaid bill. It's them. Surely. I mean, I'm not 100%, but I'm pretty darn close. Do I say something? I should. I’ll be gentle and off the cuff; as if it was all an innocent error. I’m sure that’s all it was. They did leave a card that made them traceable. An action that would be at odds with preconceived nefarious intent. Yeah, I’m gonna say something. The Short Haired Scot has wandered off somewhere, but the Long Haired Scot is still seated where I deposited her.
Hersh: Um, by the way, when you were here a few weeks ago, we forgot to get payment for you bill.
LHS (indignant): Sorry?
Hersh: Yeah, last time you were here, we didn’t collect payment. I think the waiters got a little mixed up.
LHS (rising indignance): What? We weren’t here!
Hersh: Um, weren’t you sitting on that table over there two weeks ago?
LHS (indignance turning to anger): Certainly not. Certainly wasn’t me. We weren’t here at all. What are you talking about??
Hersh: Oh dear. Sorry about that. Must have you confused with someone else. I beg your pardon. Excuse me.
LHS: What are you accusing me of??
Hersh: No. Nothing. It’s my mistake. I’ve confused you with someone else.
Drinks are up. Need to be run to the table. Understaffed tonight, got to hustle. I run the drinks upstairs and rerun the scanner in my memory. Those two women are definitely the very same ones from a few weeks ago. I’m certain now. The reaction, or should I say ‘over reaction’, from The LHS threw me for a moment, but I’m going to stick with my, what Malcom Gladwell calls, Blink. My gut instinct is right here. I sprint off up to the office. The unpaid bill sits tacked up on the pinboard, still stapled to the business card. I grab and fold it into my back pocket. I’m sure I’m going to need it.
The Italian: Those two ladies downstairs want to speak to you. They seem pretty pissed off.
I head off back to the ground floor. I don’t really have time for this now. There’s too many far more important fires to put out. There’s too many customers waiting for food. There’s too many staff not doing exactly what I want. There’s too many plates and too many glasses to attend to. But, there’s also two demented Scottish sisters to deal with.
Short Haired Scot (she too has joined the indignant party): What did you say to my sister? You said we stole from you?!?
Hersh (soft, even tone): Nobody is accusing anybody of stealing. If I gave that impression, I am sorry. All I said, was that last time you were here, we forgot to get payment for the bill.
Long Haired Scot: Well, that’s the exact same thing.
Hersh: No it’s not.
LHS: Well, we weren’t here, anyways. When were we here?? What are you talking about??
I fish out the business card and bill.
Hersh: Is this your card?
They both circumspect it as would a bank teller inspecting for counterfeit currency. Two spinster sisters, doused in whitening makeup, crouched over a tiny, white business card, whilst the colourful panorama of a whirlwind restaurant swirls around and past them.
SHS: This is my card. I left it when we were here a few weeks ago. But we paid that bill. I’m sure.
Hersh: OK, well my records indicated something else.
LHS: Well, then you are wrong. I paid that. In fact, I just threw out the copy of the credit card receipt a few days ago.
Hang on a second. A moment ago, you weren’t here and now you’re switching your story to certain payment. Something is not right here.
SHS: Listen, I left my card for The Canadian. Why would I do that if we were not intending to pay?
Hersh: I agree. This is why it must have just been an innocent oversight.
LHS: But we weren’t even here
We’re heading back to that story now?
Hersh: Look. Not to rush you off, but I really need to do some running around for a moment. We have no way of enforcing payment of this bill. I just thought I’d mention it and leave it with you to deal with as you see fit. If you insist that you’ve paid it, there’s nothing I can do.
SHS (turning to LHS): You did it pay, didn’t you?
LHS: I want a copy of that bill!
Why did she just change the topic like that?
Hersh: OK, well I’ll email you a copy.
LHS: I don’t want an email. I want that bill now.
Hersh: I’m sorry, but we don’t have a photocopy machine here, so I’m going to have to email it.
LHS: Well, then give me that one you have in your hand.
Hersh: No, I can’t do that. This is the original, but I will get you a copy.
LHS: Why can’t you photocopy it now?
Hersh: As I said: I don’t have a photocopier here.
LHS: Well go find one.
Pause. Look at her silently. I’ll give her a moment to realise how ridiculous she is starting to sound. Nothing registers in her eyes. She raises her eyebrows to demand a response. I’m not going to buy into her madness. She’s clearly trying to steer the conversation off on some tangent.
Hersh: OK. I’m going to leave you guys here at the bar. If you still want a table, The Italian will be around shortly to provide you with one.
LHS: No! We will not be eating here. You’ve made up all these horrible lies and insults and we will not be eating here.
SHS: Hang on! I still wanna eat here.
LHS: Well I don’t’. He’s accusing me of not paying a bill, when I wasn’t even here.
SHS: But we were here! Don’t you remember? We sat right over there and had a great dinner. That’s why I wanted to come back tonight.
LHS: Well, you might have been here, but I wasn’t.
SHS: What are you talking about? Don’t you remember that whole drama with getting home??
LHS (Stares SHS in the eye for a moment): I – wasn’t – here. You might have been, but I wasn’t.
This is getting a little too crazy for me. That’s saying something. I like crazy. It’s normally my bag. My full bag. But, this has blown my quota. I walk away from them. The Italian returns to me upstairs, to inform that they are demanding my presence again. But I’m done. I gave them a good turn. I was even, fair and calm. I even insinuated that I wasn’t going to chase too hard for the absconded payment. But something else completely is going on down there and I don’t wish to be part of it. The Italian gives them a card with my name on it and they storm off into the night.
END OF ACT II
A girl I know, tells me that sometimes this blog reminds her of Jerry Springer. Something to do with the little summing up I do at the end of a post and it’s similarity to the monologue-to-camera he ends his shows with. So, here’s my Springer finish:
There’s a lot more to this story than I’ve given you. I could flesh it out richer and provide more insight. I could draw out an ACT III, that occurred in my living room after this bizarre Friday night. It’d involve my housemates and I working out that on the original Sunday Night, the LHS lied to the SHS about paying by credit card. The LHS probably then asked The SHS for cash to cover her half of the bill, thereby not only stealing from us, but from her very own sister. Hence, the insane backtracking and grasping at straws exhibited in ACT II. But I haven’t written this out. I didn’t because I was going for style over substance. Jokes over insight. Beat and rhythm over content.
The reason is simple: We waiters, on a daily basis, put up with the most offensive accusations and attitude from the General Public. We could take them on board; take them personally. Sacrifice any sense of self, so as to inflate your ego. But we don’t. If we did, we’d never be able to come to work tomorrow and provide you with service, in good faith. So we ignore the content and remember only the style. It’s much easier to laugh that way. We’d rather laugh at you than ourselves.
