I have a cheat sheet that I carry
in my check presenter that has the names of many of the regular customers I see
in God’s Waiting Room, the restaurant where I work in one of Boston’s wealthier
neighborhoods. I’m not like my fiancé, who can remember faces and names and
drink orders and conversations after only meeting someone one time. I need to
wait on them several times to realize that I know them, then I have to make a
pointed effort to remember a name. Some people stand out for reasons other than
reoccurrence, and I hope they never catch a glimpse of my list.
For example, the first name on my
list is Trauma Victim. Her real name is Eileen, but she’s Trauma Victim because
there’s something not quite right with her gait. She never looks anyone in the
eye, and her gait exudes nervousness. She comes in with her grandmother, Susan.
Susan drinks a pinot grigio with a side of ice and a spoon for the ice, and
Eileen orders a Shirley Temple. When she orders it, she never lifts her eyes,
which rest beneath perfectly shaped eyebrows, from the table. She gestures with
her regularly manicured hands, dropping her posed fingers like a maestro on
each syllable of her order. Susan takes Eileen for weekly spa treatment,
because what else do you do with someone who can’t function in a regular
societal role but play into the roles into which they can fit—in Eileen’s case,
stereotypical gender roles. I’m not sure what happened to Eileen early in her
life to affect her socialization, but I hope that my attempts to treat her like
a normal customer don’t come off as treating her different.
Mike With The Laugh is another name
on the list. Mike used to be a late night customer that would come in with his
cousin and two friends and drink 12 Coors Lights apiece. They’d sit at the first
bar table, so I’d have to pass them every time I entered my section. Their
order was easy—fo’h mo’h coo’hses—and they were always too busy laughing like
hyenas (Mike’s laugh is especially high pitched) for me to properly interject
to get an order. They picked up the way I asked if they needed refills (“How ya
doin? Good?”) and it became a line that they started to mutter every single
time I passed the table. Shifts started going by where I’d hear it fifty times
a night. Weeks started going by where I’d hear it hundreds of times a week.
Months started going by where I wondered how three EMTs and a sheriff could
spend this much time at a bar. Finally, Mike met a girl, got married, and had a
baby. Now Mike With The Laugh is on my sheet next to Jack the Laugh’s baby, and
Colleen, Mrs. Laugh.
Mr. Bombardi (guy w/ lazy eye) has
the Blonde Wife whose name I haven’t found out yet. I called Mr. Bombardi by
name for the first time the other day (“You remembered me!”) and found out his
son has the same name as my nephew. I know them because they’re friends with
the O’Hallorans, who are the Peeps who always say HI.
The Peeps who always say HI stopped
coming in because Mr. Flannigan’s request to pay for their 8-year-old son’s
dinner made them uncomfortable.
Mr. Flannigan’s order of a
Beefeater martini straight up with olives was the first note made on my list,
but I never have it made for him without going to the table first. I’d hate him
to feel predictable, so I always ask him how a Beefeater sounds today. I don’t
care if he’s a little creepy around kids sometimes; I know he’s harmless, and
he always tips twenty bucks.
Jim and John are a gay couple who
always come in together and always have crass, dirty jokes. Jim drinks a tall
Tanqueray, but John hasn’t drank for years. Joanna and Marie have waited on
them for two decades, but always refer to them as Jimandjohn. I finally wrote
down that John has the beard. God knows what I would have done if he shaved.
Addressing customers by name is
essential in this business. It increases tips, especially around the holidays,
and leads to people requesting a specific server. You can’t nurture a
relationship if you don’t know a person’s name. Marie has perfected the art of
catching customers at the door and saying their name with a hello and a hug. It
makes the customers feel special, but the rest of us get pissed that we can’t
get anyone in our sections. How can a hostess not bring the customers to
Marie’s tables after a greeting like that? It’s also a kind of reward to the
customer to be recognized for their patronage, and it creates a community
atmosphere among the clientele.
Some places use the BNO (Big Night
Out) system, or some other computer program to track customers’ likes and
preferences. I prefer the more old school cheat sheet. Handwritten notes
carried with me for one specific reason: to help me get through my shifts on a
more human level. Instead of focusing on just the burn-and-turn of my tables,
I’m greeting friends. I can be part of a weekly girls’ day that is someone’s
only notion of normalcy. I might remind someone else of late nights laughing
with the guys when he’s having early dinner with the new baby. I’m defining my part
of the community I chose when I left home. I may have to take a peak at my
notes now and again to remember my favorite customers’ names, but who says you
can’t use notes in the test of life?
