Required Work Post

For those that don't know, I work as a waitress in a Native-operated Casino/Hotel.  There are only two girls on my shift, myself and pregger-Jess.  Because pregger-Jess can't work in smoking, she has the earlier shift and I take the late shift.  We tend to work really well together and generally there are no problems on our shift, regarding shitty service, because we help each other out as needed.

Last night, was concert night.  Buddy Guy, whom I had never heard of before, was playing.  Also, there were three buses, the last of which left around three.   Overnight buses suck by themselves.  Concerts suck by themselves.  Put the two together, especially when the buses are from Cleveland, and the night is going to be full of suck.

Sorry, you just suck.

Because of my lack of car, and my ride's starting work time, I arrived at the SAC an hour and a half before my scheduled shift.  Joy for my managers!  "JessAnn is here anyways, lets put her to work!"  Yeah, I tried to ignore them and read my book, but it didn't work.  (Not that I cared, it was just the point.)  Between 10pm and 11.30pm I did nearly $300 dollars in sales.  I think my twitter said it all:

"Ahhhhhh!"

My favorite part of the night?  When all the printers in the kitchen decided they were on strike.  Yes, that's correct, pregger-Jess and I thought we were putting orders back to the kitchen to be cooked, but instead, we were feeding the same monster that eats the socks from your dryer.

"Gimmie your socks and orders!!"

One table took great advantage of the sock monster's craving for order tickets, 103.  103 had been transferred to me, as the original waitress wanted to head home, standard procedure.  I go back to check on the food some five minutes after the table was transferred (she said she just put the order in, it was two orders of wings, that takes around nine minutes).  Oh joy, she put the order in fifteen minutes before it was transferred to me, add my five minutes of dicking around, the wings have been in for a total of twenty minutes.

But, where are my wings?  "We don't have a ticket for wings," one of the cooks says to me.  Oh joy.  I pick up the expo ticket on my side of the line and hand it to him.  He reads it, looks at the time on it, "Oh shit.  I never got this!"  Luckily, Chef Pretty was walking by and he heard the ruckus.

What do I tell my table, Chef?  "Tell them.. tell them we ran out of wings and had to get fresh.  Yeah, tell them that and that we need five minutes."

Wonderful.  I go to the dining room, fake smile in place, head held high, and explain the situation.

"This happened to us last time too!"  Ah, fuck.

Chef Pretty gave them each an extra half order of wings, to apologize for the wait.  He even left the comforts of the kitchen to explain to the table himself what had "happened," not something most chefs are willing to do.

But, sadly, 103 was still unhappy.  They were standing around looking for me when I delivered the food.  "We were about to leave," the man says, "this is ridiculous." 

 Whatever, we gave you extra food, shut it.  "I'm sorry for the wait sir, but Chef did give you each an extra half order of wings for your paitence."

"Is it half off day at this table?" the lady quips, "Tell your manager it's buy one get one free on chicken wings today."

Aw, shit.  "Will do m'am"

Needless to say, they ate every fucking bite of the three orders of wings we gave them and payed for only one, with comp points.  Luckily for me, Chef Pretty was already in a bad mood before my lovely table, so now I can fear his wrath that much more.