Epic Evening FAILS

Plural? Yes, plural.

Let's start with the first evening, which was two nights ago. This fail was made all the more poignant by the gloriousness which preceded it.

I had a whole lovely Sunday off. After teaching voice lessons I met up with (new!) friends to see RENT, which is possibly the best musical written ever. It was an epic afternoon. I cried, I laughed, I clapped along, I jumped to my feet at the end in gratitude. The afternoon was made even more glorious when I learned that I was standing next to...wait for it...Bobby McFerrin! Yukes says I should have tried to take one of his dreads as a souvenir. He's right. But at the time I was paralyzed, so I did nothing. It's better this way, no? Now I can still say truthfully that I am currently under no restraining orders.

Warm with creative fulfillment and Bobby McFerrin vicinitudeness, I proceeded to my next destination; the liquor store, to pick up some wine for Yukes and my romantic lobster dinner.

It was while in the store that I heard my phone beep. I had a message. I put the phone up to my ear, and what I heard made my blood run cold.

"Emily, this is the manager here at Moosewood, it's 5:15 and you were supposed to be here at 4:30. Call me as soon as you get this."

Ohnoohnoohnoohno....I sped home wine-less, checked the schedule, and realized with relief that they were wrong. I wasn't on the schedule! Huzzah! My evening could proceed as planned! And then...I saw, in teeny-tiny letters that I could barely make out, my name. Crammed with another name into the 4:30 slot.

Let's make this long story short. I was there in ten minutes and inconsolably cranky. I got reamed out by the manager, who first asked me what had happened and then, when I told her, informed me that my answer was no excuse and that I had better not let it happen again.

It got to me, even though it shouldn't have. I'm sure I'm not the first human working at this restaurant to make this mistake (especially when things are written so freaking small). I got over it, of course, but you know...

It sucked.

Fast-forward to tonight and our second evening fail. Strangely enough, this evening's fail took place at this very selfsame restaurant! What are the chances?!

It was a quiet evening on the patio at Moosewood. Suddenly the hostess turned to me and said she had just given me a nine-top.

And what a nine-top it was.

(For those of you who are not familiar with the restaurant lingo, a nine-top means that this particular table has nine people sitting at it. And if you don't know this, than I can only sneer and say "Well, I guess they never taught you that at college!")

It was two mean, mean families. The first thing that happened was that one of the women asked me to bring bread right away for her baby, otherwise she would "start to go crazy." As I ambled off to get the bread, said baby threw her pacifier at her father, who said to her "good throw!"

Warning bells jingle-jangled in my little head.

They barked orders at me two-at-a-time, willy-nilly, and were impatient when I asked them to give me a second so they could write it down. The teenage girl sneered at me. The parents ordered for their ten-year-old, who then quietly said to me "I didn't get to order what I wanted," and, while his parents continued yelling "he wants butter and cheese" said "I want tomato sauce." I listened to him.

The chimpanzee father on the end was the worst of them. He refused to look at me as he demanded more onions and more dressing on the side. I was just a gnat to him, a bacteria that was created to bring him exactly what he wanted. His little wifey covered his tracks very nicely, joking with him for being so impossible and apologizing to me.

Now I know why waiters spit in the food. But to be honest, I would have preferred whacking him in the head.

At the end of the meal their kids were getting antsy, so they asked for the check. I gave it to them and checked on my other tables. The next thing I know, neanderthal dad hits me on my arm with the little check-book thingey. Yes, hits me. He informed me that they needed to pay now.

I looked at the check, and felt a cold sweat break out across my forehead.

I realized I had forgotten to add the 20% gratuity.

I knew this jerk would not be happy about it. But I had no choice. So I turned around and told him.

It did not go well.

That little man made quite the scene in the middle of the tranquil Moosewood night. Of course, in the end it just solidified his place in the the heierarchy of the Universe as pond-scum. But my mistake burned through me as the rest of the restaurant-goers watched.

Oh well. Every job has its days. The manager (a different one) was sympathetic and let me off early. I drank a glass of wine and fantasized about being fired from the restaurant, finding that man (it wouldn't be hard), and killing him.

Probably that won't happen.

At least not the second part.