Waiter-ing: piping-hot or septic-tank evil?

I became a waiter over the summer at a franchise Italian eatery, under the impression that the… I became a waiter over the summer at a franchise Italian eatery, under the impression that the money, booze, and sassy ladies would flow like a metaphoric river of good times. It ended up being more like a metaphoric slurping of a septic tank of badness.

Vince was the stoutly muscled general manager and undoubtedly the reason this job was so unlivable.

He was an insane stickler for details; for example, he once reprimanded me for ten minutes for not having button on my collar: “Do you know what your job is here, Ben? You’re supposed to give our guests a genuine I-talian dining experience, and serve them piping-hot food. How are you going to do that without buttons on your collar?”

He always said “piping-hot food.” What the hell is “piping-hot food?” Can you serve the customers plain-hot food, or would they get pissed off and send it back? “Look, I come here because I like my food piping. Can I please get some piping with my meal?”

Vince said “piping-hot food” so much that everyone answered every question he had with those words.

Vince: “Do you know where Steve is?”

“Piping-hot food!”

Vince: “Who put this booger on my shirt?”

“Piping-hot food!”

During the two months I waiter-ed, I found three different kinds of customers. First, there’s the unbelievably fat guy who knew the menu better than I did, knew all the chefs by name, had more friends at the restaurant than I did and ordered three entrees, then one more to go.

Then there was the idiot who – even though the Italian words are made so American-friendly that most of the menu is spelled out phonetically – couldn’t even pronounce “alfredo.”

Lastly, there was the woman who was so old that her body stopped producing heat, so she needed a refill of soup every three minutes or she’d freeze. After she was done eating, she’d slowly shuffle out to find a nice big rock on which she could incubate.

It was inevitable that I became a spineless suck-up, pandering shamelessly for tips. After saying “certainly” and “just one moment, please” for eight hours a day, I became this cheery tool. I tried to fight it and curse sometimes, but the only thing that came out was a zippy, “More breadsticks? Yeah, they sure are yummy!”

At the end of every night, I’d go home exhausted, both feet in pulsating pain. I’d drink myself stupid, praying for Vince to contract polio or at least glaucoma. And when I drank, I’d drink Smirnoff Ice, because I’m a girl – sad but true.

Undeniably, the only good part of working there was the staff; they were all so friendly and rowdy, and spontaneously broke out in dance parties. One time, I turned around in the kitchen, and Dante’s pants were down, showing off his two bare ass cheeks split in the middle by a thin strand of hot-red g-string. I’m not sure what he was doing, but the entire kitchen staff erupted in hooting and hollering, Jerry Springer-style, then we started chanting “piping-hot food” and ran around in hysterics.

Ultimately, I hope the occupation of waiter isn’t taken over by robots or, even worse, that someone doesn’t invent one of those food-processing units from Star Trek. Waiter-ing is a good rite of passage for all young Americans. While I waiter-ed, I learned valuable skills – like how to steal a lot of desserts, to cry without making noise as the GM beat me and to get a woman’s digits and then find out that she’s a prostitute. Unlike the others, that last one actually happened, and I’m a better person because for it.

E-mail Ben Rubin at headpsychlo@yahoo.com.