Back and Action Packed

Since my last foray into the blogging world (really two year's since I was assigned this project?) I have graduated, am gainfully employed and I'm on my way to becoming a celebrity. I have moved on from my quaint little house on Mount Washington in Pittsburgh with my roommates and now reside in Western Maryland in a PBR swillin', honky-tonk music listenin', pick-up truck drivin' town. No Target, no (good) grocery store, not even a Walmart. So now I own three pairs of cowboy boots and spend my weekend at the American Legion, it's the only bar in town.

Also since we last talked - I'm getting married. Yes the reason I've moved to God's county is following my true love. Now I spend my days talking about which crops we'll plant to be canned in the summer and deciding how many months I want between pregnancies - sike!

This wedding thing is not a big deal as everyone makes it out to be. I found the perfect dress, the perfect venue, the perfect food and the perfect cake all in a few short months. My current tasks are just focusing on not gaining 10 more pounds (luckily I did buy that lace-up dress) and finding cute things to wear on the honeymoon.

Now hiring - all BOH positions, please don't be creepy or a convict

Line cooks - everyone has them, nobody likes them. The BOH (back of the house) staff are people like Quasimodo (without the kind-hearted part)- important to how things run, but not to be seen.

Fortunately for me, our line cooks and most of our dish washers are exceptionally irritating and most are on work release from halfway houses - obviously they are my best friends... not really.

There are the exceptions of course - the two line cooks from the Culinary Institute (who, in order to grab my attention, constantly sneak me food) I call friends (to their faces) and they are pretty okay guys. And one of the guys from the halfway house, Vinny, was really only involved in international drug dealing for awhile, so he's all right too.

The rest, I can take them or leave them, preferably leave.

Two of the cooks, Stefan and K are pretty much the bane of my existence. Every time I walk into the kitchen it's in fear that one of them will come up to me and ask me for a hug or comment on the beautiful color of my skin (Stefan frequently is the culprit for this).

I don't care how pretty you think I am, nor do I care that my "hugs make [your] day." In truth the thought of touching you makes me throw up in my mouth a little and no you can't have my number, you don't even have a phone.



I can't even stand in the kitchen and socialize with the other servers while I'm on the clock without the fear of you looking at me.

Not only do I want to wear mechanic overalls and a parka when they're around, but when I am waiting for a re-fire on a happy hour burger and they are standing there talking about what they are going to do when they "get out," I become incensed. I just want to remind them, that in all probability, within six months of their "release" they are probably going to be back in jail, don't get too excited.

I'm not asking much, just do you job quickly and efficiently and don't look at me, talk to me, talk about me or come within ten feet of me.

Condiment Police

As per usual, yet another annoying attribute has caught my attention... people order too many condiments.

I am a great lover of condiments myself. In fact I've never met one that I haven't loved, BUT everything in moderation.

Some customers need more than one ramekin of ketchup, which I can understand because my mother is one of those people who eats ketchup basically plain, but anything beyond two ramekins of ketchup is just excessive.

Not to mention that when it's 5:30 p.m. on a Friday and I'm running my ass off, you make me go the whole way back to the kitchen for a container of ketchup. I get irritated and usually think something nasty about you... so there.

Besides, if normal people knew the amount of sugar combined with those pureed tomatoes, they would probably think twice about eating it. It's not really considered a vegetable if the sugar to tomato ratio is 1:1 - for every one tablespoon of ketchup, there is one tablespoon of sugar. I can't make this stuff up people.

I can even sympathize with those who like ketchup and mustard. I consider myself a mustard connoisseur of sorts - it's my favorite condiment and I like it excessively and in many variations IN MY OWN HOME.

The non-traditional condiments like; ranch, blue cheese dressing, A1 steak sauce, hot sauce etc. are irritating to me as well, but I can understand how certain sauces really make a meal for a person. I love food and I am all about helping people reach their full enjoyment when they eat. But there is only so many BBQ sauces one person needs.

Once you dump all that sauce on - it loses the essence of the food. From now on I'm monitoring all my customers condiment intake and making suggestions.

I get the most incensed about mayo. I used to like mayo. Now I despise it. Not only does the smell not come out when I inevitably spill two gallons on myself, but people feel like their lives are not complete without it. There is no reason for one person to need two ramekins of mayo. People - it is mixed egg whites and oil...there is nothing special about that. Stop torturing your poor server to bring you multiple servings of something that adds no value to your food and clogs your arteries the minute it touches your body.



With that said - just remember, the next time you order extra condiments from me, I'm going to judge you and think horrid things about you - especially if it's mayo.

Cosmopolitans and Cosmimosas - a way of life

I know I've mentioned this in previous posts, but I felt that an entire post dedicated to this was important. People can be defined by their drinks. The chart I made for class shows a broad definition of that and this is the first post in a line of many defining a specific drink by the people who drink it.

Women specifically can be stereotyped by the drinks they order. Women, specifically younger ones, often drinkrenise, or synchronize the drinks they order, thus causing me to pass the same judgement on all of them. (It's really easier that way, then I don't have to think up individual reasons to dislike them)

A cosmopolitan or a raspberry cosmimosa is the perfect personality tests. Women of all ages love the variations of this drink (thanks Sex and the City).

The younger cosmo/cosmimosa drinkers are more often than not sorority sisters, carrying some type of designer bag and all having straightened hair. They see this drink as "grown-up," but still flirtatious, which lends itself to coyly smiling at the man passed out on the bar who they think is looking at them. (His eyes are just rolled back in his head, he's not looking at you)



The type of older women who generally order raspberry cosmimosas, while there are always exceptions, are usually past prom queens, who also deem it necessary to sit and talk about every other person in the bar and who wear incredibly too much make-up - you're 35 honey, and married, so stop looking at the group of boys celebrating their friends 21st birthday.

Now I don't mean to sound like bitch, I myself have enjoyed a cosmimosa before. There are always the women who are exceptions, some women genuinely like cosmimosas, not just the reputation that comes with drinking them.

But as a standard, most of the women who come in and order any variation of a cosmo are all be cut from the same cloth and basically need to be told the same thing - proms over and no one cares if you met the entire cast of the Hills.

A Spending Chart

I've created this chart because:

1. We were told to make a chart and put it on our blog in class
2. I want to show the difference in spending habits between different ages/sexes

Please click on the chart to view it in a larger format

The totals are roughly the prices of individual drinks. For instance, $2.95 is the price of our Coors Lite draft special, which most younger men order.

$5.50 = a well liquor with cran/diet/coke/soda/etc,
$4.75 = the average price of our other non-special draft beers
$6.95 = a specific liquor (ex: absolut) with cran/diet/coke/soda/etc.
$9.50 = the price of our core cocktails
$10.00 = roughly the price of an expensive modified cocktail
$12.50 = is the starting price of the "good" scotch
$13.00 = is the starting price of an 8 oz. glass of wine from our wine list

All of the numbers are informally what I came up with after 6+ months of serving at my current establishment and do not include tax.

Q: What is the lesson learned from this chart?

A: Women order more expensive drinks because men usually buy them.

Lead me out of Egypt - figuratively

Vivian's leaving makes my life with the third cocktailer just that much more difficult. With only one week left in Pittsburgh, Vivian's last shifts are looming. There are 12 shifts to be covered each week; Monday - Friday's lunch and dinner and Saturday and Sunday's are just dinner. Usually during the busy shifts there are two of us. Being that I cannot work lunches, Vivian's departure leaves all lunch shifts to... the "Locust."

One witty server has coined the name, the locust, for the third cocktailer. In a previous post, I referenced readers to the Bible chapter, Exodus.

For those who have no contact with the Qur'an, the Bible or the Torah, the exodus includes the 10 plagues, number eight being hoards of locusts that descended upon the land to destroy anything living that number seven plague (hailstorms) didn't get. Thus - cocktailer #3.



Not only does she have the personality of a locust, but if you squint hard enough, she resembles one as well; small stature with beady eyes (as I imagine a locust having) plus her hair is roughly the same color.



It's easy to look past her rude demeanor, incorrect grammar and lack of people skills, but her greediness is a problem. There will always be issues in the restaurant business with fairness in the number of tables each server gets. It's worse on the bar side. We don't have a hostess, so we take turns, taking every other table that comes in.

The locust almost always has more tables than me and if I ever try to even it up, she runs to the managers like they're her mother. Usually, everyone just chalks it up to the luck of the draw. This past Friday was one of the worst days. Her sales more than doubled mine. I walked out with $87, she walked out with $180 - how she even made that much I'll never know. Customers frequently complain about her prickly manner and rude service.

Plus, she doesn't even remotely follow the guidelines I listed for prime tip making. She rarely wears make-up and her hair is usually a mess. Not to mention, it really benefits us to not act like a giant bitch - apparently she didn't get that memo.

For awhile I was holding onto the hope that she would get fired, but with Vivian leaving and me working three shifts a week, that's definitely not happening now.

I guess I'll just draw my patience from Moses and just keep my legs crossed and my mind on Jesus.

St. Patrick's Day Eve - an oxymoron

Fitting in nicely with the drunken revelries of Saint Patrick's day is the Physics convention that has come to town.

Monday night started off like any other, slow, uneventful and cheap.

While I was busy consuming loaves of break and diet coke out of my boredom, the fun began.

Usually we don't get too many foreign people in our place. Everyone knows that they are notoriously bad tippers and we have our fair share like everyone else, but Mondays are usually devoted to regulars.

Fortunately for me, but for no one else, by 6:30 the room was filled with the sweet cacophony of Eastern languages. The Physics convention attendees had arrived.

I strolled around the tables, taking in all the formula glory and flirting with as many Asians as possible.

After filling all of the tables that our servers could handle, the hostess began to seat them with me, in the bar. Of course, one of the few Americans sitting was quick to point out that everyone there was a nerd, so they weren't going to drink much - boy was he right.

I don't think that we have ever served such a high volume of people with such a low volume of alcohol.

After one round of yuenglings, which took about 20 minutes to order because of the pronunciation, my first 4-top was done... and continued to sit at the table and write down equations on the bev napkins for 30 minutes. (I offered them shots, and then extra paper, but they declined both)

My next table was a group of five men, who ordered one bottle of wine... for all five of them. I could have drank that myself in the time it took them to pick up their glasses and take the first sip. The worst part was pouring the remainder of the bottle down the drain - they hadn't finished it all.

Other restaurants felt the wave of foreigners too. Many people asked me what there was to do in Pittsburgh (drink of course!) other than that, this late on a Monday - nothing. But the worst part was trying to describe the difference between draft beer and bottled, with hand motions.

All in all, no one drank (not one person ordered a Guinness!), everyone tipped poorly and at the end of the night, the restaurant was littered with fluttering bev napkins, covered in numerous physic-like symbols.


It's almost a affront to the Irish.

Goodbye [Vivian Lorraine] - Like a Candle in the Wind

My dearest co-worker, Vivian, will be leaving our corporate work establishment in just three weeks to pursue other opportunities on an island in the south. I have a few words of farewell that I would like to say to her in this post. I realize I am bit early in my goodbyes, but I want to ensure that I'm not pissed at her when she leaves.

Firstly, I am so glad that you are finally going to be using one of your two degrees. If you ever need a friend to come visit you during the week over the fourth of July, free of charge, I'm your girl!

Secondly, I hate you for leaving me. Not only are you leaving behind all of our memories, like Rico, your other boy that mysteriously ended up in Dubai and the list I've made you of boys that you are not allowed to date (don't worry, I've already mailed two copies to your new address, the post office is holding them for you, and posted one on here --> see below), but you are also leaving me abandoned with the Locust (see Exodus).

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Vivian's Untouchables:
1. those who have a job that needs "bailed out"
2. line cooks (including by not exclusive to; fry cooks, salad prep, sous chefs, head chefs)
3. anyone else we work with
4. people who don't have a job, but do have a large drug habit
5. people who move to the middle east for a few weeks
6. people who have tax exemptions
7. those who have psycho girlfriends, or any girlfriends in general
8. valets
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lastly thanks so much for the great friendship. Your mother, the Queen, has imparted some dear wisdom and fear into my heart and I hope that she continues to lecture, despite the miles between you. Thanks for gossiping all the times at work when I was bored and for the education that you gave me on African American hair.

Lastly I want to remind you of your sister Jordan's infinite wisdom:

"Just because he's human, doesn't mean you have to date him."

Tipping as an artform - the Playboy bunnies got it right

Now that we've discussed the various forms of tippers, there are several techniques that can be used to get a better tip.

The first, and obviously the best working, is flirtation. Flirting is always welcomed, except by bitter women, but it almost always works. Men and women alike appreciate coyness and over the top interest. Even gay men will tell you, that when their female server flirts with them, the service seems better. Besides, most of the men I see haven't talked to a young 20-something the way that they talk to me for about 15 years, and that means 20+ percent.

Secondly, is appearance: The way we look is a reflection of ourselves and most of the time you want that reflection to be sex. Sex sells and people love a scantily clad cocktailer in fishnets. It doesn't always have to be clothes - or the lack thereof - but the way we're put together. If you come in without make-up and in your ex-boyfriends t-shirt turned inside out, people are not going to like it. I am extremely low maintenance when it comes to going to classes or anywhere else out in public, but when I work, it takes me at least 45 minutes to get ready.

As an addendum to number two, cleavage of course plays a big factor, the more the better. Don't get offended when they look because it means more money for you. Refer to the cleavage scale in my first post.

Thirdly is service. Bad service can be overlooked if you look good and act appropriate. Geriatrics aren't big fans of you crossing your arms and pushing your girls up, but they do appreciate consideration. I always try to make a comment about how the light really is low as they squint at the menu, not that they're so old that they can't handle mood lighting. People don't care that it takes 20 minutes to get a Carlsberg, if you drop off Playboy style.




No matter what, when in doubt unbutton your shirt, let down your hair and pretend your waiting on the best sex partner you've ever had.

Corporate men - my specialty and the best tippers.

It doesn't matter if you wear a toupee or have a tanning mark where your wedding band should be, if you work for PNC and are highly invested in your 401k, we want to wait on you.

After fruitless babying of all sorts of bad tippers, our four-leaf clovers of cocktailing are undoubtedly the rich ones. They're not all corporate, but they do all have a business credit card and they do leave the tips above the 20 percent mark.

If one isn't careful, a cat fight could ensue over the claiming of a table spilling over with 40 and 50 something men with peacoats and comb-overs. Not only do they order real wine (not happy hour) and beers other than the domestic lite special, but they have been known to order food... off of the real dinner menu!

Forget those happy hour wings - how about one order of calamari, shrimp cocktail and an ahi tuna appetizer?


Already, with one round of drinks and three dinner appetizers, the bill is 50 bucks - it only gets better from here.

A little flirting and leaning with your arms crossed over those high stools will get you pretty far. And after a night of one dollar bills, it's nice to get that 20 percent.

Men in that range are also easy to cajole into drinking more. Another Blanton's on the rocks.. oh come on, your mother's not here... soon turns into 5, at $12.00 a piece.

It must feel good to have a 20-something cocktailer flirting with you and pulling her shirt down a little lower, telling to you drink more, when you've ignored your wife of 20-year's fifth phone call to get your ass home.

I don't make the rules, I just play by them, pretty well might I add. It seems indecent, maybe that's why women hold a grudge, because they know we'd do the same thing to their husbands.

We don't discriminate. We're just trying to make a living and for that I'll pull my shirt down any day.

Women leave bad tips - it might be a genetic problem.

The worst tippers are women, specifically old women and those coming up on middle-age. If they work at Saks it's even worse. Typically, women are the nicer sex (apparently), but when it comes to compensation for the 15 midlife crisis cosmos that I've dropped at your table - 20 percent doesn't seem like a possibility.



Things that I've done to get a tip (from women, the list is entirely different for men...obviously):

1. found single guys and coerced them into joining the midlife crisis women
2. had the bartender create diet/sugar free/low sodium drinks after much begging and pleading
3. got them extra mayonnaise (this is a popular one)
4. got them extra napkins
5. got them free stuff after they consumed it and told me that it was too burnt/too salty/too sweet/too fatty/too alcoholic
6. prevented personal items from getting stolen
7. picked up scarves, sweaters, gloves, hats, lipstick, shoes and tampons from the floor

and finally...

8. convinced them that the cheeseburger they're eating really isn't that bad for them, so much protein. I eat them all of the time and I'm 125 lbs.... right... just keep drinking, it makes it seem better.

After bending over backwards, I get a measly $10 on a $100 bill (I'm a journalism major, but I'm still pretty sure that's 10 percent). Sometimes it just doesn't seem worth it, but then every once in a while you get that big tip from a group of ladies celebrating their friend's 50th birthday and you get a little more faith that all women aren't giant bitches.

Besides, I'd rather wait on the mid-life crises, than the 20-30 year-olds. It's like they are out to get you. There is a bitterness requirement for most of them. I'm not sure if it's because I act so happy, or if it's because I get to flirt with every man in the place honestly that they harbor such resentment.

Waiting on tables with those twittering former sorority girls forms visions of spilled mojitos and requests for a house salad with fat-free dressing.

Check please!

"Don't pee into the wind" is not a tip...

Anyone who has worked in the serving world knows that any paychecks received usually aren't going to buy more than two beers on dollar beer Tuesday at Silky's and it's almost more work than it's worth to make your way to the bank to deposit it. That said, tips are the only real source of income for anyone in the service industry (double entendre intended, not that I know much about the implied).

There's a trend that follows whether in the dining room or the bar. (The next few sentences apply only to men.)

We'll begin this series with those who are freshly started at their jobs. They come into happy hour after work and their bosses are leaning down the bar. They buy a few rounds and socialize and eventually, end up picking up the rest of the tab - hey big spender. The tip in this situation could go one of three ways.

The first situation could be that all of their co-workers and bosses will stand around and throw in some bills, since their drinks were paid for. This is the ideal situation, as this usually involves the largest tip. Because in his effort to be a big shot, the data entry clerk, who makes 1/5 of what their boss does, won't let anyone see the check. Thus everyone else over-tips.

The second situation involves the boss(es) actually seeing the check as they stand around drinking their Johnnie Walker Black on the rocks ($9.50 a shot). In an effort to make an even better impression, they leave a mediocre tip. Just enough to show that they can play the game.

The last situation is the worst. After everyone to impress is gone, they end up leaving a meager amount on their credit cards or lying on the table, due to the fact that they just spent their monthly beer allotment on a boss who won't even remember their name.




Moral of the story: don't buy your superiors' drinks to impress them, they don't care.

Part Two of Unwanted Customers: Indiana Jones

Despite the fact that work has been slow and we should appreciate every customer that comes in, there are still some that are less than welcome.

Unwanted customer number two:

Indiana Jones usually comes in on Friday nights. He always wears a suit and often has a cravat or matching silk tie and handkerchief.
From the neck down he looks like a character out of a Bond movie, from the neck up he resembles Gollum (only with big glasses and more wrinkles). The best part is his hat.

My first contact with him came on a particularly busy night. He situated himself at the end of the bar, which became his usual spot. People milling around began sitting their empty glasses at the edge of the bar in front of him as we got busier and stopped taking them.

Indiana had the last straw when a curly headed boy sat down his Sam Adams glass. He launched into a loud, expletive filled oration concerning his $400 Indian Jones hat and how Curly probably couldn't even afford a hat like that and would never see a hat as nice as that one again and how he would kick Curly's ass. Did I mention Indian Jones is probably in his 70s? Curly looked at him and walked away.

After his blow-up, he proceeded to come up to me and whisper with nicotine filled breath the extent of my beauty, then clean a spot off of my shirt with his finger and his spit. Obviously a good pick-up tactic.

The next Friday he was in, he attached himself to a table of two ladies enjoying some crab dip and vodka and tonics. He wouldn't leave them alone. I asked him to move, the bartender asked him to move, my manager asked him to move and finally he left.

Of course not before he argued that he already paid his check, when the bartender handed him his $60 bill, and after calling both of the women that he was previously hovering around, fat.

Let's hope this friday has better things in store.

An Unsucessful Evening - the mayonnaise smell still has not washed out

The night started out like any other, with one of the bartenders, Kentucky, yelling "Let's get 'em drunk people, let's get 'em drunk." The only sad part is that at 3:30 in the afternoon there weren't that many people to get drunk. I proceeded to sit and eat, like usual, until 4:15 when I got my first table. From these small clues you can already tell that the night is taking a turn for the worse.

My first table turned out to be two business men from Tennessee and North Carolina. They were great, until they transferred to the dining room to have dinner. They assured me they would come back to the bar for after dinner drinks, all the while, praising my serving skills. This small fact holds importance only because what happened later that night.

While walking through the living room, I was balancing two plates when the first one fell. This is monumental, being that it is the first plate I have dropped in my five-year waitressing career. So I did what any typical cocktail waitress would do...I ran to the kitchen and got the bus boy to clean it up.

The only problem was, as the 1oz. container of cherry mayonnaise spun wildly out of control to the ground, it drenched me. I was practically covered from head to toe in cherry mayonnaise. I know this sounds impossible and like an exaggeration, but it's practically true. So before I was able to move to get the bus boy, I looked down having spread vegetables, french fries and a chicken breast sandwich around the room and realized that my ensemble was now a light pink color. Oh great.

The worst part of this scenario is that the men from the bar before and other guests had paused in their eating to take in my misfortune.

Hours after trying to wipe the mayonnaise off, to no avail, the men from before came back and decided to have a few beers with me.

While smelling of mayonnaise, I took the gentleman's' drink order, one Sierra Nevada and one I.C. Light - we are in Pittsburgh.


The next two hours consisted of me flirting diligently with their table in an effort to get a big tip. Once they found out that my boyfriend was at least a decade older than me, they launched into a 45 minute dissertation on my youth, beauty and the fact that I should not be dating a man who has kids in my own generation. The man from North Carolina tried to convince me that the man from Tennessee, who is potentially running for congress, had a son who was asked to take part in the adult film industry because of being so well-endowed, but decided not to and go to college instead - obviously someone I need to date.

The night went on like this and eventually we hugged good-bye like long-time friends. I figured that all my amicability and patience would pay off. As I opened my check presenter to look at the tip Mr. Tennessee left on his credit card, I was disappointed to see that it was only $6.10 on a $40 bill.

Not only had I wasted the last two hours flirting with these men when I could have been cleaning up and paying attention to my other tables, but they left me a $6 tip and I smelled like mayonnaise.

The mayonnaise smell still has not washed out of my apron.

Dating your co-workers will always be a bad idea - no exceptions.

My co-cocktailer, Vivian and I decided that we were going to call SoapNet to pilot her, and by default mine as well, work drama. Wherever there is romance to be found in the restaurant industry, disaster is sure to follow. There is a lesson to be learned from dating co-workers - don't do it.

Despite my abundant warnings, Vivian said yes when one of the cooks on culinary loan asked her out - we'll call him Rico: Their first date out to the bar was going seemingly well until they took some shots called "applesauce shots." After downing their first drink of the night, lover boy promptly threw up all over the bar and himself, the shot didn't "sit well" - no kidding. He threw up on the bar. Is this real? You can't write drama this good. First strike, not counting the fact that he doesn't pull his pants up the whole way.

After a few weeks of "dating" he started asking Vivian for money. Despite her misgivings, she loaned him $50 - which he actually paid back, this seems like bonus points, if we leave out the part where he borrowed her car all of the time and occasionally stood her up.

As the weeks wore on and Vivian became more attached and Rico more in-debt, he began to habitually stand Vivian up and was borrowing larger and larger sums of money from her. While we are working one night, the hostess, who had a convenient friendship with Rico, mentioned casually to Vivian that he texted her (the hostess) from the back of a cop car and had been arrested.

Evidently, while out driving, he was pulled over, in his own car, because half of his windshield is missing... Needless to say, when the cops made him get out of the car they found drug paraphernalia. Thus, he wasn't going to be able to meet Vivian. Just like any other normal girlfriend, Vivian and the hostess went to bail out Rico, finding out that he had not been registered at the Allegheny County Jail - being that he actually wasn't arrested. Strike two: telling his girlfriend he was in jail so he didn't have to hang out with her.

The third strike was the hardest. Vivian found out that she was carrying Rico's baby. Long story short, she ended up having a miscarriage after one month because of Rico's excessive drug habit. Before finding out that she was no longer a mom-to-be, Vivian told Rico about her pregnancy - to which he promptly replied that she was lying and a crazy bitch. Like this pretty, two-college-degree holding cocktailer would lie about being pregnant with the baby of drug user who lives in the basement of his younger brother's house. C'mon Rico, be realistic.

After a week Vivian gave up on getting her money back. After all, when her broke ex-boyfriend threatened her with a restraining order and screamed obscenities about her in the kitchen, we knew he was the one who needed the psychiatric help.

The last two weeks Rico has called off work all but one day and owes the bartender a couple hundred bucks as well. Looks like he's not coming back.

Just the other day when one of the servers asked Vivian to go out - we just looked at each other. I clearly informed him that she doesn't date co-workers. Besides, in the sentence following "Want to go out sometime," he said "I want to be a breeder." And that definitely would have been a poor life decision.

The sad part is, this is all true.

Definition of a Cocktail Waitress - Part 2

Continued from my previous post, the second part of my definition of cocktail waitressing deals mainly with the customer and hospitality side.

There are variations on the cocktailing uniform of course, but the serving skills required are all the same. Being a former upscale dining server, I miss the slow-paced style that reigns in the dining room. The bar is entirely different. One minute you're rearranging the chairs hoping for at least enough customers to break even and the next the bar is full and patrons are screaming drink orders at you like it's last call on a Saturday night, even though it's only 5:30p.m. on a Tuesday.

Patience isn't necessary, just a memory that can remember that the guy with the beard got a McClellan 12 neat and his twin brother got the McClellan 25 neat - little variation, big difference (a shot of McClellan 12 is about $20, McClellan 25 is $50). Being that happy hour specials always change I don't find them necessary to memorize - of course most employers do, but just as long as I know the cheapest beer available (at our place Coors Lite), customers are happy.



As my final comment on the noble profession of cocktail waitressing, I leave you with this helpful information: never carry a tray with empty wine glasses through a crowd because all of them will most definitely break, while standing at the bar continually eating maraschino cherries you will undoubtedly be hit on and finally, laughing when a man orders a cosmimosa is not appropriate, no matter how old or large he is.

Definition of a Cocktail Waitress - Part 1

$11.98

The amount of my most recent paycheck, as well as the highest dollar amount that I've ever received in a paycheck. Two weeks worked, totaling about 30 hours.

I'm rich. I can afford almost exactly two draft Sam Adams at my place of employment.

This is my life as a cocktail waitress. I decided to begin my blogging career by describing the intricacies and depth of the definition of my "profession."

Wikipedia (which everyone knows is practically from God himself) describes a cocktail waitress as such: "A type of server who specializes in bringing drinks to patrons of bars, casinos, comedy clubs, live music venues and other drinking establishments. Casinos traditionally dress their cocktail waitresses in fancy outfits with very short skirts."

True, I specialize in carrying as many martini glasses as humanly possible to scores of pre-menopausal women, false that I look "fancy." My uniform is pretty standard as far as cocktailing goes. An all black shirt and skirt or dress with black stockings and non-skid restaurant approved shoes - doesn't sound too fancy. Of course there can be more than just a black long sleeve skirt and a pencil skirt added to the equation. I hesitate to say that we are encouraged to dress openly slutty, but it is more of a suggestive environment.

For instance, my first day on the job I remember my outfit perfectly, a belted black Express shirt dress with a headband and black thick tights. Upon walking up to my managers, "Emily, Vivian*is waiting to train you at the bar."

Second day, the tightest black pencil skirt humanly made with a low-cut shirt two sizes too small and a vest making modifications my mother wouldn't approve of, same black tights and hair thrown up haphazardly. Walking up the three same managers: "Emily you look so great!" times 3. Encouraged smut? Perhaps.

Lesson learned from the patrons and managers alike that day: cleavage means tips. Thus, I created a number scale for classifying the varying intensities of the money-makers.

0-1: burka
1-2: turtleneck (this only applies for small-chested girls)
2-3: loose t-shirt bearing words like "Baby's Mama" or "Gold Digger"
3-4: tight t-shirt for those flat girls and a turtleneck for sizes 38B+
4-5: necklines lower; scoop-necks, slight v-necks and collar bone exposing
5-6: visible skin bounce-age when skipping through the bar
6-7: button-downs and the like exposing enough to run a credit card through
7-8: shirts your mother would click her tongue at, see Pamela ---->
8-9: super tight, super low, super uncomfortable
9-10: belly button exposed due to plunging neckline; occasional nip slips; usually accompanied by no bra and a backless shirt
10+: pasties and nipple hardware - at this point you are crossing the line

I generally try to stay between five and eight, anything higher is a risk I'm not willing to take.

There are few ways a traditional cocktailer can express herself through her wardrobe. Patterned tights and headbands are my decadence of choice. I always opt for anything reminiscent of fishnets or anything sparkly. One final appearance comment: the more make-up the better. Wearing a lot of make-up, of course the sparkly kind, and the occasional set of false eyelashes enhance anyone's appearance towards a Kim Kardashian level.

Look back in a few days for the second part of the definition of a cocktail waitress.