It's ten minutes until close and I'm up in the lobby texting my babysitter. I haven't had a table in half an hour, and all the sidework's done. I'd be home in fifteen.
But oh no, the door opens and in swagger two women in their early forties, dressed scantily in poorly ironed silk for the self-importance they're trying to exude, claiming matter-of-factly and loudly, "we called, the kitchen's open till ten, correct?"
I give the hostess a death stare and march into the back to tie my apron back on.
I tell the head chef and the salad chef that a deuce is walking in and they throw their cleaning rags down in unison. The hostess comes back and starts apologizing. I tell her it's cool, not her fault, while she's clocking out. I pull down a water pitcher, fill it, and head out to table 22.
"Hello," woman one says with feigned breathlessness. "Sorry you aren't busier, but...we called."
One of them called and asked how late the place stayed open, and when the hostess told them ten, they showed up at ten till ten, but because They Called, they've now got free reign to run me ragged until an hour after close, AND most likely, pelt me with compliments and tip ten percent or less. They didn't make a reservation, but they talk as if they did. I'm sensing already that they're feeling put out because they're sitting in an empty restaurant, and it's already not as glamorous as they'd imagined it, as it is for the majority of our pretentious, cheap, filthy rich clientele, who they're trying to emulate, which is something I can't understand. My suspicions are validated when woman number two glances up at me, points to our $20-$30 priced entrees and says, "Now, we get bread with this, correct?"
"No ma'am," I say, pointing to the bright red, highlighted section which indicates that a selection of bread is its own menu item and $2.95 extra. "When did that happen?" Says the woman, "I've never been here and paid for bread."
"It's been on the menu since I started here, ma'am,"
"Well how long ago was that?"
"I've been here a month, ma'am."
"Ah, yes," says woman number one, scanning our wine list. "We just had a wonderful Zinfandel over at a colleague's, and I tell you, it just opened up our palate and screamed, 'Oh, France, where are you?'"
"We have a Zinfandel by the glass," I tell her. "It's quite good." It's also $13 a glass, and I see woman number one's eye find the wine, then the price, and then the $7 selection underneath it.
I ought to clear this up before you people think I'm being snotty or pretentious or...elitist. I've dealt with this kind of client frequently and at every place where I've donned an apron-- even at the hole in the wall seafood joint, and for some reason they appear by majority in women. Everything about them-- their obvious veneers, their tone of voice, the tidbits of conversation I pick up, the dresses and shoes and designer knockoffs they carry-- the fake purses sum it up for me-- they're knockoffs, these people. They prance into a fine dining establishment for a fun exercise in the pretentious, pompous, mostly idiotic behavior of the stereotypical wealthy client-- they put their Nine West Wallet into their fake Louis Vuitton, and park their Honda in the far back of the lot at Chez Francois so they can go inside and pretend to be important, that is, what they're sad enough to think is everything but what they really are.
They also think that pretening to have money and abusing a waitress for an hour is what one ought to aspire to be. I work at Chez. I get a discount if I wanna eat there, but when I get off, I go down the road to Al's, where I pay $4 less for the same damned beer, I can pick the music I wanna hear, and I can talk about politics, falling down the stairs last week, my leaking air conditioning, and all in the company of people who have absolutely no illusion about who and what they are in society, and what they aspire to be: drunk and in each other's company after a hard day of waiting tables.
"I'll have this Pinot Noir, here," woman number one says. "Merci beaucoup." She then comments to her companion that this would be a wonderful time for her to learn some French expressions. I'd like to tell them that the only thing French about a Zinfandel is, nothing, other than that Beaujolais it happens to be listed under on our menu.
"I see you don't have a Bordeaux by the glass," says woman number two, clicking the inside of her cheek in disappointment. "Do you have something like a Bordeaux?"
A Bordeaux is about as far on the other end of the spectrum from a mid-priced Zinfandel as she could possibly go. I'm thinking she really just wanted to throw out the word "Bordeaux" to impress her companion. I offer her our French table wine, which is also our cheapest by the glass, and she's thrilled.
I bring the two glasses of wine out, and woman number two begins calling me "sweets." "Sweets" and "Sweety" follow every melodramatic thank you. They order four appetizers, two of which are the more "daring and French" (as they put it): the Pate au Sauternes and the Escargots, along with a cup of lobster bisgue and the smoked salmon. I'm entering their food order when another server taps me on the back and says that my table wants me.
"Yes ma'am," I say to a put-out looking woman number one.
"I've decided I don't like this wine you recommended and I want to have what she's having."
"Very good," I say.
I course them for the escargots and the soup, drop the wine, and ask them if they want me to stagger the appetizers they've ordered.
"Girl!" Says woman number two," apparently trying to appeal to my feminine comrade side, "bring that food on out here!"
Woman number one balks a bit and says, "I'd like you to stagger my salmon, please."
I drop the escargots, soup, pate, the bread they finally decided to give in and pay for, and fill their water glasses.
I'm back at the computer cashing out some credit card slips for no more than two minutes, when the bartender taps me on the back and says my table wants me.
"We need you to take this," says woman number one, indicating the escargots, "and tell the chef they are too dry. I was expecting something savory, and just succulent in garlic butter, cause, you know, these things on their own, uh uh, girl! But these are just bad."
"It's okay," says woman number two, before I can even register a response, "it's not your fault. You didn't cook it!"
I apologize and take the plate of snails away, setting it next to the full glass of wine they'd sent back. I pick up an escargot fork and stick it into one of the concave butter pens and the snail glistens and exhales butter easily from every opening. I get it, though. Sending things back is what important rich people do in fine dining establishments. Apparently they also eat four of eight snails and all the toast points on the plate before sending it back.
When they're finally finished with their food, I ask them if they'd like split checks, and woman number one asks for a dessert menu.
I bring out dessert menus and go back into the kitchen. When I come back out, woman number one is gone out on a smoke break. She stays gone for another four minutes. Then, I'm standing back at the computer, not twenty seconds after seeing that her chair was still empty when she comes behind me and asks for a cup of coffee. I tell her we also have espresso and cappuccino (of course she HAS to have an espresso, those are her favorite, she says).
They order a lemon cake to share and I bring that and the espresso. Woman number one looks at the tiny espresso mug, lemon rind and napkin, and declares she's gonna need a larger mug and "a bunch of milk and sugar to dump in it."
"Oh, I'm sorry ma'am," I say, "you wanted a cappuccino?"
"No. I want an espresso. But I want it in a big cup, and with milk and sugar."
"Right away," I say.
"I'm back in the kitchen when I hear the voice of one of these women, loud as if she were standing in a crowded bar: 'Yes. This is Ms. Reinhardt, I'm calling to find out what time you'll be in tomorrow. Please call back as soon as possible thank you.'"
It's going on 11PM.
I drop the women's check and they thank me profusely for everything, for staying open to accomodate them, for my service, and they're out the door fast as lightening, and I already know why.
I pick up the check holder and put it in my apron. I bus and reset their table and head back to the computer for the inevitable. After having my manager remove the $11 escargots and the $6 glass of wine they sent back, their check totaled $58.43. They left me $65.