Spilling on a guest is every server's nightmare. It hits us hard for a number of reasons. Obviously, we feel bad for getting something on the guest, especially if it's something that will burn their skin or ruin their clothing. It's also really embarrassing. We're supposed to be cool and collected out there on the floor, and when we spill something we're reduced to bumbling, groveling fools.
Today's memorable guest was part of a party of 12. I'd greeted them and gotten their cocktail order, and was carrying a huge tray of drinks from the bar. I'd delivered one or two, when I had some difficulty getting between two gentlemen to place a drink on the table. I leaned in, straining to reach the tablecloth, and in doing so I tipped the tray just a bit too far.
In my defense, our cocktail glasses suck. Behold, the most idiotic design in the history of barware:
Please note how this glass has a small base that tapers outward toward the top of the glass. It's top heavy! It's a disaster waiting to happen.
And disaster did strike. It only took one glass to topple over and knock another few down, which threw off the center of gravity and sent the whole tray of iced-up booze and beer down this man's back.
Yes, it hailed on his back. He didn't even see it coming. Like the winning coach at the Superbowl this man got doused from behind.
Shocked, he shot out of his seat and turned around. Mortified, I looked at him for a second with my mouth wide open. Everyone was staring at us. The floodgates opened. "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry oh my gosh I'm so sorry..."
Servers have a repertoire of things to do when we spill on you, and we pulled out all the stops. I ran to the bartender to get the man a club soda, and scowled at the bartender as she said "I watched the whole thing because I could totally see it coming..." Thanks, Lisa. A co-worker of mine switched out the gentleman's chair for one that wasn't soaked in alcohol. Server assistants scurried to clean up the mess and get the man a new napkin.
All of our tricks weren't nearly enough. He was still very wet. But I was undeterred. My restaurant is connected to a golf course, and there was a locker room and a pro shop at our disposal.
THAT IS WHEN I BECAME THIS MAN'S MOTHER.
I ushered him into the pro shop and asked him his size. He mumbled, "medium," and stood with his hands in his pockets as I thumbed through the collared shirts and held them up to his outfit to see what style would match his pants. Once we had four or five options, I directed him to the men's locker room.
And I walked in, right after him. I showed him the towels and the soap, and hung his shirts up on a locker. When I turned around, he was undoing his belt. I didn't get the message.
"I think I can take it from here," he said.
"Oh! Right!" I scampered away and waited outside the dressing room locker room like every good Mom that's shopping with her son. He came out a few minutes later and I let him know how nice he looked. He wasn't having it, but he was courteous.
The rest of the meal went on without incident, and if you ask me, the guy came out ahead because he left the restaurant with free clothing. In the end, the drinks may have been on him, but the shirt was on us.
