The Women’s March on Washington happened today, with lots of other sister rallies around the nation. The movement is embroiled in some controversy, but as it turns out, a lot of women are still pissed off. I attended the March in 2017 and it is one of the best memories of my life. If you’ve never attended a rally for a cause you believe in, I encourage you to do so. Unless you’re a white nationalist, in which case: fuck off.
I wasn’t able to attend a march today, but rather, I reported to work on a busy Saturday night. We were all ready to make good money, and I had a large party in my section, which was an even bigger bonus. Servers rely on these larger parties because the “auto grat” added to a group of eight or more ensures that your income is not left up to one person’s opinion or financial capacity. Twenty percent no matter what, please and thank you.
The party happened to be a group of seven couples getting together for an annual college-friend reunion. They were in their late forties and fifties, and I think I probably got off on the wrong foot when the host joked that they still looked like they graduated two years ago. “Oh sure,” I joked back. Crickets.
Poor taste in jokes notwithstanding, I ran my ass off for this party. They ordered wine, cocktails, a lot of food, and at one point in the meal, a champagne toast for everyone. It probably doesn’t seem like much, but taking care of a large party can be exhausting. Unfortunately, one of the gentleman was served an overcooked steak, and everything went downhill from there. The host got up to speak to my supervisor because it was taking too long to replace. Later on, he pulled me aside and informed me that I wasn’t performing my job correctly. “I am so sorry sir. I’m trying my best.”
Restaurants have a phrase that governs practically everything that goes on within them: Guest perception is reality. It doesn’t matter if the man ordered a hot dog and you deliver him a hot dog and he says, “Why did you bring me this apple?!” His perception is that the hot dog is an apple. You need to whisk the hot dog away, because it’s making him unhappy, and figure out what it is he envisions a hot dog to be in his vast mind palace and get him that RIGHT AWAY. Whatever the guest says is truth for that moment in time — even if it's not.
So if the host of the party says I’m doing a poor job, then guess what? I’m doing a poor job. Nevermind that my bangs are literally curling from the sweat that I’m producing from running around, or that the guy four seats down from him says I’ve delivered excellent service. The host is numero uno, and I was failing him. Whatever, I’m a professional. I delivered the next steps of service as best I could. I made his friends laugh and I cleaned up a huge cocktail spill at the end of the table. I’m over the hump, right? No. Next thing I know, the host is at the front of the restaurant complaining to my manager.
At this point, I’m surprised he didn’t ask for my parents’ number so he could also tell them what a horrid disappointment I’d been that evening. It turns out that nothing I was attempting to do was making this man happy. I started to doubt that I could make it back to the table, because it didn’t matter if twelve people were having fun. There was one miserable man giving me the stink eye and judging every single move I made.
And so I did something that I don’t believe I’ve done before in five long years at this restaurant. I let a guest get to me. I cried. Sure, there have been complaints about me before, but they are usually met with my righteous anger or a shrug and a hope that the next table will be better. But this man moved me to tears. Women all over the world will relate to me when I say that none of us want to cry at work. It’s bad enough that we’re already seen as too emotionally weak or unable to handle constructive criticism. To actually embody those qualities with tears pouring out of your eyes is out of the question.
So I did what we all do when we feel the crying coming on. I took deep breaths. I tried to pump myself up by saying, “Don’t let him win, do not let this guy get to you.” I went upstairs to be alone for one minute. I came back downstairs to find that the tears were still stinging my eyelids. I did that thing where you look up and tilt your neck back in the hopes that the tears will be reabsorbed into your body. Then, in talking to one of my coworkers, I felt the first big fat salty raindrop fall and hit my cheek. Bastard. He won.
It was decided that another server would finish out the table, which was practically done anyway. I didn’t go back out because I didn’t want to see his face, and apparently, he didn’t want to see mine. Someone else gave him the check, and wished them all a fond farewell. Thankfully, I got my auto grat with no argument (twenty percent, please and thank you). Of course, this whole time I was blubbering in the back.
And in that time I learned that a lot of people there love me. I was hugged. I was kissed. I was encouraged. I was offered a cigarette; I was offered whipits. Ah, restaurants. These druggies are my people. I don’t care if I looked weak or emotional because at the moment I was, and in the back of the house, it’s us against them, and I was happy to be one of us. Going forward I’m not going to be ashamed for wanting to excel at my job and occasionally falling short, and neither should any other woman — or man — who is hiding in a cubicle somewhere willing themselves, “PLEASE DON’T UGLY CRY OVER THIS!”
If you’re good at your job and proud of what you do then caring about it enough to bring tears to your eyes only makes you better at it. I needed to let it out, because I was really trying to please this man and it fell flat. But now that I’m out of the heat of the moment, I can see that this wasn’t such an enormous issue. The guy had a decent dinner with friends, and I’ll get a new chance with another party in no time. In the grand scheme of things, women had a lot more serious things to march about today in Washington, D.C. Oh I’m sorry sir, your steak was overcooked? Cry me a river.