High-falutin' eatin'

I was taking a big chance moving on to a new restaurant in town, no matter how swanky it was. I had been at the Country Club for 5-1/2 years and was ready to move one. Onward and upward as they all say. Life and my career were stagnant. I was ready to move on and see how far I could go.

Showing up the first day was interesting, to say the least. The majority of new hires were young, pretty, model types. Some had good experience, some were the best that Denny's could spit out. I felt old, and I was only 35. Oh, my God, I was 35 and competing against kids almost young enough to be my kid. What was I thinking?

Despite my obvious 'maturity', I was not the only one. There was one other trainee that I bonded with, and his name was Thor. He was one year younger than me, and we commiserated about the relative youth of our fellow waitstaff. We ended up becoming best friends, but that's another story, and another post in the future.

We were given two study books that first day. One was around 2 inches thick, the other about half that. The thick one was what they expected of their servers, the smaller a wine seminar on paper. And to think I thought that I knew it all. We spent eight hour days studying and practicing our 'spiel' until we were well versed on everything beef and vino.

The Capital Grille is a fancy schmancy steak house on the order of Morton's or Ruth's Chris, and there were many things I was unfamiliar with. I learned what a table crumber was. I learned what a 'spiel' was. I learned what side-work was. I learned what grapes were in Champagne and Bordeaux, and what 'Appellation' and 'terroir' meant. I learned what snooty Managers were.

After nearly a month of 40-hour-a-week training, we were ready to open. Little did we know what we were in for. We were trained in 2-week dry aging for the steaks. The proper way to serve Champagne (Don't pop it, you'll save the bubbles). How to be perky, but sophisticated at the same time. How to use those alligator clips on chains that dentists use to make an adult bib for the lobster eaters.

When we opened the doors, we were inundated with the pent-up demand for upscale dining in this up-and-coming suburb of Detroit. A lot of us were scheduled for four or five doubles a week, since they didn't get the amount of trainees they wanted, and quite a few flunked out of training. Some trainees couldn't put up all that was asked of them. Some had run-ins with the previously mentioned snooty managers. The GM was alright, but he was not a 'people person'. He mostly stayed in his cubby hole and used the intercom to deal with staff. Every day, we were packed from the time we opened the doors until the time we closed, which made getting a break all but impossible. If I had five minutes to grab a cigarette (illegally) by the dumpster, I was lucky. Money was great, more than I had ever made as a server, but I was soon becoming a non-fan of the management.

You can imagine in a high-class place, you have your share of people who are, shall we say, 'picky'. After all, an 8 oz Filet was around $28 dollars (12 years ago, even). Baked potato was $8 extra. Vegetable was extra. All Ala carte. Re-cooks on anything required you to ring it in again and find a manager to void or comp the item. And these managers were expert at being not found. I still think they had super-secret hidey holes made to remain inaccessible.

Then, head-waiters were appointed to collect money and sign off on side work. I was not chosen for this honor. The ones who were chosen turned out to be the most inept, but most brown-nosed. We closed at 10 on week-nights and 11 on Friday and Saturday, but by the time we got cashed out, it was usually 2 or 3am. 10am to 3am with no breaks was getting to me.

Things came to a head after a particularly difficult table one night. But that will be the next post.