When I’m cooking I want the server, whether it is one of the bar people or Bagheera, to write the ticket correctly, hang it, and say “Order please.” I will respond with “Thank you” and they can go about their business and I can go about mine. This is Food Service 101.
I DO NOT want them to read the ticket to me.
- I have to divert my attention from what I’m doing to listen to something that I’m not going to be able to start for several minutes. This is a waste of time, plus I have a limited attention span and I don’t need unnecessary crap in my head.
- Drizella can barely read and listening to her try to assemble words into sentences is just too painful to bear. If she has more than one item on a ticket, I get a headache in my eye thinking about how much time I’m wasting.
- Foghorn Leghorn (aka MDFR) is an idiot. I make so many mistakes when I let him tell me what’s on a ticket rather than reading it. He says, “16 inch combo”, I make a 16 inch combo, but it’s a 14 inch Islander on the ticket. I don’t know if I just can’t listen to the sound of his voice, or if he’s functionally retarded, or if he’s doing it on purpose. Maybe all of the above, but it is a waste of time and, usually, food.
Everyone gets it except Foghorn Leghorn. I’ve had to repeat this simple request at least twice every shift we work together, which is 4 nights a week for the last two and a half months. An ordinary person would just kick him in the balls and get over it.
For example, I’m standing at the grill, flipping burgers and he tries to hand me a ticket. “I don’t know what you want me to do with this.”
(ACKkk! The biggest fucking spider I’ve ever seen in my entire life just ran across my keyboard and disappeared.)
Saturday night I was cooking and serving by myself. I had 2 tables in the dining room, a pizza to go and Foghorn Leghorn handed me a ticket with another pizza and 4 chicken fried steaks with salads. I put the pizza in the oven, plated his salads and turned on the pick-up light in the bar.
He ran into the kitchen in a panic, “Are you busy?” he asked while frantically spinning in circles in my way.
“What should I do?” Still running in circles, he opened the swinging doors into the dining room.
“WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!” I shouted.
“You’re busy, what do you want me to do?”
“HOW ABOUT TAKING YOUR SALADS!”
“Oh. That order is to go.”
“It isn’t on the ticket.”
“I put it on my copy.”
“How is that of any use to me?”
“I thought you’d know.”
“Yeah, cuz I’m a mind reader. I guess you know where the boxes are.”
For the record, I’d never let him help me in the kitchen because I don’t think he ever washes his hands.
Plus, he’s an idiot.
Sunday, he again handed me a ticket while I was up to my ass in alligators. I wanted to stab him, but I didn’t have time to find a knife. When I got to the ticket, it was a chicken fried steak with a salad. I plated the salad and turned on the pick-up light in the bar. Sound familiar?
Foghorn Leghorn came in the kitchen, looking bewildered and asked why I turned the light on.
“Your salad is ready.”
“Oh, it’s to go.”
“IT ISN’T ON THE TICKET!”
“Well, it’s for Vic and I know it’s to go.”
“I guess you know how to box it up, too.”
About three minutes later, while I was struggling to take food out to a table of 10
wild animals people, Foghorn Leghorn came in the kitchen and said, “That chicken fried steak is to go.”
“Yeah, I got that.”
“I didn’t write it on the ticket.”
“I know,” I said through clenched teeth.
“I wanted to make sure you knew it was to go.”
“I KNOW IT’S TO GO! I GOT IT WHEN YOU WERE IN HERE THE FIRST TIME. STOP WHAT YOU’RE DOING. STOP IT NOW. I’M NOT KIDDING. I’VE HAD ENOUGH.”
Poking the lion is never a good idea. Glory seriously wants to maul him.
Tonight I asked Bagheera to talk to him. I’ve asked him enough times, and all he’s doing now is pissing me off. This won’t end well.
Maybe I’m being petty, but I’m cooking his food, washing his dishes, putting his dishes away, and rolling his silverware. He’s making tips on my labour. He can damned well do it MY way.