I have been a waitress for more than eleven years. Sure, it has its share of drawbacks, but the
nice thing about being a good server is that no matter what life throws at you,
you can rest assured that there will always be job options for you because
restaurants are always looking to hire experienced, talented servers to improve
their business.
Or so I thought.
Before we even moved here, I did my homework. I researched area restaurants and took notes
about their style, average meal price, how far of a drive it would be, and
their hours of operation. I perused
websites to look at menu options and reviews from previous diners. I even checked into the directions from
Google Maps to see if I would have to drive on goofy streets or if these places
were right off main roads. Yup, I am
that Type A anal retentive freak that drives you crazy at Starbucks because her
order takes 2 minutes just to spit out.
Born this way, baby.
I came up with a list of six restaurants I wanted to apply at
and I wrote them out in a notebook in the order of proximity to our house. In a single day, I drove around and applied
to…..most of them. While I do have a
couple places that I’m hopeful will work out, I just can’t resist telling you
about one of the establishments that was thankfully not my cup of tea.
The reviews were positive:
Don’t judge a book by
its cover! I drove by this place for
years before finally stopping in and I wasn’t sorry. The breakfast was excellent and the service
delightful. A great stop for a weekend
breakfast or for comfort food any day of the week.
We were looking for
somewhere to enjoy the game without being too much of a dive bar, and Fuzzy’s
fit the bill! We enjoyed our pitcher of
beer and burgers and were pleasantly surprised by the quality of the food. Will definitely be back!
And so on and so on.
All good stuff here, people. I
figured it was worth a look.
I pulled in the parking lot and immediately understood the
“don’t judge a book by its cover” review.
It really didn’t look like much from the outside, but I know that can be
deceiving. In fact, the restaurant I had
worked at and loved for more than 6 years is very misleading from the
exterior. I walked inside to give it a
shot.
Big mistake.
As I crossed over to the bar area to request an application,
the group of middle aged men seated there were immediately considering
my…..ummm….qualifications for the
job. It became pretty clear why that
would be important when I noticed the uniform the bartender was wearing: skin
tight red T-shirt cut so low it was leaving little to the imagination, teeny
little short shorts, and the slogan “Body by Fuzzy’s” written across her
breast. Oh boy. Not one to be rude, I proceeded to sit down
and fill out the application despite my misgivings. In the ten minutes I was there, I heard the
F-Bomb four times, three of which were out of a waitress’s mouth. The fourth time it was uttered by a guy named
Steve-O who was sitting next to me at the bar.
Steve-O was wearing a neon orange Harley shirt with the sleeves cut off
and had a beard braided down to his chest.
His black bandanna said “Bad Ass” on it and he was very interested in
knowing all about me and where I was applying.
He wished me all the best, saying “I hope you F-ing get the job. You’d be great here!” Thanks, Steve-O. What really took the cake was when a man on
the other side of the bar was trying to access the Wifi with his laptop and was
having trouble connecting. He asked the
waitress (who had used the F-Bomb several times) what the password was and she
replied, “It’s our phone number.”
Internet Dude tried again to connect, but to no avail. When he expressed his frustration to F-Bomb
Waitress, she once again insisted that he use their phone number. Internet Dude struggled again until a fellow
patron suggested he make sure to put the area code first. Huzzah!
Victory for Internet Dude! He
turns back to F-Bomb Waitress and says, “You didn’t tell me I needed to use
your area code.” F-Bomb Waitress cocks
her hip, sets down her glass and promptly makes a sweeping gesture to her
nearly completely exposed bosom and proclaims, “Here’s MY area code!”
I gotta go.
