Confessions of An Awkward Earls Girl

As I gracefully exit the restaurant industry, I found myself reflecting on some of my not so graceful moments as both a server and a bartender. I have forgotten entire sections of tables (very angry eyes!), sent out margaritas while forgetting to add tequila, and have smashed 40s of expensive Gin with only an ounce missing from the bottle. I have fallen on my butt while carrying buckets of ice in the middle of the restaurant (many ice shaped bruises all over my rump... very painful!) and sold the rude vegetarian a pasta dish that i knew very well is made with chicken stock (from REAL chickens... which we beat to death with soup spoons and cooked alive!) and have even told a table to go to Joey's where they have prettier girls and yam fries. A feast for both your eyes and your belly. 

GO TO JOEY'S

They have BIGGER clumpier eyelashes than us.

And Yam Fries Too.

Here are two of my favorite serving and bartending moments for those of you who did not get the opportunity to be blessed by my awkward personality.

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Jordan Loses Her Personality

It was a particularly busy friday night in the lounge, I believe some servers had just been sent home just before a massive rush crowded the entry way, and the hostesses began phase one vengeance on the remaining servers by placing several tables in our sections at the same time. A particular lady ordered a steak blue, which aside from being sort of disgusting-- its pretty easy and quick to make. Her steak arrived promptly along with her hubby's sandwich-- everyone was happy-- server win!

however, just as jordan was speeding past the table carrying several burning plates that seared her hands and forearms, a bony little hand jutted out from the table and grabbed her arm

"my steak is overdone!" she squawked.

Jordan looked at it. It was practically bleeding all over the dish-- a blue steak made in heaven. She patiently replied that she would just drop off the plates of searing death, and then would be right back.

She took the steak to the back and showed it to the unimpressed kitchen (unimpressed with the lady, because, as I said-- this was the perfect steak), who agreed to make her a less cooked one.

This isn't Blue, but it is a good looking piece o' meat

Things would have been all fine and dandy, except when Jordan walked past this table again, the lady waved her down.
"Do you even know what blue means?" she sneered.
"yes, yes I do. We are making you a blue steak as we speak-- and I spoke with the manager and we will take care of it for you" Jordan replied with a forced smile.
"Blue means its seared on the outside"
I wish I could sear your outsides "I understand" smile. smile.
"Well, you made it wrong!"

That's what something precious snapped inside of Jordan's brain. She knelt down beside the table and looked the ungrateful wench unsatisfied customer in the eyes and replied

"and when, sweetheart, do you think I had the time to make your steak?"
got up and left.

the tip was surprisingly good. The hubby paid,  he must have been a little passive aggressive and a little amused.
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Jordan's Panic Attack Behind the Bar

The only bad thing about bartending, is that awful people sit at the bar as well, the only difference is that with serving-- you can get away from them. Behind the bar, there really is no where to go, you are stuck... staring them down, or worse-- them staring you down.

I've had my fair share of strange men say stupid things like "we don't need to look at a menu, we're just gonna look at you" or "are you on the menu tonight?"-- most of which you just kind of laugh at them and go pretend to pour a guiness (these take a long time to pour, so its a perfect getaway and reason to stare at the floor). However, I was completely caught off guard by one gentleman who sat at the bar.

After he ordered something that is not of consequence, I brought him his cutlery (first mistake) and napkins. I noticed that the knife was a little warped-- instead of laying flat the blade bent up off the counter a bit. I considered getting him another one-- but I was feeling particularly apathetic and the knife would still cut... so I didn't (second mistake). 

Then he waved me over.

"look at this here knife"
I looked at it and pretended to be surprised and perplexed at its strange shape.
"Its warped!" he exclaimed "do you see that?"

not happening

"yes!" I replied "Let me get you a better one"
"oh no, no" he said and pulled the knife closer to him.
"are you sure?"
then he leaned on one of his arms, pulling himself up the counter so he was MUCH closer to my face and said

"I think its just had..." dramatic pause in which he tilted his head and raised his eyebrows "too much viagra" he smirked.

and i puked inside my mouth. 
and promptly ran away.  

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I have done some good things for the restaurant too... many patrons have left Earls with smiles on their faces, or have thanked me for my wine suggestions. I only ever got a customer compliment emailed in once-- and I believe it was because I served a woman what should be an illegal amount of caffeinated martinis (she was talking REALLY fast by the end of the night). I was even a good team player-- I have respectfully informed servers that it is impossible to pour beer back into the tap, and that limes and lemons are in fact-- different fruits! they even grow on different trees. Once I even advised a hostess that if she is going to wear a short skirt then she should probably (definitely) wear underwear as well.

So long Earls, I have served my time. Miss me, you shall.
"People Grow at Earls. Life is Better at Earls"
I am sorry for all the lime pulp in the bar well. 
And for exclaiming that I have advanced social justice every time I smash something, 'by accident'.

Viva la Resistance! 

It's Mine...My Own

 

It was a bright sunny morning in southern Alberta, the beautiful towering Rocky Mountains boarding the edge where the clear blue sky meets the land, the sun reflecting off of its snow caps. Skittering down the road away from the mountains and into the endless prairie lands, a little green golf, the rumble of its engine overshadowed by the folk music pouring through the window seams from its tiny, but surprisingly powerful, sound system.

Zoom in

through the skies, beyond the mountains,

and past the highway into the that little car,



and you would find a poor soul, Transformed by her caffiene addiction, and zombified by her lack of sleep--


an aspiring social worker turned Uruk-Hai.

the music fails to reach her ears. her eyes escape the beautiful landscape. She is counting down the kilometers between her and a cup of coffee.

Stumbling into the Starbucks, deranged and desperate, she slumps up to the counter. Trying to sound and appear friendly, and less like a predator, she peels back her lips-- exposing all of her teeth...the closest to a smile she can manage.

"Tall caramel machiato please" seeped from between her clenched teeth-- her pupils dialating at the sound of the beverage. Upon hearing the cost, she swung her oversized and over stuffed purse onto the counter. Opening it up, she sees no wallet. WHERE IS THE WALLET? In a frantic fury she pulls out the objects that obstruct her vision.

High Heels-- get out. Place them on the counter.

Next, a bag of jelly beans, drop them on the counter, beside the heels.

3 packets of instant chicken noodle soup, fling them on to the floor.

inflatable ball, whipped out of the purse and rolling down the bulk food isle.

With unbridled frustration and pure rage, in a deep, raspy, demonic voice she growls
"wwwaaaaalllleeeeettttttt"

Oh. Here it is.

She looks back at the cashier, pulls out the wallet and gives over the change. In heavy laboured steps, she drags her bewildered carcass to the other side of the kiosk. Her nostrils flare at the scent of the beans, her body twitches uncontrollably at the sound of the milk steamer. She has become Gollum, her obsession for her precious has taken over her motor functions. If she doesn't get that fix she will burn down the shire. DO NOT GIVE IT TO HER BARISTA! SHE CAN NOT WEILD IT!

none of us can.

She peers over the counter with shifty eyes, watching, waiting, sweating, shaking. As if in slow motion, the cashier sets the coffee infront of her beady bulging eyes. With trembling bony hands she grasps the cup, puts it to her lips, and pours the life

back into her bones. It's mine...my own. my precious.

Revived, she straightens her spine, fixes her hair, and thanks the barista.

Collecting her assorted things that lay strewn across the grocery store and stuffing them back into her purse, she holds the coffee close to her heart and walks triumphantly out of Starbucks, ignoring the 6 sets of eyes that follow her all the way to her car.

 

Good Morning Chestermere. I am your social worker.