I think the best thing, literally, that I could see on a resume, if I was in a position of hiring, is extensive restaurant experience. I work with a lot of people, and most of them are stiffs. Every now and then I'll discover that somebody I work with has restaurant experience, usually just through casual conversation. It is pretty amazing, but I can usually see how that experience directly aids them in their work day. It is almost like you get a different set of "eyes". Think about the things that waiting tables, specifically, does for your work persona. High pressure, timing, flexibility, adaptability....the basic skill of being nice to someone that you want to dis embowel with a wine knife. Time management. That is a huge one. Prioritization of tasks. Another huge one. I work with highly paid people who never learned these skills. Why? Because they got out of college and basically, started working here. Waiting tables is constant management of tasks, per priority and timing. I use those skills every day. They are invaluable. The industry I'm in and the content therein are neutral; these skills are needed in all lines of work
-I learned most of this on Sundays at the Hillcrest. Sundays were long. We served dinner from 11 am to evening hours (well, evening hours for people who voted for Taft). I had one whole side of the dining room. It was mine to maintain, or lose.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Jack and Joy
On the theme of 'Regulars'......
-Statistically, this couple would easily win the prize for "most frequent diners" at the Hillcrest during my tenure, but that doesn't mean that they will get proportional attention on this here blog. Why? Because I didn't really like them. They weren't that particularly interesting, and being interesting to someone (hopefully me) is definitely a theme here. I'm not doing this to write about boring, or pathetically predictable people. I have nothing against them. They were always a good tip, but....well.
-Jack and Joy Dursch. I'm pretty sure about the names and spelling there. He has to be dead by now, and I would assume the same for her. His liver may be in a display case somewhere. She is probably applying lipstick at the moment, in her coffin.
-He was a drunk. VO and water. A classic booze hound's cocktail. Let's face it, it's basically whiskey on the rocks. It's funny, as I write this, I'm struggling to paint a decent picture of them. Much more than I have for other characters in this blog. I guess that speaks more about them than anything else.
-When I think of the John Birch Society (do they exist anymore), I picture guys like Jack. Or even better, Jack Klompas from Seinfeld (aka Morty Seinfeld's buddy at the condo in Florida, Del Boca Vista). Old, retiried, golf players. Souped up Cadillacs. He definitely was well off, but not sophisticated, and not very tasteful. Big fish in a small pond type of guy. Let's face it, if you rolled into the Hillcrest with a C-note, you looked like Dean Martin.
-His wife was equally predictable. I can't remember her saying two fucking words. She would just sit there and look annoyed, and maybe have 5 or 6 bites of food during the meal. She couldn't have weighed more than 90 pounds.
-So he would roll in, in the Caddy, and park it as his usual table. Regardless of the time of day, the guy was front loaded. He had already had a snootful.
-The VO's would start coming. He'd order off the menu. Uber-rare Prime Rib on a painfully hot platter. Over the course of the meal, his drunken chortle would increase in volume. His white hair seemed to become more white against his increasingly red face.
-Seriously, that's about it. Of all the times I waited on him, I can't remember him saying anything that interested me, even once. He often bought the house a round. Front and back of the house. Which is commendable, but that's about it.
-The ending is worth recalling (hint: the whole point of this post). His dining days at the Hillcrest came to a dramatic end. Keep in mind, this guy, and his old lady, averaged about 4 meals a week there. He had been getting increasingly more smashed with each visit. There was even talk of cutting him off once. Well, that bridge never had to be crossed, because he got caught bringing in his own booze. Now, I'm not talking about a hipper flask in the men's room, or smuggling in mini bottles. If memory serves, he stashed a fifth of VO in Joy's purse, and pulled it out at the table. That was it. Dick made his point, and we never saw these humps again.
-Statistically, this couple would easily win the prize for "most frequent diners" at the Hillcrest during my tenure, but that doesn't mean that they will get proportional attention on this here blog. Why? Because I didn't really like them. They weren't that particularly interesting, and being interesting to someone (hopefully me) is definitely a theme here. I'm not doing this to write about boring, or pathetically predictable people. I have nothing against them. They were always a good tip, but....well.
-Jack and Joy Dursch. I'm pretty sure about the names and spelling there. He has to be dead by now, and I would assume the same for her. His liver may be in a display case somewhere. She is probably applying lipstick at the moment, in her coffin.
-He was a drunk. VO and water. A classic booze hound's cocktail. Let's face it, it's basically whiskey on the rocks. It's funny, as I write this, I'm struggling to paint a decent picture of them. Much more than I have for other characters in this blog. I guess that speaks more about them than anything else.
-When I think of the John Birch Society (do they exist anymore), I picture guys like Jack. Or even better, Jack Klompas from Seinfeld (aka Morty Seinfeld's buddy at the condo in Florida, Del Boca Vista). Old, retiried, golf players. Souped up Cadillacs. He definitely was well off, but not sophisticated, and not very tasteful. Big fish in a small pond type of guy. Let's face it, if you rolled into the Hillcrest with a C-note, you looked like Dean Martin.
-His wife was equally predictable. I can't remember her saying two fucking words. She would just sit there and look annoyed, and maybe have 5 or 6 bites of food during the meal. She couldn't have weighed more than 90 pounds.
-So he would roll in, in the Caddy, and park it as his usual table. Regardless of the time of day, the guy was front loaded. He had already had a snootful.
-The VO's would start coming. He'd order off the menu. Uber-rare Prime Rib on a painfully hot platter. Over the course of the meal, his drunken chortle would increase in volume. His white hair seemed to become more white against his increasingly red face.
-Seriously, that's about it. Of all the times I waited on him, I can't remember him saying anything that interested me, even once. He often bought the house a round. Front and back of the house. Which is commendable, but that's about it.
-The ending is worth recalling (hint: the whole point of this post). His dining days at the Hillcrest came to a dramatic end. Keep in mind, this guy, and his old lady, averaged about 4 meals a week there. He had been getting increasingly more smashed with each visit. There was even talk of cutting him off once. Well, that bridge never had to be crossed, because he got caught bringing in his own booze. Now, I'm not talking about a hipper flask in the men's room, or smuggling in mini bottles. If memory serves, he stashed a fifth of VO in Joy's purse, and pulled it out at the table. That was it. Dick made his point, and we never saw these humps again.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Thousand Island
Here is a weird one. This is truly one, where I wish I could find the guy. Or, at least know what happened to him.
-This one will be filed under the 'Regulars' file, whenever the hell I create it. Any waitron or restaurant person has an opinion on, and maybe a soft spot for, regulars. They offer a wonderful window into random souls. What is more personal than eating? And, as a server, when you end up serving a person as often as 4 or 5 meals a week over a decent span of time, you can really get to know them. More on that later...
-This guy I specifically remember seeing twice, and I waited on him once. I remember very little, but what I do remember is extremely vivid, and would probably have to be electro-shocked out of memory to forget.
-When he did come in to eat, he came in solo. And (literally) opened the place for Saturday lunch. He would be waiting in his car when the doors opened.
-He was certifiably insane. No doubt about it. But, not in a Dahmer way. More like 'Doc' in 'Back to the Future'. I don't know his name, or what he did, but he was palpably brilliant. I don't want to amp this up too much, because there isn't much in the way of a story here. Just some details:
-He drove a humongous beat-up late 70's station wagon, like a Country Squire. The thing was in obvious dis-repair. He had 3 or 4 giant dogs that stayed in the car, while he dined by himself. During the entire duration of the meal, the station wagon shook from the dogs going crazy inside the vehicle.
-He was giant. Probably 6'8", in the 280 pound range. The most visually shocking part was that he wore one of those one piece painter/mechanic suits (ie Dickies brand). He appeared to live in his. I seem to remember a denim-ish one, covered in paint, oil, grease, and who knows what. He had shock orange hair (natural), and beady, crazy looking blue eyes.
-He talked the entire time, to either himself, or whom ever was addressing him. Very nice. Nothing malicious, but I don't recall much of it making any sense. Brilliant sounding chatter.
-He ate extremely quick (like 3 or 4 courses in 15 minutes).
-I only remember one verbal interaction with him, and I will never forget it. Let's call him Raymond(he looked like a Raymond):
-Me: "And what kind of dressing would like for your salad? We have French, Italian, Creamy Peppercorn, Thousand Island..."
-Raymond: "Oh god, not Thousand Island. That always looks like someone vomited on my salad".
-This one will be filed under the 'Regulars' file, whenever the hell I create it. Any waitron or restaurant person has an opinion on, and maybe a soft spot for, regulars. They offer a wonderful window into random souls. What is more personal than eating? And, as a server, when you end up serving a person as often as 4 or 5 meals a week over a decent span of time, you can really get to know them. More on that later...
-This guy I specifically remember seeing twice, and I waited on him once. I remember very little, but what I do remember is extremely vivid, and would probably have to be electro-shocked out of memory to forget.
-When he did come in to eat, he came in solo. And (literally) opened the place for Saturday lunch. He would be waiting in his car when the doors opened.
-He was certifiably insane. No doubt about it. But, not in a Dahmer way. More like 'Doc' in 'Back to the Future'. I don't know his name, or what he did, but he was palpably brilliant. I don't want to amp this up too much, because there isn't much in the way of a story here. Just some details:
-He drove a humongous beat-up late 70's station wagon, like a Country Squire. The thing was in obvious dis-repair. He had 3 or 4 giant dogs that stayed in the car, while he dined by himself. During the entire duration of the meal, the station wagon shook from the dogs going crazy inside the vehicle.
-He was giant. Probably 6'8", in the 280 pound range. The most visually shocking part was that he wore one of those one piece painter/mechanic suits (ie Dickies brand). He appeared to live in his. I seem to remember a denim-ish one, covered in paint, oil, grease, and who knows what. He had shock orange hair (natural), and beady, crazy looking blue eyes.
-He talked the entire time, to either himself, or whom ever was addressing him. Very nice. Nothing malicious, but I don't recall much of it making any sense. Brilliant sounding chatter.
-He ate extremely quick (like 3 or 4 courses in 15 minutes).
-I only remember one verbal interaction with him, and I will never forget it. Let's call him Raymond(he looked like a Raymond):
-Me: "And what kind of dressing would like for your salad? We have French, Italian, Creamy Peppercorn, Thousand Island..."
-Raymond: "Oh god, not Thousand Island. That always looks like someone vomited on my salad".
Thursday, January 6, 2011
The Lineage
The connection, via degrees of separation, that led me to the Hillcrest is as follows:
-I think the highest I can up the chain from memory would be Ben Reid. He, and some of his preppy Marquette buddies, started working there in like '86 or '87. His younger brother, Danny, got a job there through him. Danny brought in Joe Huwiler, who was my buddy. I remember I had to get a work permit to start there, since I was 14 when I started. The funny part is, most of these guys didn't end up working there nearly as long as I did. I think everyone mentioned here was gone by the end of '89.
-I think the highest I can up the chain from memory would be Ben Reid. He, and some of his preppy Marquette buddies, started working there in like '86 or '87. His younger brother, Danny, got a job there through him. Danny brought in Joe Huwiler, who was my buddy. I remember I had to get a work permit to start there, since I was 14 when I started. The funny part is, most of these guys didn't end up working there nearly as long as I did. I think everyone mentioned here was gone by the end of '89.
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