A series of fictitious scenarios from the people who work the night shifts at your favourite spots
By Grace Henkel
*audio coming soon*
When customers cringe at cover charges, beg the host to “pleaseeeee squeeze us in” (on the spot when reservations are booked months in advance), or have a drunken heart-to-heart on a grimy nightclub restroom floor with a girl they just met, they might forget that someone is checking for lost belongings on the sticky, sweaty dance floor at the end of the night. Someone is going to have to scrub the toilets decorated with bad decisions after every party-goer stumbles home. Someone has to take out the trash, wipe down the bar, lock up—and then do it all over again the next evening. Behind the pandemonium of a Friday night, so many moving parts and people keep the drinks flowing and the atmosphere alive.
With this in mind, this piece takes a playful look at the inner thoughts of the service workers who have to deal with the night-time crowds—plastering on a smile when all they really want to do is sneeze into your espresso martini.
“THE CLOSE-CALLERS”
Servers, bartenders and line cooks all know the feeling. It’s 15 minutes before closing time. Every soul has left the restaurant, but the door is still unlocked, the OPEN sign still glows like a blue and red warning sign that whispers,“you’re not safe yet.” To get ahead on closing duties, you begin to wipe down the bar. Tentatively, one of the front-of-house team pulls out the mop and bucket to tackle the sticky floor. In paralyzing silence, you polish the silverware, delicately folding those little napkin-cutlery-wrap-thingies that take AGES to perfect. Then, as if on cue, the door swings open–it’s a party of eight, no, 12! With children!
You look at the OPEN sign, then lock eyes with the crowd arriving–it’s too late…
Guests: Looks like we just made it!
Hostess, through gritted teeth and a gnarly, strained smile: Sure did! Table for 12? Can I grab you some kids’ menus?
Hostess, silently: FUCKSHITFUCK go away go away go away we just started to MOP and now you’re walking with your shoes and they’re muddy OH GOD they’re walking on the clean floor with muddy shoes and now I have to tell the kitchen to fire up the flatop again and they’re going to hate meeeee…and I lied.
We don’t even have a f*cking kids menu.
“SPLENDA DADDY”
You know who they are. The balding, ballsy, body-odour-unbearable dudes who hit on waitstaff with an audacity that would almost be funny if it weren’t terrifying, or just plain sad. Sorry, Gerald, but you’re really not a contender for my hand in marriage or some sort of sugar baby arrangement–and I think your wife is on her way back from the bathroom.
Bartender: Hi, what can I do for you? (this question is a rookie mistake, and sets the Geralds of the world up for all kinds of lewd, rude mischief)
Gerald (in his mind, a real ladies’ man): Well, you can start by joining my third wife list. Give me a smile, baby, I could treat you reeeeal nice…
Bartender: *Laughing it off* Because how the hell are you supposed to respond to that?!
Bartender, silently: You don’t have enough teeth to talk to me like that..But I feel a sneeze coming on, and your light beer is starting to look awfully similar to a tissue…
*Based on real events
“YOU GET ME”
There are moments–however rare–in the nightlife and serving industry when your faith in humanity is restored, when a beacon of hope shines through the haze of a dimly-lit, sweaty bar, or a crowded restaurant. It’ll often come when you need it the most: like when the order ticket machine is humming like a cat getting sucked through a vacuum cleaner, and three parties of more than six people just walked in in the middle of Friday evening rush. Sometimes, in these moments, an angel will appear…
Server, visibly struggling on an understaffed shift but keeping it all together: Thank you so much for your patience, we’re really backed up in the kitchen but we’ll have your order out soon!
Customer (often a sweet old fairy-godmother-esque lady or a fellow server): No rush, sweetie, you’re doing great.
*These are the customers who stack all their finished dishes neatly on the edge of the table, pick up anything they’ve dropped under their seats and leave a 25 per cent tip, just because.
Server, silently: I LOVE you I love you you’re the only one who understands me in this desolate world, you are a queen, an angel and a goddess, MARRY meeeee!
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