Personal Yummy #63
It’s Saturday afternoon, and I move hurriedly from table to table, taking one order after another, separating each with a thick blue line on my tiny pad of paper (I don’t dare leave anything to memory—too much room for error). Call out any alcohol orders to Adam (or even any juice or soft drink orders, which he’ll happily prepare for me if he has the time) while I quickly punch the food orders into the machine by the bar.
Okay—two bleu burgers my mind tells me as my eyes begin at the top of my notepad, and as I press the tiny square button—not much larger than the tip of my index finger—that has the words BLEU BURGER printed on it in little block letters. Then I press it again. Richety richety the machine responds as the white roll of paper inside it advances and registers a copy of what I am ordering. FF and CS are what my eyes see next on my notepad, as my finger presses the 7 square twice, then ENTER (richety richety), then the 7 square again, followed immediately by the 8 square, then ENTER (richety richety) (77 is the PLU number for french fries; 78 for coleslaw). Don’t forget the Pepsi (PEP)—richety richety—and the ginger ale (GING)—Where is it?—richety richety. Slide a sturdy, rectangular, thick-but-not-too-thick receipt, made just for the machine, securely into the printing slot, and press SEND. Richety richety richety richety richety the machine then says again and again and for as long as it takes the order to be simultaneously printed on the receipt and on a slip of paper that emerges from the diminutive printer in the kitchen. Put the receipt-cum-bill quickly in my apron pocket with the other ones, and start again. (Lucky for me, my receipt contains not only the food that I ordered, which is the only info that the kitchen’s receipt contains, but the drinks also, as well as the corresponding prices for each item, the tax amount, and the total price. Whoever invented it—thank you very much! When I first started here, we had to write out the orders by hand and do all of the math in our head.)
Next, deliver the drinks, which Adam has placed neatly at the end of the bar. Seat the couple who just walked in. Pick up the food, from the kitchen, that’s already done (Anthony doesn’t mess around). Say “Hi!” to Harold, a gray-haired regular in his sixties who regularly drinks beer, and who always shows up dressed in his work clothes, covered with specks upon specks of paint. Walk casually past the tables to make sure that everybody is taken care of and that they don’t need anything—more ketchup, cutup lemons for their iced tea, another Pepsi, a piece of apple pie for dessert, maybe?—without bothering them or being a pest. Clear away their plates. Pour two decafs out of the just-brewed pot. Deliver the bill upon a little, black plastic tray—it’s more professional this way—and don’t forget the after-dinner mints. Chat for a while with crazy Marcy, a post-office employee who likes to sip a tall drink with a large straw, play the poker machines, and laugh, laugh, laugh…constantly and exuberantly. Get change for the gentleman sitting in booth number six. Say, in all sincerity, “Nice to see you again, and please come back…”
Busy, challenging, overwhelming, dizzying sometimes. But methodical, empowering, exhilarating, and satisfying most of the time—definitely not confining.
I’m happy.
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Today’s a different kind of Saturday. It’s slow and calm, laid-back and easy, customers floating in every half an hour or so, or longer. I take my time with them as they decide what to order, explaining in detail an item on the menu that they’ve asked about, glad to respond to their inquisitiveness or curiosity, telling them as much as they want to know. Being more thorough and conscientious than usual with every aspect of serving them—simply enjoying what it means to be a waitress. Taking it slow (but not too slow, of course) while punching in the orders, avoiding making the types of mistakes that occur because of haste. Enjoying the smell and look of the freshly brewed coffee and the smile and gratitude upon an elderly gentleman’s face as I pour it into his empty cup. Noticing the pretty way that Anth arranges the food on the plates, or the skill with which he slices the mushrooms. Chatting with my customers, learning that the two elderly women in the first smoking booth, exhibiting long fingernails, glittery scarves, and gold jewelry, are tourists from New York City, visiting Pittsburgh for the first time. That the good-looking middle-aged man with glasses who is sitting at table eleven and intrigued by the book Conversations with God went through a divorce about a year ago and is still searching for some healing, because he hasn’t found any yet and wonders if he ever will. That the couple sitting in the front, holding hands across the table, had been in to eat a few months ago and are thrilled to be back. Or that my Indian friend Vankat, with the gentle demeanor, who is a PhD student at Pitt, is coming along well on his thesis.
Meeting new people. Being surrounded by familiar faces. Observing and feeling the happiness and sadness that is carried into and out of this place. The relationships that are formed here—and broken. Cheering someone up by giving them service fit for a king or just by refilling their soda before they have to ask. Being cheered up by a customer telling me that I’m her favorite waitress…
That’s what working here is all about, and these semi-busy Saturdays always give me more time to delight in all of it. They may not be as lucrative, but they’re certainly just as rewarding.
******
The above excerpt is from my coming-of-age novel—The Grill on Murray Avenue: A Story of Innocence—about the inhabitants of an unassuming bar-and-grill in Squirrel Hill, a vibrant neighborhood in the east end of Pittsburgh. The story is told by Jenna, a young waitress who dreams of becoming a professional dancer.
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