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Now, first off, let's note that I'm pretty new to this job, so few things are still startling me that probably won't in a month or two. But in the meantime . . .
I'm a hostess at an American restaurant/bar, which means that I'm the one who seats people. I'm also the one who busses, wipes and sets tables, checks the bathroom, folds menus, answer phones, et cetera . . . basically, the little things around the corners that just kinda need doing. (Though I don't wrap silverware; the servers do that.)
On this note, I was washing the glass in the front doors one day, 'cause the hostess with about five years of experience on me had told me to. Between lunch and dinner, hardly anyone coming in . . . well, cool. Totally beats doin' nothing. (Though I wish we had better paper towels.)
I'd gotten to the far side of the far set of doors when one of the customers—a regular, I'm told—comes by. I forget how the conversation started (probably with "Thank you, and have a great day!"—that's also my job), because it only became noteworthy when he put his hand around my shoulders and stood close.
Me (experiencing a personal space violation): O_o;
Him: At my job, we don't let the receptionists do this blue-collar work.
Me: Well, heh, we all chip in around here! (forced grin)
It was thankfully only a few more lines before he let go and left. 'Cause . . . dude. You don't get to touch me. SO not in my job description. Even if washing windows is.
'Cause you know what? I really don't mind washing windows.
Also:
I'm sorry, I'm afraid we misled you, Mr. Different Customer. I know that we give all appearances of being both a five-star restaurant and a reality TV show. Maybe it's the giant "Kids Eat Free on Tuesdays!" sign by the door, or the straw wrappers littering the carpet. Maybe even the specials menu, which has its most expensive item as $5.99. And there not being any cameras around? Well, it's obviously a hidden-camera show.
So I can totally understand, when you came to my host's stand and I wished you to have a great evening, why you told me that if you were Randy Whoevertheheck from Hell's Kitchen reality TV show, this place would be shut down. (Only after wondering how you could have a great evening after that dinner.) We were misleading, and I'm very, very sorry for that.
Except, well, not.
Anyway, at least you were reasonably pleasant about it. Thanks.
I suppose the moral of the story is that I'm real glad I'm not a waitress yet, 'cause I only have to deal with customers briefly. "Hello, here's your table, try some appetizers," "have a great night," and, very occasionally, "Sure, I'll tell your server to get you some ranch."
I'm a hostess at an American restaurant/bar, which means that I'm the one who seats people. I'm also the one who busses, wipes and sets tables, checks the bathroom, folds menus, answer phones, et cetera . . . basically, the little things around the corners that just kinda need doing. (Though I don't wrap silverware; the servers do that.)
On this note, I was washing the glass in the front doors one day, 'cause the hostess with about five years of experience on me had told me to. Between lunch and dinner, hardly anyone coming in . . . well, cool. Totally beats doin' nothing. (Though I wish we had better paper towels.)
I'd gotten to the far side of the far set of doors when one of the customers—a regular, I'm told—comes by. I forget how the conversation started (probably with "Thank you, and have a great day!"—that's also my job), because it only became noteworthy when he put his hand around my shoulders and stood close.
Me (experiencing a personal space violation): O_o;
Him: At my job, we don't let the receptionists do this blue-collar work.
Me: Well, heh, we all chip in around here! (forced grin)
It was thankfully only a few more lines before he let go and left. 'Cause . . . dude. You don't get to touch me. SO not in my job description. Even if washing windows is.
'Cause you know what? I really don't mind washing windows.
Also:
I'm sorry, I'm afraid we misled you, Mr. Different Customer. I know that we give all appearances of being both a five-star restaurant and a reality TV show. Maybe it's the giant "Kids Eat Free on Tuesdays!" sign by the door, or the straw wrappers littering the carpet. Maybe even the specials menu, which has its most expensive item as $5.99. And there not being any cameras around? Well, it's obviously a hidden-camera show.
So I can totally understand, when you came to my host's stand and I wished you to have a great evening, why you told me that if you were Randy Whoevertheheck from Hell's Kitchen reality TV show, this place would be shut down. (Only after wondering how you could have a great evening after that dinner.) We were misleading, and I'm very, very sorry for that.
Except, well, not.
Anyway, at least you were reasonably pleasant about it. Thanks.
I suppose the moral of the story is that I'm real glad I'm not a waitress yet, 'cause I only have to deal with customers briefly. "Hello, here's your table, try some appetizers," "have a great night," and, very occasionally, "Sure, I'll tell your server to get you some ranch."
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