The not-quite-so-Biblical flood

This past Saturday, I braced the wind as I exited the T station, about to finish another weekend shift, complete with all of our type-A customers and their culinary needs. As I made to cross the street, flashing red lights down the street ahead of me caught my eye. Two fire trucks were double parked in front of a restaurant, and it looked very possible that the restaurant was The Martini. Could it be? An impromptu night off? I sped up my walk to a near skip and booked it to work.

I would be lying if I told you I walked into work with a concerned look on my face, staying out of everyone’s way and asking no questions. I’m pretty sure I was grinning like a kid at their first fireworks show, implicitly understanding that fire trucks at The Martini mean two very awesome things: firemen,

...and a great story.

I made a beeline straight for the other hostess, Alice, who I work most of my shifts with. We’ve been employed about the same time, and so we both share a tired disdain of most of the customer antics on display and both enjoy a good-natured but scathing review of the outfits that walk through the door. She too was grinning as she held the phone to her ear. By the look in her eye I knew this was big.

Apparently, at around 4:15 pm, the chef noticed a leak coming from the ceiling above the dishwashing area. The steady drip soon turned into a stream…and then, lo and behold, a deluge. We’re talking waterfall from the ceiling. And not just a one-and-done deal, oh no. Dinner reservation for a one El Nino, 5 pm.

The building manager for the condos and apartments above the restaurant soon appeared and we learned we were just one eatery in a handful that was having “issues” on the biggest sales night of the week. In a Bruce Willis movie turn of events, the icy temperatures of late January were bursting frozen pipes and shutting down restaurants all over the city. We were number three on the shit list, right behind two fires. We had no choice but to remain in limbo, waiting.

It was pretty clear that not only was half of the kitchen now a probable health hazard, but dinner service was not going to be resuming anytime soon. Alice and I began calling the full book of reservations to inform them of our…misfortune, and the whole staff sat around and fiddled our thumbs for hours while we turned people away.

In an attempt to make some kind of Saturday evening profit, the manager made the call to keep the bars open. We also had six private parties (now appetizer-less parties) crowding the upstairs bar all night. It’s amazing what a glitch like a burst pipe can do to clientele who expect an evening of smooth sailing. The thought of one of us hacking away at a pipe in the ceiling in a last-ditch attempt to have a Saturday night off is of course amusing, but lets be honest folks, not likely.

The rolling eyes and scoffs kept coming all night from the engagement party planners and the birthday party crowd. “Riiiight. The pipe burst all by itself. I paid for mini spanakopitas you assholes.”

It didn’t help matters much when, after a mad dash to the supermarket for cubed cheese and fruit platters, the kitchen was patched up only enough to provide the bare minimum of appetizers. Back the groceries go to the store. The parties, who had been informed of the pipe problem and had gone out for dinner before they settled in at their designated party areas at The Martini, were now faced with appetizers they didn’t know they could have. “Are we paying for this?? I thought you said…”

The hour or two of mild adrenaline had left the staff a bit weary and the demands of the blissfully unaware customers bounced off of most of us like 3rd grade spitballs. Our newest manager, who in her first weeks has witnessed some of The Martini’s finer charms in quick succession, summed it up best around 9 pm, when the excitement had died down.

“My god. What is this place??”

Here's to one of our own

The good folks in management at the Martini have a very special handbook on how to fire employees. It’s courteous, logical and professional. First, they begin to quietly scale back The Employee’s shifts, week by week. It may be as simple as a “Hey, you know, it’s lookin’ like a pretty slow night, why don’t you go on home?,” ten minutes into the shift, when the only people out eating are those with a senior discount and an 8 pm curfew. The Employee is unable to make any money. The next week, upon taking a glance at the new schedule, The Employee might discover that they don’t seem to have any shifts on the books at all. Curious. The Employee can’t seem to remember being fired.

And then, as the Martini one is inclined to do, the grapevine blows up with speculation. The Employee has long since realized that their employment is over, and the whole staff knows it. But the ever-professional and secretive managers remain tight-lipped until the moment of their choosing.

Last week, this unfortunate chain of events fell upon one of our own—James, a longtime server, proud provider of underage drinks, lover of all womankind (this comes to mind as a theme song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dXwZxzbZw4c&feature=related) and infamous for head-butting tournaments with management.

Once James got called out of his Friday shift (“it’s lookin’ like a slow night…”) and had me check his schedule (“so…you have no shifts.”), we met up for too many rounds of margaritas to reflect on his predicament. Somewhere around the fourth margarita on the rocks, James told me he would be making a scene the next night, to quit properly. I laughed in between bites of my burger and wrote it off as the type of indulgent fantasy that we all have and never act on.

Saturday night. The new general manager, Public Enemy Numero Uno for James, was helping expedite in the understaffed kitchen. I had forgotten much of James’ plan, until he texted and asked me to remove his phone number from the computer and to delete all messages he had sent me that night.

5 short minutes later, the phone at the host stand trilled a few times. The other hostess answered, and called one of the door guys over; it was Public Enemy with a distress call. James was not to be let in or near the building. My ears perked up. Wait a minute….

James had entered through the backdoor of the restaurant, and after locking on the location of Public Enemy (thanks to the coordinates I unwittingly gave him), triumphantly strode up to him, thrown his apron, yelled “Fuck you, asshole—I QUIT!” and proceeded to shower the manager with a Dunkin’ Donuts blueberry smoothie, laced with Crystal Lite Raspberry mix, topped with cream.

Once word reached the floor, James was long gone, but now our GM smelled like fruit punch, and the sickly, sweet smell emanated in a sugary haze wherever he went in the restaurant, all night. Though he seemed relatively unfazed, the rest of the staff was in a state of half shock and half awe. He had done what we all dream of doing on our worst days, and all for the price of a $2.59 smoothie.

So, here’s to James, and the years he gave to the Martini. We wish him and his (incredibly dramatic) cojones the best.