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??”