Goodness, it’s been a long time, and I apologize. To be completely honest, my time at The Martini these past few weeks has left me so drained that the thought of typing out anything remotely concerning the place activated my gag reflex quicker than the dead mouse smell that briefly wafted around the upstairs bar last night.
Granted, mine is not the most battered soul currently employed by The Martini, by any means. My job as hostess is relatively easy; not only do I get paid to watch mind-numbing ESPN Sports Center by the hour, all the customers with bad attitudes only occupy my attention for 3 minutes, max. I don’t have to tip anyone out and walk with less money than I came in with. But lord, let me tell you, staring at the front door and shifting my weight from foot to foot every 10 minutes praying that something will happen or a customer will at least walk in is torture. On a night shift earlier this week, I finished an entire book, start to finish.
Business has not been good for us lately. Whether it’s the weather (which never seems to affect the restaurants around us) or the economy, a curse has befallen the eatery. I’m not sure it can even be attributed to plain old karma anymore. While working a double yesterday, one plagued by chilly and torrential rain, we entertained a mild rush around lunchtime, then watched the place clear out for hours. I watched the door, chimed “Stay dry!” cheerfully at each customer as they left, and perused the Open Table website, making a mental list of possible new employers.
Around 4 pm or so, the evening shift servers began to arrive, all damp from the rain and looking flustered. Tom walked in, umbrella-less and soaked to the skin.
“You know there’s a pile of vomit outside, right?” he told the manager as he passed the host stand.
The daytime manager, a petite Brazilian woman who once shrieked at a to-go container with a few sugar packets in it when she was told it was an entrapped mouse, dashed to the doors to peek outside and investigate. There it was. No wonder no one was coming in. Moments later, she had a busboy dumping a bucket of water over the vomit, encouraging it to find its way to the gutter. I could not for the life of me remember anyone having too many brunch cocktails and staggering out to puke in our doorway.
The evening progressed without much fanfare, although the storm provided a small amount of amusement. We watched as hapless umbrellas whipped around in the gusts of wind, getting caught in tree branches and leaving their owners looking both amused and embarrassed as they fought to right the flimsy wire spindles in the sheets of rain.
While I'd like to tell you a witty story about some customer who made an outrageous scene and was thrown out by the bouncers, or who fell asleep in the bathroom, that would mean that customers would have to be in the restaurant. And this, hopeful readers, was just not the week for it.
But! Fret not! For this upcoming week is Restaurant Week, The Holy Grail of all server's nightmares. For one week, we shall offer meals at a flat price all over the city, encouraging diners to try new things and widen their horizons. Restaurant Week brings out the best in everybody, and I will be taking notes.
