Ch-ch-ch-changes

So, readers, wherever you are, I have some news.

After countless weekend evenings moving amongst the city’s scuzziest cocktail-swirling bar frequenters and serenading them with the same top 40s mix every night past ten o'clock, I have left the Martini for another sector of the food industry: a very well-respected and groovy grocery outlet.

Now, I know some of you may see this as an interesting move, considering the positively overflowing wealth of story material that presented itself during each shift at the Martini. Don’t get me wrong: I do miss the dysfunction dearly. Probably too much. But, every writer needs a new muse every now and again, and it seems it was time for me to get my ass kicked by hauling around boxes of bananas instead of chirping into the phone like a Chihuahua and assuring the guy on the other end that yes, there is a dress code. Sneakers are ok to wear. No, baseball hats are not. Yes, we have valet parking. No, I cannot stash your gym bag, suitcase, jacket or laptop behind the host stand.

Restaurants are very good at revealing very specific aspects of a person, or a family. Who we are when we eat out is a distinct version of ourselves, and it plays off whatever mood our meal companions happen to set. Diners, perhaps unrealistically, often expect a private experience in a public place. “We’d like a private booth so we can talk,” a grabby and slobbering couple will beam at us hostesses, but everyone knows that eating out is, in effect, a performance. Some are better at it than others—the grumpy older man who can’t read his menu because the lights are too dim and probably wishes he was home instead comes to mind—but we’re all aware of it, subconsciously or not.

Now, watching grocery shoppers up close is something very different indeed. Already into my second week (with…for our purposes, I’ll call it The Shipyard), I’ve noticed a radically different affect among the customers. When we shop for ourselves, we’re preparing for an extremely private experience: a dinner at home. Our decision-making process is honed, specific, written down on slips of paper. We’re mostly reluctant to stand out.

What that means for me here at Balls in Your Coffee is a new set of lifestyles to accommodate—no longer the young banker wanting to get as plastered as possible as quick as possible, but more eco-conscious twenty-somethings with ear gauges, energetic screaming children, stubborn elderly Russian women in colorful scarves, and bright-eyed couples playing house by going domestic and buying bagged arugula and french bread together.

And there are neon mesh shopping-cart-collecting vests. Oh yes.

Let the games begin.

Customers say the darndest things

“Our party consists of three elderly people with limited mobility. One of them cannot eat garlic and has a server allergy.”—recent OpenTable reservation note.

Server allergy (noun): a sweeping pandemic affecting a subset of diners that often accompanies an economic depression or self-entitled douchebag-ism. Common reactions include sneezing, watery and itchy eyes, headaches, bad tipping, dissatisfaction with anything coming from the kitchen, lack of patience, a dangerous disdain for those handling your food, and stuffy, awkward dinner conversation, making it impossible for a server to interject or announce their presence.

Of storms, slow days and nights and Sports Center

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.

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.

Don't get testy now

What’s that, you say? You want to know why “balls in your coffee,” of all things, was adopted as the moniker for these tales of culinary adventure?

Fair question, and one that I realize needs addressing immediately.

One nondescript night, one when the whole staff was antsy to leave by about 6 p.m. and the minutes were dripping by like something out of a Salvador Dali painting, I seated a party of 12 people in the upstairs dining room. They arrived at a normal dining hour, most likely around 7:30 or so, but by 11, they were still there, and the upstairs server was slowly going insane from boredom.

It didn’t help matters much when the table turned out to be a collection of snobs who treated the server, James, horribly all evening.

Next to this table, there is a room that’s rented out for smaller parties throughout the year. It has it’s own bar set up inside, and shares a wall with the kitchen. When it’s empty, servers tend to congregate inside, waiting for tables, sleeping, bitching, carousing, you name it.

That evening, I wandered into this room, trying to find a server to take a newly sat table, and instead found James, another server Tom, and Rodrigo, one of the bussers, howling with testosterone-charged delight. James and Rodrigo were doubled over laughing.

“And what the hell is going on in here?” I asked Tom over the hysterical bouts of laughter. He was on his way behind the bar, shaking his head and clutching a water pitcher in one hand. James explained that he had more of less had enough with the table and was taking a very personal form of revenge.

Before I could ask what that even meant, I watched as Tom stood behind the bar, unzipped his pants, and daintily…dipped. James and Rodrigo exploded into another fit of hilarity as he zipped up with a stoic and determined look on his face, and left to attend to the table.

My jaw dropped and my eyebrows shot up to the top of my face like some kind of Saturday morning cartoon character, and all thought of the waiting table downstairs disappeared. It took me a shell-shocked moment to join James and Rodrigo at the small window near the table as we watched Tom solemnly refill all the water glasses…and then cringed with perverse joy as the table of evil diners began to take sips one by one.

Let’s just the say the incident occurred some time later with a cup of coffee (a different sensation than cold water, I would imagine) and the perfect twisted rebellion of the act has forever found immortality by entitling this memoir.

And if that, dear reader, hasn’t convinced you to be incredibly nice to every server you ever encounter and tip well for the rest of your life, I’m not sure what will.

Did she just say...super sperm?

Yes, you read right. Super. Sperm. The two words together have kind of a valiant quality to them, don’t they? Images of determined little swimmers come to mind, fighting the elements as they struggle to complete their life’s purpose, capes aloft, faster than speeding bullets…at least, that was what came to my mind when I overheard two girls conversing on the subject in the bathroom one evening.

It was a Friday night, and the music was already pumped up to a speaker-shattering level. Drinks were plenty, we were at capacity and the line outside the bar was getting longer by the minute. It was my turn to complete the much-adored bathroom checks for the later half of the night, and as I left my fellow hostess at the front of the house, I was blissfully unaware of the enlightening gem I was about to stumble upon.

I pushed open the bathroom door and was met with a long cramped line of women waiting for their turn. Needing a break from the loud crowds, I decided to stay in the bathroom and wait to clean up the few glasses in the stalls and on the countertops. It was a good choice.

The speakers in the downstairs women’s bathroom have two settings; way, way, way too loud, to the point where the music is obscured by the death rattle of the exhausted speaker, or off. Tonight it was quiet, and most of the women were silently sipping their cocktails and adjusting their hair in the mirror, except for two, somewhere mid-cluster. We’ll call them Steph and Brittany. Or maybe Brittanie. With a heart over the i.

“Steph, I have like, kind of a weird question.”

My ears perked up. So did the ears of every other woman in line. Steph, a blonde with too much mascara coating her eyelashes, turned to Brittanie.

“So like, I’m on birth control, obviously,” (insert a I’m-so-liberated-and-responsible-but-really-I’m-glad-I-get-to-sleep-around giggle) “so Matt and I can like, do it, without a condom. But I can’t remember if he can, you know...(giggle) cum and not get me pregnant! So I’m like, freaked to let him.”

Ohhh this should be interesting.

Steph gave Brittanie a big wide smile and an oh-thankgod-you-have-me-you’re-wiser-better-prettier-best-friend-to-answer-your-sexual-health-queries pat on the arm.

“Ohmygod, you TO-tally can,” she said. “It’s the whole point! I mean”—here she glanced around the bathroom like she was about to reveal top secret nuclear codes—“I swear when Ben came the other night, I could feel every, single, sperm.”

“Every one??”

“Yeah. I mean, maybe he has like, super sperm or something, but it’s totally crazy. It’s like the best feeling ever.”

A woman in front of me tried to hide her scoff and failed, attempting to make it sound like a cough as she hid her face with her glass. A stall opened and Steph stepped in, leaving Brittanie to contemplate the possibility of Ben’s mutant sperm.

I finished my cleaning sweep and left with a few wine glasses in my hands. A woman who had been washing her hands during the exchange exited behind me.

As we walked back to the bar, she snorted out a laugh.

“He better get that checked out!” she said. “Super sperm…jeeee-zus.”

Still shaking her head, she disappeared into the crowd, undoubtedly eagerly telling her friends, “You’ll NEVER believe what I just heard…”