Restaurant Wars

I'm delighted to find myself on this blog, even though it gives the lie to my belief that I was an excellent waiter, especially with the large tables.

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The Waiter Chronicles Revisited

"Good Food" is a Saturday show on the local public radio station. I don't listen to it normally, but yesterday as we drove to the museum I caught mention of the phrase "Waiter Rant" and froze the dial in place.

Waiter Rant is a crazy-popular blog written by Steve Dublanica, a blog which produced a Norton Anthology-worthy essay and subsequently an entire book, a book which currently resides on the New York Times' Best Seller List. Yesterday, Dublanica was interviewed by the host of "Good Food," Evan Kleiman. Listen to the show here.

Listening to the interview stoked my proud waiter fire, a fire that burned hot yet a year ago and then cooled after I found gainful employment in my "real" calling and quit last January. But before I took off the apron I had a correspondence with Dublanica (then known only as "The Waiter"). I posted my email to him here, and I posted (with his expressed permission) his response here.

Is this like knowing someone famous?

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The Waiter Chronicles: Last Day (redux)

By 1:00 the dining room was dead, so I took off my tie and apron and printed my batch report. Fifteen dollars on three tables: bad. Really bad. So bad that I take a moment to feel some sympathy for Grandpa, Pepe, and Junior. This is what I'm leaving them.

A couple parties of two wandered in a little after 1:00. Grandpa could handle them with his eyes closed, but something sentimental inside made me re-don my apron and take "one last table." Easy stuff. A pizza, a ravioli, coke, iced tea. The women linger over their lunch, and as they do I'm thinking ahead to the rest of the afternoon. I texted Pepe earlier to come up and see me, but he never responded. Oh well.

The rear doorbell rings, and around the back corner comes Junior and What (as we've come to call one of the bussers). Pepe follows soon after, and it becomes clear that they're here for a reason. Finally, the other Owner arrives, windblown from a motorcycle ride from the city, and places are set around table 43. Wine glasses are set and appetizers are ordered.

It's a lunch. The Owners, the waiters, the bussers, and me. I'm choking on the realization.

Pepe asks me what I want to eat, and I tell him, "Whatever you think I should have."

"You ever had the lamb shank?" he asks.

"No." He turns resolutely to the computer and taps in the order, grinning and eagerly pulling at the few hairs that protrude from his chin.

I clock out and ceremoniously return my card to The Owner, who receives it with a broad smile. We all sit and enjoy a fabulous lunch. The Owners have a gift for "la bambina": a pair of baby booties and a Target gift card. I'm touched.

The Owner mandates that I will say a blessing over the capasante, gamberi con fagioli, and calamari that Nando (the other busser) is placing on the table. This is a dear thing about him that I have loved from the beginning. A man of deep skepticism and loud objections to institutional religions, he has a fixed insistence upon the celestial order of things and our part in petitioning the heavens. His pleas for me to pray for him stopped seeming like jokes months ago.

I return thanks for good friends and good gifts, and I ask God's blessings on all of us in the days ahead. At the "Amen," Pepe feigns emotion, placing a clenched fist to his chest and moaning through pursed lips. I pat his shoulder and laugh. All that's left to do is to enjoy the table. Tell funny stories, laugh over-zealously, and pour more wine. It's beautiful, and I don't deserve it.

It's a living tableau of grace, given to the clumsy by the Hell-bent, and shared among people who, months ago, had no reason to care about the existence of one another. When the wife unexpectedly arrives to join in, it can't get any better.

And so it doesn't.

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The Waiter Chronicles: Last Day

It is the last day today. In at 10:30 to open, serve lunch, and then it's over. It's not an ending I ever expected to be very thoughtful about, and yet I'm finding myself a little sad. The cast of characters that has made up my life these last seven months will stay in place, doing what they do, but I won't be there to enjoy it.

Yet, neither will I be there to suffer from it.

I've got Angry Chef's phone number in my contact list, and a couple of times this week I've thought that I should call him up, give him a proper farewell. I've not seen or heard from him since that blurry December night when he told me what to do with myself and then disappeared into the night, never to be heard from again. I don't know if I'll pursue that thought.

I've gone so far as to assemble a playlist to burn for Pepe, but I don't have any cd's, so it'll probably not see the light of day. That's okay. There's something a little bit forced about somebody like myself forcing music onto a 21 year old dynamo like Pepe, even if it does arise out of a genuine desire to share something good.

I stopped by a little boutique on the way home yesterday to pick up a little something for The Owners. I'd had in mind for awhile that I would leave them with a chalice and plate set, a quasi theological statement about their restaurant as a shared table where people are welcomed and find, em, communion. But those are a lot more expensive than I'd realized. In the end I settled an a small iron cross that I hope will make a contribution to the life of the place.

Waiterrant wrote awhile back that the restaurant world "can be like a comfortable womb" for those who work in it. You come at the start of your shift, and you leave at the end. What's expected of you is constant. You don't have health benefits or weekends, but it's predictable and safe; at times, the cash is fantastic. I never envisioned anything other than a thoughtless and sudden transition out of this "womb," yet I suspect that the coming days and weeks will have their moments of . . . something--nostalgia, maybe?

That'll be for the good. It will mean that this experience has been good. Which is worlds away from what I thought it would be when I wrote this:

"It occurred to me as I walked home this afternoon that I don't need this. Ten years ago I would have seen it as a test of character. I would have regarded the breaking glasses and the raging inferiority complex as a sort of challenge to be overcome. To ingratiate myself to those people by proving myself minimally competent, even good, at what I was hired to do would have become a measure of my abilities. I would endure it to prove to myself that I could. But I don't need to do that anymore. I don't need to prove anything to myself, at least not as it pertains to balancing dishes on a tray. I so don't need this.

Only I do. Because otherwise I'm unemployed, and somehow that seems worse than this. But not by much.

Ciao.

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The Waiter Chronicles Diner Profile: The I-Know-Just-Enough-To-Be-A-Total-Tool Guy

This guy knows a little bit about cocktails. He knows a little about food and a little about coffee. And that little bit of knowledge combines to make him an intolerable menace to the waiter. He never dines alone; he always has a date with him, or some friends or family. Going out to dinner this evening was his idea, and he most likely chose the place. The I-Know-Just-Enough-To-Be-A-Total-Tool guy (hereafter IKJETBATT guy) needs to perform.

He starts by ordering a vodka cocktail. Not a standard cocktail like a vodka tonic, or even a vodka martini. No, the IKJETBATT guy orders a vodka gimlet. When he orders his second one, he'll be sure to point out that the first one was a little "sticky."

When it comes time to order dinner, he'll ask detailed and complicated questions about really simple menu items. He'll ask, for example, how the eggplant parmesan is "presented" (the waiter will make something up while thinking, "On a novel little utility called a plate").

When the IKJETBATT guy's free basket of bread runs out, he won't wait for his server to return to the table so that he can politely request more. Instead, he'll bellow "excuse me, excuse me, excuse me! Can we get some more bread?" to the waiter while the waiter is very obviously attending to a nearby table.

When he orders coffee after dinner he'll ask for a latte. But not just any old latte. He'd like a "no-foam" latte. And when you bring it to him, he'll ask for "a little stirrer or something" since the three spoons at his left hand are obviously not up to the task of stirring the drink.

And, worst of all--this is the move that confirms the diner's identity beyond a shadow of a doubt--when the bill comes, the IKJETBATT guy rewards the waiter for the countless hoops he's had to jump through by tipping at about 11%.

The IKJETBATT guy is hard to miss. He's even harder to forget.

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The Waiter Chronicles: January Lull

All of December is a mad rush at the Ristorante: the place is fully booked several nights a week, and large parties are the norm; we run out of clean silverware by 7:30. But it's exhilerating. And since we're making so much money, none of the waiters complain.

Then January rolls around, and things slow down. Waaaaay down. The glut of eating and drinking that filled the year's 12th month have taken their toll on the waistline and the conscience by the first week of January. Reservations almost totally dry up, and what people do come in aren't drinking much, and they're steering clear of dessert. It's a little depressing.

What's also depressing is that the Ristorante meets this lull head on by cutting staff on the schedule, starting with the bussers. During the holidays there was at least one--and often two--bussers on every shift. But this last week gave us a busser only once, yesterday, at lunch. Every dinner service this week has been covered by two or three lonely waiters; the bussers are on holiday.

Which would seem to be fine, given the above observation about the slow traffic. It's just that waiting tables without a busser is, I'm coming to believe, twice as difficult as having one. The mental and physical exertion are nearly doubled when the waiter has to fetch bottomless baskets of bread and refill countless iced teas for tables. With a busser, a waiter can relax when a table leaves; get the check from the table, close the ticket, attend to other tables. But without one, a table's departure is a horn-blast signaling him to battle.

Clear the glasses. Clear the dishes. Roll up the paper. Wipe down the chairs. Bring a new paper. Bring plates, silverware, napkins, glasses.

Seriously, my legs hurt more this morning, after a week of January traffic, then they ever did during the holidays. Maybe it's that I'm a month older. Maybe it's that I'm ready to be done with this whole chapter, so the discomfort is more apparent. Maybe it's just less adrenaline. Whatever the case, my feet are aching for February.

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The Waiter Chronicles: Bon Natale

Christmas Eve at the Ristorante was carried along by an air of other-worldliness. There was an eerie quiet coming from the kitchen, and Angry Chef's absence created an atmosphere of sadness mixed with relief. For me, the place doesn't feel the same without him. But the first hours without him revealed the burden that his temper had placed on everyone.

The dining room was busy all night. Junior jumped back into the kitchen to help cook, and people were pleased with the food. Near the end of the evening, the wife arrived to have her Christmas Eve dinner, and the owner insisted that I order dinner and sit with her, both of us as his guests. Grateful, I complied.

As everyone exchanged Christmas wishes and headed home, the Owner passed out Panettone and Prosecco. We left happy.

It was a Bon Natale indeed.

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The Waiter Chronicles: Angry Chef's Ouster

I'm not sure how it went down, but Angry Chef was fired sometime between 10 pm last night and 12 pm today. Junior just called to tell me the news and to inform me that our eight Christmas Eve reservations (and anyone else who wanders in) will be treated to the culinary stylings of Augusto and Felipe, the two sous chefs. If needed, Junior himself will lend a hand in the kitchen.

Last night's dinner service was not good at all. Around 5:30 several large parties with children arrived at the same time. They were all seated, given drinks and bread, and had their orders taken. As will happen, two parties of eight (one of them mine) had their entrees fired at the same time. That's 16 entrees that need to come out at once. The kitchen doesn't even have 16 pans.

Angry Chef lost it. He had been animated up to that point, but this put him over the edge; he came out of the kitchen yelling, looked at me and pointed, screaming "[expletive deleted] you!" Then he demanded to know where the owner was. I produced the owner, who ambled back into the kitchen with his disgruntled employee, and a loud Italian shouting match ensued.

I'd never seen this before. I'd seen Angry Chef yell; I'd seen the owner yell. I'd never seen them yell at each other. The waiters and bussers did our best to keep moving and ignore the catastrophe in the kitchen. In the end, my party of eight had to wait 45 minutes for their dinner, and I had to offer them free desert. Likewise, Pepe's party of eight waited nearly an hour.

Things settled down after that, but at the Ristorante's expense. The owner had to turn people away, since the kitchen was in such a state. So here he is with a dining room only half full, telling customers he can't seat them. Needless to say, he was not happy. In fact, he would say later that he would have done better to not even open last night.

What happened between then and the phone call I just got I don't know. I suppose the details will be filled in, but I won't be asking for them. The long-and-short of it is that the Ristorante is out its chef.

I feel bad for Angry Chef. He's a far more complicated person than I know, surely, and his flamboyance and temper bespeak some self-destructive habits with [obviously] detrimental results as far as his career is concerned. But he's a genuine guy. He loves good food and wine, and he lives and dies by the integrity of his craft. I had grown quite fond of him, actually. In fact, as we readied the dining room last night, enjoying a little pre-dinner chat, he wistfully told me that he loved me and that he would miss me when I left.

How could he have known that, in less than 24 hours, he would be preceding me in departure?

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The Waiter Chronicles: My Tortured Conscience--The Waiter Responds

The Waiter has responded to my agonized plea for guidance regarding Saturday night's episode, wherein I was offered food by the chef, but no other waiter was.

Here is his response, in full. Well, almost:

"[expletive deleted] those waiters. Eat the salmon when you can. They'd probably do the same thing to you. We're a rather mercenary bunch. Waiters come and go - stay tight with the kitchen guys.

Happy Holidays

Waiter"

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The Waiter Chronicles: My Tortured Conscience

I've been a reader of waiterrant for about six months now. After a dicey situation tonight, I sent The Waiter an email seeking advice or absolution. Here, in full, is the text of the email. Please feel free to respond.

"Waiter,

I'm a waiter of only six month's experience. One of the things I learned early on is the stratification of the restaurant social system, with the bussers, waiters, and kitchen staff all occupying their respective roles. As a waiter, my place is secure. But tonight I got myself into a situation that I wasn't prepared for and that may have called my loyalty into question.

After a steady and busy night when nothing went wrong and everybody loved their food, I walked into the kitchen to retrieve some silverware for polishing. While there, I decided to applaud the kitchen staff. I simply stopped, looked at the chef, the sous chef, and the food prep. cook, and I applauded. Literally, I clapped my hands in acknowledgement. It turns out they were in the process of cooking some food for themselves and the dishwashers, and after my gesture of appreciation the chef ordered, in Espanol, that a plate be made for me. I made like I didn't understand and left. Normally, the kitchen will make plates for the waiters as well.

A few minutes later I went back into the kitchen, and the waiter told me to come and enjoy a plate with him and the rest of the kitchen. He also offered me a glass of wine and some mussels he had cooked up. I quickly realized that there was going to be no food for the waiters; the stoves were off. Yet, to refuse this unusual offer would be to offend the chef in a very serious way. So, while my waiter colleagues polished glasses and set tables on empty stomachs, I wolfed down a salmon filet and caeser salad, standing at the chef's side. I also slurped a few mussels. I made quick work of it, then earnestly thanked him in Italian and returned to the bussing station. I felt so bad about what I had done that I actually confided in a couple of the waiters about what had happened and sort of half apologized. They didn't get any food at all.

I fell like I have violated some fraternal loyalty among waiters. But would it have been any better to offend the chef?

Please help ease my conscience.

Not Prince Hamlet

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The Waiter Chronicles: Sree Thparkling Waters

They just kept coming. Couples, families, dates, reunions: you name the group it was at the Ristorante tonight, the second night of dear city's "Festival of Lights."

With four waiters and one busser, things got out of hand pretty quickly, and they stayed that way for nearly two hours. With a private party of 30 people tying up Grandpa and the busser, it fell to Junior, Pepe, and I to manage the rest of the dining room. Needless to say, Pepe and Junior did a much better job than I did.

I had things under control, for the most part, with my party of eight working on their desserts and my various other parties of two and four settling in. But then walked in another party of eight, this one with a child, and where do you think they were going to sit? "No problem," I though. "Just get it done."

So off I went to make Shirley Temples and prepare bread and rehearse the whole list of holiday specials. Then the other party of eight urgently needed their bill. Then they urgently needed to split their bill over five separate credit cards. Then the wheels fell off. Flummoxed by the separation of checks, I started forgetting things: bruschetta, wine, bread--my gosh the bread! My speech skills deteriorated rapidly, since what was coming out of my mouth couldn't hardly keep up with what was motoring around my head.

It hurt me. One table waited too long for their bill and penalized me by tipping at about 7% (of their $140 ticket). That I can handle. The really bad part is that the sort-of truce that had endured between Angry Chef and the wait staff completely fell apart, and he started yelling and swearing at people. One family came in and ordered an appetizer, two entrees, and a dessert all at the same time. When I explained that the order was okay because it was a family, he responded with, "That's nice. F*** you. F*** your family."

This is what weekends will be like for the next month. I can only hope that I'll get better at it. Or that we hire some more waiters.

It had better be the former; I'm not holding my breath on the latter.

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The Waiter Chronicles: Thanksgiving

It was a couple of weeks ago that Pepe started unfolding brief little descriptions of Thanksgiving at the Guillen house. Lots of food, a big bonfire, and plenty of drink. Then, last week, as if by plan, Grandpa formally invited Meredith and I to their family Thanksgiving. We humbly accepted.

Yes, the food was extravagant and sumptuous. Yes the bonfire was blazing. And yes the wine warmed the belly. But how much greater was the sum than its parts? To sit at table with a family of 10--granparents, cousins, even a baby--and to be welcomed so richly, to be asked to give a blessing over the meal, and to be sent home with plates of leftovers: what a gift.

When you move to someplace new you think about what the holidays will be like in that place. Yesterday was very, very far removed from the vision of Thanksgiving I started having back in April. And as reality often is, it was far superior.

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The Waiter Chronicles: Nightclub

About a month ago, Pepe and Junior began talking to the Owners about promoting a club-night at the Ristorante. Junior has some friends who promote after hours club-nights at some other places around town, with reputable success. Those conversations turned into plans, and the first one of those club-nights is tonight, from 10 pm to 1 am.

Now, from the outset of these conversations I made it clear to Junior and Pepe that I'm probably not available to work these events. They protested that we'd be making all kinds of money, but still I demurred. So imagine my surprise when this week's schedule appeared and I was slotted to work at 9 pm tonight.

First, that the event found its way onto the schedule means that it's got a lot more Owner backing than I thought. But secondly (and more obviously), I repeatedly made it known that I am unavailable, especially for this first one, since I have a friend in from out of town.

Two conversations with the Owner followed.

Saturday, November 3
Me: "[Owner], I'm not available to work these Wednesday night events."
Owner: [hastily eating pasta and not looking at me] "Why not?"
Me: "They're way too late. I have a pregnant wife at home."
Owner: "So. She doesn't need you to be pregnant."
Me: "Well, this Wednesday, especially, I'm not available. I have an out-of-town guest staying with me over night. I can't be gone."
Owner: "That's okay. Just don't let it happen again."

Monday, November 5
Owner: "How late are you available on Wednesday night?"
Me: "Uh, [Owner], I'm not available at all. I have someone staying with me from out of town."
Owner: "So, if I need you to come in at 10 for a couple of hours, that would be okay?"
Me: "No it's not. I don't want to be a bad host."
Owner: [silence. No response]

I resent simply being expected to work an event like this. It's Junior's and Pepe's baby, they can staff it themselves. I'm not staying out until 1:30 in the morning to work a nightclub.

But I resent even more the complete disregard for my wishes. I know in the service sector you work when the schedule says you work. I know that any time "off" you may get is an accident of the scheduler, if not an all-out gift. But this seems flagrant. This makes me mad.

Am I being unreasonable?

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The Waiter Chronicles: Nickname

I have inhabited more than one nickname since I started waiting tables at the Ristorante: "the professor," "piedra," and "caro" to name a few.

But this one is new.

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The Waiter Chronicles: Three Tables of Three

Table 11:
"Well, first of all, I was an English major, which was a mistake."
The waiter stops his pour of the second bottle of Trinchero Family Estate Pinot Noir. The woman--the English major--notices, checks her recognition with her two friends, and then states the obvious: "You were an English major too, weren't you?"

The waiter answers easily. "Yes, and I'm living proof that an English major is not a bad career move."

The ladies laugh, a little uncomfortably, as if the waiter's sarcasm holds something authentic.

***
Table 14:
In a thick, north English accent, they ask for more time to look at the wine menu. "Give's a few wee minutes, yeah?"

A bottle of Ripasso and some capasante provide enough time for them to settle in and loosen up. The waiter has asked what brings them to town, allowing them to expound on the UK-based grocery store they're working to build in the U.S. Then they turn their attention to the waiter. "What part of the states are you from?"

"Colorado. Denver."

"Rough night for you then." He nods to the television over the bar, the one broadcasting the bloodbath that has become game one of the World Series. The Red Sox are pummeling the Rockies 13-1.

"Yeah, thanks for pointing that out."

A conversation follows about the mechanics of baseball and the World Series: how many games a team has to win; how home and away games are scheduled; why the Rockies are losing so badly.

The waiter has to pull himself away from the table. It would have been great to pull up a chair, pour a glass of wine, and chit chat about American and British sports.

***
Table 15:
Separate check. The waiter hates separate checks. "These three guys all ordered the exact same entree," the waiter fumes to himself. "Why can't they pay with the same check?"

It's not exactly a surprise. After all, they have been very concerned about the dollars and cents of this dinner from the very beginning. After yielding to the waiter's suggestion of mineral water and ordering glasses of Cabernet, Chiante, and Chardonnay, they suddenly hit the brakes. No appetizers. No salads. Questions about the cost of every special. The waiter had one of them hooked on the wild troll king salmon special (pun intended) until he asked how much it cost.

"$34.95."

The laughter and exaggerated looks of shock that follow aren't shocking, just a little tacky. Predictably, they all settle on an inexpensive gnocci and send the waiter on his way. He heads to the kitchen shaking his head, thinking, "That table could have been great. What happened?"

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They'll Kick You And They'll Punch You And They'll Tell You It's Fair, So . . .

When he first told me to "beat it," I wasn't all that bothered. I had been trying to extricate myself from the table for what seemed like hours anyway, but his date just kept yammering on in a half-drunken Italian impersonation that was as embarrassing as it was insulting. So I was relieved at the sudden escape hatch, the wave of the hand granting express permission to leave the table and be done with it.

It was only after I related the dismissal to Pepe that it started to irk me. "That guy just told me to 'beat it'," I said, much in the same way that I might report someone asking for more bread. But Pepe's eyes widened at the news. His jaw slackened a little bit and his pupils took on an immediately sympathetic cast, and it was then that I started to feel the first gurglings of outrage.

That guy just told me to "beat it."

Besides top-hatted characters in 1920's musicals and Michael Jackson, besides mullet-headed toughs in 80's cop dramas, who talks like that? Who looks at another human being they hardly know and tells them to "beat it?"

What, "scram" was taken? "Shoo" not coming to the tip of the tongue? "Beat it?" Seriously?

The rest of the night is a blur of anger and self-loathing as I try to reconcile the depths of human indecency with the circumstances that have brought me to this place, where I, at 31, can be told to "beat it" by a complete stranger and not be bothered until someone tells me to.

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The Waiter Chroncles: Mix Tapes

In the service sector, your co-workers are everything. They can make your work miserable, or they can make it tolerable. Some may even make this otherwise demeaning work enjoyable.

Meet Pepe, the 21 year-old uber-waiter who has quickly become my favorite person in this strange place. Sarcastic, generous, and full of energy, Pepe makes even the most stressful lunch shift fun. He does this with little gestures: waving his arm in the air and proclaiming, "that's whassup!" as you precariously balance a tray full of entrees; executing short bursts of crump-dance maneuvers; answering the most distressed questions with quips like, "I don't know. All I know is that I'm handsome."

Seriously, being a waiter at the Ristorante would be much, much worse if not for Pepe.

Among other things, he has an encyclopedic knowledge of popular music, which he uses to decorate the most basic of conversations. Which is why my restaurant vocabulary includes "Ay Bay Bay" and "Hyphy," linguistic nuggets I'm hard pressed to defend in any other setting. It's a quality I admire, even if Pepe's musical catalogue is predominately rap and hip-hop.

Out of this admiration, I suggested a mix tape project. That's right, mix tapes (cd's, really). I'm a 31 year old ordained minister, and I just traded mix tapes with another guy. And it was totally my idea.

I offered up The Decemberists, Feist, The Bobby Hughes Experience, Maximo Park, Metric . . .

Pepe produced E-40, Bow Wow, Hurricane Chris, Mike Jones, Nas, Lil' Boosie, The Federation . . .

It's fun, if nothing else.

And a little childish.

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The Waiter Chronicles Survey Winner

The winning answer to the survey question about the food handler's test came from Michael:

"Cockroaches and rodents like to feed . . .

a. while you are taking tests, so get back to work!

Nice job Michael. The next time you're in the IE, feel free to handle some food; you're honorarily certified so to do.

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The Waiter Chronicles Survey: The Test

If you live in Riverside County and work in a job where you handle food, you have to get a Food Handler's Card. Getting this card means trekking down to the local environmental health office and paying $18 to take a 50 question multiple choice test. You're only allowed to miss 15 questions if you are to pass.

And if you are troubled, dear citizen, by the thought that some of the men and women handling the food you're eating are only about 70% clear on what will make you sick and what won't, let the sheer difficulty of that test put your fears to rest.

Eh-hem.

Test takers are given a short booklet to study before they start penciling in the bubbles. Feeling confident, I flipped through the first few pages of it, then declared myself ready to be examined. I was more ready than I knew.

If this test is a measurement of the need-to-know involved in food service, then it appears that little more is needed than a basic grasp of English and a healthy appreciation for sarcasm. Because, while a few of the questions pertain to details--the temperature at which food grows bacteria, for example--most of them are mind-numbingly ridiculous.

Here's an example (and I paraphrase):

Cockroaches and rodents like to feed
a. when the manager is not around
b. when they're stressed
c. when it is dark and quiet
d. on Mondays and Thursdays

(Duh. Everybody knows the answer is "a," with a postscript, "depending on the manager.")

It got so bad at one point that I actually looked around the room to see if other test takers were as amused as I was. I also suspected I might be the unwitting subject of a hidden camera prank. Nope. My colleagues were all furrowing their brows and engaging the exam with full seriousness.

You will be relieved to know that I am now the proud possessor of a Riverside County Food Handler's Card. That's right, when it comes ot roaches, mice, flies, and rotting food, I'm bonafide.

So here's the survey: submit your best multiple choice answer option "e" for the question about mice and rodents. The actual answers will be hard to beat, I know, but give it a shot. Because the best answer wins its author an Honorary Riverside County Food Handler's Certification.

May the Food Handler's Force be with you.

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The Waiter Chronicles: After Work

I'm riding shotgun in westbound bass-thumping Mustang, heading to an unknown midnight destination. I only know it's a Mexican bar and that Junior is friendly with one of the bartenders. We're 15 miles out of town now, still speeding into the valley darkness, and as we enter and exit Ontario like a knife through butter I start to wonder: "are we going into LA?"

Not LA, ultimately, but Chino. A few years ago this would have freaked me out, going out for drinks with people I don't know all that well at one of their personal hangouts. But now I don't care. It hardly even bothers me that Junior and Pepe have thoroughly out-dressed me. They're both in collared shirts, black pants, and shiny shoes; Pepe is even sporting a sleevless pullover sweater. The best I could do for this midweek after-work outing is a brown T-shirt with Pac Man on the front. My companions don't seem to care, so I don't either.

We pull up to the bar, which is actually in a strip mall. There's a Ralph's Supermarket only 100 feet from the entrance. We stride through the doors past a bouncer reclining against a walkway rail. He nods at Junior and Pepe, and I put my head down and follow them in, wondering, "Should I have nodded at that guy?" Inside, the bar is a cross between a nightclub and a bingo parlor. There's a jukebox in the corner and a well in the middle, but the rest of the place is random smattering of tables and barstools separated by uncomfortable distances. The crowd is mixed, about half Latino and half white, with the white clientèle checking in somewhere between 40 and 50 years old. Somehow, this makes me relax, which I uneasily take as a measure of my age.

Pepe and Junior scan the bar for their friend, the bartender. She's not there. I'm just standing there like a dummy while the two of them deliberate about what to do. For a minute I think we might leave, but then we choose a hightop table near the door, and Junior sets out for our drinks. I tell him to get me a Coors, and he wrinkles his nose and lets out a "bah!" But I'm sticking to my guns. Not out of some loyalty to Coors, but rather wanting to keep my dignity. They're out of Coors, though, so I go with a Corona, which registers on Junior's face as a slight improvement.

Junior brings back our drinks and lifts his Pacifico bottle with a cocked head. I look from Junior to Pepe, then elevate my Corona. The irony does not escape me that this is the first and best welcome Southern California has offered me, and that it comes from two brothers, one 21 and the other 37, who are teaching me to be a waiter.

We clink our bottles to Junior's toast: "To . . . for the Hell of it."

For the Hell of it.

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