I was late for work. I could still taste the last IPA I drank six hours before and bourbon was on my breath. I was definitely about to accomplish one of my worst nightmares: Answering to my French boss.
I arrived forty minutes late, skidding in with my uniform in place but a less than ideal hairstyle and a sad attempt of correcting my unfortunate make-up. It was supposed to be my day off, but I was scheduled to work a double. I think I forgot to look at the schedule the night before because I was ready to blow off some steam and go out for once. I had been in New York City for a week and I had barely seen the city. I had only seen the city from the window that overlooked the street from the restaurant. All I needed was a cot and I could easily call the place home. I was living there, working doubles since the day I was hired.
I wasn't going to say anything about being late. Instead I was just going to go about the opening duties and pretend I had been there the whole time. I knew I was going to be confronted, but atleast I'd look like I was working hard.
"Hola, bonita," the sous chef said. "Como estas?" I looked at him with my slightly bloodshot eyes, ready to groan in hungover pain. He laughed and made a drinking gesture with his hand. He knew my story.
11:30 rolled around and it was time for the daily meeting with the entire staff. The French boss hadn't called me out yet, so I knew I was in for a staff-wide humiliation. We lined up around the dining room, standing straight like a military drill team, ready for orders. The managers and the boss made their way towards the group, clipboards in hand.
"Everyone outside!" Yelled the Frenchman, once in English and once in Spanish. We rallied outside where we saw the director of operations for all three restaurant locations. I hadn't seen him since my second interview a week ago. He was wearing a white lab coat over his starched, pink shirt, boot leg jeans, and typical long French shoes (whatever they're called). He listened as my French boss lectured everyone about leaving the restaurant properly at night. Apparently the door had been left ajar the previous night, open to any man off the street. He lectured once in English, once in Spanish.
We then piled back into the dining room where more lecturing took place. He threw the napkins I had folded the night before on one of the tables.
"Who did this? Who is responsible for this? Huh?"
Silence. I was not about to offer myself to the fire. Not today.
"We're all going to learn how to fold napkins the right way! Sit!"
We folded napkins as he watch each fold, correcting every faint blemish and technique. Apparently I wasn't the only one with poor napkin folding knowledge.
The Frenchman in the lab coat then began to speak as everyone returned to standing.
He told us our boss was stepping down from his position to return home to Canada, spitting every once in awhile. He told us how much he valued his commit to the restaurant and how it would be hard filling his position. He then digressed about customer service, alluding to an email he received the night before about how poor service had been for a guest. I wish I could describe his animated, spit-filled, lecture, but I'm afraid it's just too difficult. I would never do this man justice with adequate description. Just know that he meant business, spit and all.
We were then dismissed from the meeting. I hadn't been called out for being late and my boss was leaving. Crazy. Lunch was busy and I was distracted from how much I really didn't want to be at work.
I took a break between shifts and hurried myself to the drug store to correct my messy appearance. Deodorant? Check. Make-up remover? Check. Body mist? Check. New socks? Check. I was going to have a drug store makeover in a flash! No problem. I ate a sandwich, chugged a bottle of water, and made my way for the restroom. I had ten minutes to do work on my face and report to the next staff meeting.
The director greeted us at our next meeting, still wearing his lab coat from a day of reviewing restaurant operations. He had received another email from the night before, this time more pissed off.
"Did anyone receive a customer complaint last night?"
Silence.
"I did," Chris said. Chris, a Polish man, had been the one to train me.
"Aw, and what happened?" The boss man asked.
"They left me a bad tip so I asked them if their service had been good," Chris said.
"Did you confront their choice of wine?" The boss asked.
"No." Chris stood with confidence.
"Well, I receive an email from a guest. He say this restaurant is his girlfriend's favorite, so he want to give it a try. He say his waiter confront his wine choice." The Frenchman had the email in hand and proceeded to read it aloud. "He say the waiter asked him why he not receive a good tip."
Chris stumbled. He tried to defend his actions, even though it was pointless.
"What did I tell you earlier if a guest is unhappy? Huh?"
"You get a manager," Chris replied.
"And did you?"
Pause.... "No," Chris said.
"Well, you can leave your apron and go," The Frenchman said.
Chris walked away with his head down, ready to hand over his apron and return to his wife and child back in Brooklyn. A part of me really felt for the guy. An example had been made out of him at the expense of his employment. This restaurant was not about to tolerate second rate service.
Needless to say, it was an interesting day for me. Moral of the day? Don't screw up. Ever. Again. I got lucky... yet again.
