Customer Review: We Speak No Americano

Dish may cost more than this.

Appetiser

Ordering kangaroo 101: or, why don’t you just hack off a piece of your own shoe and eat it?

Entrée

Starring: A table of four young people, the host of which is a European woman

Scene: I am taking their order for mains after politely reminding them that the kitchen is closing in ten minutes.

European: I’d like the kangaroo, but cooked medium-well, please.

Me: *deep breath*

Main

Morning, boys and girls! Pop quiz! Can anybody tell me why no reputable chef ever cooks kangaroo fillet more than medium rare?

If you answered, “Because kangaroo meat is not beef steak. These two meat varieties hail from rather different animals, one of which spends most of its time hopping across the outback at speeds of 20-70 kilometres per hour, while the other bums around grazing and mooing. Kangaroo is hence prized for its leanness and intensity of flavour; unfortunately its low fat content means the meat will immediately dry out if cooked over medium-rare. Overcooking will destroy it entirely, and not in a subjective tastebud-of-the-beholder way. Literally.” You are correct!

I would also have accepted, “Because it would taste like burnt dinosaur shit.”

Armed with this information, I attempted to save European Woman from this impending plate of costly dinosaur shit. I asked if she’d had kangaroo before. I explained the properties of the meat, and the chef’s decision to never serve it cooked over medium rare. She insisted that she could not tolerate rare meat. Ah, I thought, here is the key.

“If you prefer your meat cooked medium-well or well-done, perhaps you’d like something from our aged beef selection?” I offered, beaming. “We have scotch fillet, sirloin-”

“I live in the States,” she huffed, tossing her menu to me with a note of finality, “I have steak all the time. Just get me the kangaroo, cooked the way I want it. I want the kangaroo.”

This part was my fault. You see, at Melbourne Waitress School, we had a lecture on the States Clause, which mandates that under no circumstances should you ever recommend steak to someone who has spent any amount of time in the US. Ever. Do not even think that your puny Commonwealth beef industry can compare, you presumptuous Foster’s lover. Tell your Australian chefs to stick to what they know: kangaroos and wombats and shit. La Luna what now? Bitch, I’m from Texas.

Unfortunately I must have spent that lecture at the back of the class doing goon laybacks and drawing stick figure caricatures of my boss.

After entreating looks from her guests, I finally gave in. You demand to spend $36 on a plate of peppered car seat? Knock yourself out, honey. Sure, I will be the person standing there sighing as the chef rants in disbelief at your ignorance, but as long as you get what you want all is well.

Their meals came out, and European was overheard poking at her kangaroo (grudgingly cooked medium-well with nary a juicy pink piece of flesh in sight) and complaining, “This is the most they’d cook it?”

She offered a piece to her friend, who compared the overcooked kangaroo to her own medium-rare kangaroo. The friend tried one bite and immediately pushed the burnt crap away, happily returning to her own dish while declaring European’s “inedible”. Finally, as European was in the bathroom, the three (Australian) friends called me over to personally apologise for her behaviour.

Always right, my arse.

Customer Score

Presentation: 3/5. Fairly well-presented – but I will deduct points for that fugly grandparent-blue parka.

Intelligence: 3/5. Socially aware, assertive. Apparently unable to comprehend that different types of meat come from different types of animals, nor able to accept further explanations and recommendations. Probably thinks everything tastes like chicken.

Behaviour: 1/5. All former politeness was eroded by her meat tantrum.

Value: 3/5. They paid the bill and tipped.

Experience: 2/5. I do not go to work to be harassed by Eurotrash about how we should cook our national animal.

Total Score: 12 Timmys out of the well. Stop embarrassing your Australian friends you wannabe Yank.

0-5 complete waste of a human organs 6-10 a distinct displeasure 11-12 what a turdburger 13-14 a few mildly tolerable hiccups 15-16 customer could accomplish something with more manners 17-18 staff could handle as a regular 19-20 a pleasure 21-25 the ideal customer

What we're really going with our order pads

"Yes, you want it cooked medium-rare? Sure. More medium than rare, though? All right. Butter on the side, ok. Chips instead of mash? That should be fine..." *scribble*

Amuse-Bouche

Bite-sized doses of customer silliness.

Starring: Young Man on table of ten

Scene: I am bringing him the dish he has selected from the set menu.

Me:  “Your steak and Guinness pie.”
Young Man: “No, I ordered the steak.”

Me: “…and Guinness pie?”

Young Man: “…no.” *picks up menu, scans it, realises he has indeed ordered this*

I know how exciting the word “steak” can be, but all you have to do is finish reading the sentence.

Starring: Table 4, a group of six young friends

Scene: Three guests have arrived. I offer them drinks.

Me: *wielding wine list* “Would you like anything to drink while you’re waiting?”

Young Man:  “Yes! Can I have… something?”

Me: “Yes?”

Young Man: “…”

Me: “…”

Young Man: “…”

Luckily I find awkward silences funny.

Starring: Table 101, Wannabe Foodie Couple

Scene: The owner is clearing away an almost-empty cheese platter.

Owner: “All done here? And how was it?”

Wannabe Foodie Lady: “Oh, everything was great except for this cheddar. It just wasn’t complex enough.”

Maybe if it wrote you some poetry?

Starring: A group of four young friends, possibly fellow hospitality workers

Scene: I am serving the next bottle of wine.

Me: *bottle of red poised over new wine glass* “Would you like to move onto the pinot, sir?”

Snide Guy: *haughty glance over shoulder* “I was after a fresh glass, actually.”

Host Guy: “That is a fresh glass. She just put it there.”

Snide Guy: *silence*

Too bad we don’t have observation skills on the menu.

Starring: Young Couple

Scene: Young Couple are perusing the dessert menu

Young Man: “I just want a chocolate mousse. Do you have chocolate mousse?”

Waitress: “No I’m sorry; we do have other chocolate options.”

Young Man: “UGH! Why don’t people just do a plain chocolate mousse anymore?”

I’ll ask at the next meeting.

Stuff Customers Like

Customers! Those mysterious creatures: so enigmatic, so powerful, so hard to please. The hospo novice may at first be overwhelmed trying to understand elusive customer behaviour, and the hospo veteran may spend a lifetime trying to figure them out. To help us better comprehend these beings, here is a guide to common customer quirks and foibles. Familiarise yourself with these charming customer habits, my hospo brothers and sisters, and some of the mystery may well evaporate.

Making up arbitrary blocks of time

“I’ve been waiting for an hour!” exclaims the irate businesswoman whose corned beef order docket is dated seventeen minutes previous.

“Our entrées have been finished for twenty minutes and our mains haven’t arrived yet!” barks the fashion-challenged gentleman, whose wife is still eating her charcuterie plate.

We’ve all been there – exaggerating minor details to make your trivial dilemma seem like a catastrophe on par with the BP oil spill. Ok, so you didn’t have your aquatic home devastated by tonnes of crude oil being spilled into the ocean, but your well-done sirloin didn’t arrive the second you ordered it and you’re hungry now! Naturally, after whining, the well-discerning customer will turn to the classic Making up an Arbitrary Block of Time. Arbitrary blocks of time tend to be surprisingly well-rounded, suggesting a possible lack of attention to detail, or (more likely) a self-serving hallucination.

Grabbing hold of their drink when you walk past

You trust me to take your order correctly, identify your beverage at the bar, return with it, and serve it to you without incident, but when I’m drifting past your table to check the football scores on the TV you clutch your half-finished pint like I just tried to wrench your first-born child away. Unclench, dear customers – most intelligent hospitality staff can identify a drink that is still on the go.

 

The Cutlery Hover

A timeless classic. With an almost primitive instinct, you detect a waiter lurking dangerously close to your meal. You’re full, but there are still some breadcrumbs and garnish on the plate and you might want to eat them at some later point! Cunningly, you pick up your fork and hold it poised over your not-quite-empty plate, always hovering, never actually touching down. The waiter sees this modern incarnation of the bared tooth signal and backs away.

Twenty minutes later the exact same pile of debris is still sitting on your plate. You’re not going to finish it. Just let go.

Highly unoriginal jokes

Contrary to popular belief, you aren’t the first person to make this joke, nor does it get funnier the more I hear it.

“Um, it’s a screw-top wine; I don’t think that it’s corked!” Much like the father-giving-away-the-bride schtick, presenting and tasting wine is now an outdated and pointless ceremony that just seems to stick because it’s “nice”. The fact that your waiter is offering you a taste of your wine before serving it is called being polite. You should try it sometime – it might prevent the waiter accidentally pouring the rest of your 2003 Shiraz into her own glass behind the station.

“What were you doing, killing the cow?” Sorry, ordering a hit on your mother incurs a surcharge.

Asking for another last drink long after they’ve been served last drinks

No.

Customer Review: No Shoes, No Socks

Appetiser

Have you ever wanted to sit in a restaurant and be subjected to the next table’s recently unsheathed foot odour while waiting for your entrée? Of COURSE you have.

Entrée

Starring: Local union lobbyists celebrating a hard-gotten win

Scene: The rowdy group have moved from the pub (which is too crowded to accommodate them) to a table for five in the restaurant to order dinner. As one woman is in the bathroom, I spy a pile of purple fluff under her empty chair accompanied by a putrid smell, and hope to high heaven it isn’t a removed pair of socks after a long day of marching around protesting.

Shoeless Woman: *waddling back from bathroom barefoot* Ah. Well, my feet have stopped burning a little.

Main

I haven’t been treated to such a nauseating level of public disregard since that girl on the train who left a huge smeared foundation mark on the seat from her bare arse.

Pub overflow I can handle. Customers who make themselves at home I can handle. Raucous merrymakers who demand a bottle of your “cheapest sav” in a voice like Fran Dresher the Albatross I can handle blindfolded. But sweaty, pudgy, festering, simmering, malodorous feet that have escaped from their radiating bed-sock-and-leather-boot shackles to sneakily enjoy a bit of air-conditioned freedom in an environment specifically for people to partake in EATING? I’m outgunned here. I’m at a loss. I am at the mercy of absolute filth.

I get that Shoeless (hell, the entire group) has spent the day taking to the streets, chanting into megaphones and fighting against unjust pay brackets in certain industries. It’s arduous and draining. I would do the same thing, in a non-enclosed space or in the privacy of my own home. Who am I, really, to deny this Aussie battler the right to kick back, enjoy a sav, take the weight (and general paraphernalia) off her feet, and celebrate a victory for the bigger picture?

I am the fucking waitress who has to carry people’s MEALS past the waft of your meaty toes, that’s who.

My co-worker is soon alerted to the situation by my livid swearing, but is reluctant to intervene because this group are regulars on a First-Name Basis™ with the owner (currently present and unperturbed). Reasoning that there are no other customers in the immediate radius, the other members of the party don’t seem to care, and that the table is in a different section to the main dining room, we resolve to suffer in silence rather than risk drunken wrath and/or termination.

What IS the etiquette in this situation, hospo brothers and sisters? Because apparently, hoping customers don’t violate your right to a rot-free workplace by KEEPING THEIR RANCID FUCKING FOOTWEAR ON, isn’t always feasible.

Customer Score

Presentation: 2/5. I will excuse a sloppy appearance on the basis she had come straight from a protest and wanted to sit in the pub; I will allow an extra point for managing to keep the rest of her shit on.

Intelligence: 2/5. Obviously has motor skills as well as a basic sense of self-preservation (ow, my sore widdle footsies!). Complete lack of social awareness and no familiarity with the concepts of hygiene, health or safety.

Behaviour: 0/5. You make me want to vomit in a box and mail it to you.

Value: 2/5. One point for paying the bill after screeching it was “bullshit”, and another for being a return customer, undoubtedly to further harass all things olfactory.

Experience: 0/5. Rude, intoxicated, repulsive, and selfish– and that was before she took her socks and shoes off. 

Total Score: 6 Odor-Eaters out of 25. I am not normally squeamish but tonight I wanted to break my own nose just to end my suffering. 

0-5 complete waste of a human organs 6-10 a distinct displeasure 11-12 what a turdburger 13-14 a few mildly tolerable hiccups 15-16 customer could accomplish something with more manners 17-18 staff could handle as a regular 19-20 a pleasure 21-25 the ideal customer