Flirting With Fat Carbs

I think that I shall begin on a serious note. Today, while cleaning a table near the new section of the restaurant (opening tomorrow--may decrease waiting time to 149 hours for call-ahead) I watched this large party (as in "many kids" not "large appetites"). It was an African American family who had just been to church and was going out for some Sunday lunch. This made me think about how society has changed so much in the past couple of decades. Nearly five decades ago it would have been unthinkable for a white person to wait on a black, much less his or her entire family. Seeing good will among people of different races is a remarkable thing. Yet, I realize that the human race has far to go for racial equality outside of Owensboro, KY.

The other night (Wednesday to be exact) I was called by a fellow busboy to see if I would switch shifts that evening. I told him that I had just been released from school and that I was already on my way to work. I could sense the frustration in his voice and asked him why he needed to be off early. He told me that he had a IB Biology exam the next day and that he did not have much opportunity to study. I insisted that he let me work at 3:45, but let him go home before me and I would work until 10:30 closing. Luckily I had a few good laughs to keep myself in good spirits.

The first was, once again, while I was cleaning a table. Eavesdropping as I normally do, I heard this mid-20-something guy talking about his health. He was explaining to this girl (his date, I assume) about how rigorous his exercise schedule was and flexed his muscles to impress the lady friend. He began to talk about how he avoided carbs and explained why. Here is his explanation:

"So, I try to avoid carbs because they are like bad for you. And I think they are some kind of fat. Yeah, carbs MUST be fat because people get fat when they eat a lot of them, you know, fat carbs. Fat is the most concentrated source of energy in the body, so that means that carbs store about 9 calories per gram."

I know that I am just a busboy working at Texas Roadhouse, but I am also a student that just completed Anatomy & Physiology and is currently in AP Bio. I know that carbohydrates and fats are two completely different macromolecules. At least he was on the right track in that fat stores about 9 calories per gram. Did I mention that the guy was wearing a Princeton hoodie? I am assuming that he does not go there.

The same evening I got hit on by two middle-aged ladies. Maybe "hit on" is not the right term, but "flirting" definitely is. The two ladies were part of a party of about ten other women who sat there ALL evening long and made such a mess of their table. After the rest of the ladies left the restaurant, the two women were standing in their long fur coats and dangling earrings next to the table. I began to clean the table so that I could get out of there at a decent hour and I heard them whispering back and forth. I turn around and they giggled. The woman of African-American persuasion remarked "OH! We jus' luv the back o' yo shirt. Do you rully luv yo job?"



I replied with a smile "I sure do! It is the best way for me to earn money."

--"So, do you get tuh pick whut shirt you wanna wear on a shift?"

--"Yes, whatever shirt is clean."

--"Why didn' them othuh suhvers wear that same shirt tuhnight? Don't they luv their job too?"

--"Not tonight."

For some reason that remark on my part took the cake. The two ladies bent over with laughter and persisted in saying "You's so funny! I like you! You have a wuhndaful evenin' sweetie! We come back 'n' visit ya sometime." I think they had a little too much to drink.

Other than hitting my head on a couple of hanging lights while cleaning tables and imagining bugs climbing on my head when it was really a pull string to a neon light, nothing else happened.

Oh, I <3 my job.

Well, where to begin this week? How about three shifts ago?

Sunday is typically the most interesting day of the week because you never know WHAT is going to happen. As I stood waiting for a large party to get up from their table I took the opportunity to look around the restaurant to see what sorts of people were out and about. Four little kids (about three to four years old) quickly scuffled from a "potty break" and could not help but get my attention with their loud squeals and giggles. As they climbed into the booth ready to resume eating their free kids meals I turned my head for a second to check the status of the dirty table. Glancing back I noticed that one kid was wildly waving a fork around, sort of like an orchestra conductor waves his or her baton. Before the thought fully processed in my mind I heard a small cry gradually grow into a savage cry. Yep, the little girl's pal had poked her in the eye. The parents just sat in their seats shaking their heads. What's the deal with that? The little girl was bawling from being poked in the eye with a utensil, yet the parents did not respond in an alarmed manner. Those sorts of things must happen all the time.

Attempting to get away from the chaos of the dining area, I took my bus tub back to the kitchen in order to "muck" (verb: "to clean") the contents out. While standing in "muck" (noun: "place where one mucks") I happened to look over at the "amigos" (political correctness at its finest) who were conversing with their rapid lexicon of vulgarisms. I could not but laugh about the new one. He, near forty in age and very obscene toward non-Spanish speakers (unaware that I know a thing or two), began talking about the seventeen year-old, pregnant silverware roller. Out of nowhere he asked the girl:

--"So, are you single?"

--"I have a boyfriend."

--"That's cool." (then aside) "Eres muy bonita...muy, MUY bonita."

As if the "relationship" conversation between a middle-aged Hispanic man and a girl twenty-three years his junior were not bad enough, I could not believe what happened next. The amigo picked up a large, plastic container to be placed on the lower shelf of the silverware rolling station. As he bent over his face came but six inches from her buttocks. Even MORE awkward was the fact that he continued looking for a good fifteen seconds (and yes, I timed it). Once he had finished his feat of perversion he returned to his fellow compadres and responded "buen culo" (which I cannot translate into English for censorship reasons, BUT I think you get the idea).

Now that I have gone from forks to butts in a matter of two paragraphs, I can now talk about some things that I do not understand.

A) Why would anyone want a bus boy to do them a favor?

Ok, I know that bus boys are convenient at Roadhouse when the server is nowhere to be found and I am certainly glad to help, but why on Earth would one want a bus boy to get them a to-go box, beverage refill, or clean bread plates? Do people not realize what the last thing a bus boy touched was? It could be anything from honey mustard to rib bones, chicken fat to beer-soaked napkins on the floor. And although I frequently wash my hands, I cannot assure that they are sanitary enough to help out the customer. Nonetheless, the continue to wave down the guy with the garbage-filled bucket in his hands.

B) Why do people not tip well on Sundays?

A family of four had just been served their food when they received an emergency phone call. They asked their server for to-go boxes, cups, and their ticket. The server quickly dropped all of his other obligations to his other tables to quickly get the family on the road. When he returned to the table upon their leaving he noticed that they had left a mere $1.17 on a $40 tab. On top of that, kids meals are free on Sundays. So, off of a would-be $50, the server earned roughly 2.9%. For people working to support their kids on a company hourly wage of $2, every extra dollar is stretched. The fear of having to become a server is a main contributor to my college aspirations.

C) What is with the weird things people leave on the tables?

Simply, here is a list of the most common things left on the table when a family leaves:

1) To-Go boxes

2) cellphone

3) keys

4) hand sanitizer

5) glasses

6) "Plop, plop, fizz, fizz"

7) prescription meds

8) dirty diapers

9) Happy Meal toys

10) shredded photo of boyfriend/girlfriend/spouse

Week of 1/11/10

Life at the ol' Roadhouse proves to be an adventure in itself; each time I go into work I do not know what to expect.

This past Sunday four elderly women were enjoying a nice get-together. As I cleaned the booth adjacent to theirs I heard one of the group members complaining about the heat and not feeling well. Their waitress asked if the woman was alright and she replied "I think so." About fifteen minutes passed and when I walked near the table once again I noticed that there was a atmosphere of anxiety. The woman held her hand over her eyes and shook her head. I promptly reported the incident to a head server who notified the 9-1-1 operator. The EMTs entered the restaurant, ran some preliminary tests, and placed the woman on a gurney. She was wheeled through the restaurant, interrupting the line dance taking place in order to exit the building into the awaiting ambulance. Her friends finished their meals and left in a hurry. I came to find that the woman was simply suffering from heat exhaustion. I attribute the excessive heat to the current state of renovation of the restaurant. The previous days had been very cold in the restaurant as the new roof was being put on, therefore the heat had been cranked up more than usual.

Other occurrences this week were not as elaborate, but filled with pestering details. First of all, the young girls that work in the lobby put the first two letters in "hostess." Aside from their flirtatious nature, most of them do not know the definition of work ethic and expect to get paid for a minimal amount of work. Always complaining and always seating customers at tables before they are entirely clean, I often wonder where their sense of logic wandered. What customer wants to arrive at a table to see what the person before them was eating? Macaroni and uneaten prime rib fat anyone? I find it quite amusing that the hostesses are now required to greet customers at the door and find out how many people are in their party, simply because they regard this as a "hard, manual labor."

It is not only hostesses that complain, but customers as well. Recently this "larger" family came in to our restaurant on one of our busiest days. Because of the large crowds it was difficult keeping silverware readily available for hostesses to carry to the customers' tables. The family called their server over to the table and complained that they did not receive silverware as soon as they were seated and therefore they were entitled to a free appetizer. Reluctantly, the manager gave in. Why could they not understand that the situation was the same for the rest of our customers, yet they did not request a free appetizer? Soon after, I received an order ticket for a baby blossom to be delivered to table #331. As I rounded the kitchen corner I realized that this table was the "problem table" and that they already had a baby blossom.

--"Did you all order a second onion blossom, sir?"

--"No, but we will sure take it!"

--"Fat chance," I thought to myself.

I also got a chuckle from these two middle-aged couples that came into the restaurant the other night and were seated in an area of the restaurant with an air vent above. The four began to carry on a conversation about "a cold draft from an unknown origin" for about five minutes.

--"Do you feel that Margaret?"

--"I sure do! It feels like a draft"

--"Yeah, I feel it too."

--"A draft dear?"

--"Yes, a draft."

--"Where is it coming from?"

--"I do not know where it is coming from."

--"I do not either, but I feel it."

--"Yes, definitely."

--"But where could it be coming from? Do you know, honey?"

--"I sure don't."

--"Do you all want to move to another table?"

--"No, it is fine. I can just bear the cold the whole time."

--"Are you sure?"

--"I am sure."

--"Positive? Because I can get us another table."

--"Let's do that. I cannot bear this draft any more."

--"Is the draft really that bad?"

--"I think so. Do you think so Margaret?" ...

Oh, the adventures of working in the food business.