How to make something negative good (a story about believing in your worth)
Some restaurants offer staff meal, aka comida, before service. Every day at 4:30 p.m. is ours. The room is divided by an imaginary partition. On one side sits the front of the house (FOH) employees: servers, back waiters, bartender, hosts, and general manager (GM). On the other side sits the back of the house (BOH): executive chefs, sous chefs and line cooks.
We get a half hour. I am so grateful for this. It gives me time to wind down and get prepared for my shift. I feel like an actress rhearsing her lines before the curtain is pulled. This is me five nights a week. I do this for a living because I love half my job. What, why half? What does this mean?
Once in a while I question my worth at work. And I question if my value is being underappreciated.
You know when it’s time to let go of someone, but you hang on to the relationship because there are great parts about it. You realize that you’re lying to yourself by thinking they value who you are. At work I think of it in reference to what I bring to the table. I often have moments of such reflection, but then I also have defining moments.
Yesterday was that defining moment for me.
After a half hour of break, the GM conducts his pre-shift meetings. We discuss guests who are coming in, allergy notes, reminders relating to that night’s service. After the BOH is excused, the chef will discuss any food changes: new menu items or dish counts. The GM will then bring up service notes. Yesterday’s began like this:
“Chef and I were discussing allergies last week and we came up with a rule that you only get one conversation with him whenever a table has allergies. It is your responsibility as a server to get all the necessary information upfront from your guests before speaking with Chef. He will not speak with you a second time about that table’s allergies once a discussion has taken place.”
Chef spoke up and said:
“Yeah, like black pepper. Ask them how sensitive they are to it. Is it a severe allergy?”
He paused and shrugged his shoulders when he said:
“I mean, we’re all professionals here.”
So you’re implying that I’m not professional?
Never mind I waited on 85 percent of the food critics who came in when we opened. Never mind that you always sounded surprised every time you realized I knew someone else in the industry. You’d asked me, “Did you work for them too?” Never mind that I was a part of the opening that earned your first Michelin Star. I guess this classifies me as non-professional.
So you figured out it was me who had the guest with the black pepper allergy. But of course, that’s just 1/10 of the story. Here’s what happened:
We cut a server that night. We did 32 covers, definitely doable since I was working with another veteran server. But the GM cut a back waiter too, so we had to share one.
I got my first two tables and started them right away to get them rolling. I knew my push was coming around 7 p.m. so I wanted to be prepared. The first table sat down incomplete and in all my years’ experience, whenever this happens — I know I’m in for trouble. The guests that end up waiting always want to start ASAP once their party is complete without any regard for my other tables. The first couple to arrive couldn’t decide on drinks, so I had to return to the table a second time. Then I got sat two more tables back to back. Thank goodness they were two-tops. I tried to get their orders in when I got sat a four-top. This would be the infamous table.
Just when the four-top was getting sat, the other couple arrived to complete the party that had ordered drinks and bread by then.
I went to greet them so I could explain the menu right away when I discovered one woman was pescatarian and allergic to flowers. At first I thought she was in the clear, but I checked with the kitchen just to be sure. The pastry chef reminded me there are flowers in one component of the pre-fixe dessert so I was instructed to ask more questions. I had to put that on the back burner for the time being cause I had six tables by then. I was balancing pairings and inputting orders while keeping in mind I had to go back to the infamous table to take their order. At first, I relished at the fact the guest the reservation was under had dined there before. I thought, ‘Oh good, I won’t have much dialogue with them.’ Sadly, I was wrong. Two guests were first timers, spoke little English and experiencing jet lag since they just flew in from Germany.
Oh boy. That was just the beginning. I went over the menu. They asked a few questions and then proceeded to order, evidently they were very hungry and they did not want to wait. After I took their order, I asked for any allergies or dietary restrictions.
The first gentleman told me he was lactose intolerant. The first question I asked was, “Are you okay with butter?” To this he replied, “No.” Dairy is a tough allergy to work around, especially when you don’t want butter. I contemplated his menu selections and told him I’d let him know which dishes to stay away from. The next gentleman said he was allergic to peppers. Naturally I asked if he was allergic to nightshades since peppers were included in this category. He was having trouble understanding me, so the first gentleman translated. Eventually I discovered he was only allergic to bell peppers. Finally, the woman who had dined there before proceeded to tell me she was allergic to cracked black peppercorn. At first I thought, ‘That’s in everything, but I’ll clarify with chef and get back to her.’
No big deal right? Or so I thought.
When I went back to Chef and told him the situation, it had been a mere five minutes earlier when I touched base with him on the flower allergy. Again, just taking precautions because allergies can be deadly and I do not take them lightly. He explained that cracked black peppercorn was in all the sauces and it would be impossible to take them out. He instructed me to ask her how severe her allergy was because he believed it was probably more of a preference. The specific dish she ordered as her entree had cracked black peppercorn in her sauce.
For a moment, I recalled the exchange I had with the guest. I remember distinctly that she said she was allergic to cracked black peppercorn. I confess, I didn’t ask her how severe it was, but I really felt it was unnecessary at the time. Reason being, I recalled an allergy I had when we had first opened: it was either black or cracked black pepper. I don’t recall for sure, but I remember they were regulars at the restaurant Chef had previously worked at. Since he was aware they were coming in that night, he was prepared to make adjustments. I had that table and it was a nightmare. I remember going over the entire lineup of the order with Chef and entering it into the POS. After the order was sent to the kitchen, he decided to change one of the dishes and told me verbally about it. I offered to re-ring the order to reflect the change because that has always been the rule. He told me not to.
This was another defining moment — I should have spoken up and insisted on updating it. I didn’t. Then something happened.
He forgot to actually change the dish because the ticket hadn’t been reflective of the verbal change. It went to the table by mistake and he yelled at me. I was so upset. I went to the bathroom and cried. I hadn’t cried at work in a long time. I had gotten better at containing my feelings. But I couldn’t that night.
Fast forward to now…
Maybe I didn’t ask how severe it was because I thought it would be easy to accommodate the cracked black pepper allergy based on the memory I just shared. But I was wrong. When I came back to Chef to tell him that she said it wasn’t severe, he told me, “It’s fine, I’m sending it as is anyways.”
He did send it as is. The guest was fine when I checked in. All was good. I made it through the night. Or so I thought. It was a busy service considering the minimal staff on duty and I was challenged with allergies as usual. I always reflect on my nights to see what I could have done differently. I reminded myself to always ask how severe an allergy is, in the most appropriate way possible.
Then yesterday happened.
“You only get one conversation with Chef.”
Honestly, hearing stuff like this makes me never want to approach the line for menu questions.
And being pointed out like that really hurts. The need to mention ‘black pepper’ was unnecessary in my eyes. I felt like a child who had been put in a time out while everyone in class watched. There were two servers that night. Do the math. Everyone knew it was me. As a result, it became obvious that my efforts weren’t warranted anymore. That’s why my night started in a negative slumber. Never mind the state of section (six tables) and how many allergies I had in total. Apparently they forgot all that when they called me out on what they viewed was ‘unprofessional’ in their eyes.
Then I snapped out of it. If there’s anything that moment taught me is that I need to use everything that happens as an enforcement to move forward, not backwards. I need to let it influence me to make my life better. I need to push negative views people have of me out of my mind. It doesn’t belong there. Only good thoughts do.
The first table I spoke of that I had with the black pepper allergy when we first opened — you know what’s funny about that night? After the table left, Chef apologized to me. I remember thinking that was cool he did that. That I respected him for doing that. Most chefs don’t.
Yesterday wasn’t a set back. It was something I needed to happen. Something that was put in my life to charge me.
Find those moments in your life that may seem dim and negative at first. Change them around, take a different view towards them. Make it work in your favor. Once I did that afterwards last night, I felt a lot better. Cause I know my worth. And it’s a lot.
And it doesn’t belong here.
Today marks 11 months since I’ve been writing on Medium. Knowing that I have stuck to my goal to write every day for a year has been exciting. Watching how I’ve grown as a writer is inspiring. I am worth it. And because of how I feel, I plan on never giving up.
