Waiter Rant Read Online Free PDF

enthusiasm. Like my old seminary overlords I think everyone was hoping I’d have the good grace to leave on my own.
    That meant I had plenty of time to jump ship and look for another job. But instead of hitting the bricks, I hid out in a small park for two months, smoking cigars, reading books, feeding the ducks, and trying to figure out what do to with my life. I was like a Wall Street guy who’d been downsized but was afraid to tell his wife he’s been fired. The only difference was I wasted time smoking in a park instead of pantomiming a daily commute. I knew I was going to be canned, so I figured I might as well get paid for goofing off right up until the last minute. Bleed the suckers dry. That was my motto.
    But I had bills to pay, and I didn’t want to languish in unemployment hell again while looking for another job. Some part of me understood that if I didn’t get a job and keep moving, I’d get depressed again. But what could I do? I couldn’t get a health care job. Everyone in my close-knit industry knew I was a screwup.
    My brother was working at a busy restaurant while going to school part time. When I told him how bad things were at my job, he said he could get me a brief gig at his place until I got back on my feet. When he initially proposed the idea, I laughed at him. Me? A waiter? I always thought that was a gig for bad actors, cokeheads, and teenagers.
    But I had to face a hard, cold reality. I was a college-educated thirty-year-old with no real marketable skills. I’d never had a job lasting longer than two years. I knew nothing about working in a restaurant. But it was better than nothing, and what did I have to lose? So I called my brother and asked him if the job offer was still good. It was.
    And that, my friends, is how the whole waiter thing started.

Chapter 3
Fascists and Freshwater Ostrich
    S ince Sammy screwed me over by calling me in for an un-scheduled brunch shift, I’ve got to haul myself in early and prep Amici’s dining room for the Sunday morning crowd. Brunch is, without a doubt, the worst shift a waiter can work. The after-church crowds are the worst tippers. Sometimes they like giving the servers religious tracts in lieu of a tip. Often the pamphlets are full of descriptions of eternal hellfire. Trust me, on Sunday morning, most waiters are hungover and wiped out from doing the things that are supposed to get you into hell in the first place. Giving a waiter a religious tract is like giving Mephistopheles a parking ticket. We just rip it up and throw it in the street.
    On very little sleep, I start dragging the large Pellegrino shade umbrellas out of the storage room and onto the outdoor patio. As I’m struggling to unfurl one of the rusty umbrellas, I notice a tired-looking man smoking a cigarette by the front door. He doesn’t look like he wants to come in and eat.
    “Can I help you, sir?” I ask.
    “I’m looking for job,” the man replies. He has a thick Russian accent.
    I look at the man. He looks like a laborer. His hands are calloused, and his shoes are caked with grime. He smells like fish.
    “The owner will be here soon,” I reply. “You can ask him if he’s hiring.”
    “Thanks.”
    The man cups his cigarette inside his palm to protect it from the wind. I’ve seen my Eastern European relatives do the same thing a thousand times.
    “You want some coffee?” I ask.
    The Russian man looks surprised. “Yes,” he murmurs. “Thank you.”
    “Come inside. I’ll get you a cup.”
    The Russian guy takes a seat near the entrance. I bring him a cup of coffee, sugar, and cream. I even put a piece of biscotti on the plate.
    “Thanks,” the man says.
    “No problem,” I say. “Caesar’ll be here in a minute.”
    The Russian man settles into his seat and sips his coffee. A sad smile plays out on his face. I feel bad for the man. I can tell he’s hurting for money.
    I go back to setting up my station. Caesar walks in, nattily dressed as always, holding an