Shelli was on her back, covered in broken plates, truffle oil, red snapper, Brussels sprouts, shattered wine glasses, filet mignon, various hors d’oeuvres, tapenade and assorted goo that had formed an unrecognizable tie dye on what used to be her white shirt.
And everyone in the room was clapping.
I don’t get it. Like dogs in a Pavlovian experiment, why do so many restaurant patrons automatically respond to the sound of something breaking with overwhelming applause? It’s as if the noise of shattering glass automatically triggers a “let’s do everything we can to humiliate this person” reflex in some people’s minds.
I run over to Shelli to make sure she’s okay. The busboys had already swarmed her, helped her back to her feet and were sweeping everything up by the time I get there. She was busy picking asparagus and hollandaise sauce out of her hair.
“Dammit,” she says. “I just had this shirt dry cleaned!”
“You okay?” I ask.
“As okay as I’m gonna be,” she replies before heading back into the kitchen to clean up and reorder her table’s food.
One of the main things that makes waiting tables or bartending different from other professions is that almost every move we make is in plain view for everyone to see. Every time we drop a pen or trip over our own two feet it’s usually in front of the people we’re serving. When most workers in other industries make fopas at their places of employment, it’s usually within the confines of their cubicles or behind the safety of an office door, far removed from anyone’s prying eyes. But not us. Our little indignities are always on full display for anyone to enjoy and poke fun of, which is often what happens.
But here’s the thing. If you’re the guy who elevates himself at the expense of someone else’s misfortune, then you have officially taken up permanent residence in doucheville. That includes hooting and hollering when a bartender accidentally breaks a glass, clapping when a server or food runner trips and catapults an entire tray of food onto the floor or whistling when a busboy spills a soda refill all over a table. These people you’re laughing at are guilty of nothing other than working hard to serve you in environments that are often filled with sharp blades, plates that come out of the oven at several hundred degrees and unanticipated slippery floors around every corner. It’s the perfect recipe for the unexpected to happen, which often does. If you sadistically get your jollies from some working stiff potentially burning, cutting and injuring himself every time an accident occurs, then fuck you and the SUV you rode in on. The next time a glass breaks in a restaurant or bar you’re patronizing, either grow some balls and get up to help clean it up or sit there and eat your goddamn food with your fucking mouth shut. But do not – ever – clap.
Back in the kitchen, Shelli has just about cleaned herself up as good as she’s going to able to. She’ll work the rest of the night smelling like béarnaise, but it could be worse. Other than the plates, the only other thing that got shattered was her pride.
“Jesus, I haven’t done something that embarrassing in years,” she says, tying on a fresh server apron and wiping some sort of brown sauce off her sleeve.
“Don’t worry about it,” I try to reassure her. “We’ve all been there. I remember the time I dropped an entire tray of margaritas in a woman’s lap. When I tried to lighten the situation by making a joke that the drinks were on her that night, I thought her husband was going to punch me in the nose.”
Just then the manager bursts into the kitchen. “Who has table 46? They need their check, now!”
Broken plates and egos forgotten. The normal chaos resumes.
