Chapter 5: Rock and Roll and Raul

The couple sat at table twenty-two, holding hands and leaning across the table, smiling, giggling. They hadn't ordered dessert or after-dinner drinks, the closed leatherette book having sat on the edge of the table, half the check poking out, for forty-five minutes, the deuce apparently oblivious in the otherwise empty restaurant. Duncan eventually approached them, smiled and used his standard lie, "My manager needs to close-out my drawer," to get the couple to pay. He quickly added, "But you're more than welcome to stay as long as you like," hoping they understood he was simply being polite. They left a standard fifteen percent tip.

Since day one table fifty-four had served as an after-shift desk, littered with receipts, sodas, and the occasional drink pilfered from the bar. The staff does their nightly cash-outs; counting money, sorting checks, declaring their taxable income as Glenn sips his after-shift bourbon in the back office, listening to Cuban jazz until the servers bring him their paperwork. 

            Todd had begged to be first cut. His band, Citizen Caned, is the opening band in a show at the Metro and Todd had to be there by 8:00 to set up his drum kit for the sound check. Each server had been handed a flyer functioning as a half-price coupon. The other four bands on the flyer were Pimple, (which Todd had tried out for a year earlier) Dillinger's Penis, (which Todd had been in but quit around seven months ago), Tripping Mimes (from Champagne) and Farrah Moans (an all-girl band from Newark).

            They collectively decided to let Todd go early, partly out of a sense of justice (no one else had plans), marginally out of amity, and predominately because they didn’t want to listen to him anymore. He’d recently developed the annoying habit of trying to pattern his speech after what he perceived as urban cool. His clothes had nearly doubled in size and every description – movies, parties, women he saw on the street - started with “That shit was…” and ended in an array dominated by, but not limited to: ill, whack, dope, def, fresh, down, and righteous.

Raul rattles past them, straining under the weight of plates and glasses on his shoulder, and heavily lays the tray onto the bussing station, the servers flinching away from the potential flying glass. “Sorry,” Raul declares sheepishly, rolling his Rs. 

Fifty-four is infamously always the last table sat because of its proximity to the kitchen and wait-station; a refinished wooden thrift-store table housing the point of sale, menus, dessert and wine lists, and leatherette books to present checks with embossed with the Italia logo. The bus station (glasses, plates, coffee-maker) completes the Bermuda triangle of the restaurant where no sophisticated diner would sit.

Scattered haphazardly in front of George are fives mixed with tens. Stacks of unfolded twenties lay next to piles of crumpled singles George had absentmindedly stuffed into his pocket throughout the evening.

Lance keeps his bills in his hands at all times, facing the same way, twenties on top, followed by tens, fives, then singles, the largest bills on the inside when the stack is folded in half.

Duncan’s habits are an uneven balance between the two, depending on his mood.

Their checks spread on the table like gambling slips, the ashtray filling quickly, the servers huddle like gamblers in secret, smoky, back-room bars frequented by gangsters or cops. "Look at this shit,” George demands, displaying a credit-card receipt from one of his tables. The bill was $72.48. Written on the line next to the word tip: $8.00. The total is filled in above the customer’s flamboyant circular signature.

George and Duncan’s friendship was cemented early when during their first conversation (Duncan’s second night at Italia) they discovered their mutual fondness for sports in general and the Cubs in particular, though neither had grown up in Chicago, their weakness for (admittedly different) women, and their affection for the evil weed, as they jokingly called it.

            "Cheap bitch,” George says, looking over his shoulder at the table the woman had been seated at. Duncan had noticed her: auburn ponytail, red V-neck sweater hanging loosely displaying her evenly tanned skin, her nose a little too small for her face, her mouth a little too wide, eyes a dark green he had never seen before. She had smiled at him, so he will remember her, maybe a week, then she’ll be gone.

"When will women learn how to fucking tip?" George says.

            "Maybe she thought you gave her lousy service," Duncan says.

            "Maybe she saw you trying to look down her sweater," George accuses.

            “You saw that.” Duncan raises an eyebrow, impressed and embarrassed, not by his actions, but getting caught.

            “My station. I see all.” They laugh.

            Raul clears the filling ashtrays (one for each waiter) and replaces them with clean ones.  “Gracias,” Duncan says, his choppy but conversational Spanish, learned in high school and used often enough to remain functional, serving him well during his time in the restaurant business, winning him favor with the back-of-the-house staff everywhere he’s worked. Raul knows Kilee has "tried it twice in high school and a few times in college;" it being sex with a woman. He knows Lance has a small tattoo on his right shoulder blade that reads Vince; Bits of gossip offered by Duncan as a sign of friendship. Raul knows how much money George spends on cocaine because Raul's cousin is George's source.

"What a lousy night," George says.

            "I’m not gonna tip-out Brad." George says.

            "You never feel like tipping-out," Lance says, frowning.

            "What? He didn't do shit for me tonight." 

Duncan shakes his head, smirks disapprovingly. 

"I'm serious. What did he do for me tonight? Four lousy beers and two bottles of Pinot. I could have done that." 

            "Fine then. Don't tip him out." Lance says. Lance pulls the cigarette out of his mouth, throws his head back like a life-sized Pez dispenser and blows smoke straight up. "Keep the four dollars. By some lottery tickets." Lance inhales deeply on his cigarette then blows the smoke at George. "Then when you're rich you'll never have to tip-out anyone ever again." 

George stares down at the ninety-four dollars in his left hand, shaking his head. "Five hours for this." He holds up the money for Duncan and Lance to examine. They ignore him and his money.   

Raul, reaching around the servers, fills their glasses of water, smiles at George. "You had good night, yes?" Raul asks, his accent contributing to his practiced naïve tone. 

            "Not really," George answers, still shaking his head.

            "Ju were vedy bissy."

            "Yeah, I guess so." George shrugs. "What's the point if you're not going to break a hundred?"

            "I wish to be a waiter." Holding a tray in his left hand he places the pitcher in the middle then grabs four glasses simultaneously, clacking them together. 

            "Why the hell would you want to be a waiter?"

"So much money you make." Raul gestures toward the cash with his chin and an arching of his eyebrows.  

During Duncan’s first week at the restaurant he had laughed at something Raul had told Hernando in Spanish. “You understand,” Hernando had asked in Spanish.

“Um poco.”

Duncan spoke to them in his rusty Spanish. They practiced their broken English, each politely correcting the others’ mistakes, laughing at the unintentional jokes created by bad usage.  Duncan had asked Raul once to clear the sapo from twenty, causing the busboy to practically blow water out his nose. He had meant sopa.

Raul arrived in Chicago directly from Toluca. Though Toluca is by no means small, “it is no three million people,” he had said, Raul confessed that the only time he feels comfortable is among the Spanish-speaking residents in his north-side neighborhood. Even the Americans living nearby speak Spanglish.

            Clark Street, from Devon Avenue north to Touhy, has as many storefronts with signs in Spanish as English. Duncan and George had taken many late-night excursions north into Rogers Park for 2:00 a.m. burritos and six-packs of Tecate from the taquerias, carnicerias, and markets along both sides of the street for almost a mile selling multi-colored onions and peppers, frijoles, and tortillas packaged by the dozen.

Throughout the summer, cars maneuver through the neighborhood at all hours, giant green, red and white Mexican flags flapping out of passenger windows and rising up through sunroofs.  The music fills the air in volumes ranging from loud to painful, rattling windows, scraping eardrums and setting off the occasional car alarm.

            Though hardly gentrified like chunks of Lakeview, Bucktown and especially the over-priced Wicker Park (where empty lots sell for half-a-million dollars) Rogers Park has seen more than its share of condo conversions in the recent year. Every other three-flat and almost every courtyard building has sprouted 10-foot signs proclaiming amenities: granite countertops, 41-inch cabinets, hardwood floors. In this formally “undesirable” neighborhood 25 year-old women and Loyola University students in thick-braided ponytails are ogled by small crowds of Mexican men congregating around one of the liquor stores. 30 year-old men with MBAs and Jeep strollers now compete with stocky Mexican women, three or four or even five children, tethered one to the other, swarming around her carrying bags of groceries and holding their sibling’s hands.

Walking the street in Rogers Park Raul had said he feels as close to comfortable as he can 1500 miles from home in a country where the best job he can find is as a busboy. As awful as it is clearing plates with half-eaten food and lipstick-smeared napkins, unclogging toilets, and hauling bags of garbage for customers and coworkers who, at best, don't notice you and at worst treat you like an indentured servant, it still pays ten times more than anything he could find back home.

Raul picks up the last of the glasses. Again, Duncan says, “gracias.” Raul kicks the swinging door open and the sounds of what George calls salsa music, simply because the lyrics are in Spanish, pour out of the kitchen. Nightly the line-cooks turn up the volume on the radio after the last customer leaves, singing often as they hose-off rubber floor mats crusted with spilled sauces and fallen food. They scrub counter tops and charred grills with harsh soap and scalding water, speaking quickly, loudly, happily, seemingly indifferent to the work. Duncan’s expression reveals envy for their Zen-like ability to not equate their jobs to their self-worth and do in the moment what needs to be done.

They’re all married, even the one they call Nino who doesn’t look a day over fourteen.  While the line-cooks and busboys cram sometimes half-a-dozen in an apartment for a year or two at a time, their wives and children wait for the young patriarchs to return, pockets filled with American dollars.

            George looks at his money again. "Here's to being rich in Mexico," he says. He holds the money up as if toasting with a glass of champagne. Lance and Duncan humor him by casually lifting their own money in salute without looking up. Duncan picks up his pack of cigarettes from the table and finds it empty.

            “Did you take my last smoke?” he asks Lance

            Lance nods, pointing at the cigarette he holds between his lips. In Mexico I would be rich, Duncan thinks, but in Chicago I’m a waiter with ninety dollars in other people’s money and no cigarettes.

Chapter 3: Reunion

            Duncan wipes the water spots from the serrated blades of butter knives, still a little stoned from the half joint he’d smoked three hours before leaving for work. George silently polishes forks. Across the room Kilee, angry, but, Duncan had learned, not gay, polishes wine glasses. Alicia, she had introduced herself with a tiny curtsy as “hostess extraordinaire,” checks the reservation book. Restaurant time is drawn out, like the difference between dog years and human years. After six months of waiting tables, it feels like five years. After a year it’s as if you were born there.

            By the beginning of Duncan's second month he understands too well the difference between feeling welcome and feeling like he belongs. A sense of foreboding rises in him every time Mr. Bonini speaks to him. “Please,” he insists.  “Call me Alfredo.” Glenn said Alfredo had borrowed the money to open the restaurant from associates. That had been Glenn’s word, associates, accompanied by the marking of quotations in the air. 

Alicia seats a deuce at table fifty-three in the corner of the empty smoking section, the fabric of her black slacks stretching tightly over the top of her ass as she bends over to lay down menus, her hair sliding across her shoulder. "Enjoy your meal," she says.  She spots Duncan watching her. Holding up two fingers, she nods towards the table.

            "She's totally hot," George says in Duncan’s ear, blatantly watching the hostess. “Is it me, or does she seem to always walk in slow motion?”

“It’s just you,” Duncan says.

"You could fuck her," George adds.

            "I don't fuck people I work with."

            "That's dumb."

            “Have you ever slept with someone you work with?" Duncan asks.  George nods. "Has it ever worked out?"

            “I hadn’t planned on marrying them.”

            Duncan approaches table fifty-three in full waiter mode.

"How are you folks doing this evening?" 

            "I don't know,” the man says loudly. “We haven't had any time to look at the menu."

            Go fuck yourself, Duncan thinks. "I'm sorry, perhaps you misunderstood my question," he says, his expression unchanged, his thoughts unreadable.

            "Fine," the man says without lifting his face. 

Like most of Duncan’s customers the woman’s face is little more than a smile, eyes, hair.

She nods a polite greeting.

"Well. I'll just give you a few minutes to look things over." 

The woman's eyes slowly let go of Duncan’s, like a hand loosening its grip, fingertips lingering in each other’s palms. Her companion’s eyes move rapidly, searching the pages of the menu, but absorb nothing. 

             Pretending to punch an order into the computer, Duncan tells Kilee, “Don’t be obvious, but check out fifty three.”

            “What about them?”

            “She’s my ex-girlfriend.”

            "Who are you guys staring at?" George asks, waiting to print a check.

            "Table fifty-three," Duncan says. "Don't make it obvious."

            "Who cares? What? Are they fighting?"

            "Yeah." Duncan says.

            "And she’s Duncan’s ex," Kilee says.

            “That’s not Tammy,” George says, looking at Duncan sideways.

            “It’s Jennifer. Two exes ago.”

“She’s pretty,” Kilee says, unable to keep a touch of envy out of her voice.  

“She’s hot,” George says.

"She is," Duncan says. 

            The couple talks, though they don't look at each other. The man's hands clutch the menu, vibrating with every bob of his head. Jennifer nods mechanically, dismissively, lips pressed tightly together. Duncan can read her thoughts; she’s waiting for the right moment, then she’ll say something that will strike at his deepest insecurity. When Duncan had first met her she’d playfully warned him, saying she had ‘eviscerated’ and ‘emasculated’ ex-lovers who had crossed her, though she never went into specifics. They’d been at a bar one night and a man had offered to buy her a drink while Duncan was in the bathroom. Duncan returned in time to see him slink away. When he asked her what had happened all she said was she had sent him back the shallow end of the pool where he belonged. 

            Re-approaching the table Duncan asks, "Do you folks have any questions about the menu? Or perhaps I can get you something from the bar?"

            "What I want..." the man begins, looking from his menu to Duncan so slowly the torque in his neck could pull a boxcar, "Is for you to go away until I'm ready to order." 

Jennifer says, "Just give us a second." She smiles at Duncan with her eyes, cheekbones, eyebrows and he remembers why he was attracted to her at first sight. She owns an arsenal of smiles, from disarming to devastating.

Duncan, rooted to the spot, smiles in return, the man watching the exchange, eyes moving from Duncan to Jennifer then back in swift, shuddering jumps. "What?" the man says so loudly and abruptly that Duncan recoils. "What the fuck are you looking at?"

            “Uh…”

“A minute ago you wouldn't shut up, now you don't have anything to say," hands flat on the table, slowly rising.

            Everyone within earshot - three other couples and a woman sitting by herself - looks up.  Duncan slides his hand into his apron pocket and clutches his wine key. He flips it open and slides the corkscrew between his fingers, the coiled metal protruding like a talon, but doesn’t remove it from his pocket.

            Jennifer grabs the man’s arm, stopping him. He looks at her fiercely. She tilts her head, her gaze as unwavering as his, but without the hate. "Roger," she says. He sheds her hand from his forearm with a sweep of his opposite hand. "Why don't you fuck him, too?" he says calmly.

Roger looks Duncan up and down. “What are you gonna do?” Duncan doesn’t answer.   “Nothing,” Roger says, brushing past Duncan, careful not to touch him, then strides out of the restaurant.

            Duncan inhales - a long, silent breath. 

"You okay?"  George says, somehow now standing at Duncan’s side.

“Yeah.”

"What the fuck?" George asks, oblivious of Jennifer. 

"I'm cool."  

George returns to his table.

            "I'm really sorry about that," he says. "When I walked up I didn't realize...” She raises her hand to cut him off, and Duncan realizes how nice her nails look.

            "He's very jealous. Has been as long as I’ve known him."

            "How long is that?" 

“Three months.”

They slip into conversation, as if at a party, their time apart only a few days, though they haven’t seen each other in nearly a year.

            "That’s what I get."

            He stops himself from asking another question.

            “I’m sorry. I...don’t know what to say. Sounds like a long story. It’s none of my business.”

            “It’s fine. It’s what I get for fucking someone married.”

            Duncan pauses. "You haven't ordered anything. Did you want to go…”  He points at the door. “I don't want you to feel like you have to stay and order dinner."

            "Hell," she says. "I'm starving. Besides, he left his credit card." She points at the jacket draped over the back of the vacated chair.

            “Is he going to come back for that?”

            “No. He left it so he’ll have an excuse to come to my place.”

            She orders an appetizer, asparagus topped with shredded asiago and slices of roasted red pepper. For dinner, filet mignon over a porcini and red wine sauce. She admits knowing nothing about wine and asks him for a suggestion. He brings her a bottle of 1994 Barolo, one hundred and thirty dollars. Tiramisu, cappuccino and a snifter of cognac complete her meal, the cognac the only thing she finishes.

            He returns often, asking how everything is, refilling her wine glass, all under the pretense of fulfilling his professional obligation to keep her company. He asks repeatedly if he is bothering her. She says no the first two times, then, "If you’re bothering me, I'll let you know."

            When Duncan presents her with the check she asks about a couple seated nearby.  Duncan says, "Fourth date. They had sex for the first time last night. They just came from a play her roommate is in. Before the night is over they will declare themselves a couple."       

“You can tell all that just by looking at them?”

            “You pick up bits of conversation, gestures. You figure it out, you know?”

            “Are they almost finished with their dinner?”

            "Yeah. Why?"

            "Here." She hands him Roger’s Visa. "Put their dinner on this." 

            "Are you sure?" 

            She nods.

            "But don't tell them who paid. Tell them they were your millionth customer or something." Duncan runs the card twice, once for her meal, and once for the couple. They had ordered well, the total for both bills over four hundred dollars. He places both checks on Jennifer’s table, then tells the young couple their meal is on the house. They act embarrassed and vaguely proud. Duncan smiles, only with his lips, then returns to Jennifer.

            "You want to buy me a drink?" she asks. "You can afford it." With a lowering of her eyes she indicates the credit card receipts in his pouch. "What time do you leave?" He has one table left and they’re almost finished. 

            “Ten minutes?”

            "I'll meet you in the bar," she says, standing, grabbing Roger’s jacket off the back of the chair. “Better not forget this.”

Duncan watches George, whose eyes are fixed on Jennifer’s ass.

            "She's leaving?" George asks

            "Nope," Duncan says.  "She's waiting."

To her check she added a fifty-dollar tip. To the couple's check she added another fifty dollars. "Nice tip," George says, looking over Duncan's shoulder. 

            "Absolutely," Duncan says.

            "I don't mean the money."

            He rushes his final table out. “No coffee,” Duncan says, pretending it’s a question, shaking his head, hypnotizing them. They say no.

            They enter Duncan's studio apartment around midnight, Duncan pushing the door open, flinging his arm upward with exaggerated chivalry. "After you," he says. Jennifer nods graciously. The apartment is messy, though not dirty, a distinction Duncan is quick to make. To the left his unmade twin mattress rests upon a box spring, frameless, slouching in an alcove once used as a walk-in closet. The doors and hinges have been removed and the bed fits as though custom-made.

            She surveys the rooms, turning only her head. The futon sags under the window looking out over a small courtyard. White mini-blinds hang lethargic, yellowed by smoke and sunlight.  An old steamer trunk squats in front of the futon, doubling as storage and a coffee table topped with a half-eaten muffin stuck to the paper liner, a two-day old glass of milk and a remote control wrapped with a rubber band holding in the batteries, the cover lost long ago.

            The floor is littered with jeans, t-shirts, two white dress shirts with the Italia logo stitched on the breast pocket, magazines and two pairs of gym shoes. "You live alone?" she asks, teasing him about the clutter.

"It's kind of a mess," he says shrugging. "But I know where everything is. Would you like a tour?”

            A dozen strides and they are in the bathroom. It would be almost claustrophobic but for the too-bright bulb. A well-padded cushion tops the toilet. She opens the medicine cabinet without asking permission, or even bothering to look at him, and is visibly surprised, by its organization, and sparseness: bottle of hydrogen peroxide, tin of bandages, nail clippers, a disposable razor and a huge bottle of generic aspirin.

            “May I?” she asks, referring to her need to use the bathroom.

“You want a drink?" 

            “Water.”

Three times she tries to lock the door, and each time it pops open. "The lock doesn't work," Duncan calls from the living room. He enters the dark kitchen. The window over the sink frames a dumpster in the alley. From the small refrigerator he retrieves two empty water bottles, filling them from the tap and screwing the tops back on. 

            When she returns to the living room Duncan is sitting on the futon and the floor is cleared of all clothing, a conspicuous lump having appeared under the sheet on his bed. Two candles burn on the steamer trunk and Ray Charles' voice floats longingly from the stereo, "Just an ol’ sweet song…" he sings. “…keeps Georgia, on my mind.”

“Like magic,” she says. “You still listen to this stuff?”

“Why mess with what works?”

She sits an arm’s length from him at the front of the futon, her knees pressed properly together, her back straight, fingers linked on her lap.

             What’s up with that boyfriend, ex-boyfriend, whatever?  He thinks, but doesn’t ask.

“You wanna smoke?” he asks.

“A little. Sure.”

She relaxes into the over-soft futon as he retrieves a pot-filled sandwich baggy, rolling papers, and a plastic joint-rolling machine out of a small wooden box. 

“God. I haven’t seen you in months,” he says, loading the de-seeded dope (the tiny pods in a separate baggy) into the machine. He feeds it a rolling paper than rolls it until the paper is almost gone.

Hesitantly, a hint of embarrassment in her voice, she says, “Yeeeeaaaah. I’m sorry about that.”

“No big,” he says sincerely, then licks the adhesive strip of the rolling paper.

Neither of them had been surprised when the phone calls stopped.

Silently they pass the joint, inhaling deeply, waiting for the warmth of their high. “This is one thing we did well,” he says, smiling, his mouth unable to keep his anticipation secret. 

“It’s one of only two things we did well.”

“What was the other thing?” Though he knows the answer, he wants to hear her say it.  And he knows she wants to tell him. The smoke swirls around her head, between them.

“Fuck,” she says, quicker than he expected. She’d always made him wait for it, teased him for hours sometimes before giving in, then giving him more than he’d anticipated. She’d taught him that while he could be satisfied with conventional foreplay and sex, he had a taste for the more…exotic. Nothing violent or dangerous, just a little dirty talk. Not S & M, but a little S(lap) & T(ickle). Not handcuffs…but the tie from the bathrobe and the headboard. 

The smoke parts as they move toward each other and kiss. She crawls onto his lap and he unbuttons her blouse, revealing a black bra as he slides his hands up from the small of her back and unhooks it. It falls off her shoulders, stopping at her elbows, exposing her breasts, her arms bound to her sides. 

“Nice bra.”

“It’s new.”

            His hands guide her blouse then bra to the floor. She stands and tugs her skirt up along the front of her thighs, every movement deliberate. Black panties, not intended for him, slither down her legs, past her ankles, lace sliding over shiny black shoes, leaving them where she steps out of them.

The top button of Duncan's jeans unhooks with a quick snap of her fingers. He waits for her to look up into his eyes, to smile at him, to kiss him on the mouth again. Her eyes don’t leave his crotch as she lowers his zipper then slides his pants down along his thighs as he raises his hips, holding his boxers up so she will have one more layer to remove.

She slides his underwear down to where his pants lay crumpled next to her panties. She grabs his cock and slides along his thighs, skirt around her waist, cold patent leather against his knees. She lowers herself onto him, closes her eyes, sits without moving, her arms tight around his neck, resting her ear against the top of his head.

This had been their pattern. 

In almost everything they were of two different minds, but they were of the same sexual temperament.

            He opens his eyes, kisses her chin, pulls her head down to meet her mouth. She allows the kiss, leans back, every move seemingly choreographed, but completely improvised. Her jaw presses into his brow - and he leans into her as if trying to push through her, and wanting her to push back. He surveys the elements of her face, hoping she will look at him, into him, but also because he loves seeing her smile with her eyes closed. She lets him watch, because she likes being watched.

            Two hours later, after closing the door quietly behind her, neither of them promising anything, Duncan brushes his teeth, splashes water on his face, takes the longest piss he can remember ever taking. Entering the kitchen, he opens the refrigerator and removes a quart of orange juice, his favorite post-coital drink. 

Returning the pile of clothes to the floor he sits on the mattress. Next to the bed a stack of three milk crates function as a nightstand; magazines in the bottom crate (Rolling Stone, High Times, Sports Illustrated basketball preview), alarm clock in the top one. He retrieves a small hardbound journal from the middle carton, grabs a pen and begins writing, naked, cross-legged, careful not to spill the glass of juice.

WAITER RESPONSIBILITIES

ALL WAITERS ARE TO READ THIS AND SIGN AT THE BOTTOM

WAITER RESPONSIBILITIES

            *The main responsibility of all Italia employees is to make the customer happy.

            *Waiters are the integral part of the floor staff at Italia. They have the most amount of direct contact with the customers and generally have the largest influence over the customer's experience.

            *Waiting tables requires great organizational skills as well as communication and interpersonal skills. You must be ORGANIZED and FOCUSED.  You must be able to interact with customers at all times.  Your personality is just as important as your wait skills.

            *Be attentive to all of your customer's needs.  Whether they need more food, drinks, dessert or attention you should be there to provide it.  A customer should never have to look for a waiter.  If a customer who is not in your station asks you for something, get it or tell the server.  Never reply, "I'm not your waiter."

            *While all staffs (bar, bus, kitchen, wait) are all EQUALLY important, the wait-staff is what customers are most likely to remember.  So don't piss people off.

                                                                                                                                    -Alfredo  B.