[Originally published in newsletter 8/26/2025]
“All the world’s a stage” they say, but I’d venture all the world may actually be a restaurant.
Here’s a short story made long about waiting tables one night at Trattoria Simpatico in Jamestown. For those of you who know the place, I’ll call it “The First Season.”
In this old building, the wait station was positioned behind the bar and bartender, up two steps. This is where we made Posi-touch orders, jangled silverware, and wasted time.
From a customer vantage point, the wait station appeared like a stage – it was the brightest spot in the room and just behind the bar. The widened doorway revealed piles of shiny black bread plates, white cloth roll ups, waitstaff, and water glasses. In the right seat, a bar customer could also see the rickety old window where the food from the garde manger was passed out to the room. That’s salad and dessert for those of you not in the biz.
There was also dusty stuff on some higher shelves, and maybe fake ivy. Probably a Galliano bottle too. They never fit anywhere.
The rest of the room was lit by candelabras and tealights. Once in a while someone would catch fire, but more on that another time.
We dubbed the Garden Room the “Iron Lung” because of the large number of smokers and respiratory infection it inflicted on its people. But the Iron Lung was where loads of top tier smokey money was to be made: you see, smokers and drinkers tend to rack up bigger checks and usually tip better.
That is, if they sit at a table.
Even on a busy night, that wait station-stage nourished my 2-pack/day Camel Lights habit, and was a place I got to work with my bro while running up and down stairs and squirreling away espresso spoons in my apron.
My brother recited the specials like Clint Eastwood. Or so I was told. Someone had clued him in that the food was the most important thing. It kind of is, in a restaurant anyway, but more on that another time…
______
Another day, maybe can tell you about another person I once shared that station with: a waitress turned bookkeeper, turned all office-y “Business Development Manager.” She used to polish the bread plates in a special way with a defiant smile – she called it the “butt shine!”
I never did the butt shine – that was a bit unsavory – but I perhaps made for some funky, “jump the shark” episodes of Waitress TV. Not the finest… but the day the tree fell on the roof was a something. Okay, back to the bar.
______
So this one Tuesday…
A commercial fisherman and his pal were tying one on in the bar after a long time out at sea. I was in the wait station per usual doing my job and occasionally moving. We didn’t have sports TV, so I’m sure the wait station was one of the more interesting things to look at.
The fisherman keeps poking his friend and saying, “see, if she looks over here, it means she likes me.” Of course I’d look, then laughter would ensue.
They’d poke each other, prod at me some more with their ‘brilliant word play, and start up for another round. It was fine, kind of, because all female servers know this comes with the territory. I’d been in the business since I was 14 after all. I grew up making smiles, hosting folks, and food-flirting, among other things.
But, the guys got drunk and kept going. My good girl waitress patience dropped because the night wasn’t busy enough to do anything but hide out in the Iron Lung glow hole and polish plates.
And the plates were already done.
After a few rounds with no work = no tips = me thinking about my rent and role in this joint, and I was not having it: being unpaid entertainment, that is. My front-of-house pro game face was strong, but not strong enough to withstand the disrespect.
So, I decided to see if what my ‘step-dad had taught me was true.
I pulled out that guy-style insult, in the form of a question, and laid it on the “she likes me” perpetrator dead in the eye.
Anyway, the words hit him like, as my brother said, “a nuclear bomb.” He shook his head, “not nice.” Tony dropped his head to the bar. His friend gloated like crazy “she showed you dude” or some such thing. Tony appeared devastated, or perhaps the beer had caught up with him? I had no idea a question could do so much. Slaying Tony or scaring anyone was not my aim.
The restaurant owner later chuckled, and also had a special talk with Tony. I never heard what they talked about.
For weeks after, Tony made the peace with me and everyone, and he became one of the most respectful allies the waitstaff had ever seen. He’d even help us change the gas tanks for the outside heaters, which was kind of pain. He didn’t have to though. Tony was likely a kick-a$$ fisherman, was definitely an all-around decent guy. I hope he’s doing awesome. He deserves certainly deserves it.
What I learned was that I’m apparently terrible at this guy-style banter and ’round about’ stuff, I mean, really bad.
I also appreciate Tony and the old Simpatico for giving me an opportunity to stand up for myself and live to see another day at that place without having to play that particular waitress game. I’m not very good at it.
Thank you to my ‘step-dad too for teaching me how to shut it down when you need to. I put this random apostrophe in because he and my mom never married and I needed a quick way to reference.
What I learned that day (and many others) that sometimes you need to have the courage to try something and fail, because everyone is growing and there are only so many places to practice.
In restaurants and theater, the show must ALWAYS go on, however, the haunts of the history make things extra interesting when you are becoming a writer. At least I I hope so. Let me know if you’d like some more stories like this.
If you are uninitiated in the restaurant biz, then maybe you’ll like what I’ve written better below.
With gratitude and light,
Elizabeth
