From DabblesInDirewolves, TalesFromYourServer

Dear Diary,

For the past week Old Man Winter has done nothing but spit snow and shit woe. Barely an inch and the state has regressed into the Dark Ages; parents huddle their children around their Netflix fireplaces and sob for the sun whilst hugging loaves of bread. Give us a tornado in the front yard and we rush gleefully out to die; drop us three quarters/inch of fluff and we are reduced to the productivity level of salted slugs. I did not have high hopes for the day...in this, at least, I was not disappointed.

I could give a shit less about the lack of servers, I'm nine tables ahead of the game. Back of house takes the worst hit: the dish boys are so surrounded by shit they look like they've lost a challenge on Hell's Kitchen. Our only current backup cook lives 45 minutes and a hearty "FUCK THAT" away. And the grill cook? Well, let's just say he picked a hell of a week to lay off the coke.

They try to be optimistic. Who would come out in this? they say nervously to each other. But it is coming, a dark cloud of anticipation that mists out from the surrounding FOUR hotels. Nobody believes me when I tell them these hotels are going to fuck us harder than they ever did on Boardwalk.

But come they do; the house is full by 5 pm and by 5:30 there's no earthly way of knowing which way I'm fucking going. By 7 pm we've 86'd 1/3 of the menu and 2/3 of my patience. And of fucking course, there goes the bread.

Luckily enough, the rush seems to die along with our options. By 8 the place has cleared, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Manager sends everyone off the floor minus myself and the other closer. Our one remaining grill cook has to leave at 8:30, so the manager closes down the grill. For the next two hours, only fried foods are allowed out. He takes over the cash stand/host stand, personally explaining to every guest the circumstances as he seats them. Two tables enter, eat without complaint, and leave.

Enter the Fucksticks.

The Fucksticks are a table of 5, two middle age couples and one older man. I watch from the kitchen as my manager seats them and gives them the rundown. Bright happy voices meet his explanation, and I feel slightly better. The respective couples order their food without a problem. And then I turn my attentions to the older gentleman.

He first "double checks" with me to make sure we're out of cornbread. I confirm this, then per my managers suggestion, offer him a blueberry muffin, a premium item we usually charge for. He accepts the offer of the muffin, then moves on to his entree.

"I'll have a hamburger steak, medium-well..."

"I'm so sorry sir, but our grill is out of commission for the night. I can only offer you fried..."

"Sweetheart," he breaks in firmly, "you just need a skillet to make a hamburger steak."

Okay, fair enough, you wanna part the concrete like a Satany Moses and bring forth the hellfire to cook it with? I gently reiterate that the grill is shut off and cold, and that we would have to restart the grill to make a hamburger steak. I once again steer him in the direction of an available entree. He deflects again, this time asking what time we close. I tell him 10:00, roughly an hour and a half.

He thinks on it, then says, "That's fine then," and places an order for the shrimp plate.

Things settle into blessed routine. Food comes out good and hot, everything tastes great, drinks are full and tickets are out. Now we play the waiting game.

And what a wait it was. They were almost done eating shortly after nine. By nine-thirty, the table is bussed to perfection and the chat continues. But hell, it's cold and snowy and fucky outside, can't fault them for soaking up the warmth.

By 10:00, I'm frustrated. By 10:10, I'm alllllmost livid. Jesus, I have a window that doesn't roll up, I'm literally going to be driving a snowbank home. I'd rather get it over with.

And then all thoughts of Snowpocalypse are washed away as Fuckstickpocalypse roars forth with a fury. The older gentleman spots me skulking around and calls me over. "We almost ready?" At first I assume it's a joke that I'm not getting.

He states that he is ready for his hamburger steak. I kind of chuckle, but shit, he's beaten this dead horse through all seven layers of the Inferno. And then it dawns on me...he's serious.

"I thought you said you could make my hamburger steak if you turned the grill back on?"

"I...no. I said that the grill would have to be turned on in order to make it."

"AND YOU DIDN'T DO IT?"

I look from him to his companions, I guess expecting a voice of reason to be lurking about somewhere. One of the ladies says, "An hour and a half is more than enough time to cook a hamburger steak. You could've had the grill cleaned by now!"

Thanks for turning on me, Benedict Bitchface, I so regret not charging you for that extra cheese. AND THEN THE OTHER ASSHOLE CHIMES IN!

"And I bet yall didn't make any more cornbread, even though it was requested?"

AND I BET YOUR ASS ENJOYED THE FUCK OUT OF THE BLUEBERRY MUFFIN I SLAVED OVER THE MICROWAVE FOR!

"We...did not." I immediately exit stage right to get the manager. His circus, his ebola-riddled feces-smearing monkeys. I head up to the cash stand to chat with the cashier. Luckily (I guess) the table was directly on the other side of the latticework.

"What can I help you folks with?"

Fuckstick 1: "I can understand running out of cornbread, but I guess you could make some more when it's asked for!"

M: I'm out of milk too. (Total deadpan, great delivery, would have bought him a steak if the grill was fucking on.)

Fuckstick 2: "I sat here for almost two hours for a hamburger steak!"

"Yeah, which is weird, cause I told you when you got here that we couldn't provide grilled menu items. Please come back when our grill is functional." Swoops off, funnily enough, like a BOSS.

And so ended the Fuckstickpocalypse, which rushed out into the ether, leaving me with a prized pair of Washingtons (that fancy silver, not foldable tree-killin' green. Generous bastards.)

--DabblesInDirewolves