World's Greatest Waitress

I have a mug that proclaims me to be the “World’s Greatest Waitress.” There’s a chip out of the lip and the writing’s so worn that it would suggest I’ve used it a lot. I haven’t. It came that way.

It sits stoically on my desk, holding pens, pencils and a small silk rose. I’ve only ever drunk out of it once, in fact, on the day my roommate, Blossom, gave it to me. She’d found it at a yard sale on a table marked “free stuff,” she said, and it seemed perfect for me, in light of what she likes to call The Incident. She was trying to cheer me up in her own irrefutably irreverent way. When she presented it to me, she did so with an overzealous theatrical flourish, fumbling it so that the contents ended up spilling in my lap.

Naturally, it was all planned and carefully choreographed. The mug contained chocolate kisses instead of hot chocolate, as she had implied. But, Blossom blithely insisted that we needed to have something in it for a toast, so she ducked into the kitchen and quickly reappeared with a second mug and a bottle of Bailey’s, which she poured like a pro. SHE would have made a good waitress.

The chocolate and Bailey’s were nice but it was like putting concealer over an angry purple bruise. The Incident was still too fresh and painful. I’m not sure the mark on my ego will ever completely disappear but, in time, I hope it will fade like the writing on my mug.

World’s Greatest Waitress would not roll off the tongue of anyone at The Crockery in close proximity to my name, unless the sentence was marinated in sarcasm. Of course, the majority of the people working at that esteemed eatery wouldn’t actually know my name; I was there such a short time that I was still “the new girl” to most of them. My name tag hadn’t even been ordered yet. I’m sure the stories still fly around the kitchen like sizzling grease and are shared with any incoming staff as part of the what-not-to-do training. My besmirched apron is probably on display somewhere as a cautionary reminder of just how wrong things can go when serving food.

Since my last day of work there, I haven’t set foot in the entire town of St. Jacobs, nor any restaurants in The Crockery chain. I asked them to mail my final paycheque. I knew there wouldn’t be any tips coming my way. Even though I’ve tried to put it all behind me, images of The Incident keep popping up like rogue seeds in homemade lemonade.

I might be studying for an exam, for example, and suddenly have a flash of flying food. My stomach knots, explicably, and I have to take about 50 deep breaths before I can refocus my attention. Or, I could be hiking across campus to a class and, out of nowhere, I see the horrified faces surrounding the table I was attempting to serve. I cringe and blink madly to vanquish the stares of their plate-sized eyes.

The worst bit of memory flotsam, however, is the voice of Glynnis, the hostess on duty that day. Polite, soft-spoken Glynnis was normally the epitome of calm, cool and collected but, when The Incident occurred, she almost swore. If she hadn’t been a matronly Mennonite in a restaurant patronized by families, she might have said something worse than “Holy crap!” But that, in itself, was an alarming phrase to hear shooting from her thin lips. Even before everything landed, she had sailed to the table, summoning both busboys as she swooped from her podium at the dining room’s main entrance.

If I actually hear someone say “holy crap,” even if the voice is nothing like hers, it’s enough to whip me back to the scene of my comestible crime. The sequence begins, as it always does, with my optimistic smile while Glynnis reassures me that I’ll be fine. I’d been in training for almost two weeks so, theoretically, I was ready. I’d learned the menu. That was the easy-peasy part, since it was strictly family-style service at The Crockery. That was their gimmick. People ordered massive platters and giant bowls of food to be shared by everyone at the table, just as if they were at granny’s for Sunday dinner.

On that day, I’d finally been given my first table to serve solo. It was a family of five, fresh from church – a set of clean-cut parents and their three chubby cherubs, two 5-7-year-old boys and a tiny toddler girl. Glynnis kindly helped me set up the highchair for little pink-frocked girl, who looked like a princess ensconced on her throne. I adeptly poured their water, delivered a basket of warm dinner rolls and took their order, carefully noting that they wanted extra mashed potatoes, since the children loved their “mashies.” After I’d submitted the food order to the kitchen, I returned with their iced tea and milk; The Crockery didn’t serve alcohol although, immediately following The Incident, some folks probably wished they did.

When I heard the ding that announced my order was up, I mentally reviewed the steps I would be expected to take. First, I would load the heaping bowls and mounded platters onto the large oval serving tray. Once I made it through the swinging ext-only door of the kitchen, I would hoist the platter up on my left side and balance it there while I scooped up a tray stand with my right hand. I would glide to the table, smiling, as I announced that dinner was served. I would open and position the tray stand at one end of the table with the requisite flourish, and then elegantly slide the laden tray onto it.

I made it as far as opening the tray stand when the plan got forked. I hadn’t realized how heavy a tray loaded with food for five hungry souls would be, nor how precarious. As I began to lower the precious payload, the uppermost cob of corn rolled from it’s lofty position, bounced off the rim of the tray and dove for the table. This caused the entire cargo to shift. The bowls of vegetables slid forward, along with the platter of meat. I tried to regain control but the corn refused to cooperate.

One cob flew back toward me, ricocheting off my left breast and further destabilizing my tenuous grip. The other cobs followed their golden comrade to the table, knocking over glasses of water as they tumbled. The giant bowl of mashed potatoes landed upside down on the tray of the adjacent high chair with a big sploosh. I remember thinking, oddly, that the toddler princess should be happy to have all the mashies right in front of her. She, however, was not pleased. She immediately began to wail with the irrevocability of a fire siren.

That’s probably what set off the alarm for Glynnis. When this section of my mental video gets stuck and repeats endlessly, I can clearly hear the sequence of sound events:

“Waaah!”

“Holy crap!”

“Waaah!”

“Holy crap!”

“Waaah!”

“Holy crap!”

Once I’m able to mute these sonic effects, the rest of the scene continues to play out. I see the food flying, landing, skipping, splashing. The steaming hot gravy streams down my apron and splatters the shiny new sensible shoes that I’d purchased specifically for this job. Then, the boat empties itself into the gaping maw of the diaper bag at the base of the high chair. I had thought this latter bit to be quite fortuitous; the owner of the diaper bag vociferously expressed a different opinion, once this gravy reservoir was discovered. That, however, didn’t happen immediately.

As the food settled, I noted that the mother had taken the brunt of the roast beef. One hand-sized slab had landed with a slap on her chest, between her pearls and the piping of her surprisingly low-cut dress. It then slid down as if trying to burrow into her cleavage. Another piece was perched on her shoulder like as single epaulet. Most of the remaining meat was either on her plate or in her lap. The expression on her reddening face went quickly from shock to fury and, in the cartoon version of my mental video, steam visibly shoots from her ears.

I can tell she’s about to explode but, before she does, I’m able to take in the rest of the scene, as if it’s all playing in slow motion. I note that the mingled green of the French-cut beans and the creamy white coleslaw add a festive touch, as if the entire table top has been sprinkled with edible confetti. Sitting opposite his wife, the father has only a small amount of food on him; he’s mostly wet from the overturned glasses of water and iced tea. The culpable cobs of corn have managed to charge all the way to the farthest end of the table, where the boys sit.

The older boy has captured a cob and is holding it aloft, like a javelin he’s preparing to throw. The younger one, perhaps in imitation, has armed himself with a dinner roll. His small blue eyes gleam gleefully as he lobs it my way, calling out: “Food fight!” The bread grenade hits me squarely on the cheek, knocking my glasses askew.

Thankfully, before the other boy can launch his corn spear, their mother snaps to attention. “No!” She directs her gaze and a sharply pointed finger their way. “That’s enough!” She then pivots in her seat and knifes a hand into the gravy-filled diaper bag, presumably to retrieve something for the shrieking baby. The look of horror that peels across her face sears my brain almost as much as her next scream: “You stupid cow!”

This, of course, was directed at me. In the cartoon replay, I transform into a Holstein and respond with a protracted bawl: “Moooooo.”

By this time, Glynnis has snapped into action. While I stand, frozen in mortification, she and the busboys have already begun to clean up the debris. When the no-longer-prim mother calls me a stupid cow, Glynnis quickly responds: “Now, now, there’s no need for profanity. We’ll have this cleaned up in a jiffy! Please, if you don’t mind, just take a moment to visit the restroom while we prepare a new table for you. And, of course, your whole meal will be on the house, including your choice of pie.”

Although I’ve been rendered speechless, I silently correct her semantics during the instant replay. No, Glynnis, “stupid cow” isn’t really swearing and, in truth, the whole meal was already on them.

Since I’ve been struck dumb and feel exactly as the woman described me, my only thought is to escape. I slowly walk toward the kitchen, vaguely aware that my co-workers are peering out the windows of the double doors. They hastily return to their normal tasks as I enter the kitchen. Wordlessly, I strip off my soiled apron and drape it over a cart of dirty dishes as I pass. I feel like I’m sleep walking as I turn down the hall lined with staff lockers. I find mine and put on my jacket. I usually change into sneakers so I don’t sully my work shoes but, this time, I don’t bother. I just grab my backpack and head for the exit. I drive home in a fog and spend the next two days in bed.

During that misty grey time, I later learn, Glynnis called and filled Blossom in on all the gory details. I’m glad I didn’t need to explain. Endlessly replaying the scene in my mind is bad enough. Explaining what happened out loud would have been impossible. Even now, almost three months since The Incident, I still can’t talk about it.

Maybe one day, when I’m old enough for dementia, I’ll successfully forget why I was dubbed the World’s Greatest Waitress. For now, though, it’s nice to have Blossom striving to cheer me up with Bailey’s and chocolate.

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