Wordcount: Restaurant Manners

While working in the restaurant industry as a hostess, I learned that people generally don't have proper manners.

That one particular incident is still engraved in my mind. I was working a seven and a half hour shift, and I haven't eaten my dinner yet. I was done all my duties for the night and was ready to eat when four people showed up.

I was ready to seat them when they decided to tell me they would be a party of 14.

See, usually, I wouldn't have a problem with this. I've seated people more than that before closing before. The problem? They weren't entirely sure how many they would be, when they'd arrive, and our kitchen staff was still doing orders while slowly doing their own side duties for the night.

I told them that we would be closing in less than an hour, and that I would have to ask the kitchen staff if they were alright taking it in, which I assure them they would be since we've done it before. 

Being the dutiful hostess, I went back to the kitchen and told them. The waitresses and kitchen staff weren't amused that they weren't entirely sure how many they would actually be so I went back to finalize the numbers, ready to set up the tables afterwards since they gave the okay.

I went back and asked them again, but then the son started being, well, an asshole.

"What are you trying to do? Are you trying to kick us out?" He asked in a disgusted tone. He was tall, probably around six feet, and was looking down at me, literally and figuratively. I didn't know how I actually felt. I was ashamed, scared and really pissed off by his tone and his temper, and felt the blood in my veins turn cold. I didn't know if I was going to be really nice again, or was going to tell him and his ugly ass clothing to leave and go back to 2009. 

Regardless, at this point I knew it was going to end badly. I was going to have a panic attack if I didn't fix this. Or at the very best, be in a constant state of worry afterwords. Not for my job, but for my life. I felt the blood in my veins turn to ice, and I placed my hand on the podium so they wouldn't see me tremble in fear. 

"No, sir, we're not-"

"Okay," he retorted in a booming voice, and a new edge in his tone, telling me he was ready to kick my ass. I've dealt with enough kids with IEPs and anger issues to know that shit was going to go down. "If the sign says you close at 9:30, then why can't you accommodate us?"

"I just went to the back, and they said they're fine, all I need to know is how many there will be so I can set the tables," I replied as calmly as I could, but by the looks of their faces and the sickening feeling I felt, I knew it probably sounded flat and unamused. Which, was how I felt, but in my defence, I was terrified to a point of no return and wasn't entirely sure how to feel.

"But you," he said this pointedly, making big gestures with his hands that made himself look bigger and more intimidating than he already was. Maybe I would cry tonight, I thought, as I looked as his parents did who did nothing to stop him, while his sister look so torn between wanting to back up her brother and wanting to back me up. "Should be able to accommodate us." He continued, and at this point, I knew for sure there will be a panic attack. Not here though. I glanced at the clock, and realized that I had 45 minutes to go. I can hold off the nerves and do it at home.

We are bringing business to your restaurant," he said smugly, knowing he's cornered me. I try to speak, but he continues to rail me. "This is so unprofessional. You should be able to accommodate us, why can't you? You said it closes at 9:30, what's the matter?"

At this point, my knuckles had gone white, and I was going to faint from anger, from shame, from fear. Here are four people, no reservation, coming in with 45 minutes left in business, trying to get me to seat 14, which we didn't mind. But they were evading my questions, and were bullying me. I've been bullied enough in life to know that. I just wanted to scream that I was 17, that I was underaged, and that you, sir, who is probably in your mid-twenties, is currently yelling at a child.

I tell him that the reason why we needed to know is because our kitchen closes at 9:30. He doesn't take my crap, and is about to yell at me more. I try pleading with his parents for sympathy, turn to the unamused dad, saying that at 9:30 people like me, had to go home or they'd get in trouble like he night before- he wasn't taking my crap either. At this point, I thought I made it clear what the others had told me and thought I made it obvious that I was still a kid, but during their son's aggressive exchange and my panic I started to ramble and forced myself to hold back tears. My face was hard as stone, but my nerves were frozen in fear and panic. 

"One moment please," I told them a little harshly as I scurried to the back. I was not going to cry, I wasn't going to cry...

I went to the back, and told the waitresses and kitchen guys the entire situation. One of them went to go speak to them, while I went to set up a table for twenty. I took a sip of water, before heading back to my podium.

"This shouldn't be a problem," I heard one head say, and I wasn't sure if they meant the table or the whole entire situation.

"...we just don't want to be rushed, and if this was explained to us like this earlier, we would have understood and not wasted our time." The mother finally said out loud, and gave me a hurtful glare. I wrapped my arms around myself, scared, and bit my tongue. I told them what I was told (and admittedly in a state of panic), and then some. I won't cry, I said in my head. I won't cry.

My co-worker started to repeat what she said before, as the whole situation apparently escalated from when I left. I was there, tables ready, but apparently they weren't taking our crap. They started to leave, asking for the name of the person that served them.

Technically, asshole, I hosted them, and your son started to attack me. Clearly parenting skills wasn't his strong suit. And neither was proper communication. Guess the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree. 

They wanted my name. I was pissed and ready to cry at this point. How dare they ask for my name? I'm 17, and you just verbally assaulted me. You harassed me, coming in here evading my questions, and vehemently protested our efforts to resolve the problem by making room for you and your tribe to eat with (by this point), 40 minutes left till closing.

I look at the old man, the father of the rambunctious and rude man-child, and tell him a false name, "Grace Hernandez. Grace Hernandez is my name," I tell them pointedly. 

It's amazing what happened next. Their faces snapped in recognition, realizing that the hostess was one of them. A Filipino. Yeah, suck on that. I think that made things worse. Country men are supposed to stand beside their country men. Too bad this one was a young woman whom they pissed off.

"Grace Hernandez," the old man says. His elderly mother, Lola Asim, whom I've nicknamed in my head at this point, looks at me in discontent. "Why are your arms folded?"

He knows I covered my name tag. Well, obviously he thinks eating and causing a scene at a restaurant is above harassing a minor. "Because," I spit out, trying not to cry. "I just want to leave."

"You want to leave? Then go- leave." He says. I was about to reply, with a witty remark but held it back, and shoved it into the depths of my mind along with my tears and fears. 

The people have started to leave, and my co-worker says something that I miss, as I try not to cry. I've never seen any more rude people like them in my entire life. The mother says, something about not wanting to be rushed before she leaves. 

The last thing I remember is this, "You're not going to get in trouble, she is," he points at me, and I know it's a threat and a promise. I'm shaking and I'm going to faint. I haven't had a panic attack since Dia Armando got everyone in sixth grade to hate me. "Grace Hernandez," he repeats venomously, and I'm going faint, I'm going to fucking faint and my co-worker isn't going to help me. Crap. Crap. Crap.

They leave and a tremble as we walk to the the kitchen and our supervisor asks for our side of the story. 

We tell them what happened, and how to man-child was attacking me. She calls the manager, who knows what went down.

The others are telling me to be calm, to eat so I can calm down. I go and try to calm my nerves, and my friend who helped me tells me why they were even more upset when I reappeared. 

"They told me that they were going to be 14, but later on they wanted to know if they were in the restaurant, they could have their other family members come in after 9:30, since they were already inside and they were still picking them up." She rolls her eyes. "I told them when can serve you, but our kitchen closes at 9:30 completely, and we have to lock our doors."

Well, at least that made some sense as to why they were upset. But she went on.

"They didn't want to be rushed, which is understandable. They wanted us to open the doors for them, but I told them we can't do that." She sighed. "Then that son was swear at me, telling me to go back to where I came from. He was saying, 'This is fucking stupid', 'Fuck you, fuck this.' And then his dad or something's said, 'My son's a cop!'"

"Legit?"

"Yeah, I told them calmly that we can't do that. And then he kept swearing at me, and I told him I don't deserved to be talked to like that."

I stayed quiet, my hands still balled into fists. They were pale and hadn't stopped shaking. "On a scale of one to ten, how much trouble am I going to get in?"

She waved her hand away, dismissing the notion. "Honestly, you did everything you could. They were just upset that they couldn't get what they wanted." She paused. "Everything's going to be alright."

Somehow I didn’t believe her.