Keep on ringing

I have decided that I will no longer answer the take-out phone at the restaurant. I hate the to-go phone. Every server does. This is why it rings and rings and rings and no one ever seems to pick up. We all have tables on the floor, tables we hope will be paying us to provide them with good service. We are busy trying to provide said service, and stopping what we’re doing to answer the phone and then explain the menu and take the order from some voice on the other end just takes time none of us has.

Of course, management is very adamant that the phone should ring no more than three times before one us picks it up. It is, after all, a sale waiting to be made. So they rant and rave and remind us constantly that the phone needs to be answered, and since it’s part of our job and I have that stupid work-ethic thing going on, I answer it more often than not, even when I don’t have the time.

But no more. Last Sunday, as I walked into the vestibule to put an order into the micro, the phone rang and since no one else was standing still long enough for me to hand it off to them, I took the call. What’s your special today, the guy wanted to know. Well, what sides do you have? Well, what can I get that’s like the meatloaf? What kind of soup? And on and on with the questions. Figure out what the hell you want before you make the fucking call. We have a menu on line. And if you're calling us to place an order, I assume you're at the very least familiar with out menu. I spent at least ten minutes on the phone with this guy, ten minutes I could have been using to wow my guests by refilling their drinks before they even asked. And as soon as I hung up, the phone started ringing again.

Because I’m stupid, I answered it again. Another pain in the ass order – all kinds of substitutions and sauces on the side.

By the time I was done on the phone, my orders were up in the window and I had to start running them out to my guests who by this time had empty glasses and had mentally deducted five percent from my tip. By the time I finished running the first round of trays and refilling everyone’s drinks, I realized I’d forgotten to ring in an order.

Fuuuuuck!

That’s why I was coming into the vestibule to begin with.

Moments later, I realized I’d forgotten to bring out a salad too. And the woman was pissed and let the manager know when he ran out the tray for me since I was in the back cajoling the grill line (bribing them with promises of pot) into rushing out my forgotten ticket.

Fortunately, the rushed order came out moments after the order for the table beside them (who ordered at the same time), so they never knew the difference. But I knew. And I couldn’t seem to recover myself for the rest of the night. I was just off all day, one step behind where I needed to be. And by the end of the shift, it was all I could do to finish my sidework and get the hell out. I even shorted them on a few silverware roll-ups in the end because I just didn’t care.

So from now on, the to-go phone can just keep on ringing. I’m pretty sure I can’t hear at that frequency. You know, hearing loss brought on by all those years I spent working on jets.