Campers

Friday night I was actually pretty excited about my section. Four tables in the first diningroom. Two four tops and two deuces. It wasn’t the best section to have, but since our new management team has been overscheduling the floor the last couple months, leaving only three tables (sometimes two) for each server, it was definitely a step up. Plus it was Friday night and we were sure to be on a wait for the next few hours, so there was going to be plenty of business.

Turn and burn, baby!

Two of my tables were still sat when I got there, but as soon as those guests were finished eating, I rushed to clear the tables and get them ready and let the money-making begin.

And then the hostess spoiled my fun.

I turned around and noticed she was bringing one of our regulars to my table. It was one of the Coleman Sisters, so nicknamed by the staff because they like to camp. No, not the pitch-a-tent-light-up-the-portable-gas-grill kind of camp. The we’re-going-to-sit-at-this-table-for-the-next-four-hours-maybe-five-at-least-until-after-you-close-and-you-and-the-rest-of-the-staff-are-just-waiting-for-us-to-leave-so-you-can-go-home kind of camp.

I knew I had just gone from a four to a three table section. On the very first round of seating.

Fuuuuuck!

Two of the Sisters had yet to arrive, but I greeted the first and took her drink order. I smiled and told her I’d be right back with her lemonade, then went into the server aisle where I slammed down my tray and let out a string of expletives not fit to print even on the porn-riddled interwebs.

“Coleman Sisters?” Another server asked me.

“Yes,” I said. “Fuck!”

They come in every Friday, usually at the very beginning of the dinner rush, and they stay well after they have finished eating, apparently oblivious to the line of people waiting at the hostess stand or to the fact that all the tables around them have been seated and fed and cleaned and seated and fed and cleaned and . . . you get the idea. And once the rush is over and cuts have been made, they still sit. And once the restaurant is otherwise empty, they still sit. And once the restaurant has closed and every member of the staff save their server, the cashier and the manager has left, they still sit.

Every single Friday for the past year.

I was the very first server unlucky enough to have them sat in my section and I’ve waited on them several times since. They’re pleasant enough. Bus drivers for a local school district, I believe. And they usually tip well. Just not well enough to make up for the fact that I’ve lost out on three or four turns of the table they’ve decided to stake out for their very own.

Last Friday, though, they took the annoying factor to a new level. As I said, only one of them was sat at first while she waited for the rest of the party to arrive. I brought her drink and then went about getting orders for two more of my tables that had been sat. After entering those orders and bringing drinks, I found that the other Sisters had arrived, so I got their drink orders and asked if they were ready to order food. They were not. Not yet. Maybe a few minutes.

I dropped off their drinks and picked up the last of my two-tops that had been seated. Then I checked on them again. A few more minutes, maybe. By now, food was up for my first two tables, so I ran that, brought out extra napkins and any last minute requests then checked back on the Sisters.

Still not ready.

Twenty-five minutes since the first Sister had arrived.

I told them to just let me know when they were ready and they continued talking. I brought out the food for my last table, cleared some empty plates from the other tables, and brought a round a refills. A thank you from the Sisters, but still no order. I offered dessert to my other tables and dropped the checks. Still not ready to order. My other guests took their last sips of soda and put on their coats. Still nothing. I picked up my tips and re-set the table tops after the bussers cleared everything away. Forty-five minutes in, and there was still no order from the Coleman Sisters.

The last of my first round asked for a to-go box and started gathering their things. I was about to have three empty tables and we were still on an hour wait, which meant I was about to be triple-sat, which meant that, because the fates are unkind to me this way, the Coleman Sisters were finally ready to order.

And order they did. The special, please, with a house salad, oh and could I substitute this and could you add extra that and could you bring some bread ahead of the meal but after the salad and could we have some honey and some jelly and some apple butter and some molasses oh and extra butter and a refill and maybe some water too.

By the time they finished giving me their list of demands, my other tables were full of guests. Hungry, agitated guests who had just been standing in the lobby for an hour and were none too happy about having to wait another five minutes to get a server over here.

So on the second round of seating, I was already in the weeds. I greeted all three of the other tables, got a drink order from the first, and rushed to the back to gather up the bounty for the Sisters. I had to ask a manager to pick up the drink orders for my other tables so they wouldn’t feel neglected. Then I dropped off the salads only to find out that even though they had ordered house salads, they really wanted tossed. They just got confused. Because, you know, they’ve only been to our restaurant like fifty or sixty times.

May I say once again,

Fuuuuck!

For the next thirty minutes or more, I just rushed from table to table, feeling a couple of steps behind the entire time, and definitely feeling it in the subpar tips I earned that round.

Fortunately, I’d been able to stagger their ordering enough that everybody didn’t finish eating at once and the worst that happened the rest of the night was that I was double-sat. I kept the refills coming to the Sisters through three more seatings of each of my other tables. I cleared away their empty plates, brought them more bread, offered them dessert, and switched them to coffee throughout the night. Eventually the wait ended and guests just trickled in here or there until finally no one else was coming in and only my table of campers was left.

A few minutes before close I dropped off their checks. The first few months we were open, they would wait to pay until they were ready to leave, which meant that the cashier had to hang around and wait to count down her drawer until they left. Another server kindly let them know how they were holding up the cashier and they’ve since started paying right around closing time. But then they come right back and take their rightful place at the table, where they stay. And stay. And stay some more.

At a quarter to twelve they finally dispersed. At midnight, I finally got to walk out the front door and start my trek home, my pockets full with the fifteen dollars they tipped me for five solid hours of service.