Red Sangria and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.

Ask any server what he or she loathes about the industry and there will be a pause. Eyes will glance upward, sifting the blue yonder through the mediocre days spent tending mediocre tables. There are several first-ballot choices, but somehow, he or she will settle on one, sigh, and begin the story.



*

I'd been on the floor just three weeks, still timid in my recently acquired surroundings following the layoff. It's only the second restaurant I've ever worked in, so in more ways than one I am very much New Guy. I'm relegated to lunch duty, which, traditionally, is not where one garners copious amounts of money. At this corporate chain, hordes of pressed-shirt financial district types and socially stunted Google employees swarm the double doors to squeeze in a quick, overpriced lunch before the 1:30 meeting.

They all, of course, come in at the same time. So one moment I'm lamenting my fragile state from the previous night or restocking plates and the next I'm sweating and frantic, deciphering the scribbled note for table 47 that reads either Drugging In the Wine or Dressing On the Side.

In the lounge, low marble tables scatter the landscape, with a square block of open-seating patio. The all-day happy hour is a big draw to just about everyone within a four block radius, so if it's sunny and warm, you are thoroughly fucked.

The handful of patio tables I had sat around the same time. Normal walking then turns into the hurried pace of any person on any sidewalk in Manhattan. A new table appeared: an orangey man in his forties wearing a shirt two sizes too small, two nondescript women, and another man whose bald head and beard brought to mind that of a surly neighborhood plumber.

I took the first three drinks orders and then one of the women asked the characteristics of a pricey chardonnay. I collected my thoughts, grasping for the sexy adjectives from my wine booklet. Nothing appeared. No corporate spiel to be had whether it was oaky, sweet, or tasted of refrigerated urine. I tried another tactic.

"Well," I said, "it's a beautiful day," I gestured towards the blue sky, "and it's a cold glass of wine, so I think you'll be good." I smiled, but there were no smiles in return.

Somewhere in the distance, a death knell bonged softly.

For whatever reason, she ordered the wine and I retreated back to the touch screen to summon their booze and appetizers. I loaded a tray with a margarita, the cold chardonnay, a tall adult lemonade, and red sangria served in our flimsy wine glasses.

I returned to the table and set down the chardonnay. Then, like some overacted National Lampoons sequel, I watched in slow-motion horror as my tray tipped. The margarita and adult lemonade shattered on the ground, painting my non-slip shoes and the expensive lady purses in wasted alcohol. I caught the sangria before its concrete demise, but not before the glass dumped onto my prison-issue grey button-down. A healthy portion of which sought refuge in my apron pocket. Childhood biking tumbles aside, my longstanding working relationship with gravity was over.

I stood there with a moist shirt, my hands doused in chianti and chunks of fruit, and let off a heavy sigh.

The drink-dropping set off a reaction. All of my tables collectively raised their hands, wanting the check. I fled the scene. The chaos had to be delegated and I needed new, unbroken drinks, a shirt that wasn't some shade of red, and a manager.

Even though they were a few feet away, the restless six-top of young business types didn't seem to care about the disappointed look on my face or loud, smashy noises nearby and nagged another server to bring the bill. Their tip ranged somewhere between Nothing and Shitty.

I stood in front of the screen, shaky from adrenaline and the acute realization that every person in the restaurant just witnessed this fiasco. I reordered the lost drinks and had a supervisor drop two checks. She returned with three cards, one split check and another that would wrap up what looked like a very boring meeting. I swiped all three and sent her back outside. She returned moments later with a puzzled look on her face.

"These aren't their cards," she said.

My befuddled look matched hers, then turned back into one of panic. I approached Boring Meeting Lady who was already disgruntled from her dry order of mussels.

Bingo.

I moved a table over.

"Oooh," said one of the split check women, "that's my friend's debit card. Sorry."

Without questioning why she had access to someone's bank account who was not currently at the restaurant, I jogged back inside.

As I'm drowning in factors beyond my control at the touch screen, the forty-something in the miniature tee shirt revealed himself to my general manager as Chief Director of Something Important at the restaurant group. Apparently my superlative knowledge of wine and dynamic sense of humor didn't go over well.

That, and the breaking of company stemware.

The corporate table was given to another server and I finished out my shift drenched in humiliation and red sangria. Afterward I was called into the manager's office, an office not unlike a high school principal's.

I took a seat, the adrenaline still surging, the chianti still marinating.

"So how do you think things are going so far?" said another supervisor.

And there I sat, scolded like a preteen who had just snipped the wrong valve during a triple bypass.
I left the restaurant and went home.

My college diploma waited for me as I walked in the door and started laughing.

"Boy... another productive day," he said.

"Don't wanna talk about it," I said, dismissing the giggles.

"Whatever," he said, "I'm getting hungry."

He sniffed and turned back to the TV.

"Smells like wine."