himself, and he came back without any problems, so that turned out fine.
Sunday dinner, on the other hand . . . not so much.
The very first people who walked in, a crabby looking middle aged couple, asked me to lower the music volume. An easy enough request, until half an hour later, when a group of already tipsy college kids asked me to turn it up. I tried to split the difference but only managed to get dirty looks from both tables instead. This distracted me enough that I accidentally switched some customers’ bags when they came in to pick up their takeout, and I had to field two different complaint calls fifteen minutes later. Neither party was motivated enough to drive back and get their free replacement food, thank God.
Then, some crazy wine connoisseur accused me of opening his bottle of Chardonnay incorrectly, and there was a momentary panic when the sliding metal door to the dishwasher jammed. Krai managed to pry it open with a fork—thereby breaking the fork, but we all figured a broken fork is better than a useless dishwasher.
So by the tail end of the evening, I was already pretty frazzled when Nat came over to the cash register and muttered unhappily, “Uh, that lady over there just asked to talk to the manager”—he pointed toward a pinched looking woman in the back corner—“and the manager would be you.”
“What’s her problem?” I asked.
“What isn’t?” He shrugged and practically sprinted back to the kitchen, which didn’t bode well.
I sighed, smoothed out my apron and fixed my ponytail, and then went over to the table of two middle aged women, both of whom looked pretty angry.
“Hi,” I said, looking back and forth between them. “Can I help you with something?”
“Yes,” said Angry Lady #1, glaring at me through her bifocals. “Our orders are wrong. We both ordered the Vegetarian Red Curry, and I don’t think this is vegetarian.”
She pointed accusingly at her curry bowl with a long red fingernail.
“Oh, I’m sorry about that,” I said, giving them an apologetic smile. “I’ll have the kitchen fix that right up for you.”
The curry looked pretty damn vegetarian to me—nothing but green peppers, eggplant, and tofu—and Krai gave me the world’s most withering look when I checked with him. “They ask for it veggie. I made it veggie,” he complained.
Nonetheless, my parents are all about placating the customer, so the easiest thing to do was have him whip up another batch; it didn’t take long, and the women appeared mollified when I set the fragrant, steaming new bowls down in front of them. They started digging into it right away, both shaking their heads irritably when I asked them if they needed anything else.
Of course, twenty minutes later, when the two women were the only people left in the restaurant, and Nat and I were both positively itching to turn the lights up and bust out the vacuum cleaner, they flagged me down again.
“Sooo sorry to bother you, sweetie, but this is the second time in a row you got our order wrong,” said Angry Lady #1’s passive-aggressive friend. “We asked for this curry to be vegan.” She put her spoon down, leaned back in her chair, and stared up at me expectantly.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, struggling for politeness and picturing my mother yelling at me to make the customers happy. “I think you said vegetarian last time, actually, but this curry is vegan as well. It’s made with coconut milk.”
“Was it made in a separate pot?”
“Yes,” I said. “I think so.” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Nat approaching from the bar. He’d already changed out of his Pailin uniform and back into the Tigers World Series T-shirt he’d been wearing that morning, but he looked like he meant business.
“You think ?” asked the woman, her voice somehow dripping with both sugar and evil. “Do your people not understand English, sweetie?”
Oh, what the—? I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. “I
Sunday dinner, on the other hand . . . not so much.
The very first people who walked in, a crabby looking middle aged couple, asked me to lower the music volume. An easy enough request, until half an hour later, when a group of already tipsy college kids asked me to turn it up. I tried to split the difference but only managed to get dirty looks from both tables instead. This distracted me enough that I accidentally switched some customers’ bags when they came in to pick up their takeout, and I had to field two different complaint calls fifteen minutes later. Neither party was motivated enough to drive back and get their free replacement food, thank God.
Then, some crazy wine connoisseur accused me of opening his bottle of Chardonnay incorrectly, and there was a momentary panic when the sliding metal door to the dishwasher jammed. Krai managed to pry it open with a fork—thereby breaking the fork, but we all figured a broken fork is better than a useless dishwasher.
So by the tail end of the evening, I was already pretty frazzled when Nat came over to the cash register and muttered unhappily, “Uh, that lady over there just asked to talk to the manager”—he pointed toward a pinched looking woman in the back corner—“and the manager would be you.”
“What’s her problem?” I asked.
“What isn’t?” He shrugged and practically sprinted back to the kitchen, which didn’t bode well.
I sighed, smoothed out my apron and fixed my ponytail, and then went over to the table of two middle aged women, both of whom looked pretty angry.
“Hi,” I said, looking back and forth between them. “Can I help you with something?”
“Yes,” said Angry Lady #1, glaring at me through her bifocals. “Our orders are wrong. We both ordered the Vegetarian Red Curry, and I don’t think this is vegetarian.”
She pointed accusingly at her curry bowl with a long red fingernail.
“Oh, I’m sorry about that,” I said, giving them an apologetic smile. “I’ll have the kitchen fix that right up for you.”
The curry looked pretty damn vegetarian to me—nothing but green peppers, eggplant, and tofu—and Krai gave me the world’s most withering look when I checked with him. “They ask for it veggie. I made it veggie,” he complained.
Nonetheless, my parents are all about placating the customer, so the easiest thing to do was have him whip up another batch; it didn’t take long, and the women appeared mollified when I set the fragrant, steaming new bowls down in front of them. They started digging into it right away, both shaking their heads irritably when I asked them if they needed anything else.
Of course, twenty minutes later, when the two women were the only people left in the restaurant, and Nat and I were both positively itching to turn the lights up and bust out the vacuum cleaner, they flagged me down again.
“Sooo sorry to bother you, sweetie, but this is the second time in a row you got our order wrong,” said Angry Lady #1’s passive-aggressive friend. “We asked for this curry to be vegan.” She put her spoon down, leaned back in her chair, and stared up at me expectantly.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, struggling for politeness and picturing my mother yelling at me to make the customers happy. “I think you said vegetarian last time, actually, but this curry is vegan as well. It’s made with coconut milk.”
“Was it made in a separate pot?”
“Yes,” I said. “I think so.” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Nat approaching from the bar. He’d already changed out of his Pailin uniform and back into the Tigers World Series T-shirt he’d been wearing that morning, but he looked like he meant business.
“You think ?” asked the woman, her voice somehow dripping with both sugar and evil. “Do your people not understand English, sweetie?”
Oh, what the—? I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. “I
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