Carryout Hell

July 15, 2009

Tonight was the worst kind of carry-out night. Scratch that, second worst. The worst is the restaurant being busy and carryout being slammed. Tonight was we were dead except for one 30-45 minute period where I got fucking reamed.

It all started with a massive order, over $50 worth of food. For those of you who work at real restaurants, that doesn’t sound like much, but here at The Restaurant that’s like the equivalent of a $600 order, all to go. Pork chops, fried chicken, and burgers and fries coming out my fucking ears. Oh, and 3 milkshakes. Fuck milkshakes. At least it was only 3…

Understand that my duties as carryout girl include getting the cooks all the proper plates and other objects to make the food and making sure they understand what the hell they’re supposed to be doing (both are new, and neither are used to the system…I miss our old cooks so bad, who fucking understood when I told them I needed 3 fries, a fry on a plate, and an onion ring on a plate, and who didn’t need everything explained to them). Then I have to get all the sides, get all the little extras (sauces, shaky cheese, rolls), make the milkshakes, package everything up when the cooks finally fucking finish making the food, and total the check by hand.

I know you all are probably saying “That’s not hard,” and even for one big order, no, it’s not hard, especially when it was called in so I have time to get everything ready. What makes it hard is when two more people come in and place a decent-sized order, the phone rings and another order comes in, and someone shows up at the window asking for a vanilla malt (he was the only one who tipped me…I’ll talk more about tipping carryout in another post–for now, understand that I don’t expect to be tipped as I do get paid, but it’s nice when someone does it).

It’s extremely easy for carryout to get slammed as I have lowest priority on the grill, there’s no limit to the size of or how many orders I can have at any one time, and there’s no spacing. The phone can just ring ring ring, and I have to take every order. The best I can do is tell people longer and longer wait times as I try to get caught up–and that doesn’t stop some people from showing up when they decide their food should be ready.

But the best part of all this? As I’m rushing around, trying to get orders organized–I have about a 3-foot space to have fifty million individual pieces of food, all of which are in identical white bags and I still don’t have the fucking tickets–the phone rings again. YAY.

But it wasn’t another order. Oh no. This caller, a rude old lady to begin with, started out by saying “I got carryout last night, I got this and this and this…” Great, a fucking complaint, I think. This is exactly what I need right now. I wait for a pause, and very politely say “All right, ma’am, I’ll try to help you but please understand that I wasn’t here last night so–”


It gets even better. She continues, “I just wanted to say how nice the man was to help me out with my order, and I wanted to know what kind of cottage cheese you serve.”

Despite being slammed, I’ve actually been unusually cool and collected up to this point. No more. I sure as hell hope I covered that phone well as I went to check what our fucking cottage cheese was. B, our specials cook/sometimes manager was in the back doing whatever, and as I looked through the fridge for the goddamn cottage cheese, I exploded.

“B, where the fuck is the cottage cheese, this stupid rude bitch wants to know what kind we serve, I cannot fucking believe this, I am fucking slammed right now and this is the LAST THING I NEED…”

The fact that it was a stupid question is not what set me off, by the way. It was the fact that she fucking told me to shut up. I almost hung up the phone, but unfortunately far too many customers at The Restaurant know the owner, and I don’t want to get fired.

I eventually got caught up and all was well. Boyfriend surprised me after work, which quelled my rage a little bit. This post is already pretty long, but I’ll wrap up by saying this: fuck you Tip-Stealing Woman. We have a family that comes in pretty regularly. The husband always tries to tip and the wife always stops him from doing so. Tonight, he snuck a tip on the counter for the waitress who despite her best efforts had already been stiffed twice in one night and had made no money. About 30 seconds after they left, Tip-Stealing Woman came back into the restaurant and took the tip back. Who the fuck does that?!

What a night…


3 Responses to “Carryout Hell”

  1. Hello,
    I just came across your blog and enjoyed it very much. I’m a banquet manager & hope you will enjoy mine. Please visit and let me know what you think.
    So You Want To Be a Banquet Manager

    • eternalcarryoutgirl Says:

      Thanks! I have read your blog actually, and I like it. I found it through RagingServer. I’m just not sure what the etiquette on posting links is, having never seriously blogged, so I stopped after a few.

  2. Thanks I’m glad you have stopped by. Usually the etiquette is to link to other blogs that you like then ask them to link back in return. You make a new “friend” and turn your readers on to other similar sites.

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