Like clockwork Steak & Shake was inundated with the falling-over-drunk shortly after the clock struck 2. We called this the bar rush, because that's exactly what it was. The restaurant sat 130 people, and it wasn't rare for their to be a line of drunks waiting for a table. The most servers I remember every being handy at that hour was five, and more usually it was two or three. In some ways this job of biblically difficult proportions was a blessing. On a good night you could pull in $100 or more in tips. Not because the drunks were particularly generous, but because there were simply so many of them. Making just $1 per table per hour led to some nice dough. That raises the question though, how much would you sell your sanity for?
More than once I saw a customer's request for extra salad dressing or a spilled tray of food lead to tearful breakdowns in the break room or explosive, screaming resignations. Servers were tense like cats threatened by an overfriendly dog. Backs arched, we approached our tables frantically and prayed they didn't expect much. Multi-tasking was an essential skill, and those that lacked it earned the wrath of all the other servers like Gomer Pyle. We didn't beat the incompetent with socks stuffed with bars of soap, but we talked behind their back, we didn't play on their team. We left them to drown in the sea of their outraged patrons. They didn't stay long. The list of servers culled out of third shift serving at Steak & Shake is imposing. Memorizing the needs of five tables at once was mandatory for survival. Ketchup at the booth thirteen, three Cokes and a sweet tea at table twenty five in the corral. Side of fries with cheese on the side at the bar. You could write it all down if you wanted to but the tickets started to get confused. You were better off winging it at break neck speeds, motivated by the knowledge that if you stopped or dropped the ball at one table the whole universe would collapse. Even more futile was plugging the orders in to their full accuracy at the computer. Not recording six drinks or additions after the initial order made time sense, and therefore money sense. Haphazardly surfing the rush, the successful servers went with the flow and just kept smiling until their brains fried.
The first few weeks, to adjust to the unusual, late-night time frame, I took ephedrine to stay energized. This is what Wikipedia says about ephedrine:
Ephedrine (EPH) is a sympathomimetic amine commonly used as a stimulant, appetite suppressant, concentration aid, decongestant, and to treat hypotension associated with anaesthesia. Ephedrine is similar in structure to the (semi-) synthetic derivatives amphetamine and methamphetamineDid you notice the line about Ephedrine being similar to methamphetamine? Ephedrine is marketed in several different ways. You can, or used to be able to, buy it at any gas station with attractive names like, "Hot Body Xtreme" on account of its hunger suppressing qualities, or "Yellow Jacket", appealing to dozy truckers. If I attempted to market the drug accurately, I would call it, "Simulated Heart AttackZ". The drug kept me alert, but I'm not convinced it was for any reason other than I was literally afraid I was going to die. I could almost see my pulse throbbing, no, exploding out of my wrist. My ribs cracked from the strength of my heart beating against them. My head would snap from left to right and my hands fought the shakes while I rolled silverware or tried to distribute a tray of ten tall glasses of soda. Abrupt, sharp, unexpected laughter would meet my tables when they made some friendly joke. Ephedrine did not mix will with a bar rush, a situation that already produces anxiety, and with slightly higher blood pressure probably real heart attacks. Eventually I decided a steady IV drip of coffee did the trick just as well without the fear of death.
A variation of the bar rush was the Bosnian rush. Bowling Green has an unusually high percentage of Bosnian immigrants. I've heard this explained by Bowling Green being an international refugee center. I can't confirm this, but I do know I was always a little surprised how Bowling Green, Ky. attracted such a large number of war torn Eastern Europeans. It seems that at night they traveled in packs, not to belittle them or compare them to predatory animals, but this was just a fact. Once a week or even less, they decided Steak & Shake was the cultural center of Bosnian culture, and they fell on the establishment like locust. Allow me to defend myself in the midst of the racism I'm spewing. I was really great friends with several Bosnians and have no issue with their culture or residence in Kentucky. However, it is indisputable that after a night at the bars, and concentrated into one room, they were a hand full.
The Bosnian rush usually started with a large Slav looking gentleman in a tight black shirt with metal necklaces who sported a short, slicked hair cut. His alpha male intentions reeked up the room while his lady friends followed him in. Usually there were two or three of them, and the general attire was tight jeans, high heels and some sort of low cut, transparent blouse. Heavy make up finished the picture. If they waited for a table, which usually they did not, a pet peeve of mine as a waiter, they would greet the server or host with an upturned nose and communicate in grunts and nods. Once sat, their interactions with each other usually involved faces of boredom and the occasional complaint about some personal drama. The girls looked in their compacts and applied make up while the man usually put an arm on the top of the booth and stretched his feet out while looking around the restaurant like he was scanning for rogue male lions threatening his pride.
The group grew exponentially. Next two crews showed up, then four, then eight, then the restaurant was full of people that all seemed to know each other, switching tables at will to shake hands with a friend or hit on a girl. I'm all for one love and that bullshit, but as a server, trying to keep track of dozens of individual tickets moving throughout a restaurant of people trying to look identical, it made life a little bit of a hell. In their defense, they tipped better than any other ethnic group (Caucasians included). They had a habit of making things very uncomfortable for me with questions that maybe weren't weird in their culture? "My girl thinks you're cute" or "You look like you know where the weed is" were met with my awkward smile, slow nod, and quick exit.
Some times the giant group led to serious problems. One time some guy got jumped in the bathroom, and I think he got stabbed. The police showed up and the servers kept trying to get those Frisco Melts out. Without fail, someone would vomit in the bathroom, and occasionally shit on the floor. I imagine the motivation behind that was just messing with the staff, surely no one could make it into a restaurant so drunk that they really don't get how to use a toilet? I remember another night where it wasn't so much a Bosnian rush but a table of Bosnians very intox. They had a food fight. They threw soup on each other and then chased each other around the restaurant. I actually got them more soup when they explained they spilled it on accident. I'll admit they scared me. They dripped machismo I had never encountered before. I usually didn't take crap from tables, or at least I wouldn't respond well to it. I earned notoriety for kicking a table out after they sat at a table without waiting to be seated. But I licked these guys' boots. I'm not proud of it, but I did make a lot of money off them.
By far, the most epic rush, that I only experienced once, was the legendary New Year's rush. Weeks before the first minute of 2006 the servers told stories of past New Years with terrified reverence. They spoke of the holiday with the air of an urban legend that people half believe, like the psychopath who escaped from the insane asylum showing up in the backseat of that poor girl's car. On December 31st minutes before midnight I stood in the server station behind the soda fountains, staring at an empty dining room. Literally not one table was occupied. The parking lot was empty and snow lightly fell from the sky. Mike, the dry drunk general manager, stood with me. He held a small glass cup, the one's servers drank out of. He too stared at the empty tables. He hit the trigger for Dr. Pepper and filled his glass with slow, calculated movements unusual for his normal, panicked and frenetic approach to motion. He uttered the only words I ever remember being able to understand from him. Not so much to me as to himself and the universe, he said, "The quiet before the storm." The room was so quiet that we could hear the big hand on the clock swing to the 12 position.
Someone from the kitchen yelled, "Happy New Year!" The rest of the staff, which was quite a few since they scheduled every employee they could for the night, sat quietly casting sideways glances at Mike. Before the second hand finished a full rotation on the clock, a single sedan drove carefully into the parking lot. Four staggering college students fell out of their car and stumbled towards the restaurant.
Mike set his Dr. Pepper down, looked out the window and said, "Here they come." He turned around and walked into the kitchen like a dead-man-walking. Within five minutes two school buses, countless cars, taxis and drunk buses dropped off troves of people in spirits much higher than ours. Many held plastic cups and wore silly glasses and party hats. They were loud, they were happy, and they were drunk. We tried to keep up with the deluge, we tried to sit them on time and keep up with the three-minute-after-food-delivery check ups. We tried to get orders right and we tried to keep smiling but we were drowning.
Like an unprepared General, Mike screamed at the kitchen staff while casting eyes-ablaze on any server that tried to ask him a question. The servers pulled each other's limp bodies through the trenches and gave encouraging words of false hope. That was all that kept us from drowning ourselves in the deep fryer. It is remarkable how the communal high of celebration shared by the customers manifested in unparalleled rage towards the servers. Their derision fueled the inebriated party in our restaurant. I went numb. I stared at my tables without the slightest attempt at pleasantness. At one group of eight too distracted with themselves to look at me I yelled, "What do you need? What do you want?" They didn't respond, so I left and went to the next table. How unhappy we were correlated directly to how good of a time they had.
Physically we survived, but I think I speak for the staff as a whole when I say a part of us died that day. When the restaurant finally cleared several hours later we huddled in booths and shook while we stared at the mess we had to clean up before we went home. Several bills went unpaid and Mike was busy tracking down the servers responsible and made the usual threats of forcing us to pay the tabs. Less exhausted we probably would have defended ourselves somehow, but we just sighed. I actually gave him thirteen dollars for one of the tickets. I was a soldier tired of battle. War weary I was willing to pay any price for peace.
Being New Years and all, I feel like I should finish this piece with something about resolutions. Perhaps I resolved to lead my life in a way that would guarantee never again would I celebrate the upcoming 365 days with people I despised to make some bucks. I didn't. There was talk at the beginning of the night of resolutions to quit smoking. I think even the non-smokers were hammering in a few coffin nails after that night, and who could blame them.
celebrate indeed
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