It was bound to happen. Anyone who knows me well knows it with absolute certainty. I am perhaps the most clumsy accident prone person there is. So add a serving tray, plates, glasses and strangers and there is almost certainly a 90 percent chance of embarrassment on some level, usually at my end.
But what I didn’t count on was the many ways my mouth gets me into trouble. Open mouth, insert foot. Change that, insert both feet.
One of several waitressing faux pas happened a few shifts ago. After a full week in an apron, armed with an order book and pen, I had started to get well and truly into the swing of things.
The locals have been flooding in thick and fast and I’ve got to know a lot of them. They volunteer their life stories and as silly as it may seem, I’ve really been enjoying it. I’ve gotten to know the local larrikins and their long suffering wives who know all punch lines to their gags, the ladies in their seventies who still lunch and gossip like teenagers, the nervous teens on first dates or last dates, families on a special night out or just an escape from the kitchen for the night with screaming teething tots in tow. I’ve always been a guilty as charged people watcher. Imagining the stories behind all these people and threading them into different directions and adventures.
It reminds me very much of my uni days, when I used to waitress by night and work as a copy person and aspiring journo at the local paper by day. I’d get lots of tip offs, angles and ideas from talking to customers every night.
Now I’m trying to write and finish this torturous thing called a book, this waitressing gig has given me a renewed interest in individual characters, what makes up who they are and their lives.
So with a week under my belt, I was in full banter mode when I approached a table of two in the back corner. Another classic case of middle aged ladies at lunch. A pair, not dissimilar to two pink galahs on power line settling in to twitter away to each other for a couple of hours.
One had her back to me so I waltzed on over and asked“how are you going today ladies,”
It was then that the one with her back to me turned to face me. Instead of a pair of old dears enjoying a ladies lunch, it was in actual fact a mother and son.
Crap. Double Crap. I went beet red and spluttered my apologies, the mum laughed and the son gritted his teeth. Did I mention the son was hot? Not as in Gympie hot, but as Australia wide hot.
How did I manage to not notice his biceps on my way over? Or his chiselled, slightly unshaven jawline or blue eyes? Shit.
The hottest guy I’ve come across in this town and I just called him a girl.
I quickly took their orders and ran away. Put the order in the kitchen and started on drinks. Red wine and a coke that’s easy enough.
It was only as I was walking back over that I noticed the tattoo which peaked from underneath the back of his shirt and rested at the base of his neck. Hot. Very hot.
In fact the only thing which made me think he was female was that he had short spikeyish kind of hair, like the girl I work with and the woman (his Mum) he was sitting with.
I wondered how to get myself out of this pickle and into his well-formed favour as I put the drinks down. But once again, I was thinking of his biceps and not my balance. The glass of red wine tipped and fell, splashing all over his lap and onto the bottom of his white shirt.
Fuck.
I rushed back to get soda water and came back over, I just reached down and starting dabbing but within seconds realised I was basically massaging his groin. Yes definitely not a lady. I dropped the cloth and once again apologised and ran away. The other waitresses were having a right giggle at my efforts and I went back to other tables hoping he’d soon get his meal and would leave so this embarrassment would end as swiftly as it began.
By the time their meal was ready my nerves were still shot, I steadied myself and took them out, telling myself what else could possibly go wrong. I placed the snapper on his mother’s side and went to put down his plate of calamari and chips only to notice my fingers were slipping. I was going to drop the plate. It was going to fall in his lap, again.
I reached out with my other hand to steady it and overestimated and managed to tip it my way. His side salad ended up sliding down my skirt and falling to the floor. Grated carrot and lettuce wormed into my shoes.
Luckily the calamari remained unharmed. So I put the plate down, and rushed to get another salad, carrot and lettuce squelching underfoot. When I brought it back he took it directly out of my hands, staring at me like the crazy woman I appeared to be. I backed away. The poor guy was looking around for some kind of candid camera, not only had I called him a girl, but I just decorated his jeans with red wine and threw his salad all over myself.
It is hardly surprising that they wolfed down their food faster than two kids in an ice creamery. I begged the other waitress to do it but she told me to man up. So I gingerly went over and asked how it all was.
The mother gave a giggle and said, “Well it was lovely, I finished all mine, but he was a bit of a girl with his, hardly ate a thing.”
We all looked at each other and completely lost it. I was crying with laughter at the ridiculousness of it all. He was having a good giggle as well, the perfect way to finish their lunch.
As I took their payment for the bill I assured him,” Don’t worry you’ve been rather special today, the only guy I’ve called a girl and I guarantee you I won’t call you a girl on your next visit,”
He replied, with a smile, “It’s ok, we didn’t order it or clumsiness with our meal but it’s definitely made my day,”
My stomach gave a little flip flop and I said goodbye to them both.
The disastrous day also made me think, perhaps it’s time to reconsider my flirting strategy, it turns out calling a guy a girl gets their attention in more ways than one.
Xx
J
No comments:
Post a Comment