Contrary to what many diners may think, there is a method to the madness when it comes to seating tables. Although the hostess may look like a stupid bimbo who just gave a blowjob to one of the cooks in the parking lot next to the dumpster, she has a reason for seating people where she does. Just ignore her tousled hair and smudged lipstick and sit where she tells you to. The hostess has to make sure that every server is getting their fair share of tables so she is not bitched at later that night for playing favorites and letting one server make more money than another. Also, if she sat three tables in a row in the same station, then that server is going to be slammed and will not be able to give the service that we all know he wants to give. Trust the hostess. She has been highly trained to ensure that customers are being seated in the best possible way. Pay no attention to the scabs on her knees and the dried white substance that is in her hair. She is a pro.
Last night at the club, we had a busy show. It was pretty full meaning that it was imperative that the seat assignments that were given at the door stay in tact. Customers don’t get it. “But I wanna sit with my friend on that side of the room,” they say and meander to another table. It does not work like that, people. Some nights we may have as many as four different cover charges for the show. Maybe someone had a discount code or paid in advance or are a comp. The only way I know how much to charge someone is based on the slip of paper the hostess gives to the customer which also tells the which seat they are in. So when they move to another table and leave that slip, I have no clue how much to charge them.
When I was setting up the room last night, I noticed that table 39 was broken. It was all wobbly and shit and then I saw that the seat had candle wax on it. We were seconds away from opening the house, so I mentioned to the hostess to not seat anyone at that table and I would take care of it after the show. Cue Mr. Latecomer who showed up one minute before showtime. He was assigned a seat right next to the stage because it’s first come first serve and his ass got there too late to warrant any kind of decent seating. I took his order as the lights were dimming and went to get his beer. When I came back into the darkened room, the singer now performing, Mr. Latecomer was not at his table anymore. A quick scan of the room showed me he had dragged his ass over to table 39. I placed the beer on the lopsided table and hoped for the best. Five minutes later, he flags me down.
“Excuse me,” he whispered, “but do you have wet towel? There is something all over this chair!”
“It’s dried candle wax,” I said. “A wet towel won’t do the trick.”
He stood up (the show is happening about 18 inches from where he is, keep in mind) and starts to brush off his pants. It was pointless, because the candle wax was dried anyway and didn’t get on his pants at all. “Well, I need a new seat.”
“Maybe you would like to go back to the one we assigned you, sir? This table is also broken which is why we did not seat you here in the first place. You sat yourself here, remember?”
He sat back down defeated and maybe a little bit embarrassed. I handed him a bev nap so he could give another futile attempt at scraping the wax off the seat. Experience tells me that the only way that shit comes off is by scraping it with a credit card but I wanted to watch him try anyway. He eventually gave up and conceded to watching the show while balancing his Guinness and sitting in a chair covered with a dried white substance. On second thought, I can only assume it was candle wax. I never actually saw the candle spill. Who knows, maybe the hostess took her break at this table and the hardened white “wax” was residual fun left over from her time with a cook at the dumpster.
Sit where the hostess tells you to sit.