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One
Quinn
The customer looks down at her plate and frowns.
“Is there something the matter, hon?” I ask, keeping the smile on my face because I can tell this lady is about to complain. I’ve worked in hospitality and food service long enough to know that look.
She glances up at me, her brow furrowed and not a piece of graying-blonde hair out of place. “Uh, didn’t I ask forextramashed potatoes?”
“Well, those potatoes are just about as mashed as they’re gonna get, darlin’!” I say with a smile and a wink.
She looks confused, then relaxes and smiles a little. “Funny.”
“I’m just messin’ with ya. I’ll be right back with some more.” I look at her dining partner. “Y’all need anything else?”
They shake their heads. I make my way to the bar and go through it to reach the back kitchen.
“Hey, Rick, can I get a side of mashed, please?”
Rick, our chef, an older guy with about a hundred college degrees in cooking and culinary stuff, grabs a small bowl and scoops some potatoes from a large stockpot into it with a ladle. “Here you go.”
“You da best,” I call out with a wave as I rush out.
After dropping it off at the table, I go back behind the bar to help the bartender, Carter, start with the liquor inventory.
“You got the inventory sheets?” I ask him.
He pulls them out and holds them up. “Of course I do.”
Since it’s a slow Tuesday, we decided it’s the best time to do our monthly inventory. Trying to do it at night, when the brewery was busy, is not wise. The owners required us to submit a monthly inventory report. While computers and reports aren’t exactly my forte, I eventually caught on.
“Okay, I write, you measure.” I slide the pen from behind my ear and poise it over the page. “Start with whiskey.”
“You got it.” Carter picks up a bottle. “Jack, half.”
I write0.5on the page.
“Maker’s, three-fourths,” he says.
I write0.75on the sheet.
“Excuse me,” I hear a voice call out.
I turn to see the woman at the table I’d just checked on waving me over.
“Hang on,” I mutter to Carter. I hand him the paper. “Keep going.” I approach the table. “What can I do for you?”
Extra mashed potatoes lady says, “I need to speak to the manager.”
I keep my forced smile in place. “I am the manager, darlin’. What’s wrong?”
“These steak tips are overcooked, and my daughter ordered green beans, not broccoli.”
I look to where she’s pointing to see the woman has eaten almost all of her steak tips and the daughter hasn’t touched the broccoli. I, of course, have to wonder why her grown-ass adult child didn’t notice it right away when I set the plate down ten minutes ago, not to mention shedidorder broccoli, not green beans, but… okay.
“I’m terribly sorry about that. Would you like me to take the broccoli away or just bring you green beans?” I ask.
“What about my steak tips?” the mother asks without letting her daughter answer.
