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“I’ll bring those out as well,” I reply, my back molars grinding together. I walk away without waiting for the daughter’s response.
“Rick, a side of green beans and another order of steak tips, rare this time, since Karen out there apparently thinks medium rare is ‘overcooked.’” I use air quotes and an eyeroll to get my point across.
“No problemo,” he replies, heading to the fridge. “But it’ll be a bit, I didn’t have any tips prepped yet.”
“She can frickin’ wait,” I drawl.
He hands me a bowl of seasoned green beans and I thank him as I head back out to the dining area.
I set the bowl on their table. “Here you go, sorry about that.” I look at the mother. “The steak tips will be a minute, hope that’s all right.” Not that she has a choice.
“Um. There are onions in here. Gross,” the daughter says, wrinkling her nose and shoving the bowl away as if it was poison.
“No worries, I’ll get you some without onions.” My face hurts from fake smiling as I go back into the kitchen. Instead of bugging Rick, I use tongs to remove the onions from her green beans, ladle another scoop into the bowl, ensuring no onions are present, and go back to the table. “Here you are.”
I walk away without letting them say anything else. I’m not in the mood. I go back behind the bar. “I really hate it when Maria calls off.”
“You need to fire her flaky ass,” Carter says, shaking his head, his shellacked blond hair not moving.
He’s right. On weekdays, she’s my only server, and I fill in when I need to if we get unusually swamped. That, and when a Silverstone comes in. I’m the only one allowed to wait on them. Not their rules—mine. Especially on the rare occasion when Lincoln Silverstone stops by. That fine-ass man gets my undivided attention.
“…half.”
I look at Carter. “Huh?”
He rolls his eyes. “Dwelling on the Karen, or daydreaming about Lincoln Silverstone again? I know it was one of the two.”
Carter, our best and only bartender and a friend, knows me too well. “Definitely the customer,” I lie.
He chuckles. “Liar.”
“What’s half full?” I ask in deflection.
“Bulleit’s,” he replies.
“Got it,” I say, writing it down. “Wait, you’re on bourbon already?”
“Yes, I’ve told you a trillion times, girl. I don’t need your help with inventory. It’s faster if I do it myself,” he quips.
“Yes, but the bosses want it done with two people,” I remind him.
He rolls his brown eyes, snatching the paper from my hand, mocking a Southern drawl, “And you better do everything the masters want. Wouldn’t want to displease them!”
“But…”
“Just put your name and my name on the report. How will they know?”
He’s right. “Thanks, I appreciate you.”
“It’s slow as hell in here and I’m bored. Go handle your tables.”
“Thanks, darlin’,” I say, patting him on the shoulder.
I see a hand in the air and approach the older gentleman who’s been sitting alone at a table. “I’m ready for the check, honey.”
“Do you feel comfortable using the machine, or do you want a paper ticket?” I ask, pointing at the small electronic tablet sitting at the edge of the table.
“Eh, a paper ticket is good, need a receipt anyway,” he says, waving me off.
