So, I'm a host. Means I seat people. Some people have very specific requests, and I'm supposed to accommodate pretty much anything I can. Which means if they want to sit in a closed section, I'm supposed to let them and call a waiter to serve them.
Thing is, the waiters really don't like being pulled out of their sections. Which would lead to some exchanges—"Why do you keep seating people on the patio?!" "Because they ask to!" "Well, start telling them they can't sit there!" So I've come up with some compromises—basically, I won't tell them specifically that they can't sit there, but I will tell them "Actually, we don't have any servers in that section . . ." or other wormy terms that basically imply as much. 'Cause they theoretically have room to insist, even if they usually won't.
Anyway, on Sunday night, a group of folks comes in, talking among themselves in a language I don't understand (but sounds like it might be Eastern European?) They ask for a menu, then start wandering around everywhere until they finally find a seat they like, in a closed section that the servers don't like to break out of their sections for.
(And . . . uh, dude. We're not a please-seat-yourselves restaurant. If we were, I wouldn't have a job. At least not this one.)
Bartender says he'll take it for me, tells them they can't sit there, takes them to a served section. (Bartender is a server, too—in fact, he's one of the ones who's told me specifically not to sit people in certain sections when they're closed.) Manager sees what happened, comes up, and tells us that people can sit wherever they want and we can't tell them to move.
I say, "Oh, I'm sorry, I thought he'd handle it like a host--you know, say, 'We don't actually have any servers in that section . . .'"
He says, "No, don't say that. Let people sit wherever they want to. It won't kill these guys to go out of their sections."
He's the General Manager--head guy in the whole store. I'm going to do what he says. Really, it's what I'm supposed to have been doing all along.
But . . . agh, I go back in tomorrow for the first time since Sunday night. I am really, REALLY not looking forward to getting bitched at. Gah.
Thing is, the waiters really don't like being pulled out of their sections. Which would lead to some exchanges—"Why do you keep seating people on the patio?!" "Because they ask to!" "Well, start telling them they can't sit there!" So I've come up with some compromises—basically, I won't tell them specifically that they can't sit there, but I will tell them "Actually, we don't have any servers in that section . . ." or other wormy terms that basically imply as much. 'Cause they theoretically have room to insist, even if they usually won't.
Anyway, on Sunday night, a group of folks comes in, talking among themselves in a language I don't understand (but sounds like it might be Eastern European?) They ask for a menu, then start wandering around everywhere until they finally find a seat they like, in a closed section that the servers don't like to break out of their sections for.
(And . . . uh, dude. We're not a please-seat-yourselves restaurant. If we were, I wouldn't have a job. At least not this one.)
Bartender says he'll take it for me, tells them they can't sit there, takes them to a served section. (Bartender is a server, too—in fact, he's one of the ones who's told me specifically not to sit people in certain sections when they're closed.) Manager sees what happened, comes up, and tells us that people can sit wherever they want and we can't tell them to move.
I say, "Oh, I'm sorry, I thought he'd handle it like a host--you know, say, 'We don't actually have any servers in that section . . .'"
He says, "No, don't say that. Let people sit wherever they want to. It won't kill these guys to go out of their sections."
He's the General Manager--head guy in the whole store. I'm going to do what he says. Really, it's what I'm supposed to have been doing all along.
But . . . agh, I go back in tomorrow for the first time since Sunday night. I am really, REALLY not looking forward to getting bitched at. Gah.


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