Kids were the best to serve. They never fussed. They didn’t test you by asking, “What’s the soup of the day?” They were just happy to be out of the house. They sat there, raptly crayoning the kiddie pictures from the kiddie menu. Some did this with their tongues sticking out from the corner of their mouths. Some acted all grown up, holding the menu and study it studiously, like they just can’t make up their minds: Hmm…baguette or brown bread sandwich? A thousand island or vinaigrette? Choices choices. After studying the menu for two days, they would look up confidently and say in a small voice, “I want chips and sausage.” Hehe. Oh, just that? Because I thought you would go for the steak and cheese sub with sparkling water to drink, maybe? Kids killed me.
Footnote: If you want the kids’ parents not to give you a hard time, all you have to do, as you gather the menu is to tell the mother, “such a joy this one, prettiest kid I have served this week.” Done. It doesn’t matter if you bring her a waterlogged spicy Thai salad, she will let you get away with murder.
The lunch time crowd is a hungry crowd which means their threshold for your cocky bull is much lower than the guys who come for evening coffee. Lunch hour is manic. By lunch I had already been on my feet for way too many hours and they were hurting and I had a niggling pain on the small of my back. On top of that, I was starving. Like really starving. Imagine carrying an order of chicken quesadilla; two tortillas stuffed with cheddar cheese and grilled with whatever filling and served with guacamole and salsa, and I have to carry it with the aroma assaulting my nostrils. It made me dizzy and angry at the world. I was a bitter waiter at lunch. My beloved tray – Achutebe – felt heavier. I wanted food.
The customers I completely failed to understand are those who, say, ordered grilled pork chops and when you asked them, “and what would you like as accompaniment?” they said, “give me half and half.” For those yet to be initiated, that means half chips and half salad. Those customers amused me. What does half salad and half chips even mean? Are you undecided about whether you want to go healthy or you want to turn your plate and show the healthy salad side when you see someone judging you from the next table? Are the salad and chips your children and you love them all equally? What message are you sending the world when you order half salad and half chips? What example are you showing to the kids in the cafe? Is this a sign of indecision or are you just about equal opportunity? What other half half life’s choices have you made?
But these people aren’t as surprising as those who eat half their salad and ask for the remnants to be put in a doggy bag. I mean honestly, it’s like three leaves of lettuce, a miserable olive and maybe some cheese. Sure, you have paid for it, but why have that packed? Are you going to eat that later in the evening whilst in traffic? Or do you have a pet rabbit under your desk at work? Why do people ask to have their leftover salads to be packed? It saddened me.
Talking of salads. There was this lady at table 61 whom I had served grilled chicken breast with a garden salad and Thousand Island dressing who flagged me down as I zipped past her table. She had on blue jeans and red shoes and she was seated with her pal who was having the roasted chicken, chips and garden salad with strawberry lemonade. They were both in their mid-to late thirties, solid career women, most likely managers in blue-chips, ladies who take good care of themselves (you can always tell by their glowing spa-treated skins), probably drive black tinted Harriers. Miss Red Shoes and her pal were decent, they said thanks and please and they smiled and they were cool and I liked them.
But I was mid-flight, had two orders I was chasing and I was on my way to pick condiments and there was Miss Red Shoes saying, “Excuse me, but this salad looks kinda withered.” You have to remember that I was dog tired and my back was on fire, so I wasn’t really keen on spending the rest of my life discussing salads that were withered. So I briefly forgot the rules and policy of Java which dictates that when a client makes a complaint you have to first accept liability and apologise before finding out what the problem is, which means motoring insurance guys can’t wait tables here. And believe me, you will hear all sorts of complaints when you wait on tables; ranging from anything like toothpicks that are too weak, (I’m sorry, I will contact the guys who grow those trees to feed them more manure, how about that sir?), to “excuse me, why isn’t there enough bacon in my turkey bacon club sandwich? (Oh, I’m sorry sir, can I get you a whole pig? Will that work for you?) right up to withered salads.
So over my rumbling stomach, I heard these words tumble out of my mouth before I could stop them, “Withered? Like it’s been beaten by the sun?” Ah, just the safest amount of sarcasm – to get me fired.
Miss Red Shoe’s pal immediately recoiled the way women do when they want to say, “Oh I know you di’nt say that!” Drama alert! But thankfully her pal was more easy going and chuckled and said, “No, like you guys microwaved it.” Microwaved the salad? Really? Meanwhile she had eaten half of the damn withered microwaved salad but she just happened to notice that little fact now? So I said very soberly and with a smile, “I can assure you that we don’t microwave our salads. I’m sorry about that, would you like me to replace it perhaps, it won’t be a problem at all?” She said, “No, it’s fine, thank you.”
Oh no, thank you, enjoy your meal.
Then there are those customers who come and order the hot lemon and ginger and they drink it for three hours, then they just sit there. And they sit. And sit. And sit. Their shadows get longer and get into the soup of the guys at table 98. And they sit some more. They don’t order anything else, they just sit there with their bill, staring into space. They almost always have broken suits with green lining. They look like they are waiting for Second Coming. Or the return of East Africa Safari Rally. Whichever comes fast. And you keep stopping by their table to ask, “Everything OK, sir? Would you like something else?” And they shake their heads and you continue serving other people until you forget them entirely. When you look at them they are still seated there, in their dodgy coats, and after a while, if you look closely, you realise with alarm that have been sitting there for so long they have begun looking like Java furniture and have started gathering dust and at some point you will wipe the table and accidentally start wiping them too until they clear their throats and scare you half to death. You know, one of these guys came in and sat at table 83 for so long I wanted to hand them the kiddie crayons to paint.
Question? Have you ever balanced a coke bottle and a glass of juice on a tray? I hadn’t. At 2pm a bottle of coke I was rushing to table 91 danced off my tray and exploded at the feet of the couple at table 62. The sound was devastating. Some clients gasped. People stared. It was so loud the people fuelling at the petrol station across the road turned to look. So loud that the ladies struggling with reverse parking at Yaya Center stopped for a second. To use a primary school composition phrase, “I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me.”
I apologized like a madman to the lady whose knee-high boots were now foaming at the mouth. (See what I did there?) Surprisingly she was very very gracious and sweet. She said, “Oh no, don’t worry about it. It’s OK.” Her date – the gentleman – was even better, he kept saying, “No, man don’t worry about it, these things happen.” I kept apologising and saying, “First day at work, I’m sorry I’m just fumbling around like a fool, I’m surprised I haven’t been sent home already,” and they were like, “Oh no, you are doing OK, don’t worry about it, you will get the hang of it, that was an accident.” And Helen – good ol’ Helen, bless her – showed up with a mop and squeezed my arm reassuringly and whispered, “Don’t worry about it, now stop crying.”
I was told that the coke would be replaced but I had to report the breakage to Olivia- the manager – and so I went to the kitchen with my hat in my hand, rather, tray in hand and reported my transgressions and she just said, that’s fine, just get another coke, which table was it? ‘Table 91’, I whimpered as she sent me back on the floor.
The best meal I served at Java must have been the Chocolate Chip Cookie Sundae which is the most artistic and elaborate thing you will ever order at Java. It looks like something that was put on a carriage and showcased around the old Roman Colosseum. It’s simply stunning. A thing of unending beauty. I haven’t seen anything like it before.
It was ordered by the pal to the lady who ate half the microwave-withered salad. The twist in this tale is that this chick herself also didn’t know what she had ordered because when I brought it she asked, “What’s that?” and I said, “Your chocolate chip cookie sundae,” and she was like “Oh wow, that was it? Gosh, it’s so beautiful,” and Miss Red Shoes was also gushing and they were taking pictures as the poor chocolate chip cookie sundae melted. I stood there grinning like a fool, as if I was the one who had made it. Miss Red Shoes said, “My God, this is so cute, can I take it home?” like it was a stray puppy and I said, “Sure, can I put it on a leash for you?” and she laughed and laughed and said, “You are funny, Steve.” They tipped me well, those two lovely ladies.
Clients love it when you compliment them. They are likely to cut you some slack if you forget to butter their toast when you compliment them. There was a lone gentleman at table 35 with a very quirky looking watch called De Grisogono. (I wrote it down to Google it later). When I went to clear his table I told him, “Now there is a watch you don’t see often,” and he perked up and said, “Thanks! I have had it for ten years!” And I said, “You have to pass it down to your son or daughter, whoever is bold enough to wear it,” and he laughed.
I told a lady at table 72, “I love the colour of that nail polish!” (She had well manicured nails in this sea-blue colour) and she beamed and said “yeah?” Normally when people say “yeah?” they mean to say, “Tell me more!” So I told her, “Keep that manicurist, your nails look divine.” And I immediately realised that I must have sounded so gay using words like “divine.” She probably told her pal later, “There was this sweet gay waiter with a forehead who was knocked over by this nail polish. I told you this colour is great. If a gay guy says it’s hot then it must be hot.” As warned, by Niama and PG, I avoided complimenting body parts. The things waiters are NOT allowed to compliment are hips, legs, neck, beards, Adam’s apples, knuckles, ass, skin tone, voice, weaves (hehe), etc etc. Because people might “misread” your intentions.
At the end of my shift at 3.30pm, Helen handed me a mop and bucket of hot water and said, “Don’t let the mop touch the foot of the client or there will be so much drama and I just want to go home.” The last time I held a mop was over ten years ago. So I mopped, with my wrecked back and hunger pangs and my hurting feet. I avoided client’s feet and at times Helen would come and say, “you missed a spot” pointing to what I believed was a non-existent area and I would do it again. Then some clients walked in with mud from Murang’a and left muddy traces of themselves on the floor. I was ready to cry.
I was allowed to keep tips. The average tip I got was 50-bob. That’s the going rate. Times are hard. The Eurobond is a ghost. A bunch of USIU-looking girls at table 64 tipped me the most; 150-bob. A girl on table 71 who had ordered a large strawberry lemonade with earphones dangling from her ears the whole time tipped me 35 bob. A Somali guy guy with a red beard tipped me 70 bob. Two businessmen with bad suits tipped me 20-bob and I was so grateful I wanted to tell them, “Wow, 20 shillings? How selfless! Would you distinguished gentlemen suggest where I can invest this bounty because we just have to make this money grow!”
For me this boiled down to a few things; common decency. You can leave 1,000 Kshs in tip but waiters would rather you showed them respect than tip them heavily. It makes them feel human. And it’s the little things that won’t cost you anything; eye contact, saying please and thank you and calling them by name. Also, take a moment to look at them in the eye when talking to them. Eye contact goes a long way. When you are done with the menu, don’t toss it aside for them to pick. Hand it to them. People give you back the energy you give them.
I went the extra mile for the customers who were pleasant to me – and most were. The ones with “P” circled around their table, I hoped they went to the parking and found a flat tyre. There are known customers who walked into Java and the staff felt like Kim Jong-Il just walked into a room.
You will be happy to learn that I made about 700-bob and loose change in tips. I offered half of it to Helen for her guidance and patience and this chap, Charles, who attends Procurement classes in the evening but they all couldn’t accept it saying I had “earned it.” So I asked Olivia if there was a single mother amongst the staff and there was none. So I handed it to the service staff who clean your dirty dishes and stuff. They work silently in the kitchen always cleaning and scrubbing, the part of the business that perhaps goes unnoticed.
To all the staff of Java Hurlingham, it was an honour working with you. Special thanks to Helen, Jamo and Olivia. Salut.
To Achutebe, cry not, we shall meet one day because in my next life I’m coming back as a tray and when I do I will look for you, I will find you and I will love you like the dedicated tray you were. And you shall not be in the hands of another – or carry one more croissant – as long as I live.
Ps. To one Hosea Omole, – a fan here -your friend emailed to say you are going through a dark time in your life and that you are turning 33 today. Well, happy birthday, sir. Remember, it’s only when it’s dark enough that you can see the stars.