The Queen of Minor Disasters by Antonietta Mariottini Page B

work.
    Tonight, however, the heat is
an added insult to the tight seating.
     
    The waiters are doing a great
job pushing tables along. Some tables are in and out in less than an hour, and
it’s working out perfectly. The most people have to wait is about five minutes
and so far people seem to be dealing well with the heat. I’ve noticed a lot of
salads being ordered, which is not the best for sales, but at least people are
happy.
    You can’t expect people to eat
too much when they’re dripping with sweat.
     I’m so focused on seating my
guests that I almost don’t notice Brittany standing next to me with tears in
her eyes.
     “What’s wrong?” I ask her. I
can only handle so many disasters in one night.
    “That guy is such an asshole. He humiliated me in front of the entire
table.”
    I assume she’s talking about
Mr. Klean, because the rest of her tables are regulars who would never do such
a thing. “What did he say?”
    “He keeps calling me Barbie,”
she explains. “And when he needed more bread, he told me to ‘shake my tail’ and
go get him some.”
    I hate to admit it, but it is kind of funny. Brittany does look
oddly similar to the famous doll, especially now with her deep tan and sun
bleached hair.
     Still, his remarks are rude.
     “Don’t let him bother you.
I’ll check them out in a minute,” I assure her.
    She walks away and I notice,
for the first time, how she does put a little shake in her hips as she moves.
I’ll have to talk to her about her walk another night.
     A small group of diners
gathers at the door. They must be the 8:00 reservations.
    “Excuse me,” a voice to my
right says. I turn to look and Mr. Klean is staring me in the face. “My friends
and I would like some towels.”
    The crowds have moved in and
are waiting at the podium. “Oh I’m sorry, did something spill? I’ll send the
bus boy over right away.”
    “No, nothing spilled. It’s
just that it’s so hot in here we feel like we’re sitting in a fucking sauna.”
    My eyes widen. The other
guests look appalled.
    If ever there were a time for an explosion, this would
be it.
    No. Try to keep calm.
    “I’m very sorry about the heat
sir. It’s usually not like this in here, but it seems that the power is waning
tonight. Sea Breeze had to close,” I remind him.
    “I don’t care what the excuse
is. It’s way too hot.” He storms off without giving me a chance to respond.
    I look down and see my hands
trembling a bit.
    “Nice guy,” the guest in front
of me says and I smile.
    “I’m sorry. I know it’s hot in
here,” I apologize.
    “It’s hot everywhere, at least
we’re not cooking at home,” the wife chimes in. I seat the couple and move back
to the hostess stand to seat the rest of the reservations.
    Lucy comes running up.
“There’s a guy in the waiters’ station fiddling with the air conditioner,” she
says.
    Before she can even finish, I
feel something inside of me snap. I walk through the dining room in a rage and
glare at Mr. Klean.
    “Who do you think you are?” I
yell. “You have no right to touch our air conditioner, or anything else in the
restaurant.” At this point I don’t even care that service has stopped and
people are starting to stare. I’ve had enough of this shit.
    “This says it’s eighty-three
degrees in here. That’s ridiculous!” he screams.
     I take a deep breath. “Have
you eaten dinner yet sir?”
    “No, we’re waiting for our
entrées.”
    “Well then you can march back
to your table and tell the rest of your party that you’re being kicked out
before dinner. We don’t need your business here.”
    He turns pale and storms off
to his table. Michele laughs but I’m not in the mood. To be honest, I’m in
utter shock. I imagine the Yelp review already. Zero stars, we complained about the heat and the bitchy manager kicked
us out for no reason. Don’t go there!!!
    Mrs. Klean approaches the
waiters’ station sans sweater. “I apologize for my