The One Where the Owner's Daughter Gets Hit On
I find myself with a stacked bar right as the doors open, and I'm not ready. I'm still cutting lemon twists, stocking juices and fetching ice.
My bar guys are from out of town, and unamusing. Important-looking guy with an accent peruses our wine list, chooses a glass, and then sniffs about our prices, claiming he can buy a whole bottle in Italy for the price of a glass at our restaurant. I'm tempted to tell him to go right the fuck ahead and enjoy buying a bottle at his preferred price and drinking it in his back seat while parked in our lot, because that's really all you're going to get for seven Washingtons in The New World, but I need my job, so I smile sweetly and ask him if I should just go ahead and pour. He sniffs (literally), and I take that to mean that yes, it is his will that I pour.
I pour at the pleasure and sniff of the little king. Sniff.
The owner's daughter, a gorgeous, Mediterranean 19 year old, catches the eye of the party, and she ends up being their server. She tacks on the expected 18% gratuity for large parties, but they mark a big "zero" on the "additional gratuity" line. More gracious parties simply leave that line empty when not bumping the tip.
As they depart, one of the guys starts talking to Owner's Daughter. Something about how he went to Harvard, and how busy and important he is. I look up and the rest of his party is impatiently waving for him to catch their shuttle bus. He seems to wave them off, and stays, talking to her, leaning in, intently. I hear him describe the wonders of his Gillette razor advertising campaign to her as I polish glassware.
Trying to protect her, I throw myself into the conversation, uninvited, interjecting that I love Boston and Cambridge, oh gee what fun towns, and what-not. He looks at me as if I am a pigeon, and moves even closer to the server, completely transfixed. I figure him to be about 45. I remind you that she is 19, and doesn't look a day older. Can't blame a guy for trying, I decide...
Eventually, one of his colleagues pops back in (the place is beyond closed and empty) and beckons him. He hands her his business card, says, "Use my cell" and he's ghost like Swayze.
I wait until the door slams to look at her and say, "He was totally trying to pick you up."
"Duh," she replies, casually flipping his card into the half-eaten bowl of Cappellini con Verdura she'd been holding since he first cornered her, while taking her Sidekick from her apron pocket and opening it with impressive dexterity, as she walks away with her stunning, graceful manner toward the kitchen. She carries herself in ways I could only dream of, at her age.
She didn't require one bit of help from me, and she probably texted her friends about it immediately.
Did she make you cry
Make you break down
Shatter your illusions of love
Now, tell me is it over now
Do you know how
To pick up the pieces and go home
Fleetwood Mac, "Gold Dust Woman"
UPDATE, 4-26-06: Razor Gillette showed up again tonight. He asked the host if his favorite server was available.
After listening to his description of her, the host replied, in oblivious honesty, "Oh, you mean, my sister! She's not working tonight."
I hadn't filled him in, yet. I texted her immediately. Duh.
Razor Gillette dined alone at one of our charming little two-tops, and regaled our best and most experienced server, Tina (who is actually from Massachusetts, with the accent and cynicism to back it up) with tales of his days at Boston College, while she grated the parmesan and feigned interest. I overheard her on the line, telling Chef how hilarious this guy was. "He's all, 'I'll take the veal, I'm a Ph.D." I love the sound of Chef laughing heartily, I really do.
The night before, good ol' Razor was a Harvard Man, wasn't he?