The Five People You Meet at the Host Stand

I’ve hosted on and off at several restaurants for the past three years. Whether I was working at an upscale small plates place or a casual BBQ joint, greeting and seating billionaires or bumpkins, the clientele could all be divided into five categories at the host stand:

1. Peace Signers
These people don’t acknowledge you with a verbal greeting, let alone a smile. They’ll walk up tight-lipped, holding up two fingers like somehow hostesses the world over know that means “Good afternoon. There will be two of us for dinner.” They won’t talk the entire meal unless it’s to give their order. Or if they’re businessmen, their conversation is so important they can’t break to ask for a table. Usually these are the same guys who don’t put down their sandwich the entire meal. They’ll just hold it in one hand while they shovel fries into their mouth with the other.

2. No Reservation, We’ll Wait for a Booth
Usually a first date where the guy is trying to impress the girl. Rather than call ahead and make a reservation, he’ll casually stroll in with her and tell you they’re going to have drinks at the bar, but they’ll want to sit in the main dining room — eventually. An hour and two fruity martinis later, you’ll walk them to their table. They will sit, fidget with the place settings, frown, and ask for a booth, even though there are no booths available and the restaurant is at full capacity. So you get the joy of starting the whole process over again with them and re-setting the silver and linens they messed up.

3. Peak-Hour Inquisitors
It’s 8 p.m. and they just want to take a look at your menu. Find out what vegetarian or gluten-free options you have. Ooh, and can they sub this for that? What’s this ethnic word mean? Do you know that because you are from that ethnic place? On second thought, they’re going to try someplace else.

4. Saturday Night Large Party Stragglers
Generally a birthday party/bachelor/bachelorette party that will be arriving in a party bus. You know this because they’ll tell you when you’re taking their reservation. These people roll hard. So hard they lose track of time and forget they have a reservation. Don’t worry; they’ll eventually show up. Maybe only two at a time, and maybe never the full 24-top, but they’ll trickle in. You’ll know who they are because they’ll come in on their cell phones, wander around the dining room, then come back to the host stand to ask where so-and-so is.

5. Women
Look, ladies, no one is a bigger feminist than I. I even went to an all-girls college, for crying out loud. But when you come in as a group, the majority of you are rude. You walk by the host stand without so much as a smile; you bitch about sitting by the window, you complain about being too close to the kitchen. You want your sauce on the side and your drinks skinny. You talk while servers are explaining specials, and you seat yourselves in such a way it’s impossible for anyone to get around you. And the biggest shame, you’re notoriously bad tippers. I’m sure you’re a delight at home and at work. Please be that way in a restaurant.

That last line goes for all of you.

Originally posted here.

EVERYBODY, LOOK AT HOW CUTE MY PUPPY IS, VOL. III. right after this she peed on my mother’s tree skirt & chewed through my laptop cord. but every time i think she is more of a pain than a present, she looks up at me with her big ol’ chihuahua eyes, & i can’t stay mad at her. so i just punish her by making her wear ridiculous sweaters.
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EVERYBODY, LOOK AT HOW CUTE MY PUPPY IS, VOL. III.

right after this she peed on my mother’s tree skirt & chewed through my laptop cord. but every time i think she is more of a pain than a present, she looks up at me with her big ol’ chihuahua eyes, & i can’t stay mad at her.

so i just punish her by making her wear ridiculous sweaters.

i never thought i’d be a chihuahua person, but then again, this relationship has made me re-think a lot of things: love, living together, and now, co-owning a pet. we haven’t decided on a name for her yet, so we’re calling her MD. it’s short for milk dud, which is what she looks like.
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i never thought i’d be a chihuahua person, but then again, this relationship has made me re-think a lot of things: love, living together, and now, co-owning a pet.

we haven’t decided on a name for her yet, so we’re calling her MD. it’s short for milk dud, which is what she looks like.

When most kids were watching Saturday morning cartoons, my brothers and I were outside watching my dad wring and slit chickens’ necks and taking bets on how long they’d flop on the ground or how long it’d take them to bleed out.

We used to be psychopaths (I still am one) / My sister has a cooking blog (via santoslittlehelper)

liar. he cries over harry potter movies.

(via santoslittlehelper-deactivated2)

“more than this” — roxy music.

more than this, you know there’s nothing.

listening to roxy music makes my real life feel far away & fake, like something filmed in that dreamy, white-around-the-edges filter.

see? i told you i was learning to cook. sunday night i made lechon asado, & last night i threw the leftovers on the grill & made carnitas. while that was getting crispy, i made a salsa verde using chilies from my dad’s garden & corn tortillas. it totally got me laid.
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see? i told you i was learning to cook. sunday night i made lechon asado, & last night i threw the leftovers on the grill & made carnitas. while that was getting crispy, i made a salsa verde using chilies from my dad’s garden & corn tortillas.

it totally got me laid.

misheard.

  • me, in a TV-commerical announcer's voice: come to tampon, florida. you don't have to worry about hurricanes because the city's super-absorbent!
  • marcial: i find it odd that there'd be a city called tampon in a state that's shaped like a penis.
my mother taught me to make tortillas when i was ten. it was awful. i could never get the masa dough right, so it either stuck to my hands or crumbled between my fingers. adjusting the heat on the griddle was a pain, too; my tortillas fluctuated between raw and burnt. most nights, i’d get so frustrated i’d make just enough for dinner & bury the rest of the dough in the bottom of the trash can. it was a nuisance, a chore, something i did because i had to. just like cooking; just like laundry. when i left for college, i swore i would never make tortillas again. but then i saw this press in the latin market while my boyfriend & i were picking up some things for the restaurant & got an inexplicable urge to make him tortillas. i say inexplicable because i don’t cook. i’ve survived on peanut butter-honey-&-banana sandwiches & lean cuisines since i was 17. occasionally, if i’m feeling fancy, i’ll throw a frozen pizza in the oven. but for some reason, i really wanted to make tortillas for him. he’s a chef, so i’m sure he can make them better than i can, but that wasn’t the point. i wanted to do this for him, even though it’s something i absolutely hate doing. which got me thinking about my mom. she & i never really got along when i was younger. the only time we talked was when we were fighting. i was always too busy being mad at her when i was younger to notice all the ways she tried to make me happy. aside from making my siblings & me hot tortillas every night, she would also made us a separate “american” dinner because we didn’t want the mexican food she’d cook for my dad. even though she didn’t know how to make a lot of the food we asked for, she always tried her best to replicate pictures she’d seen of it. it must have been the last thing she wanted to do after working all day, but she never made it seem like a bother. my mother grew up without a mother & had her first child while she herself was still one. it must have been hard for her, raising four kids with no one to turn to for advice. & i’m sure having a child who constantly told you she hated you sometimes made her question her parenting choices. but in the kitchen she was different; she was confident. while she may not have always known what to do when you had a problem or needed help with homework, she could always make you feel good with food. she’d make cakes for special occasions, your favorite meal for birthdays & good grades. maybe i didn’t always feel love from her, but i could always taste it in her food. looking back, maybe that’s what that unexplainable urge to make my boyfriend tortillas was — a way of expressing care, love. a seemingly small grand gesture.
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my mother taught me to make tortillas when i was ten. it was awful. i could never get the masa dough right, so it either stuck to my hands or crumbled between my fingers. adjusting the heat on the griddle was a pain, too; my tortillas fluctuated between raw and burnt. most nights, i’d get so frustrated i’d make just enough for dinner & bury the rest of the dough in the bottom of the trash can.

it was a nuisance, a chore, something i did because i had to. just like cooking; just like laundry. when i left for college, i swore i would never make tortillas again.

but then i saw this press in the latin market while my boyfriend & i were picking up some things for the restaurant & got an inexplicable urge to make him tortillas.

i say inexplicable because i don’t cook. i’ve survived on peanut butter-honey-&-banana sandwiches & lean cuisines since i was 17. occasionally, if i’m feeling fancy, i’ll throw a frozen pizza in the oven.

but for some reason, i really wanted to make tortillas for him. he’s a chef, so i’m sure he can make them better than i can, but that wasn’t the point. i wanted to do this for him, even though it’s something i absolutely hate doing.

which got me thinking about my mom. she & i never really got along when i was younger. the only time we talked was when we were fighting. i was always too busy being mad at her when i was younger to notice all the ways she tried to make me happy.

aside from making my siblings & me hot tortillas every night, she would also made us a separate “american” dinner because we didn’t want the mexican food she’d cook for my dad. even though she didn’t know how to make a lot of the food we asked for, she always tried her best to replicate pictures she’d seen of it. it must have been the last thing she wanted to do after working all day, but she never made it seem like a bother.

my mother grew up without a mother & had her first child while she herself was still one. it must have been hard for her, raising four kids with no one to turn to for advice. & i’m sure having a child who constantly told you she hated you sometimes made her question her parenting choices. but in the kitchen she was different; she was confident. while she may not have always known what to do when you had a problem or needed help with homework, she could always make you feel good with food. she’d make cakes for special occasions, your favorite meal for birthdays & good grades. maybe i didn’t always feel love from her, but i could always taste it in her food.

looking back, maybe that’s what that unexplainable urge to make my boyfriend tortillas was — a way of expressing care, love. a seemingly small grand gesture.