Four Years in the Underbrush: Adventures as a Working Woman in New York

by Anonymous

Easter morning found the head waiter and his assistant so nervous that they reminded me of ill-conditioned sheepdogs snapping and snarling at each and every member of their flock. A few minutes after the dining-room door opened for breakfast, just when the earliest guests began to trickle in, the first of a veritable avalanche of potted plants and cut flowers were brought in. Certain guests, wishing their tables to be especially attractive, had ordered these flowers and plants added to the abundant supply already provided by the hotel.

So, after getting rid of our breakfast guests, in addition to our routine work we waitresses had to put those plants and flowers on the tables indicated, and make them look as presentable as possible. This was far from an easy task, for in most cases the plants and flowers had been chosen because of their beauty and utterly regardless of the size or the shape of the table to be decorated. It was twenty-six minutes after twelve when I left that dining-room, and several waitresses were still struggling with their over-abundance of cut flowers and potted plants.

Having changed my uniform and swallowed a few morsels in the way of lunch, I was back in the dining-room at twelve thirty-seven. When the doors opened, the occupants of my three tables, instead of being among the early diners as they had all promised, were all late. Anna, whose station was next mine, was unfortunate in the opposite direction—her guests, four at one table and two at the other, all arrived at the same time.

For the sake of helping Anna I took the order of the guests at her two-seater—a German-American and his American wife, the most perfect example of a rooster-pecked woman I have ever seen. On returning from the kitchen with the second course for this couple, I found all my guests in their seats. After serving the course on my tray I went to the assistant head waiter, explained to him that Anna needed assistance, and turned over to him the order of the German-American. Then, returning to my station, I took the orders of my own people.

At that time, on a bench at the back of the dining-room, there were seated, waiting to be called on, nine extra waitresses who had been brought on from a near-by city that morning. When instructing the regular waitresses that morning the head waiter had ordered us to report to himself or his assistant when any of us needed the help of these girls. Naturally I expected the assistant head waiter to send one of them to finish serving the guests at Anna’s two-seater.

On returning with my tray laden with the first course for my six guests I found Anna’s station in an uproar. The German-American, having seen me take the orders of my regular guests, had complained so loudly that the head waiter had to be called from the front of the dining-room to straighten matters out. Catching sight of me on my return from the kitchen, the hyphenated citizen again persisted in his demand to have “that one with hair” finish serving his table. The head waiter, who was really a very good sort, firmly insisted that he must either accept the services of the extra waitress or wait and take his turn with Anna.

On my way back to the kitchen the assistant head waiter met me. He was on the carpet and I in the aisle next the wall.

“This is the last meal you’ll serve for me,” he called across the double line of tables to me, throwing up his arms in a nervous way he had.

“I accept my discharge,” I replied, realizing in a flash the opportunity for which I had been looking.

In the serving-room and kitchen I scattered the news broadcast, telling every one with whom I came in speaking distance that the assistant head waiter had discharged me. The steward assured me that it was all a mistake. The assistant head waiter was under a great strain, he explained, and very nervous. He tried to get me to promise not to notice the incident and to report as usual in the dining-room for supper.