Not only do people resent me in the kitchen, but my arrival at front-of-house duties wasn't met with balloons and a marching band either. The maître-d' wasn't even aware that my position existed and I suspect he thought he was being replaced. By a neophyte, no less. Fifteen minutes into my shift and I was sweating profusely. It was rather humiliating, but eventually he (R) warmed up and actually told me I was an integral part of the team. The servers started speaking to me once I stepped up and helped them out, qhich is, after all, part of my job. Basically my job as host consists of handling reservations, answering the phone, and juggling walk-ins and reserved tables. I actually gambled a little too hard and had eight people waiting to be seated. R seemed pissed at me, but I stayed calm and things turned out well. Once everyone was seated though and reserved tables were filled, I basically became a busboy in a tie. Every task makes me smarter. Every task makes me smarter...
Oh, and there was the computer glitch with the group of 20 babyboomers. Correction, drunk babyboomers. Their orders had not reached the kitchen, so they waited more than 90 minutes to be served. The chef and kitchen staff were really irritated and so prepared orders for people who had arrived WAY after the group. People started yelling at us. One gentleman, after downing a few glasses of wine even WALKED INTO THE KITCHEN to confront the chef who, incidently looks like a biker. After that I guess the digruntled patron decided that a svelter, more "delicate" employee would be easier to intimidate so naturally he came to me. The complaints and incessive sighing, I can handle. The chest poking was hard to take, though. He eventually calmes down and I think left pennies to his server as tip.
Anyway, I punched out at midnight, got a ride from a server-girl home at 1 am. Exhausted.
My back is still killing me, but I'm thankful for Motrin.
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