The Queen of Minor Disasters by Antonietta Mariottini Read Free Book Online Page A

viral in a matter of
minutes and I’ll have agents phoning me about TV shows and movies. I’m sure of
it.
    So sure of it, in fact, that I
went off shore to buy a larger memory card for my camera. Right now the thing
can hold thirty minutes of video. That’s a lot, considering the average YouTube
video is fifty-seven seconds. But I figure I’ll have to scrap some footage.
    I’ve set the camera up right
next to the hostess stand on my left (my better side) to optimize the light and
angle from which I’m shot.
    The only thing is, tonight we
have another packed house, and with my family coming in, I’m busier than usual.
Both Dante and Lucy are late getting down. School ended and their grades were
due by 3:00 p.m. They jumped in the car together and made it here thirty
minutes after the other waiters. That set us back a bit. I tried to help
Michelle and Ryan get the side work done but the phone just kept ringing.
    My main job as manager of
Lorenzo’s is to control the reservation book. I’ve got it down pretty well; I
assign each table a two-hour time slot so in theory we can seat the same table
at 5:00 p.m., 7:00 p.m., and 9:00 p.m. With seventeen tables we have the
potential of seating 180 diners a night. Now, of course, there are tables (like
two tops), which are in and out in less than an hour, and others (like parties
of twelve) who will sit for forty minutes before even ordering a thing, but for
the most part, my method works. When it doesn’t and people have to wait for
their reservation, I find that the only thing to do is flirt.
    I’m a master flirt. I don’t
discriminate between men and women, though the tactics differ greatly from
person to person. I mean, you have to be smart about it. You can’t just bat your eyelashes like they do in the movies.
Flirting is an art form.
    Take, for example, these two
scenarios.
    Scenario one: a middle-aged
woman comes in to check on her table, which is nowhere near ready. No need to
panic. Just quickly find something you like about her outfit and divert the
conversation that way. You must be sincere though, you can’t say you love her
Lily Pulitzer pants if the only color you ever wear is black. No, no, no. On
the Island, you must dress the part if you want to be a successful restaurant
manager, even if that means sporting the occasional Capri pants with
embroidered umbrellas on them, straight out of page twenty-six in last year’s
J. Crew catalogue.
    Scenario two: an elderly
gentleman comes in after waiting fifteen minutes for his 7:00 reservation. He’s not accustomed to waiting like
younger people so he’s pretty angry.  Just gently touch his hand and explain
how sorry you are. Then, with a big smile tell him the people who are currently
sitting at his table have their check and should be paying the bill soon. Even
if this is a little white lie, it
generally calms down the customer. It’s really pretty easy.
    When all else fails and the
customer is really mad there’s
nothing left to do but start giving stuff away for free. As you know, this
infuriates Lorenzo (so don’t tell him). Not that this happens often or
anything. Usually flirting works just fine. I’m an expert; remember?
    The phone rings again at 5:00,
just as we are opening for the night. “Thank you for calling Lorenzo’s how may
I help you?” I say looking directly into the camera. I’ve restarted recording
because I figure the opening footage was mostly boring stuff.
    “I need to make a
reservation,” the man on the other end says.
    “Ok, when would you like to
come in?”  I flip through the reservation book busily, as if the man on the
other end is very important. Then I hold a pencil between my fingers as if it
were a cigarette, and do my best to channel Audrey Hepburn à la Breakfast at Tiffany’s .
    “How about 7:00? There are six
of us.”
    “Tonight?” I ask wide eyed. I
drop the pencil to look like I’m in shock.
    “Yeah, tonight.”
    I look down at the
reservations and see