The church ladies at table 19 got me fired

Muthaf*ckin’ Ramos Gin Fizzes

Hello friends and readers! Happy Friday has a double meaning today as what I’m sharing in today’s essay stems from my SIN (service industry) experience working at TGI Fridays back in the day—where every day is a Friday! Yippee!

I firmly believe everyone should at some point in their life have the experience of serving others in a restaurant or bar. Everyone. Mandatory. Full stop. Because of what it teaches you about people—and about yourself.

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In my late college years in Dallas, I entered the food service business—a job I would return to several times in my early twenties before settling into my career.

Founded in 1965 with headquarters in Dallas—and opening over 600 stores in 55 countries—I walked in and applied for a job at the flagship restaurant on Greenville Avenue in Dallas.

Anyone who has been to a TGIF would recognize the striped shirts, suspenders full of crazy buttons (called Flair), and the raucous birthday songs—they started the annoying trend way back then.

Fridays was corporate all the way. They had a grueling training program and a hierarchical method of advancement. Once you were hired you bussed tables for a period of time until enough of the wait staff recommended you for a server position. Next step was monthly store rankings—based on a mixture of peer review, shift sales revenue, and management approval. Of a staff of over 50 waitstaff—you had to consistently make the Top 10 to be considered as a bartender. This was the Holy Grail at TGIF. Bartenders did exactly nothing except pour drinks and engage with the customers and make bank. All restocking and ice bins and food service to the bar customers was handled by underlings.

It took me 18 months—6 of busing part-time, 6 of full-time waiting tables, then 6 at the grunt position of barback—in order to be crowned a Fridays bartender. I was a hell of a server if I do say so myself. The proper mix of charming and flirtatious to the ladies—and enough good ole boy to keep them fellers spending.

Grueling night shifts after a day of classes would last until 1 AM closing then the hour or two it took to wind down and rid myself of the nasty-ass odor that clung to my uniform. I used to strip naked at the front door and leave the entire smoke-and-booze soaked pile at the door before entering my apartment.

1980-82 was a heady time in Dallas—Texas in general. My Alma Mater—SMU—was celebrating the Pony Express of Eric Dickerson and Craig James. Wildcatters were opening up new oil leases—the promise of prosperity hung in the air with Ronald Reagan beginning his first term.

As a waiter and a bartender at TGI Fridays on Greenville Avenue—and later at a smaller joint called Tioga Pass further down Greenville near Nick’s and Stan’s Blue Note—gigantic and creative tips were the norm. A regular occurrence would be a tall, ruddy-faced—Stetson-crowned—cowboy rolling in during Friday Happy Hour with his arm candy close behind. He’d start slinging his gold card and a roll of C-notes around—soon all 300-400 patrons were drinking on Tex’s new fortune. It wasn’t uncommon for a pair of Braniff stews—fresh from their round trip to Hong Kong—to slide a gram of blow and a phone number across the bar to me with a wink and an air kiss. An average night for bartender cleared $300 in tips. A good night would push well over $500 plus the aforementioned perkies.

But this true story comes not from my days of slinging drinks but from a normal and boring shift working Sunday brunch as a waiter. Shifts—and the section of the restaurant assigned—were doled out according to the rating and ranking protocols I mentioned earlier. Obviously if you had your druthers you’d want to work a Thursday-Saturday night—a college football Saturday—or an NFL Sunday. Getting a Sunday brunch shift wasn’t the worst as long as you weren’t stuck with the section in the back corner away from the bar—the kitchen—the bar-mounted TVs—the action—away from everything. Up the few brass rail stairs and back in the corner sat this lovely stained glass corner booth for 10-12 people. We not-so-affectionately called it the Altar—Table 19.

A few mere hours after finishing a lucrative Saturday night slugfest of a shift—I was back. 8 AM and all Flaired-up for a Sunday brunch shift. Checking in at the back station I look for my section assignment—wait for it—section 7–including the Altar. Fuck me. Gonna be a long day. 10-4ish or less if your section was dragging—when the Manager would stop seating it.

At around 1 PM I was feeling just about free. My tables had been families—nobody drinking—dinky tips—time to get outta here. Just then a gaggle of gigglin’ ladies walked in. Clearly fresh from church service—dressed in their Sunday finest—a Baker’s dozen of hats floppin’ and heels clickin’. No place for them to sit but—you guessed it—the Altar.

OK—if I’m gonna be stuck here I might as well make some money—so let’s turn it on kid!

Ladies—follow me to the scene of your afternoon’s delight!

Quick sidebar as it becomes highly relevant to the story—

Many cocktail origin stories are shrouded in murky lore, but the Ramos Gin Fizz is an exception. It was first mixed in 1888 by Henry Charles “Carl” Ramos at the Imperial Cabinet Saloon in New Orleans. Along with drinks like the Sazerac, the Ramos Gin Fizz is one of the city’s most identifiable cocktails, and one that has stood the test of time, as it’s still in circulation today. However, this frothy classic is equally loved by patrons and loathed by bartenders.

Let me add to that history from Liquor.com—they’re only ordered on Sundays. They’re only ordered by women. And they’re a nightmare to make—one fucking Fizz at a time.

Ramos Gin Fizz-Ingredients

• 2 ounces gin (preferably Old Tom)

• 3/4 ounce simple syrup

• 1/2 ounce heavy cream

• 1/2 ounce lemon juice, freshly squeezed

• 1/2 ounce lime juice, freshly squeezed

• 3 dashes orange flower water

• 1 fresh egg white

• Club soda, chilled, to top

Ramos Gin Fizz-Steps

1. Add the gin, simple syrup, heavy cream, lemon and lime juices, orange flower water and egg white into a shaker and dry-shake (without ice) vigorously for about 10 seconds.

2. Add ice and shake for at least 15 seconds, until well-chilled.

3. Strain into a tall Collins glass.

4. Pour a little bit of club soda back and forth between the empty halves of the shaker tins to pick up any residual cream and egg white, then use that to top the drink.

I will add that Friday’s recipe was more ornate than the above, involving a very showy display of separating the egg yolk from the white neatly and just above the rim of the shaker.

I won’t bore with much of the exchange that day with my table. Every charm trick in my book of tricks failed miserably. These fine ebony strutters were in their element—and I was clearly regarded as the help. Touché. Each of the 13 of them ordered RGFs. Not even the first round was ordered together. Five or six ladies would order one—the others would coo that looks good—boy fetch me one of those too.

And so it went for several rounds for each of them. I was trapped in a miserable loop of the service bartender on one end hating me for bringing him one or two RGF orders at a time every 10 minutes—and the bossy boozers on the other end nibbling their Benedicts and omelettes—and not wanting to ease my pain. The customer is always right as they say. Fuck.

My consolation—or so I thought—was watching the tab build. 13 ladies times $40-50 per—which was a good ticket back in 1980. The one table alone would make the day worth working.

Until it didn’t.

Time to go. I prepared the tab and delivered it. The leading lady—the one with the biggest hat—and matching mouth—ordered me to bring back separate checks. Something about my eye roll got her going; is that too much for you little man?

Little man? Boy?

My restraint was commendable. I did my duty and re-rung each of the thirteen tabs and delivered them with a tight smile. What happened next began a slow but relentless boil in my belly that rose up my throat and tried like hell to escape by blowing off the top of my head.

I saw coin purses and coins. I saw singles and five-dollar bills being piled up in the center of the table. I had already done the calculations in my head for 15% or 20% on a $740 tab. Hell—even a stingy 10% tab would be expected from this group of charitable church ladies spending their afternoon day drinking.

As they arose and collected their things—I stood back. I got the usual It was delicious—thank you! from most of them as they walked away. They negotiated the short set of stairs—giggling and holding on to the brass rail to steady themselves—and headed for the front door. Meanwhile I’d been digging around in the pile for some reassurance. It wasn’t there.

I snapped. Without a second thought I scooped up the pile of crumpled bills and coins in both hands as best I could. I turned and headed for the door—leaking quarters and dimes the entire way. I reached them just as they were clucking and clutching each other—saying goodbye.

Ladies—ladies. If I could have your attention please. You ran me all over this restaurant for two hours. You pissed off everyone else that works here and everyone sitting within earshot of you. To top it off you leave me $40-50 bucks on a seven-hundred-and-forty-dollar tab!!!! Please put this in your collection plate next Sunday because you obviously need it more than I do.

I threw the pile unceremoniously at the feet of the ladies and marched off. Coins bouncing off the hardwood floor. The wail arising from the self-appointed negotiator was unmistakable. I want a Manager—right now!!!!

My colleagues and most of the other spectators were taking all of this in with feigned horror. After a few moments of cross talk between my Floor Manager Ben and several of the ladies—he called me over. John Wilson you’re fired. Get your things and get the hell out! I may have perceived a small wink although I’m not sure. I cruised back to the server area and hung out for a bit—hoping I actually was fired—or seriously considering quitting on this shitty day—while Ben attempted to wrangle the congregation out the front door.

Finally peace. Ben and I went out back and he told me directly Don’t—Ever—not under the worst circumstances—and those were pretty fucking bad. I have to write you up to set an example but you’re obviously not fired. I’ll ask the others to kick 10% of their day’s take your way to cover. Cool? Please don’t quit.

I learned a lot about other people that day. People can suck. Many do. On that day I also learned how generous my teammates were—sharing their hard-earned tips with me at the end of the day. I think deep down they knew that on any given Sunday they might draw Table 19—the Alter—and the congregation could return.

Like I said—everyone should do it.