Chaos at le Café Trois Chiens

by Dean Kramer
July, 2004

There are three dogs living at Cripple Creek and they get fed twice each day. Feeding the dogs doesn’t take much skill nor is it an exciting or inspiring occupation. So, in order to keep it fresh and somewhat entertaining for myself I have created a little restaurant scenario.

Because the food itself is always the same (kibble with a little canned meat added) the restaurant’s details vary from day to day. Sometimes it’s a French bistro. On other days it might be an Italian trattoria or an American diner. The ambience, however, is invariably down to earth and blue collar for these dogs have absolutely no appreciation of hâute cuisine.

The other day, for example, I was working my shift at le Café Trois Chiens when three regulars came in together. The first was a large gentleman of color. To look at him you’d think he was brave, courageous, and bold, maybe an off-duty cop, but I’d heard from the other waitress that he was a lay-about and something of a coward. The two with him were female. The younger was as tall and as dark as the gentleman though more delicately built. She looked sweet as pie but I knew she had a mouth on her. The other was quite small, elderly, and white. Though well-groomed, she’d obviously seen better days. She was blind, mostly deaf, and was a little senile. The gentleman was pacing restlessly so I approached him first.

“ Good evening, Sir.” I greeted him. “Welcome to le Café Trois Chiens. Are you ready to order, or would you like a few more minutes?”

I was being polite because our customers never want “a few more minutes.” In fact, they’d prefer to have the meal ready when they walk through the door, particularly as we only serve one or two variations on the same thing. When I addressed him he looked as if he’d like to hide under the table, but I was patient and eventually he indicated the Blue Plate Special. Then he sat and waited expectantly.

The old white dame had seen me speak to the gentleman and she hollered across the room with a voice that could shatter glass, “Hey! How come you’re taking his order first?Age before beauty! I’ll have whatever he’s having, and get the lead out.”

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed the brunette had gone into the back room where we store the ingredients. "What does she think she is," I wondered, "a Department of Health inspector?" I didn’t say anything, though, just continued taking the orders.

And soon she saunters back into the dining room and says, “Give me whatever they’re having but hold the meat. I ain’t no vegetarian, but I can’t stand that processed, canned stuff. The day you serve fresh kill is the day I’ll eat meat in this joint. Better yet, bring it in alive and let me kill it for you.” She snickered, knowing I’d never do such a thing and the white-haired lady joined in the snickering.

In a small restaurant such as this, whomever is on duty wears all the occupational hats: waitress, cook, and dishwasher. While the gentleman was waiting patiently at his table, the other two followed me right to the prep area making jokes behind my back, giving me directions as to how they wanted their meals prepared, and complaining about the slow service.

Now, I think any waitress or cook would find it annoying to have customers literally dogging her every step impatiently panting for their food. But this waitress has MS. I’m a little slower than customers like. I don’t walk or use my hands as deftly as some. When things get very rushed I tend to become a bit confused. In fact, I’m lucky to have this job. Those two gals underfoot barking orders added to the pressure which made everything more difficult.

Clumsily, I spilled a little food on the counter and everything halted while I cleaned up the mess. Then I had to heat water for the beef gravy. This took more time than the brunette liked, especially as she wasn’t having any meat herself. While I was stirring it into the bowls, she started softly growling at me to get a move on. And the old white bitch, well, like I said, she has Alzheimer’s, poor thing, so she really doesn’t know what’s going on, right? But she hears the growling and she has to chime in, too. Only she’s, like, yelling at me at the top of her lungs because, being deaf, she doesn’t hear herself. Now I’m really starting to feel stressed which is never good for my MS.

I always serve the gentleman first. I know the rule is ladies first, but this ain’t the Titanic and those two girls ain’t ladies. Besides, I know from past experience that the gentleman always dives head first into dinner and it doesn’t matter to him whose dinner it is. If it hits the table first, it’s his. That’s why I always make sure his really is the first meal out of the kitchen.

So I’m doing my halting MS stagger carrying his plate in my numb hands. The girls are right behind me, one still muttering, the other still shrieking, the gentleman is bouncing up and down drooling on the table. I was so rattled that I can’t remember what happened next. Maybe my leg simply didn’t move as I expected it to. Maybe one of those bitches gave me a little nudge. I’m weak and my balance is poor, so it wouldn’t take much. Or the big fellow might have jumped up to greet his dinner and hit his head on the bottom of the dish. All I know is, I’m on the floor, there’s Blue Plate Special from one end of the restaurant to the other and the customers are knocking each other over trying to gobble as much of it as they can before someone intervenes.

Well, I had to call the other waitress in to help. Fortunately she had been taking a break and was close by. Together we sorted it out. We cleaned up the dining room. We calmed the gentleman who was slinking out the door thinking the whole situation was his fault. We stopped the other two from eating his food and made sure he got what he came for. We graciously fed those two bitches despite the fact that it was mostly their fault and they’d already eaten half of another customer’s dinner. All of them got service with a smile and the usual after-dinner treat of fresh baby carrots. And what was their response? As usual, they stiffed us for the tip.