7. Bribery

Since starting at Zemblanity, my coworkers have spoken of the approaching holiday season in hushed and foreboding tones. Any time I believed I had just witnessed the perfect maelstrom of Manhattan dining forces, the waiters would make casual and ominous predictions about what lay in store for our young protagonist. "Just wait. Wait until the holidays,"they would say. "You haven't seen anything yet."

I'm beginning to understand that this wasn't simple hyperbole designed to frighten the new guy. Things are really going to come apart at the seams. Things at Zemblanity are going to get out of control.

Today the wait reached three and a half hours. Three and a half! Looking at a list of that many names boggles the mind. Why would anyone do that to themselves? Staring down and the rows and rows of Michelles and Johns and Stacys and Peters, it has begun to dawn on me that I do not understand the human animal and am suspicious of of his ways. Three and a half hours!?

At a certain point, it becomes abundantly clear that none of the 36 tables will be empty for more than five minutes from opening until closing at 2 am. At that point new customers become somewhat irrelevant. It benefits us to deter or scare off new patrons. But what could be more of a deterrent than a three hour wait? We put a sign up on the door that says "THE WAIT IS NOW 3+ HOURS" and yet still they come. I've considered barking at them like a dog or when asked what the wait time is, opening a Bible and reading the scariest parts of Revelations.

There are, however, certain advantages to working in what one of the waiters calls the busiest four square feet of Manhattan, namely... bribes. Firstly, let me say that we hosts have no moral qualms about taking bribes. Zemblanity pays us eleven dollars an hour and we are not tipped (although industry standard is 2%). In Manhattan, the most expensive city in the country, this is a slave wage.

Now, let me introduce you to my favorite manager at Zemblanity. His name is Gabriel and he was born in New York, has always lived in New York and is about the New Yorkiest New Yorker I have ever met. He is stalky, Hispanic, a diehard Yankees fan and paces the restaurant with his head lowered like a general. He has worked for Zemblanity for eleven years and is a fucking hilarious dude. It is Gabriel who is ushering me into the secret arts of bribery.

One day, Gabriel took me out into the hallway and put his hand on my shoulder. "Listen, if you follow my lead, I plan on making us a little extra loot. You see what I'm saying? You'll see. When the holidays roll around, we'll be putting together a nice little bit of dough by the end of the day. "

I, like most of our customers, have never before offered a bribe of any sort. It never crosses my mind as an option. Now, looking back, I wonder how many sold out shows I could have gotten into with a mere 20 dollar hand shake.

Some of our customers are real pros. Confidently, they march in, ask to see a manager, shake hands with a twenty and ask when their reservation will be ready. Boom. Done. Three and a half hour wait averted. Other patrons need a bit more prodding. If I see that they're overly stressed or need to get to a show, I'll use Gabriel as my foil. I'll say, "You could talk to my manager. Sometimes he's known to...[dramatic pause]... make arrangements." Then I'll wink or perhaps shrug as if to say "whatever goes on between you and the manager is your business. He's the boss." This is an ideal set up because the customer has nothing to lose.

I've noticed that many first time bribers are intimidated by the idea but are truly thrilled by both the results and by their own bold audacity. They are now members of an exotic guild with its own secret handshake.

Times like this, when we're raking it in, can be really fun. Gabriel's cracking jokes about the futile jibes of frustrated customers, whose little cuts and comments are meaningless now that there are 50 people behind them waiting for a table. The restaurant will make oodles of cash on overpriced food and at the end of the day, we will split up "the loot" and double our hourly wage.

At one point during the day, I went outside to call in a table. Next to the door there were two people promoting some sort of nasal spray. One lady was dressed in a large box of the nasal spray and passing out pamphlets to the multitudes outside the restaurant. The other person was dressed in a purple elephant costume (I don't know why) and was swaying in some sort of sad, despondent "buy nasal spray" dance.

"Yes sir," I thought. "My job could certainly be worse."