The last supper

I served my last buffalo prime rib last night.

It was a bitter-sweet and rather unceremonious event. As the season winds down, the traffic at the restaurant has slowed to a miserable crawl. The chef kept track of the number of dinners we served by leisurely writing numerals on the backs of stabbed meal tickets in the food window. We were up to 55 by the time I finished my shift at 8:30. This is a restaurant that serves more than 500 dinners a night in the summer.

The last day of the season before the restaurant closes for five weeks is supposed to be Halloween. But it’s been slow enough lately that the owner told the hostess not to make reservations for later in the week without getting phone numbers. He might close early.

We spent most of the night hiding in the manager’s office so we wouldn’t feel compelled to annoy our few customers with relentless service. There were only four of us, where there are usually 10. Someone pulled up “The drunkest man in America” video on YouTube and we watched a stumbling idiot sway into a liquor store on a surveillance tape. He managed to get a case of beer before hanging on to the cooler door for dear life as he fell backward. He straightened out and grabbed another cooler door before falling on his back. This video is four minutes long and for most of it, the guy looks like an upside-down June bug clawing at the air.

I had four tables last night. The first one was a couple hunters who I think felt sorry for me. One of them tipped generously – $10 on a $30 check. My next table was filled with four folks, two couples from Alabama. They asked for sweet tea.

Sweet tea is the kiss of death. Any time someone asks for sweet tea, I know they will tip poorly, sometimes so poorly I would have been better off if they’d never come. On busy nights, those who ask for sweet tea are automatically my lowest priority. I’m not sure what it is. Perhaps those who don’t get north of the Mason-Dixon line much didn’t have to take math classes in school or maybe they just don’t get out much or maybe people in the south come from a non-tipping culture like the French, which would be really sad for waiters in the south who I’m sure still only make $2.50 an hour. (No offense to my Southern friends. I know not everyone from the south is a bad tipper). Not sure. But most of the time I’d rather wait on a British person who I know will tip me 10 percent.

Last night, however, I was not busy. So my table from Alabama was my top priority. They all ordered frozen beverages. Each of them got a different tasty blended drink. The bartender hates making frozen drinks.

“Is this how you want me to remember you, Amanda?” he chided.

Despite their bad beverage decisions, they were nice people. They were just starting their vacation and they’d never seen the Tetons before. They were excited. I do love Americans on vacation. We have so little time off. It’s always so precious to the people who eat at our restaurant and they’re typically really excited to be away from their usual lives.

They asked why they hadn’t been able to find any drink Koozies in Wyoming. (Koozies are those foam sleeves that fit around a can of beer or soda to keep it cold in hot weather). I told them it doesn’t get very hot here so the extra insulation isn’t necessary.

“But don’t your hands get cold?”

“I suppose so” I admitted. One of the gentlemen handed me a camouflage Koozie from his construction company as a gift to keep my hands warm while drinking cold beverages. I was touched, though I secretly hoped he didn’t think it was my tip.

They weren't too bad for sweet tea folks. They left $20 on a $150 check. That's more than 13 percent – better than a Brit.

I’ve loved my years at the restaurant. The summers are so busy and chaotic that it took me a few seasons to get my sea legs. I feel like I can handle it now and I’m sorry to go. I love talking to the people who dine there. They come from everywhere. There are all kinds of people at this restaurant in a way I don’t think there will be at any other restaurant I work in after this. The reason for the diversity is that America’s greatest national parks appeal to every type of person and if the parks don’t bring them, the ski resort will.

I have waited on friendly, happy people, angry sour and bitter people, people who are so stingy they make their waiters pay to serve them and generous people who leave so much I’ll remember their kindness forever.

These are the highlights.

The worst: A table of five red necks – two couples and one moderately attractive young guy. They spent the whole night drinking bottomless pitchers of Bud Light and kept suggesting I go out with the single guy. They even gave me his number. Their bill was $300. They left $7 as a tip. Then they asked me where I was going when I got off so I could meet up with them. I sent them to the one bar I knew I wouldn’t visit that night and daydreamed about what I would say to them if they ever sat in my section again.

The best: The crowd changes at the restaurant in the late season, which starts in September. We call our clientele “newly weds and nearly deads.” It’s all young couples and retired people who don’t have school-age children. There was one cute older couple who came into the restaurant on a night this September when I was having a particularly tough time enjoying myself. The woman just ordered side dishes, no entrée. The man asked for ground pepper and I had to run around the restaurant to find the grinder because it was missing from where it belonged. They were nice people. We didn’t talk much. I don’t think I even asked where they were from. Their bill was $63. They left me a $110 tip for a total of $173. I will remember their generosity forever.

One day, when I am rich, I will run around leaving ridiculously big tips for absolutely no reason at all. Other than to brighten the day of my sever.

How is it so easy to drink a whole bottle of wine alone?

So, it was a good weekend at the restaurant. On a night when I expected to be sent home the moment I walked through the door, I ended up selling almost $1,000 worth of food and drinks. Somehow, the off-season isn’t nearly as mind-numbing and boring as I remember.

The extra padding in my wallet has left me feeling spendy. I bought a bottle of wine Monday night. I like Penguin cabernet because it tastes good and costs $6.99 at the liquor store next to my favorite grocery.

But I’ve always got an eye out for a deal. I bought something different Monday in celebration of my roommate’s homecoming. She’s been gone for a month. It’s just been me and the mice, who I serenaded once or twice in hopes they would feel compelled to help me clean the condo and maybe make a gown for the ball.

I splurged Monday and spent and extra $2 on a pinot noir that normally costs $10.99.

The wine was great. My roommate drank her share and we had a nice night of cooking and listening to “This American Life” together.

The next day, I went back to the liquor store. I took another bottle of the pinot noir off the shelf and walked toward the counter. Then I remembered that the people who work at this liquor store seemed to be recognizing me lately. The Russian girl behind the counter asked me, “what was your birthday, again?” the last two times I bought bottles here instead of, “can I see your ID?”

I contend this is because she recognizes me and not because I’ve suddenly started looking old.

There are some places where you like to be known – the cafe where you get eggs Benedict, the post office, the bakery, even the deli counter at the grocery – nice wholesome places where you long for a friendly face and where it feels warm and comforting for everyone to know your name.

And then there’s the liquor store.

So, I went back and picked up a bottle of the old standby Penguin. Two bottles. That should hold me over for a while, I thought, at least long enough for the Russian girl to forget my birthday again.

I got home and poured myself a glass, took a shower and started watching a movie on the Internet. I worship the Internet and it’s magic powers to bring absolutely anything I want to see to my little 8” by 10” screen, even if the words don’t always match the lip movements of the characters. No one is perfect, not even the Internet.

After watching a 30-minute TV show, with pauses for buffering, and a feature-length film, with pauses for buffering, and surfing the Argentine classifieds on Craigslist.org, I looked over and noticed my wine glass was empty. I went back downstairs to get some more. I tipped the bottle and a finger-nail’s worth of my $8 pinot noir poured into the glass.

A few minutes later, my friend Cara texted me.

“How is it so easy to drink a bottle of wine alone?”

I was just wondering that.

Oh well, at least I had the Penguin for tonight.

No more macaroni

Thanks everyone for your kind suggestions. I've received a lot of tips recently on how to eat cheaply without boring myself into the bathroom.

I threw away the last of the macaroni and tuna Monday, putting one last portion into a Tupperware container for that day's lunch. I couldn't bring myself to eat it and spent $4.50 on soup and pita chips at the Whole Grocer instead.

I left the Glad container of macaroni on the passenger seat of my car until today when I went to lunch with co-workers. Then I moved it to the back of my Subaru wagon. It's still there tonight. I forgot about it. I'm reluctant to waste it. Maybe I'll eat it tomorrow.

Unlikely, though. I made a giant batch of spicy tofu and bell peppers with rice noodles the other night. It's cheap, healthy and exciting. Also, there's just no way it will take me more than a week to eat it.

I seem to be rebelling from my cheap eating promise, going to lunch and drinking a beer, buying wine at night and goat cheese for a snack.

My expensive taste is costing me. Tips are shrinking. People are coming more slowly to the restaurant, ordering less and leaving little.

I left last Sunday angry because I ended up paying to wait on my last table of the night. They left me 7 percent after sitting two hours as my only table and drinking. I had to pay the bartender, busers and government. In the end, it cost me about $1.50 to serve them.

Please note. No matter how much fun you are for your server, he or she never wants to pay for the experience of being at your beck and call.

Please tip your servant ... er, server.

Macaroni and tuna

Gregorio, my Spanish teacher in Chiapas, Mexico, told me in April that he had a student who ate nothing but tuna and macaroni salad for a whole year in order to save up money for a year of travel. That sounded like a pretty simple equation: One year of boring tuna and macaroni equals one year of blissful work-free travel around the world.

“Yuk,” was my response. I don’t have anything against tuna and macaroni. But to eat the same thing every day, three meals a day, for a whole year? Water boarding sounds like more fun.

* * *

It’s snowing in Jackson Hole. It started snowing last weekend and it’s been cold and dreary for a few weeks now. People, crazy people, are even skiing on the sparsely covered Tetons.

With this sprinkle of winter has come low reservations in area hotels – about 35 percent of capacity. The only tourists are the ones from warm places who didn’t know any better and the bargain shoppers.

There are usually 10 servers at my restaurant. As we slip into the off-season, we cut back to nine, then eight, then seven and sometimes just six. I was number eight of eight last Sunday. The hostess seated a nice couple in my section who ordered a bottle of wine and an appetizer. The night started off well, but the front door was quiet.

The owner’s son, who manages on Sundays, came to me 20 minutes after we opened and sheepishly said I was cut, server vernacular for “not getting any more tables.” I asked my fellow servers if they wanted to trade places with me and go home to their couches. No one was interested. Everyone is looking down the barrel of the financial gun with tips trickling down to nothing before we close for a month starting the day after Halloween.

My nice couple wanted a leisurely meal. They took their time, ordered dessert, sipped their wine. I folded napkins and folded napkins and folded napkins. They had a pretty good meal and a pretty good bill. If they left within two hours of sitting down and tipped properly, it wouldn’t be a total wash. Plus the manager offered me a free dinner as a consolation.

After they paid, I noticed the man following my moves across the restaurant.

“Are we your only table?”

I explained that it was a slow night and gave them directions to the grocery store and plucked the little black bill book from the table.

They tipped 20 percent – $22. I gave $2 to the bussers and $1 to the bartender and collected my free dinner, my coat and my $19 and went straight to the grocery store, where I purchased a bag of macaroni and two tins of tuna.

I made a massive bowl of delicious, spicy macaroni and tuna salad with lots of olive oil, capers, left-over gorgonzola cheese and crushed red pepper. I filled a Tupperware container with the dish for lunch each day this week.

I swear my macaroni and tuna salad procreates in the bowl. There's enough left for another week of lunches.