A Train-Wreck of a Waiter

      A diet pepsi refill to table 25, along with a bunch more napkins, table 15 needs bread and I need to ring in their order yet. As I carried the two pasta dishes to table 26, the ceramic bowls scorching the fingerprints off my fingers, I continued running through the list of tasks requiring my immediate attention. Waiting tables on a busy night can really be stressful. I walked up to the table, and as I saw the two year old girl sitting in the high chair, I vaguely remembered taking the order. "I'll have the spaghetti and meatballs, and I'd like a salad with cherry vinaigrette. And she'll have the..." She'll have the what? I slowed my approach, but it was too late. They had already seen me delivering the food to their table. I sure hope I left whatever IT is sitting under the heat lamp in the kitchen.
      I nearly dropped the pasta dishes on the table as my fingers screamed in pain. "I'm so sorry, I must have left her food in the kitchen. I'll be right back with that." I hoped there was SOMETHING waiting in the window for me. As I made a beeline to the kitchen, I pulled out my notepad. Sure enough, in my haste to take their order, my writing overlapped with another order I had written on the page, and I missed the kid's chicken tenders.
      I rushed to the end of the line up to the chef. "Pat, may I have a kid's tenders on the fly?"
      "Kid's tender on the fly," he repeated back to me.
      I tucked my notepad back into my apron and rushed out the kitchen doors, to the computer to put the order in. Then I hightailed it back to the kitchen. Whether or not it works, it's common practice at our restaurant to stand and wait at the line when you are in a hurry in an effort to put a little pressure on the kitchen staff. I looked down at the fryer. One basket was down in the oil, no doubt the chicken tenders, but the other basket was still empty, the one where the tater tots would need to be cooked. I started running through all of the things I should have been doing rather than waiting for the stupid chicken tenders, but then I pictured the table where the two parents were quite possibly sitting with two pasta dishes, wondering where I was with their baby's food.
      Pat pulled the basket up, grabbed a chicken tender with the tongs, and bent it over, checking to see if the chicken was done yet. I held my breath. He dropped it back into the basket and dropped the basket back into the oil. Crap. A minute later, he repeated the process, and again dropped the chicken back into the oil.
      I ran back out to the table, squeezing between the other busy servers, panicking. I slowed down as I approached the table, trying to keep my cool. "I'm so sorry guys. It looks like I forgot to hit the button on the computer for the kid's tenders. The kitchen tells me it will be up in one minute. I'll be right out with them."
      After the couple assured me it was no problem, I blew by my other tables, straight into the kitchen, and parked myself right in front of the hot line. By the time the tenders finally came up, what seemed like five minutes had passed. I nearly ran the tenders to the table. At this point, I wasn't even expecting a tip.
      It was at this point that I realized my two other tables were seated, and one of the tables had their menus closed and stacked- a sign that you have taken too long. It's amazing how one little mistake can cause a chain reaction of problems that can lead to a rough night.