The Rats, Pt. 4

“It is cheering to see that the rats are still around---the ship is not sinking.”
---Eric Hoffer

While our restaurant may have passed all inspections by the NYC Health Department---we still have rats. I can say, from personal experience, that a clean bill of health from the NYC Department of Health does NOT mean that rats are not on the premises.

In fact, it simply means that the rats have gotten smarter.

Rats are intelligent creatures. They actually have a mental capacity pretty darn near close to that of a dog---which is why (the tame ones, anyway) make great pets. Never had one as a pet myself. But once, years ago, had my big blue eyes on a white and brown spotted rat at a pet store in St. Louis.

My aunt, seeing how I’d taken to the rat, was eager to buy him for me. Unfortunately, I was living in Minneapolis at the time and was planning on flying back the next day. But this little guy was such a cutie-pie that I went downstairs to the food court and got on the phone to the airline.

The lady at Northwest Airlines was mortified.

“No! We don’t allow rats onto the aircraft!”

“But he’d be in a cage and everything…”

“No! Not even in cargo! Just dogs, cats and small birds. Why would you want to bring a rat on the plane, anyway?”

Unfortunately, I had to decline my aunt’s generous offer. And yes, there are regrets. A life lived without rats is… Well, you get the idea.

Fortunately, I work in an establishment that never seems to run out of the little guys. Sure, they’re not the sort you can take home to Momma. But they’re cute too, in their own way.

A few months ago, some of them discovered the charming trait of chewing thru rubber electrical wires. Of course, we saw the signs early on. They started on the Christmas lights in the front (which our GM seems to think look festive up year-round). We pointed out this chewing behavior. But nothing seemed to be done about it.

Then, a few weeks later, the bartenders and porters started cleaning up for the night. As the porter threw a bucket of bleach water onto the floor, the beer cooler suddenly caught on fire and nearly exploded. The rats had chewed thru the electrical wires, leaving them exposed. And the water on the floor was now electrified. Professionals had to be called in to deal with the problem. The bartender was in shock, the porter was literally shaking, and the assistant manager on duty was both embarrassed and terrified. The GM was unfazed. His philosophy seems to be, if you act like a problem’s not there, no one will talk about it. Good luck with that.

“Humor, a good sense of it, is to Americans what manhood is to Spaniards and we will go to great lengths to prove it. Experiments with laboratory rats have shown that, if one psychologist in the room laughs at something a rat does, all of the other psychologists in the room will laugh equally. Nobody wants to be left holding the joke.”
---Garrison Keillor

As a waitress, I tend not to see the rats as a reflection upon myself. I didn’t do anything personally to cause the rats to show up. I’m a clean person (at home and at work). Nothing I have either done or not done has any bearing on the fact that our restaurant has rats.

Which is why I find it odd that more than a few of our servers are embarrassed to let their friends and family know that we have rats. But most of these servers are what we call in the business---Lifers. They will be servers till the day they retire on the company pension.

Me? I could care less if anyone (outside of customers and the NYC Health Department) knows. In fact, I love to talk about the rats. Not everyone at a party is equipped with an arsenal of rat stories.

I have since discovered that everyone loves a good rat story---provided that the story doesn’t end with a gruesome end for the little guy. Not everyone thinks they’re just vermin. You’d be surprised how many people feel sympathy for the rats. In a way, it’s your archetypal underdog story. Rat verses Man. And, in a really human way, we like seeing ourselves done in by a rodent. It shows our weakness as a species and offers us lessons in intelligence, fear, rationality and persistence.

Horatio Alger meets Aesop.

I believe it is the mark of a truly human man (or woman) if they can let themselves be ridiculed. This is why ancient kings submitted to having wise fools. Why heads of state allowed free press and parody. And why William Shatner offered himself up to the Friar’s Club Celebrity Roast.

Most of us are able to laugh about the rats. We make jokes all the time. Things like, “They’ve been here so long, they’re in the union, now.” And we never seem to tire of rolling a potato near someone’s feet. Actually, an onion works even better. The onion skin makes that dry, pitter-patter sound.

And, as mere workers in the establishment, what else can we do besides keep the place clean and laugh a little? As long as the Health Department doesn’t discover a nest or a rat runs across their foot during an inspection----well, we’re just trying to get thru our day. And that makes us feel at one with the rats. We’re just trying to survive, too.

“It would be ugly to watch people poking sticks at a caged rat. It is uglier still to watch rats poking sticks at a caged person.”
---Jean Harris

Not only do I not see the rats as a reflection upon myself; but frankly, I don’t see my job as a waitress as a reflection upon myself. At least, I try not to. Sure, the job title may seem a bit demeaning, but I once worked with a part-time waitress who also worked full-time as a hospital nurse. She had education, training, a degree, tons of common sense. But she also needed the extra once or twice a week waitressing money to pay the bills. Isn’t it a come down, I once asked, to have to go from being a being a nurse to waiting tables?

“Actually, no, “she replied. “This is more relaxing. Being a nurse is just like waiting tables---only with sick people.”

Frankly, I’ll take crabby sick people any day over the constant jabs and insults that are regularly hurled at waitresses. Not long after my surgery, I was back at work (still swollen and with a partially paralyzed face) and happened to overhear a young man complaining to his server about the gratuity added to his check. I should mention that we occasionally offer live shows where I work, and, for these shows, gratuities are automatically added onto the check. This is standard for live events in New York. Comedy Clubs, Jazz Clubs, etc. I can’t speak to its legality. But frankly, a gratuity is a just that---a gratuity. You’re certainly never obliged to pay it. However, unless you received particularly egregious service, you’d be a real shit not to.

But it is common practice in NYC and at many other music, comedy and theatrical events across the country---particularly on the coasts. Don’t know how it started. I’m not a tip anthropologist. It just is.

Anyway, as I listened to this young man complain, I decided to step up in defense of my fellow-server. I very nicely explained the afore-mentioned facts and simply let him know that it’s certainly not obligatory, but, like his server said, it IS standard in the city.

“No it’s not.”

This said with a southern accent. Tourist.

“Actually,” I ignore the obvious out-of-town accent and explain, “it is. I used to work at a comedy club here and I’ve been to a lot of jazz and comedy clubs and it’s always included.”

“No it’s not!” he cut me off as his friends obviously started to get embarrassed. “I’ve been to clubs here and they don’t add the gratuity! And hello!---you’re a waitress! I’m a lawyer! I THINK!”

Wow.

Honestly, the kid didn’t look over 22. If he had been in my section, I would’ve carded him for that beer. He was pre-law, at most. And, for someone claiming to be a lawyer, I certainly would’ve expected to hear a more compelling argument than, “No, it’s not!” Good luck with that one on the jury, Mr. Dershowitz.

As he continued to repeat his statement of fact that I was a waitress and, by default, must be stupid, his 20-something friends started to look down at their shoes in shame. I, on the other hand, looked him right in the eye.

“Excuse me, sir. That was REALLY insulting. And that was completely uncalled-for.”

His friends immediately began to apologize. He apologized. But he wouldn’t back down on his statement of “the facts”. Apparently, he’d just completed the course titled, “If You Keep Repeating Something, The Jury Will Eventually Believe It’s True 101.”

But I didn’t. Why? Because I knew the truth first-hand. And I think and observe and make intelligent deductions from those observations. Idiot.

The server brought back his change (leaving him with the tip to do with however he pleased). The embarrassed friends grabbed their coats and, as Doogie Houser, J.D. protested, they told him to shut up and left the waitress even more than the proper tip---continuing to apologize for their friend all the while. I actually felt bad for the friends---lassoed to that idiot all night. His girlfriend looked particularly distressed. I hope she took that as a sign and got the hell out of that relationship.

How much do you want to bet that ten years from now, that guy will not only be a practicing lawyer---but also a regular at the Atlanta Bondage Clubs? Hope he doesn’t protest to the added gratuity there. They have ways of punishing you. But then, he’d probably like that. Seems like the type.

People like these are the true vermin of my un-chosen profession. I’ll take the rats over scum like that, any day.

“The trouble with the rat-race is that even if you win, you're still a rat.”
---Lily Tomlin

I have to get out of the rat race.

I just can’t do it anymore.

And recently, an opportunity cropped up that could possibly shake things up a bit.

No, not a writing job. Or anything close. But about a week ago, one of our bartenders didn’t show up for his shift. The assistant manager stepped behind the bar and started making drinks. I jumped in (unasked) and started taking drink orders and then hopping behind the bar to make the drinks, as well.

A few days later, we were short a bartender again. The assistant managers decided that since I already knew how to make drinks and already worked there, well, maybe I could fill in. So, I came in on my day off and apparently did such a bang-up job that when the night guys came in and I stuck around for a few more hours, they went to the assistant manager and said they wanted me back there permanently. Before I left for the night, the assistant manager came up and asked me if I was interested. Since the money was amazingly better than waiting tables, and since the head manager had been screwing with my schedule and putting seventeen servers on the floor when we only needed two… Sure. I’m interested.

If nothing else, it was a change of pace. Some days, I’m just standing around so bored and all there is to do is to turn to a bus boy and say, “How do you say ‘crazy old lady’ in Bengali? How much Bengali can I learn???

The problem came in when the General Manager discovered that I’d been given a bartending shift. Despite the fact that I’d been given glowing reviews by the two head bartenders and the two assistant managers---he didn’t like this idea.

Why?

Well, a few months ago, I noticed that he suddenly started acting differently towards me. We’d got along fine in the past, then suddenly he started doing little things to mess with my schedule, shot little looks my way like I was doing something wrong, little passive-aggressive comments. The reason I was running so fast for that train when I fell and broke my jaw was because the GM had been giving the Fish Eye to people who came in late and I was determined not to even be 5 minutes late for my shift.

But I knew something was off, and, a few days before my accident, I tried to sit him down and find out what the problem was. In a nutshell, he replied, “No, I don’t have anything against you.”

But the weirdness continued.

“Whenever there has been talk of exterminating rats, others, who were not rats, have been exterminated.”
---Gunter Grass

It was only a few days ago that I realized what had happened: He thought I called the NYC Health Department about the rats.

You see, someone HAD called the Health Department. And it was only recently that I remembered two very odd conversations with both the GM and the District Manager. Little things like them reminding me how much they’re doing to get rid of the rats. And me just standing there going, “Yeah. I know.”

And then the GM telling me that he discovered who had called about the rats (I didn’t even know anyone HAD called) and he found out who had done it and it was someone from the restaurant and he called the Health Department and they gave him the name of the person. My reply: “Oh. Who was it?”

He just looked at me strangely and muttered, “I’m not going to say” and walked away.

Of course, later I was told that the Health Department will not under any circumstances give out the name of an informant.

THEY THOUGHT I DID IT!

And I only found out last week that someone HAD done it and the person who had done it actually fessed up a while back and said, “Yeah, I called about the rats. Because you guys weren’t doing anything about it.”

But by the time they found out who had actually called about the rats… well, they’d been messing with me for months and I was standing my ground and not letting myself get pushed around.

Overall, lesson for management: If you think someone in your employ did something---maybe don’t just GUESS who did it. Maybe find out some facts before you start harassing an innocent employee.

So, essentially, I’ve been getting punished for months over something I didn’t do.

In fact, more than one person at our restaurant said, “Oh yeah, everyone thought you had called on the rats.”

What? Why?

The answer: Because I was the one who was trying to help get rid of the rats.

And I was trying to get them out of there because I NEED my job and I DIDN’T want the Health Department or the customers to know about them.

Wow. Management is amazing.

“One had better die fighting against injustice than die like a dog or a rat in a trap.”
---Ida B. Wells

But the funny part now is that the guy who’s been trying to see to it that I make less money on my shifts and has been doing all sorts of little things to try to get rid of me---well, I’m now getting a promotion.

He’s not happy about this at all. But there’s not a whole lot he can do. He certainly can’t keep me back because of performance. And basically the entire staff is now going behind his back to hand over shifts to me.

In a nutshell, due to his harassment of me and several other employees (no, I’m not the only one) he has now lost the confidence of about 95% of his staff. And when he goes down, there will be no one there to help him.

“An old rat is a brave rat.”
---French Proverb

About two weeks ago, they found a dead rat behind the bar.

The Old Guy, they called him. Apparently he was so old and beaten and bruised that even human beings could recognize his advanced age.

The rats seem to like it behind the bar. Maybe they’ve taken to lapping up spilled beer and over-poured Cosomopolitans off the floor.

Or maybe it’s just a good place to hide.

I have no idea what other sort of paranoia and made-up things in his head this GM has about me. But one thing’s for sure---he can’t fault me for not doing my job.

I did learn a long time ago that being an intelligent, well-spoken person who does their job seems to be something that restaurant managers find intimidating. It’s as if they need to “figure you out”. They want to spot your weakness. They need to have something ON you---whether they choose to use it or not. It’s a phenomenon I’ve noticed over the years.

Overall, I think they’re intimidated by people who could do their job better than they could. And frankly, yeah, I could.

But I don’t want his job. Have NO DESIRE WHATSOEVER to be a restaurant manager. And frankly, I wouldn’t even care if he was in that position or not as long as he left me alone to DO MY JOB.

So, for now, I’m just trying to hide behind the bar like the rats. I might be laying low, or I might have gone back there to die. But at least I’m brave enough to give it a try.

“You can drop humans anywhere and they'll thrive-only the rat does as well.”
---Jeannette Desor

I’ve worked two bartending shifts, so far. The money is definitely better and at least I’ve got something to keep me busy. Sure, I won’t learn as much Bengali back there, but I can live with that.

My first official day behind the bar, I wasn’t there ten minutes when a guy came in, ordered a glass of cabernet, and five minutes later told me he was going to come back there and lick my pussy.

My response?

Sorry. I’m a little busy right now, sir.

I still called him “sir”. A little hold-out from waiting tables.

I spent years on the other side of the restaurant and all I got was, “This coffee is cold.”

I’m not behind the bar for 15 minutes when…

Yeah, you get some crazies. But it’s a different kind of crazy that sits at the bar. These crazies, you can kick out.

I kind of like that.

And the bartenders have been really supportive. And these guys are tough. When they were originally asked how they felt about me picking up my first bar shift, I was told that one of them replied, “Well, it’s kind of like you’re not sure you want to invite someone to the party.”

And then he paused and said, “But I will say this---she’ll get the job done.”

And I did.

And for doing that, I get glowing recommendations from the two best lobbyists in the restaurant.

As I was leaving that day, I was stocking the bar cooler when I caught myself laughing. The bartender asked what was so funny.

“Well, I was just thinking that after that crazy guy this morning…all I need now is for a rat to run across my foot.”

He laughed and said, “Welcome to the bar!”

The Rats, Pt. 3

If you are reading this and you work in a restaurant and you ever get rats in your restaurant---I will warn you now, you will NEVER get rid of them. They hunker down tighter than a rent control tenant.

A few weeks ago, a certain Broadway personality was dining in our restaurant when a rat literally dropped from the ceiling in the kitchen, jumped down onto the fire extinguisher, fell to the floor and raced out into the dining room. As the cooks and bus boys chased it thru the bar and into the dining area like a scene out of Ratatouille, this particular Broadway actress looked to our Assistant Manager.

“What’s going on? Is it a mouse?” she asked him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said with a straight face.

She paused and then asked, “It’s a RAT?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he insisted.

“Well,” she shrugged like a true New Yorker, “the chicken was good.”

This particular rat got away. Sure, we’d hear about the occasional late-night or early morning sighting. But the General Manager seemed to be content to believe that the rats were gone. In fact, he really seemed to be sick of hearing about the rats.

You see, about eight months ago, he was given a promotion and sent over to our store to be the new General Manager. He was anxious to get started working on all his great corporate motivational ideas---like the sign he put up detailing the particular qualities that make for a great employee. The numbered list included revolutionary ideas like Knowledge of Your Job, Timeliness, Cleanliness---and was photocopied with the name of his previous restaurant simply crossed out and the name of our restaurant written in with a Sharpie. Guys like that want to start firing. They want to start their reign with a clean house. But nothing ruins the potential for a clean house more than rats. Before he could get rid of any of us, he would have to get rid of the rats.

Eight months later, he hadn’t been able to fire anyone. But boy was he itching to do some write-ups. Anything. Unfortunately, the rats kept coming back. After stacks and stacks of sheet metal were drilled into the walls, holes boarded up, nests cleaned out and things seemingly back to normal---he probably felt good. Felt confident that he could finally begin his reign of terror.

And then, just as he was starting to put up notices that had the air of the Nazi “Verboten!” signs…

A lady walked into the restaurant. I just happened to be standing near the front.

“Hi. Are you here for dinner or drinks?” I asked.

“I’m the Health Inspector,” she said as she flashed her badge. Apparently, I was told that they have to flash their badge. I think it’s a bit of overkill for someone who walks around with a thermometer as a weapon, but that’s just me.

Nevertheless, I quickly walked into the kitchen to get our GM.

“I’ve got bad news. The Health Inspector’s here.”

No words will send a restaurant into a tailspin faster than, “The Health Inspector’s here.”

Within seconds, counters were wiped down, sani-gloves were donned, hats were put on, raw meat put away---because the one good thing about a health inspection is that they give you a few minutes to prepare. As for myself, I quickly threw tongs into the bar tray, got rid of dirty dishes, wiped down the counters and immediately grabbed a red plastic bucket (known as a sani-bucket) and filled it with warm water and bleach. Every restaurant is supposed to have a sani-bucket out at all times. I’ve never worked in one that did. But the health inspectors demand to see one out---even if it’s never used.

An hour later, we got the word that we failed our Health Inspection. Failed Big Time. Nothing on the server side---thanks to my quick thinking. Give this girl a raise.

We were fined for a whole load of things the GM should have taken care of had he not been busy making signs telling us not to switch our shifts without permission and putting odd-shaped pieces of plexi-glass all over the place. Frankly, none of us understand the plexi-glass, but it seems to be an obsession with him.

The next day, he was royally chewed out by the higher-ups. His response---take it out on the staff. Little by little he began enforcing long-out-of-date rules and regulations that every GM before him had realized are both unreasonable and/or unworkable.

And then, the rats came back. And we’re due for a follow-up Health Inspection any day now.

Last week they were running between the kitchen and the bar playing some sort of rat game. And it was definitely more than one.

“One of them doesn’t have a tail,” a friend of mine explained. “He looks like a potato. We call him Potato.”

But it was Potato’s tail-enhanced friend who was running back and forth last Thursday night.

“You do realize,” I said to the Assistant Manager, “that he is running thru the kitchen at the exact same time the Health Inspector came in.”

He knew. We all knew. And we all knew that he would most likely try to run out into the dining room. Especially when we saw a group of ladies come in after the theatre. One elderly lady was in a wheelchair. The Assistant Manager and I just looked at each other and had the exact same thought. It’s like in those Laurel and Hardy movies when you see the guy with the gouty foot---you just know something is going to fall on his gouty foot.

And our keen eye for the inevitable just knew that the rat was going to run out right in front of this old woman and give her a heart attack. We did the only thing we could do---we positioned a dishwasher with a broom to stand at the kitchen entrance. A sentry, if you will. It was all we could do.

Luckily, the rat stayed in his hole that night. The Assistant Manager called the extermination company after close and begged them to come down.

“So, if a rat runs across the Health Inspector’s foot,” I asked him, “how many points is that?”

“I think we’re shut down.”

Honestly, it seems it’s all up to the Health Inspector. If they see rodent droppings, they certainly give you points. But if they see the real thing live and in-person? Well, it could mean curtains.

The GM, meanwhile, seems to think we’re all against him and are HOPING the place gets shut down. Where he gets this paranoid delusion, is anybody’s guess. After all, it’s not like getting a Snow Day. If we get shut down, we are all temporarily unemployed. But, as much as he likes to think he’s progressive, he’s certainly an old-school manager---the sort who thinks the employees are out to ruin everything and don’t care at all about the restaurant. Frankly, it’s not that we want to care. I certainly have other things I’d rather be investing my energy in other than a waitress job. But unfortunately, we have to care. And, as far as restaurants go, there are way worse places you could work. I know. I’ve worked in them.

The latest news on the rats came the other day. A bit of sad news.

“We got Potato. Early this morning.”

I was sad. But it’s them or us.

Meanwhile, we’re all starting to place bets on how long our GM will be around. I give it another two months, tops. After all, he’s the tenth GM we’ve had since I’ve been there. They never seem to last long. Only the rats remain.

The Rats, Pt. 2

Yes, once again, we have rats in our restaurant.

For awhile, they appeared to be gone. At first, no one believed the General Manager’s pronouncement that we were now “rat-free”---perhaps because he’d made the announcement at least seven times before. In fact, no sooner would he announce a “rat-free zone” than one would scurry out from under the prep area. He was the manager who cried “No Wolf”.

However, after two weeks of not even a telltale sign, everyone on staff seemed satisfied that we were indeed “rat-free”. Yes, there had been causalities---although no one but me seemed to feel bad for the little guys. But mostly it was the sheet metal that seemed to do the trick. Lots and lots of sheet metal. One wall in the basement was entirely covered in sheet metal. Extra boards were nailed onto baseboards, holes were plugged up with everything from steel wool to a spray-foam, and every nest was cleaned out, boarded up and shut down for rat business.

Personally, I spent several hours online looking for ways to get rid of the rats without harming them. I even went so far as to spend twenty dollars on bobcat urine. Yes, dried, crystallized, bobcat urine. The online testimonials were fantastic. Apparently, the rats smell the bobcat urine, sense that there’s a large predator nearby, and quickly leave the area. My manager looked at me funny when I walked into work with a jar of bobcat urine, but agreed to give it a try. However, it seems that New York City rats have not seen a bobcat in about 200 generations. I might as well have sprinkled dinosaur urine around the place.

Around Halloween, we joked about getting an owl. We could just put it on a pedestal and if customers asked why there was an owl in the dining room, we could just say it was a Halloween decoration. The General Manager laughed a bit, but he seemed to be getting sick of hearing about the rats. In fact, we all sensed that he possibly wanted to do some firing. However, when you have rats, it’s kind of difficult to fire your staff. You just know the first place they’re calling is the City Board of Health.

But sometime, shortly after Halloween, the rats suddenly disappeared.

I have to say, I kind of missed the little guys. Well, not really. But the place did seem kind of empty without the rats. They’d kind of become a part of our day. Something to take the monotony out of restaurant life. Oh, we all had so many rat stories to reminisce about: The time one of the rats dropped from the ceiling and landed on the manager. Then there was the time one of the cooks came in in the morning and a rat was sleeping on top of a bin of dried mashed potatoes. Then there was the time one of the rats was still awake in the morning and the cook came in and saw the rat just walking around the kitchen. The rat saw him, then kind of looked like he went, “Oh geez, is it eight o’clock already? Ooops. Time to go to bed.” And then just casually sauntered off with a little wobble like Fred Sanford.

No matter what we did, the rats just kept coming. We seriously began to wonder if every week, someone wasn’t dropping off a bag o’ rats. In fact, Bag O’ Rats quickly became our favorite catch phrase.

Oh, we have dozens of rat stories. One of my personal favorites was the time a rat ran into the dining room during the dinner rush. We saw it, but none of the customers seemed to notice. I motioned to our manager, letting him know there was a rat in the dining room.

“Where?”

“Right there----under table 28.”

Luckily, I’d learned how to think like a rat. “Look,” I explained, “the rat has a nest downstairs and he’s just trying to get back to his nest. If we open the basement door, the rat will try to run against the wall and sneak downstairs.”

“But there are people sitting at the tables against that wall.”

“The rat will run against the wall and unless he screws up and runs across their feet, we should be okay.”

He quickly ran over and casually opened the basement door. Then we waited. A few moments later we watched the rat slowly make his way underneath the tables where people were obliviously having dinner. Ladies in expensive designer dresses nibbling on their Caesar salads before going to see a Broadway show---completely unaware that a rat was crawling at their feet. One of the Bangladeshi bus boys noticed the manager and myself standing there trying to act casual.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

With customers within earshot, I simply muttered the magic word---“Edu.”

“Oh, Edu,” he said knowingly. I think it’s safe to say that the nearby family of four from Ohio did not know the Bengali word for “rat”. And then another Bengali bus boy walked up to the first one. I heard the first one say “Edu”. And next thing you know, the entire Bengali bus staff was clustered around each other, muttering “Edu” and staring at the tables against the wall.

“Hey, you guys---stop staring. They’re going to figure out something’s wrong.” Whether you speak Bengali or not---when five Bengalis are all staring at you, it’s safe to say something’s up.

Within a few seconds, the Bengali huddle broke up with them all snickering and muttering about Edu. And moments later, Edu made his way, undetected, down the basement stairs and crawled into his nest. Tragedy averted.

Needless to say, after two weeks with no sign of Edu, we all breathed a sigh of relief. And then, as we exhaled, someone said, “I smell dead rat.”

We all began to sniff.

“Do you smell that?” one of the bartenders asked.

Apparently, one had died somewhere behind the bar. The bartenders were pissed. And then, we began to smell something in the dining room.

“What’s that smell?” one of the waitresses asked. “That’s awful.”

Booths were pulled out, tables overturned, all miscellaneous furniture was moved and looked behind, under, inside, everywhere. Even the dishwasher---notorious for fixing, finding, or taking care of any problem with anything---could not find the dead rat.

You didn’t always smell it. Sometimes, you would be going thru your day like nothing was wrong. Everything nice and rosy. And then you’d breathe in and catch a whiff.

“Someone has to do something about that dead rat.”

The manager went out and bought a can of air freshener. So now it smelled like gardenia and dead rat. It was not pleasant.

Eventually, the smell went away. The dead rat’s still there---buried somewhere in the wall or inside the heating vents. Who knows? But at least the smell was gone.

And then, once the smell disappeared, the rats came back. It started on a Friday night. I wasn’t there, but the girl at work who is the most terrified of the rats was leaving for the night. She left her bag in the back room and as she went to retrieve it, saw a rat scurry across the room.

The next day, around ten o’clock that night, the same girl was in the hallway ringing up some items at the register when I looked at the floor and saw a rat scurry up right next to her foot.

She’s terrified of rats. So terrified in fact that she swore that if one ever got close to her, she’d probably have a heart attack and told me that if she died, I would have to take care of her daughter. And, frankly, her six-year old daughter is kind of a shitty kid. I took a heavy step towards her to frighten the rat and watched it run in front of her foot and into a corner about a foot away. I called her name and she looked over.

“Hey,” I said casually, “come here.”

“What? Why?” she asked as she stood there with her notepad.

I grabbed her arm lightly and said, “Just come over here.”

She immediately guessed what was going on and jumped straight up in the air, let out a stifled scream and ran away from the register. “Where is it? Where?”

“There it goes!” I whispered with intensity as the rat took off into the side dining room. One of the bus boys noticed the commotion and walked over.

“Edu.” I explained, and nodded my head discreetly towards the empty side dining room. I quickly ran to the kitchen and grabbed a huge trash can. The bus boy grabbed a broom.

“Oh no, “I said as I pointed to his broom. “Don’t hurt the rat.”

I spotted the rat in the proverbial corner and quickly placed the trash can in front of the rat. I told the bus boy to go behind the rat and try to sweep him into the trash can. The rat would most likely run into the dark trash can and then I could scoop it up, quickly close the plastic bag with my hands, take the trash can outside and release the rat. At this point, not one customer had even noticed.

Unfortunately, the bus boy either didn’t understand my English instructions (I really need to learn more Bengali) or decided to take matters in his own hands. Next thing I know, I’m in front of the trash can and he’s behind it and the rat is screaming. I mean SCREAMING. “Don’t hurt it!” I cried out.

At this point, he appeared to have stopped doing whatever he was doing, but the rat continued to scream bloody murder. Then the rat ran off. Another Bengali spotted it behind a podium and grabbed his own broom. I don’t think he even touched it, but the rat must have gotten caught on something and started screaming again. By this time, six Bengalis were on the case and were yelling things in Bengali I couldn’t even begin to understand. I couldn’t stop them. I felt bad for the rat, started to cry, and walked away. Whatever they were doing, I couldn’t watch.

And, may I say---I was discreet. The Bengalis---not so much so. They don’t seem to realize that trying to kill a rat in front of customers is not such a good thing. By now, a party of six in the bar and my party of two at a nearby table are onto us. As I walked away with tears in my eyes, the young couple at the nearby table asked, “Are they trying to kill it?”

“I think so,” I sputtered as I felt my face getting red. “I can’t watch. I tried to save it, but… It makes me too sad.”

They seemed to understand my feelings towards the rat. They seemed like nice people. And it felt good to be so candid with them. I’d been lying to customers for months. I felt free. Open. Honest.

“I’m sorry,” the guy replied. “It’s a little mouse, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I replied without even missing a beat. “It’s a mouse.”

The rat got away safely.

After several months with the rats, we now realize that they’re eligible for the union. And once they’re in the union, you can never get rid of them.

If we can't laugh about the rats, we'll all go a little crazy.

We’re not infested, like before. But every so often, one of the little guys pops out to brighten our day. This year, I even made a Christmas card for the staff. On the front, a drawing of a bunch of happy rats decorating a Christmas tree. And beneath the picture, it reads, “From all of us to all of you…” Inside, it says, “Have a Very Merry Christmas. Love, The Rats.”

Of course, we can’t put this on the bulletin board with the rest of the Christmas cards from the produce distributers, the former employees and the pickle delivery guys. But it was passed around discreetly at the company Christmas party. As the big wigs sat around feasting on lobster tail and prime rib, getting drunk on expensive liqueurs at the open bar, and watching us all clean up their cocktail napkins filled with shrimp tails and empty skewers---it was fun for us to imagine their happy little party broken up when someone opened up the latest Bag O’ Rats. Unfortunately, the rats were a no-show.

The morning after the company party, one of the cooks found a rat sleeping on top of the refrigerator.

Rats

The restaurant I work in has rats. And I find myself conflicted.

On the one hand, I love little animals. Sure, they're not the coziest little creatures. But rats need love, too.

On the other hand, I need my job. And I certainly don’t want to see a repeat of the whole KFC fiasco. It’s not the greatest job in the world, but it pays the rent.

Therein lies the conundrum.

First of all, let me say that rats in NYC restaurants are much more common than you would think. The reason the KFC rats were such a big news item is because the restaurant had just gotten a clean bill of health from the city AND because the rats were extremely camera-friendly. Made a great visual to play over and over on the national news media. However, the reality is that rats are all over the city. Practically a mascot. In fact, I doubt that a tourist in NYC would find their visit complete without a sighting of both a celebrity and a local rat. “Look---there’s Alan Alda!” “Look---there’s a rat!” See what I mean? Sorry, Alan Alda. Nothing personal.

News of the rats began in the kitchen. Like some folktale about a golem---“I swear I just saw something move.”

No one took it seriously until the Spanish dishwasher began to complain about “rata” in the kitchen. Unfortunately, the Spanish work for mouse is “raton” and, since they sounded so much alike, everyone just assumed we had a little mouse. What’s the big deal?

And then, somewhere along the line, Willard and his army of rats invaded our kitchen like the Sixth Airborne Division on the Normandy beaches. But if we were the Germans, we didn’t put up much of a fight. The following day, someone threw down a few glue traps. The rats weren’t deterred in the slightest. Within about two weeks we had a full-fledged infestation on our hands.

Of course, I was not happy about the situation. However, I felt sorry for the little guys. After all, they were just hungry. They had found a nice, warm, comfy place to live and raise their family. On the other hand, I just signed a lease on a Manhattan apartment. Something had to be done.

First of all, let me explain that I am not afraid of rats. Sure, I don’t want the wild ones crawling all over me in my sleep. But, as the old saying goes: They’re more afraid of you than you are of them. But after watching some of our kitchen staff (grown men, by the way) scream like girls and run out of the kitchen trembling in fear, I’m not so sure.

I decided to come to the rescue. Not wanting to see the little creatures harmed in any way, I headed down to the hardware store to purchase a humane trap.

“Hi. I know this might sound a little strange, but I’m looking for a rat trap where you can catch the rat and then let him go.”

“Sorry,” the man said with what I detected was a faint snicker, “we only have the ones that kill.”

In fact, I was snickered at by at least four different hardware store employees at four different stores. Finally, I went to the Big Daddy of them all---Home Depot. For thirty dollars I was able to purchase the Have-A-Heart Rat Trap---a small, metal contraption guaranteed to catch a rat in no time. A short while later, I walked into work with my rat trap and was practically laughed right out of the kitchen. Everyone seemed to think I was crazy.

“Even if you do manage to catch a rat, what are you going to do with it? Turn it into a pet?”

“No. I’ll just take it down to the river and let it go.”

Everyone thought I had completely lost my mind.

“You mean, you’re just going to walk down the street carrying a sewer rat?”

“This is New York. No one would even bat an eye.”

On that point, at least, everyone seemed to agree. I carefully read the instructions on how to set the trap. I then repeatedly tested the trap, baited it with tasty tidbits, and set it in a rat-friendly area.

The next day, I could hardly wait to go to work. Bear in mind, this is a waitressing job---I never look forward to going to work. But that day I could hardly wait to see my new little rescued ratty.

Unfortunately, the trap was empty. No rescued ratty. But I was not to be deterred. Every night, I faithfully set my trap, to the amusement of my co-workers.

One afternoon, I got a call from a manager.

“Did I catch anything?” was the first thing out of my mouth.

“No. But last night after you left, I saw one in the kitchen…”

“And…” I asked with baited breath.

“You’re gonna need a bigger boat.”

Meanwhile, the management sent in an extermination crew to put down some more effective traps. I would hear news of the deaths. I was sad, but I understood. It was them or us. I was just trying to give the little guys a sporting chance. I even called my family with the news of my latest adventure. My aunt was particularly supportive, “Oh honey, I hope you catch one of those little rats. If you do, be sure to take a picture for me.” Of course I would. Everyday, I made sure to throw my camera into my bag. What a wonderful picture it would make. Me with a big smile on my face, holding my Have-A-Heart rat trap with a little grey rat inside about to be set free. Kodak Magic.

Everyday I got to work and went directly to my trap. Nothing. “But we killed one this morning,” someone would be sure to add. At least I was trying.

However, the sheer number of rats had me puzzled. This wasn’t just one or two who had snuck into the building. This was an infestation. They must be getting in somewhere, but how? And where? I decided that if I wasn’t saving any rats, at the very least, I could try to keep them away from death’s door. I began to track the little guys as they crawled away. Despite the fact that they can get as big as a small cat, these guys can fit thru some pretty narrow openings. And everyday, when the manager or district supervisor would show up, I would direct them to my latest findings. Often, I would be pooh-poohed on my suspicions. One hole in particular, they practically laughed me out of the place---a tiny hole in the ceiling that allowed cables and wires to pass thru. I suggested that a nimble rat could easily climb up the wires and jimmy his way into the hole undetected.

“I’m not so sure about that one.”

This, despite the fact that I’d successfully discovered at least a dozen rat entrances the week before.

“Trust me. I’m 99% sure that they’re going up there.”

That night before close, just on the off chance I might be right, the manager shoved a metal scouring pad into the hole. The next morning, the scouring pad had been pushed thru and the hole had been chewed to a larger size. I became known around work as Rat Girl.

By this time, the rats had grown comfortable around us---if not we around them. And, lucky for us, the rats preferred to confine themselves to the kitchen during business hours. Then they began to venture behind the bar. A decision not welcomed by our bartenders.

“Okay, that’s the fourth time tonight a rat ran across my foot. It’s hard to stand there smiling at customers when you’ve got rats crawling at your feet.”

And then, one night, the father of a lovely family of four leaned in after I dropped the cheque.

“Do you know that you have critters?”

Ooops. Without ever mentioning the word rat (after all, maybe he had just seen a roach) I apologized and thanked him for his astute observation. I was also able to point out that we were aware of the situation and that “a gentleman is outside in a truck right now waiting for us to close so he can come in and take care of the problem.” Good waitress. Give this girl a raise.

And I was telling the truth. There was a guy in a truck. A guy who came in, threw down some more useless glue traps and noted rat droppings on an official form. I saw the bill. He was paid a few hundred dollars for this amazing piece of detective work.

A few days later, I had a family that wasn’t so complacent. They practically ran screaming from the restaurant. Rat Girl seemed to take on a new meaning as I seemed to get the tables that were seeing the rats. I could only apologize and hope they didn’t call the press. A few minutes later, the rats were running all over the back half of the dining room. Oddly enough, the people in the front half of the dining room didn’t seem to notice. But we did. A phone call was put in to the company headquarters begging for permission to close early. Until we heard back, we told the hostess not to seat the back half of the restaurant. But when one rat started to make his way towards table 12 in the front, I literally screamed, “NO!” and ran towards the host stand. I grabbed two menus and nonchalantly walked thru the dining room casually slapping two menus together as I watched the rat scurry back to its nest. I was now shooing rats away from the customers. Definitely not good.

It was at this point that the extermination began in earnest. The manager offered 30 bucks for every rat. The little guys now had a price on their heads. The only thing missing was a Wild West poster with a picture of a rat and the words, “Wanted. Dead or Alive.”

The next day I called a vet friend. My question? Would it be possible to just pick them up and catch them? They weren’t moving all that fast. Couldn’t I just get some animal control gloves and reach down and grab it by the tail and the scruff of the neck.

“Of course,” she replied. “Just get a good pair of oven mitts. They won’t bite. They’ll probably just be startled and freeze.”

My thoughts exactly. The next day I showed up with a brand new pair of oven mitts and ready for action. It wasn’t until a few days later that the emergency call came in.

“We’ve got one trapped in the back dining room!”

I grabbed my oven mitts, climbed over the make-shift barrier and got ready to catch a rat. Grown men were amazed at my courage. They helped me over the barrier as if I’d just volunteered for a suicide mission. I almost expected to be handed a last cigarette. I couldn’t believe it. Such fear over a little rat.

They knew exactly where it was---behind a wooden pedestal. The only two men unafraid of the rats had joined in the mission. One stood by with a broom while the other stood next to the pedestal, ready to move it and frighten the rat out of its hiding spot.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

He moved the pedestal and the rat scurried out. The little grey medium-sized rat ran back and forth trying to get away. I ran after it snapping the fingers on my oven mitts like crab pincers and calling, “Come here, little guy!” I just had to grab it by the base of the tail. But he was quicker than I thought and kept scurrying back and forth. Luckily, he became disoriented from his spinning and suddenly stopped right near my feet. I reached down to grab him by the tail and just then, the dishwasher’s foot came down on his head.

I started to cry.

If everyone thought I was crazy before, now I was completely insane. Who cries over a dead rat? Me. That’s who. I was so close. Two inches away.

The rat-killing disherwasher saw me crying and put his arm around me. “I sorry, Mommy,” he said in broken English; and tried to explain in Spanglish that he was worried the rat would bite me.

“No. La rata non morde,” I said in my own Spanglish. “Yo capturo la rata. Par la base de la cola.”

He comforted me thru my tears as he shook his head. Loca gringa.

At this moment, may I add, that I have yet to catch a rat in the Have-A-Heart rat trap. In fact, the trap seems to have disappeared. In the meantime, their hidey holes have been plugged up one by one; yet, they still manage to get in. Yes, the infestation is over. But no sooner does someone declare the place to be rat-free, than one of the little guys crawls out from under the coffee machine. They’re relentless. Every hole has been plugged up, every crumb wiped off the floor, every nesting area shut down. And yet, just this morning it was reported that one of them crawled out, licked a bit of sugar from someone’s morning coffee off the floor, and shuttled back into a hiding spot.

I still have hopes that I will catch one of the little guys and set him free. In the meantime, when one of them runs thru under the prep area, I try to create sympathy for his plight by singing “Ben”. But even ballads about rats don’t seem to help. I understand. And, I admit, that at this point, even I want the rats gone. It’s getting hard to continue apologizing to the tables that spot one of them scurrying near the bathrooms. I leave the glue traps where they are. I don’t disturb the snap traps. Although I do remember to tell the porters a handy bit of information I learned online---that if you do catch a rat in a glue trap, you can simply take him outside, pour a little bit of room temperature vegetable oil on the glue, and the rat can free himself. But I don’t get the feeling that any of them are inclined to offer life-saving vegetable oil to the rats.

In the meantime, we try to make jokes about the special tonight being “ratatouille” and continue hoping for our 15-20% tips. On the upside, the roach population seems to have gone down. See---the rats are good for something.