Chowhound is a weekly column about what’s trending in Detroit food culture. Tips: [email protected].
Karen & Kevin reservations: It’s hard to imagine myself working in customer service these days. Good at it once, I wonder how things would go now. Make no mistake: At 61, keeping up isn’t a concern. My worry is putting up with clientele the current culture pejoratively christens “Karens” and “Kevins,” a relatively recent trend in name-calling far kinder and gentler than the curt and coarser labels I’ve cursed under my breath at horse’s ass customers of both genders.
By nature, these characters are nothing new. People who sometimes lose it over something for some reason have been around since the beginning. I’m sure cavemen went apeshit over other cave folk’s hunter-gatherer habits. Knights in armor threw down the gauntlet over the slightest of perceived slights, and nowadays, YouTube offers ongoing evidence that temperance in societal evolution may yet be in its infancy phase. True confession: I’ve been a Kevin here and there myself. Case in point: I once picked a fight with a church pastor at a Little League field, in front of my son, his baseball team, and a handful of parents and parishioners. It was bad. I’m better now.
Shameful behavior is common in hospitality industry horror stories. Today’s hard-to-handle consumers seem comparable to those I recall. To wit:
- While seating a customer at a requested patio table once, she immediately remarked, “It’s too sunny.” After apologizing for our outdoor space having no shaded spots available and offering to reseat her inside, she dismissed me with a hand hush and an abrupt “never mind.” Two minutes later, her server told me, “A lady on the patio wants to ‘speak to somebody in charge.’” When I reappeared tableside, she shook her head and huffed, “I need you to do something about that sun immediately.” In my best God, creator of the universe, voice, I glared up at the sky, pointed toward the offending orb, and spoke: “I banish thee from the heavens!” She got up and left. It was 2002. There were no Google reviews to fear. Those were the days.
- A girl getting drunk and obnoxious at my bar one night asked me for an empty pint glass. She’d just downed a Margarita after starting with a Bloody Mary and doing shots with two guys who offered to buy her a couple rounds. When I handed over the glass, she sealed it around her mouth and puked it full. Quickly but carefully, she put her mess down on the bar and pushed it slowly toward me, putting on a sloppy smile that made her look like Janis Joplin fading after another offstage party.
“Uh, listen,” I stepped back and let her know. “You get to keep that one as a souvenir. Time to go.”
“Underssstand, sssorry.” Janis slurred. “I can’t drive. Will one of you guys…”
“I’ll get you home safe,” I intervened, waving off the duo who’d bellied up for the drinks she’d just barfed out. It was the ’90s. We called her a cab, and made sure she took an empty to-go cup for the road.
And if anything proves that old saying that angels watch over children and drunks, it’s this true tale of cry-for-help child-rearing:
Two new parents and their baby came into the restaurant without a reservation one evening while I wasn’t out front. As per what she’d been trained to do, our hostess directed them to the lounge area to wait for a table. Putting their precious little bundle on the bar top strapped into a car seat, they decided to start drinking. Apparently, other customers admiring the infant sprang for a few congratulatory cocktails. By the time I caught wind of the situation, mom and dad were three sheets bombed and oblivious, with a baby perched precariously four feet off the floor.
I made a beeline to the host stand, telling our girl to give Mr. and Mrs. Child Protective Services Case Study the very next table. Then I stood there watching the proceedings like a dummy. Sure enough, before anything opened-up, someone squeezed in to order and bumped that car seat right off the bar. I saw it happen just like you hear about, in slow-mo. The seat did one complete flip over hard tile before landing back on its base. Mom screamed when she realized what had just hit the floor behind her. Dad and I got down on the ground where the baby had fallen in the next, same moment, nearly bumping heads.
“Oh my God,” was all I could say to his face. Then the ass had the audacity to stand up, point, and start to laugh.
“Look at that!” Dad stood grinning and gesturing over the carrier. “Like nothin’ happened.” Baby appeared fine; all belted in, wide-awake but neither injured, upset, nor even the slightest bit startled. It took another minute for everyone to realize how miraculously well things ended. Then the recriminations started, right after a few folks barked up — and rightly so — about babies having no business kicking it in bars (with their cute little feet and tootsies). I apologized; taking the blame for the most part, which is more than I can say for those parents.
“My child should not have been put in this position,” Mom, equal parts panicked and pickled, piped up at me. I couldn’t have agreed more. My bad in one sense, but get a clue in another, lady.
“Maybe we should report this,” baby daddy piled on. Now, there’s evidence for two proud parents to present in civil court. I could just hear them: “Your honor; we were just minding our own business, knocking back a few with Junior on the bar when…”
It’s like I’ve often said: The restaurant business might be better off with a few less customers.
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