Can You Seat A Large Party?

            It’s Christmas Eve in St. Pete Beach, Florida and Grandma tells us we need a reservation for 22 people.  It’s hard enough securing a table for a party that large on a normal day, let alone December 24.  It took a few calls, but we made it happen.  Skidders at 5:00 P.M.

            Taking a step back, I guess I should explain how we gathered together 22 hungry Jews in the first place.  Our extended family happened to be gathered in Florida for the occasion of my grandparents’ 50^th Anniversary.  Apparently that’s a pretty big deal…so here we were.

            When we showed up at 5:03, our tardiness was the least of our problems.  Choosing a good seat is imperative for the success of the meal—no one wants to listen to that distant relative bore them to death with their entire life story—so everyone was scrambling to perch themselves amongst company they could at least tolerate.  To make matters worse, there were only 20 seats (actually, 19 and a high-chair) at our mile long table.  It was another seven or eight minutes before a couple of extra chairs were fetched and everyone was squeezed into place.

            I felt nothing but sympathy for the poor waitress who proceeded to take our orders.  Serving 18 adults and 4 children is difficult enough, not to mention my family’s notoriety for giving exceedingly complicated directions.  After all the onion-less salads, on-the-side pasta sauce, and extra-medium burgers were ordered, the real fun began.

            The kids played with silverware, the drinks were refilled, and the food was slowly but surely delivered.  One child fell asleep at the table and was wheeled across the street to her bed at the hotel.  Her younger sister was wide-awake but refused to eat anything that wasn’t one of her mother’s French Fries.  Finally, the dishes were cleared and it was time for the adults to square away the bill.

            This is always the most entertaining part of the meal (at least when you’re in no danger of being the one that ends up with the check).  The respective heads of households jockeyed over rights to pay.  It’s mostly the men of the family that take the reigns, but the fiercest competitor of them all is my stubborn grandmother.  With such a large group this process was exceedingly difficult, but once the dust cleared we emerged with some kind of impromptu plan for splitting the total.  Still, the losers could be seen passing cash across the table to a chorus of screams and curses.  It’s amazing how good adults are at pretending they enjoy shelling out large sums of money for their family.

            Of course when that was over, there was the typical scheming about how much to tip; no one wants to be the one who comes out the cheapest.  There was also a controversy over whether or not some gratuity was already included with the meal.  It took a solid half hour for this entire payment process to be completely resolved.  So, when all was said and done, there were a handful of grumpy adults, a crowd of disinterested spouses, and a faction of tired kids who all just wanted to go home.  One by one, we filed out, en route to our respective hotel rooms.

            I’m sure my version of Christmas Eve dinner wasn’t exactly of the traditional variety.  We don’t go to mass, we don’t light up the tree, and we wouldn’t dream of eating pork (actually, I got a bacon-cheeseburger).  But as far as I can tell, my family’s holiday meals are just as crazy as the rest.

The White Pickup Gang

            For the past two summers I have had the pleasure of working at a snowball stand.  I get paid minimum wage (plus tips) to read, listen to music, eat free snowballs, and occasionally serve a few customers.  Over this time, I have truly come to appreciate the subtleties of the famous Baltimore dessert.

            For a long time I was a casual snowball fan.  I stuck to my usual skylite, occasionally branching out to strawberry, watermelon, or—perhaps my favorite—cola flavored.  I never even considered trying egg custard or marshmallow on my snowball.

            But, as an official snowball stand employee, it was recommended that I try all of the flavors.  I needed to be educated enough to make decent recommendations to customers.  So I spent my first few weeks on the job eating a lot of snowballs…after all, who can argue with free snowballs?  Raspberry, peach, and even cotton candy were surprisingly delicious.  Blood orange, peppermint, and fireball were not so much.  I even tried chocolate—something I swore I’d never do—and threw some marshmallow on top for good measure.  Surprise, surprise, they weren’t kidding when they said I’d been missing out for years.  Soon I came up with my own specialties: root beer float was my new favorite, consisting of root beer flavor with crème poured on top.

            Working at a snowball stand does come with a little bit of excitement.  The people you meet are always interesting.  From flustered babysitters dealing with one too many kids, to local construction workers, you meet all sorts of people.  My personal favorites are some of my most loyal customers.  A man and a woman, probably in their mid-forties, they always pull up in this old white pick-up truck.  The first time it was just the two of them.  The guy had a lot of difficulty ordering their snowballs, fumbling over his thoughts, and asking way too many questions for an order that is as simple as size and flavor.  My first thought was that he must be drunk, but it was a recurring theme, and always in the middle of the day.

            They came back at least a few times a week, but each time they brought one more person in their truck.  First just the two of them, then one of their friends, then another, until one day they showed up with a whopping party of seven in the rusted old pickup.  Finally I got the guy’s order down; he liked a jumbo grape with marshmallow in the middle and on top, sometimes with a dash of lemon to complement the flavor.  I was really starting to like the group when one day I finished with their orders, the truck pulled away, and I looked in my tip jar.  I could’ve sworn there were a couple more dollars in there before, but I didn’t think twice about it.

            Then, a couple days later the white truck rolled back up to the stand.  The lady hopped out, but this time she wasn’t wearing her usual smile.  She approached and began to explain how sorry she was.  At first I didn’t understand, but then she pulled out my three dollars that her husband had stolen from the jar.  She apologized profusely and I thanked her for returning my tips, promising that I wasn’t angry.  After that I didn’t see the white truck for a while.  But a few weeks later my friends from the pickup finally returned, and I couldn’t help but smile.  They’re welcome at my snowball stand any day… but from now on I’ll be keeping a closer eye on my tips.