Shauna Chapman is the only other server on duty this Sunday. Fresh out of a bad relationship, she recently left Boston, the only hometown she's ever known, to return to school in South Florida. Her deep dimples and dark blond ponytail make her look more like a high school girl than the graduate student she is. Shauna is shy but optimistic about her move and new job. "This is the first time I've lived away from Boston, but I'm excited to live somewhere that's warm in the winter," she confides as we prepare napkin rolls for the day.
Breakfast service starts with five Fort Lauderdale firefighters who just got off the night shift. Pete takes their food orders. This is the first of many times today when I'll hear a heated discussion as some guest wants to substitute potatoes for tomatoes ($1 extra) or get a refill on a cup of joe (75 cents). Sure, the no-substitutions rule is handy for the waitstaff and chefs, but it irritates the patrons.
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After about 45 minutes, the check comes and the firefighters tip well, about $25 on their $100 check. "Generally the tips are quite generous," Pete says as he sweeps by to pick up the check and the dirty dishes in one graceful move. "No one really gives less than 20 percent."
An older man comes in with a much younger woman. It's difficult to tell whether she's a daughter, niece, or girlfriend. He's dressed in khaki slacks, a black Lacoste polo, and driving loafers. She's wearing a Rolex watch and Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses, which are perched on her shiny, highlighted hair. The man orders coffee and a crab omelet; she goes for a skim latte, an egg white omelet, and a fruit bowl. "Her salon bill is probably more than my rent," Pete quips. For a $40 check, they leave $12. Again, not bad.
A young couple comes in with a toddler and asks for a booster seat. The restaurant has none, so the couple sits the boy between them in a booth. Pete tells me there are no child seats on purpose; kids are messy and they're not really encouraged here. The couple orders eggs and a pancake and asks for a substitute: "Is there anything besides potatoes?" Yes, grits, but not fruit — that's extra. In this little breakfast house, most people go with the flow when they're told they can't get their way.
It's now about 10 a.m. The tables are all filled, and there are almost a dozen names on the waitlist already. Pete and Shauna look less tired than bored. There are four hours to go.
Three retired men walk in and suddenly there's a buzz. Rodney, the owner, says the man in yellow is the former CEO of Roche Pharmaceuticals. With him are two men of the same age, mid-60s. One says he has just returned from the Bahamas, where he loaned his yacht to Columbia Sportswear for a photo shoot. It seems he traded his ship for a day of model-watching. The men are jovial, stay for a while, and leave a decent tip of about $15 for a $54 bill.
We're well into the morning and there's an hourlong wait. Every time a party leaves, the table gets bussed almost immediately. The restaurant plays like a good piece of music. A group that had the foresight to bring their own bloody marys in red plastic party cups sits outside in a makeshift waiting room. At the outside tables, a young couple with a fluffy Pomeranian in a pink T-shirt grows impatient for food. "We're hungry," the man bellows.
I try to diffuse the situation, but the guy follows me inside and angrily extinguishes his cigarette on the window. It could easily escalate, but Rodney calmly asks the man to leave. Maybe he's embarrassed to be seen with a dog in a pink shirt, but he just exits.
The shift is almost over, and two more couples come in. Over cups of coffee, they pass around a grainy black-and-white picture. It's an ultrasound image of one couple's first child. "This is the first naked picture of my daughter," the proud father-to-be says between sips of his latte.
After a seven-hour shift, the checks are tallied up. My split of the tips is $180. That translates to about $25 an hour from grats alone. In Florida, waiters also make a minimum wage of $4.65 per hour from the house. If I were working full-time, that would equal about $55,000 a year — double the salary of an average security guard and nearly equal to that of a low-ranking beat cop.
Pete tells me that he's worked at just about every high-end restaurant in Fort Lauderdale since coming to Florida nearly three decades ago. Though he admits he could make more money working dinner service somewhere else, he considers O-B his place. "It might not be my restaurant, but it's my vision," he says. "I tell Rodney every day: 'It's your money, but it's my restaurant.'"
Then Pete confesses the real reason he's serving breakfast: "Could I make more money at night? Fuck yeah, but then I'd be doing coke, chasing women, and getting into trouble."