THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, September 29, 1996 TAG: 9609270296
SECTION: SUFFOLK SUN PAGE: 02 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: FACES AND PLACES
SOURCE: Susie Stoughton
LENGTH: 91 lines
Hold the tray with your fingertips, not the palm of your hand, instructed Mary, a veteran waitress.
Sure, I thought.
The higher you hold it, the more control you have, said the voice of experience.
I had agreed - somewhat reluctantly - to help wait tables at Main Streets for part of Tuesday evening to raise money for the Nansemond-Suffolk Volunteer Rescue Squad.
The squad needs all the money it can get. But waitressing was not a job for me. In one of my worst nightmares, I'd be pouring tea in a customer's lap.
The restaurant had volunteered to donate all tips and 10 percent of the meal tabs to the squad. All they needed was a bunch of ``celebrity'' waiters.
I knew right off I was in trouble. I feared that tea pitcher, and I didn't even qualify as a celebrity. But then, there were others there who also weren't as well-known as Del. Robert E. Nelms or his one-time political foe, attorney Jack Eure.
Nelms, home from his General Assembly duties for now, felt at ease. His family had run a restaurant when he was growing up, and he had helped often.
But he had never heard of the fine art of balancing the tray on his fingertips, he said: ``We would just grab it and go.''
With no outfits or aprons, none of us could pass for the wait staff.
Barbara Rayburn, the squad's treasurer who had coordinated the fund-raiser, told us just to wear what we would wear to work.
Most of the men were in shirt sleeves, though a few were still wearing ties. Major William Freeman, acting police chief, had pulled his city T-shirt over his dress shirt.
And Dr. Art Chambers, who patches people up in the emergency room at Obici Hospital, sported a pair of spiffy pants, matching vest and a bow tie.
``I thought I'd come dressed like a waiter,'' he said, though none of the regular wait staff had on anything like his get-up.
His outfit must have worked, however, because he brought a large jar full of tips to Leah Powell, catering and banquet manager, after tending bar in the banquet room. The Tri-County Medical Association was meeting there, and Chambers apparently hit up his fellow physicians pretty good.
The biggest ``celebrity'' came in jeans and a leather jacket. Driving up in a four-wheel drive with Cross Realty painted on the side, Elvis looked remarkably like Harry Lee Cross III.
``Anyone can come in a shirt and tie,'' said the tall crooner, his greased hair slicked back and white socks showing above the top of his boots.
Fortunately, he didn't sing, though some of the restaurant's patrons reportedly paid big tips to keep him from entertaining them.
Our jobs would be easy, Rayburn had assured us. Basically just refill water and tea, maybe bring out a basket of bread and socialize with the diners.
Oh, no, I thought. Not tea. Please don't let me spill it. Please.
Before I knew what I was doing, Powell was pointing me toward a couple coming in the door. She handed me two menus and told me to seat them. Sure, I thought, smiling to hide my insecurity.
``Did you ask them if they wanted smoking or not?'' Powell quizzed me as I was about to walk off.
Oh, no, I said, turning back to the guests.
Non-smoking, they smiled, as I led them toward the section where Powell was pointing.
Yes, they would like some water, they said. With lemon.
Great. Just where do I get the water? Somehow, I hadn't quite gotten the hang of all the details, and now none of the ``real'' wait staff was in sight.
Before I knew it, someone else was pouring water at ``my'' table.'' Plain water. No lemon. I desperately searched for Mary, the calm veteran.
Finally, someone handed me a small plate of lemon slices for my guests.
I wondered how Fox Urquhart, assistant Commonwealth's Attorney, could be so calm as he served salads and bread to a booth nearby. He'd never worked as a waiter, he said, though he serves at his Ruritan Club's dinner each year.
He appeared to be a pro, I thought as I walked back to the entrance area. Powell handed me three menus as a trio arrived.
Smoking, they said, as Powell pointed toward the back.
Surely, regular waitresses have some training before just jumping in. Someone probably even teaches them to pour tea without spilling, I thought.
The celebrities and rescue members stumbled all over each other, getting in the way of the hard-working waiters. But a regular waitress and I somehow managed to get drinks for the three men. Thankfully, she got tea for one, while I sought out the bartender.
As the men were finishing their meals, Powell handed me the dreaded pitcher of tea, instructing me to go refill glasses.
Nervously, I poured, careful not to spill a drop.
As I returned the pitcher to the counter, I glanced at my watch, grateful it was time for me to go.
Better quit while I'm ahead, I thought, before someone else needs a tea refill. ILLUSTRATION: Staff photo by MICHAEL KESTNER
Lori Crawford, a ``real'' waitress, points Del. Robert E. Nelms in
the direction of a table that needs attending at Main Streets. by CNB