Taking Orders at Trios

nutting like slinging hash for Maurad

the master of chaos
Maurad running the show
would you like fries with that?
Heather slinging hash
Yeah, I'll make it spicy for you!
Assan in control
Its dinnertime and I am hungry, but too bad, I can’t eat till 10pm, and then I’m restricted to one menu. Now I’m not on some crazy diet, I’m at work, as a waiter in Trio Restaurant on the corner of 17th and Q Streets NW, in DC, and I have no time to eat.

It’s the dinner rush, and we’re working hard, or hardly working if you ask Maraud, our psycho manager. He, like all restaurant managers, is manic-depressive, swinging between the heights of happiness when his restaurant is busy and we’re selling, selling, selling, and the depths of despair if we mess up an order or a table complains.

Tonight, I am not worrying about Maraud, for Heather, the resident party girl waitress, and I are working the tables outside and the cool night air mixes with the warm aroma of hot dinners ready to eat, making everyone happy.

That is everyone but Jennifer, who after six years, is like furniture here and usually always gets the good section. Tonight though, she is in the back smoking section, and as the night is so pleasant, all the smokers are outside with Heather and I.

Rob, who is always excited about making money, is working the front, which is always busy, no matter the night, as it’s the favorite section for the many regulars who’ve been eating at Trio, seemingly since it opened in 1950.

Yes, Trio was here before many of us were born, which gives us servers great leeway in how we deal with the customers. From what we’ve heard, unless we actually physically abuse the patrons, the regulars are happy with the current service. Maraud is understandably proud of his turnaround act, and even George, the owner is impressed, though he’s never show it.

Now Assan, the brilliant yet schizophrenic chief, shows all his many emotions, usually in a angry shout from the bowels of the kitchen, as he berates the cooks, us, and the servers from the bar next door who share our kitchen. If ‘m lucky, I can get my order from him without a chunk of ice or at least an insult, hurled my way.

I get more interesting things hurled at me from the patrons, though, as the mix of random old queens and cuties find my quick wit and sassy delivery a refreshing change from the usual, ‘Hi, I’m Steve and I’ll be you’re server tonight,’ line.

And unlike those kinda corporate places, Trio has one hell of a menu, spanning from ribs and burgers to lobster and venison, testing my short-term memory and Assan’s cooking skills. Luckily, he has help in the form of Russell, who works the full soda bar, where I grab the best ice cream milkshakes and banana splits in all of DC.

Russell is also good for a tip or two on the horses, football, or a variety of other betting situations. I wouldn’t trust his picks too much since he still hasn’t won enough to give up his privileged position as Waffle-Making King of DC, which he wins every Sunday brunch.

As for me, I’ve gotta go now, as the albino just walked in, and we haven’t seen him in a while!