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David took an overly-anxious Brooke to the lounge, and approached me.
"All right, Eliza, make us proud," he told me, "be professional, don't drop anything, and whatever you do, DON'T disappoint Brooke."
Thanks, David.
With my paper and pen, and a fake, confident smile on my face, I approached the critic. His name tag says Ulysses Brown.
"Hi, I'm Eliza, and I'll be your waitress today," I said as professionally as possible, "can I start you out with something to drink?"
"I'll have a lemonade," he said, "it's made here, right?"
"Correct," I replied, "I'll be right out with that."
Carly, who usually watches out for me when Brooke's busy, had the critic's lemonade ready for me when I approached the kitchen. I set it carefully in front of the critic. He took one sip and jotted notes in his notebook. I tried to look at what he wrote, but he flipped it shut.
"Can I get you something to eat, sir?" I asked.
"I'll have the 'Let it Be and Eat Your Chicken Pot Pie'," he replied. He made more notes in his book.
"Will that be all?" I asked.
"Yes, thank you," he replied.
"Your food will be right out," I told him. I delivered the orders to the kitchen. Then I went to the lounge to check on Brooke. She was reclining on a couch listening to my iPod again, since she forgot hers.
"Hi Brooke," I said, calmly.
"ELIZA!" she exclaimed, jumping up. My iPod and earphones fell on the ground. She ran up to me, put her hands on my shoulders and looked me in the eyes.
"How did it go?" she asked, anxiously.
"Fine," I replied, "I was professional, calm, and I said exactly what you told me to say."
"Did he seem pleased?"
"What did his notes say?"
"What did he order?"
"Did you spill his drink on him?"
Brooke was full of anxious questions.
"I think everything's fine, Brooke," I replied, although I was unsure, "I didn't see his notes. He showed no emotion. He ordered the chicken pot pie, and no, I didn't spill his drink on him, either."
"Thank goodness," Brooke sighed.
"I'm gonna go back out and wait for the food," I told Brooke.
She grabbed my hand and held it.
"Thank you, Eliza," she told me, "I know it's a lot of pressure, and you're only 13, but I'm trusting you."
She gave me a hug and I walked out of the lounge. Soon, the critic's meal was ready and with confidence, I brought it to the table and set it down in front of him.
"Thank you," he said, sounding pleased. He wrote more notes in his book. I hoped the notes were good. More than likely, the notes were about me, because he hadn't even tried the food yet.
"Can I get you another lemonade?" I asked, noticing his empty cup.
"Yes, please," he replied. I removed the cup, and brought him another lemonade in a new cup. It was probably a good thing he ordered a second lemonade.
That probably meant he liked it.
I hope he liked his waitress, too.
"All right, Eliza, make us proud," he told me, "be professional, don't drop anything, and whatever you do, DON'T disappoint Brooke."
Thanks, David.
With my paper and pen, and a fake, confident smile on my face, I approached the critic. His name tag says Ulysses Brown.
"Hi, I'm Eliza, and I'll be your waitress today," I said as professionally as possible, "can I start you out with something to drink?"
"I'll have a lemonade," he said, "it's made here, right?"
"Correct," I replied, "I'll be right out with that."
Carly, who usually watches out for me when Brooke's busy, had the critic's lemonade ready for me when I approached the kitchen. I set it carefully in front of the critic. He took one sip and jotted notes in his notebook. I tried to look at what he wrote, but he flipped it shut.
"Can I get you something to eat, sir?" I asked.
"I'll have the 'Let it Be and Eat Your Chicken Pot Pie'," he replied. He made more notes in his book.
"Will that be all?" I asked.
"Yes, thank you," he replied.
"Your food will be right out," I told him. I delivered the orders to the kitchen. Then I went to the lounge to check on Brooke. She was reclining on a couch listening to my iPod again, since she forgot hers.
"Hi Brooke," I said, calmly.
"ELIZA!" she exclaimed, jumping up. My iPod and earphones fell on the ground. She ran up to me, put her hands on my shoulders and looked me in the eyes.
"How did it go?" she asked, anxiously.
"Fine," I replied, "I was professional, calm, and I said exactly what you told me to say."
"Did he seem pleased?"
"What did his notes say?"
"What did he order?"
"Did you spill his drink on him?"
Brooke was full of anxious questions.
"I think everything's fine, Brooke," I replied, although I was unsure, "I didn't see his notes. He showed no emotion. He ordered the chicken pot pie, and no, I didn't spill his drink on him, either."
"Thank goodness," Brooke sighed.
"I'm gonna go back out and wait for the food," I told Brooke.
She grabbed my hand and held it.
"Thank you, Eliza," she told me, "I know it's a lot of pressure, and you're only 13, but I'm trusting you."
She gave me a hug and I walked out of the lounge. Soon, the critic's meal was ready and with confidence, I brought it to the table and set it down in front of him.
"Thank you," he said, sounding pleased. He wrote more notes in his book. I hoped the notes were good. More than likely, the notes were about me, because he hadn't even tried the food yet.
"Can I get you another lemonade?" I asked, noticing his empty cup.
"Yes, please," he replied. I removed the cup, and brought him another lemonade in a new cup. It was probably a good thing he ordered a second lemonade.
That probably meant he liked it.
I hope he liked his waitress, too.
