“When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.” — Maya Angelou

At 6:30 p.m., it was 88 degrees, with a two-hour wait — just another Thursday night at Casa del Sol.

Dermott Morgan was spinning tales and pushing margaritas while I ran food, and Jay Fogarty, with the patience of someone teaching a cat to fetch, explained you needed a seat to order food served on a 400-degree plate. It was magical Mexican mayhem — until I was yanked away.

“Aimless!” boomed Harry Tucker’s voice across the deck. I froze. Harry yelling your name was no bueno.

“Suzi’s sick, come in and take over her tables.”

Like I said, no bueno. With zero choice, I grabbed the tiger by the tail and went inside.

The outside bar was fast, fun and fresh air. Glimpses of Lake Flower advertised the refreshing ecstasy waiting when our shift was over.

Inside was an easily irritated beast — more noise, more heat, more tables. The motto was “eat it and beat it” for a reason: the faster the food went out, the sooner we’d all be done.

Tina Hammaker’s voice razored through the din of Mariachi music, fans whirring and 50 customers in various stages of sobriety. “Sir, get behind that red line,” she yelled at a guy in a gray suit with a red checkered tie.

Hostess Mary Jill Blossom McKenty gave me the lowdown as I wrapped on my apron. “You have tables 10, 3, 2, and I am sitting you a 10-top of fancy guys. Fred’s happy, Jon Leo’s acting strange, and the kitchen’s winning again, 4-2.”

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Who’s this?

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The swinging door opened into a suffocating wall of heat. Fueled by Montreal’s Chom 97.7 FM, the crew –Murphy “Macho” Ryan and Fred Nero on the line, Dave Wilson prepping, and Jon Leo on scrub — sang “Smoke on the Water” in every key, from “pitch perfect” to “please stop.”

Murphy slid sizzling nachos on the line pointing down with an industrial oven mitt. “You’re the fast ring. These are for cactus, and Who’s This?”

I groaned. The kitchen and front of the house played a never-ending radio game called “Who’s This.” With a heart full of grunge, and a shaky grasp on ’70s rock, I was the weak link.

I hesitated, “Lynyrd Skynyrd?”

“We’re up 5-2!” Murphy yelled. “Deep Purple.”

The suited and spiffy 10-top were seated, ties loose and jackets slung on chairs. I gave them a big smile, hoping for a nice tip.

“Watch out for us, Flo,” said the Red Checkered Tie Guy from the bar.

“My name’s not Flo,” I said amicably while filling water glasses.

Red Checkered Tie flashed a smile that probably dazzled most people — most people who weren’t sweating through their undergarments midway through a 7-hour shift.

“You know, from Alice?” he said “I call all waitresses Flo.”

They ordered multiple apps and margos 10 at a time. Dave Germaine, my favorite frenemy, pulled me aside. “Keep an eye on those guys on table 8.” I made a face and he said, “Trust me.”

But what could Dave possibly know after 20 years as a server? Turns out, a heck of a lot more than me.

Red Checker’s table kept me running, single ordering drinks and multiple individual requests. Forty-one margaritas and 13 entrees later, I handed Red Checkers a hefty bill. He whipped out his gold mastercard “Here ya go, Flo.”

Two small issues popped up like toast. “Still not Flo,” I said, with a forced grin, “and no credit cards.” Ding, ding, ding — my food was up.

“What?” his face curdled.

Welcome to Series One, Episode One of my “No, we really don’t take credit cards” reality show.

Ding, ding, ding. Rapid fire, Freddy shot bullet bells from the kitchen.

“Who doesn’t take credit, it’s 1991?” asked Red Checkers.

“It’s on the front of the menu,” I said, inching away.

Ding, ding, ding, Freddy was standing in the doorway arms crossed. Red Checkers pressed, placing his cards on the table, “American Express? Discover?”

Begin Episode Two, when customers offered a refresher in noun recognition displaying useless credit options.

“No cards, cash or check.” I ran past Fred, whose black eyebrows glowered menacingly — his last name wasn’t Nero for nothing.

I delivered food to table five and returned to salvage my tip.”I didn’t order salsa cruda, Flo. I want you to comp that,” Red Checkers said.

“Your table ordered five jars and ate them. Take it up with Tina at the bar,” I shot back. I wasn’t comping anything — he could kiss my cruda. I ran more food and went back to clear the empty big table. I stopped. The bill was there with no money.

Frantically I looked around and through the window I saw Red Checkers running to a car. I ran too, out the dining room, through the crowd just in time to lock eyes like sumo wrestlers with Red Checkers who sped away leaving me in a cloud of dust and flying pebbles.

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Signs

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I spent the rest of my shift in a haze of self-loathing, cursing myself for trusting people who looked decent. I went over the now obvious warning signs: they over-ordered without asking for takeout containers, Red Checkers caused a diversion by nitpicking the bill, three guys went to the bathroom together, and two ran to the car to “get cash for a tip.”

His first words were not to trust them, but they were polite, chatted me up and stacked their plates. How did I miss the signs? Was it cognitive dissonance or waitressing brain fog? All I had at the end of my shift was sore feet, an unpaid bill, and dread of facing Harry.

I knew other bosses made servers pay when customers dined and dashed, but Harry was a far cry from them.

Harry never asked me to pay the $476 bill. He was annoyed but sympathetic. “It happens Aimless. Next time you’ll be ready. Now, sweep that floor like your mother-in-law is coming for dinner.”

When I meet someone who broadcasts their character flaws, I believe them.

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Salsa Cruda

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Original Casa del Sol recipe from Murphy Ryan

Ingredients:

4 medium, chopped ripe tomatoes

2 1/2 cups chopped onions

5 fresh chopped jalapeños

2 tsp salt

1 1/2 cup water

2 cups chopped fresh cilantro

Directions:

Add all ingredients and refrigerate for 3-4 hours. If you expand the recipe, do not expand the amount of jalapeños. Makes 3 quarts.