The Day Before Xmas at Chili's

While working at Chili's, I wrote this for the holiday party. The management actually let me read it at the party, two years in a row.

* * *

Twas the day before Christmas,
And all thru the store,
Not a creature was stirring,
Except for Tom, who even with his new title as district manager, was changing the lights, fixing a leak, greasing O-rings, trying to locate his new job description and repairing the door.

The chili's were hung on the tree, red and bright.
What a strange way of showing Christmas-time light.
In came the cooks, starting prep for the day,
In hopes that the tickets wouldn't be coming their way.

Spark the smokers, thaw the chicken and then cut the cheese,
Slice the lettuce, tomatoes, warm up the grease.
Basting and cutting, like elves by the pole,
They lay out the vittles for platter and bowl.

Then in come the waiters and bartenders to try,
To make some real sense out of management's cry.
"Do it this way," says Jimmy, "And then like that,"
"Or maybe it's this way, I think, oh drat"

They arrange and they move all the stuff from last night,
That was arranged and then moved so clean-up looked right.
Then just when the other employees arrive,
Out front of the door grows a crowd large in size.

They push and they shove and make such a big clatter,
Even Dave gets curious, "What the heck is the matter."
So James grabs the keys and off to the doors,
"I'm unlocking," he says, "My god, count the cars."

Faith gets poised, pen and pad by her side,
"I'm taking names, she tells Michelle, "hold on for a ride."
The doors fly wide open, in come young and old,
You'd think we were giving away something gold.

Like children at feeding time, they yell and they shriek,
"I was first, where's my table, bring some chips and my drink."
"Where's my waiter, call your boss, I have to eat now,
"I've spent all morning shopping, I could eat a whole cow"

The patrons call out whether anyone's near
"Bring an O-blos, some queso, super nachos and beer."
"No, I don't want some soup, put my cheese in a plate,"
"Eighty-six half the items, and don't you be late."

"For my entree you see, I'll have a strip cooked well done."
"And for godsakes my man, find me a browned whole wheat bun."
The tickets flew in, the cooks they got busy.
At similar restaurants, their crew would get dizzy.

They slopped and they dipped, flamed the grill with a flash.
They cooked some more chicken, and beef and then mash
Faster then lightnin from the windows food came.
Morris jumped to the kitchen and called cooks out by name,

"Now Joe! Now, Mark and Byrd! Big John, Eric and Jerone,"
"On Jack, on William, Randall, Gerald, and Jerome."
With factory line fashion and smoother than silk,
They broiled and fried everything but some milk.

As ants from a mound, staff emerged from the back,
With two tons of food, ten drinks and a silverware rack.
They lugged out everything on tray and in hand,
Packin' and haulin' like camels cross land.

As each entree was given, the patrons began their feasts.
Lacking grace, style and class they consumed it like beasts.
Like sharks in a frenzy, teeth gnashing the fare,
Their children put bits of kid crisp in their hair.

There's some mangled wet crackers all over the floor.
The parents just laugh, "Me clean it up, HA!, I'm out of the door."
So they bark for their check, "separate it," they cry
"If I had to do math, Oh my god I'd just die!"

Off to the back, three more hundred dollar bills,
For some ones and some fives the waiters would kill.
"Here's your change, and the voucher, and oh yes, here's a pen,"
"We take American money, not francs, deutchmarks or yen."

"Sign right on the line sir, the last copy is yours."
"Please don't forget tipping, we need to fix our old cars."
Each customer munches what's left of their food
Then asks for a toothpick, grabs their bags and their brood

"Merry Christmas," they say, with a smile on their face.
"Here's your tip, but I hear they pay well in this place."
"It's the season of giving, its the thought that really counts,"
"So here's a crisp dollar," they proudly announce.

The waiters walk slowly, in somewhat of a daze,
The restaurant seems clogged with fajita smoke haze.
Its useless to bitch, and feel the least bit just hateful,
The customers aren't bad, insane or ungrateful.

Its just that the ignorance that prevails every day,
Gets multiplied quick when the customers pay.
So we sell and we push all the food for big Norm,
Cause not all of the patrons come from a pig farm.

There are some who are nice and some who are funny,
And I think I even met a tall blond Playboy bunny.
Some tip really nice and make up for the losers,
The slimeballs, the geeks, the stiffs, and the boozers.

We still come back to each shift every day.
There's the promise of cash and our twice-monthly pay.
The comrades in drink, who wake-up on our floor,
Turn into good friends, help us out more and more.

Remember its Christmas, forget gifts and the mall.
Its not about presents or clothes for the fall.
Just hope that your family gets close once a year,
And forgets the commercials and false holiday cheer.

Just think of the words that were written by Moore,
And the Christmas of youth that became like folklore.
Who needs Frosty and Rudolph and Santa this season,
It's love that really counts, that should be the reason.

So cook up the turkey, eat so much you feel sick.
Drink eggnog, rum punch and salute ole' Saint Nick.
As you wrap tight in the cold, watching the bright winters light,
Wish Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

©1993 Gonzo Schexnayder