bitter waiter

I heard that

In an effort to more frequently update Bitter Waiter, I'll be offering up bits of dialogue I've been fortunate enough to overhear from unsuspecting customers.

Recently I waited on a group of grating teenage girls, all of whom brought in their skinny decaf soy chai hazelnut lattes from Starbucks, ordered water and one plate of guacamole.  

The uglier of the four said to the prettier of the four:

"I mean, Andrea, like, if I just tried a little harder I think I could be as pretty as you, you know?"

To which Andrea replied, in all sincerity, "Yeah!  You mean, like if you lost a bunch of weight?"

The uglier one happily nodded her head in agreement while sipping her latte.   

One-woman show

Los Angeles is allegedly a city that fosters countless unknown stars, all searching for any and all means of exposing their raw talent.

To the annoying, loud-mouthed, self-obsessed young 20-something hooker who sat in my section and sang her way through the entire evening, my section is not the proper showcase for you to share your minimal vocal abilities.

When she and her five friends (dirty gypsies, all of them) sat at my table, she shouted "OH MY GOD I LOVE THIS SONG!" as Madonna's "Hung Up" blared over the speakers.

Not one to appreciate the deprecation of Madge, I immediately interrupted.

"Would you like anything to drink?"

"EVERY LITTLE THING THAT YOU SAY OR DO, I'M HUNG UP...I'LL HANG UP ON YOU!!!" she squealed into an invisible hand-held microphone.  I came this close to holding my invisible shotgun to my head and pulling the invisible trigger.

(Regarding "Screechy's" musical prowess, imagine a group of grieving gypsy women at a funeral, simultaneously screaming, breathing and bellowing.)

Her friends, each one more stoned than the other, seemed indifferent to her theatrics.  She took their silence as permission, and proceeded to belt out every song that followed.

What annoyed me even more than her crooning were the self-adoring looks she'd give me, as if the pen and pad in my hand were meant for her autograph.  However, once "Manic Monday," "Always Something There to Remind Me" and "Hollaback Girl" came and went, I began to realize that only two people from this gypsy tribe were ordering, and "Screechy" wasn't one of them. 

She did, however, manage to consume three shots of our shitty house tequila, paid for by the neighboring table of nasty Armenian men who hadn't seen such thrilling live entertainment since selling their youngest daughter to a brothel.

As the night progressed, Screechy did not let up.  On the contrary, she found ways to incorporate dance into her routine, which I gleefully put the kabosh on.  

"You have to stay seated."

"Ohhhh come on man," she said in her affected poser beatnik emo gypsy hipster voice.  "I'm just having a good time."

"People are trying to get by behind you, you have to keep the area clear."

"Can you at least tell dem to turn up the music?"

"No."

"But I LOOOOVE this SOOONG" ("Single Ladies" by Beyonce)

"No, sorry.  Is anyone else ordering anything or can I..."

"DON'T...TREAT ME TO THE THINGS OF THIS WOOOOOORLD..."

I dropped off the check.  The third copy, to be exact, which I placed next to the previous two copies I'd left within the preceding hour. 

Once they finally left, I didn't even bother to sort through the pile of dollar bills, pennies and plastic 

trinkets they used to pay their check.  I did, however, enjoy a rare ride home void of any music.

   

Queen B-itches

Among the many stereotypes I've encountered in my years of servitude is that gays are a gregarious group of good tippers.

Not always.

Last night I waited on a stoically unpleasant couple who were more divorce court than dinner date.  Once they were sat in my section, it took me a mere 20 seconds to greet them.  20 seconds.  Hell, maybe even 30.  But you catch my drift.

"Hello, how are you two doing this evening?"

"We've been ready to order for awhile," sedately stated the more docile of the two, as if channeling his inner Faye Dunaway-before-the-storm.  

I whipped it out (my pen and paper) to show that I was ready, when the other member of this couple whined:

"But Jeff, ugh, I don't know what I waaaaant!"

Speak to me in any tone, be it Bronx, Persian or Bobcat Goldthwait.  But do not ever, ever whine to me.  

"Bill.  We have 45 minutes.  Make up your mind," said Jeffy.

Bill looked up at me, like I gave a shit, and whined, "Ugh.  We have a birthday party to go to."

(The thought of these two entering a birthday party made me chuckle.  I could just see these two standing in the doorway, quietly casing the joint and surveying the party goers before announcing, "Hello fellow fem bots.  We have come to kill the festivities with our complete lack of warmth and inability to find anything humorous.  Here, Bill will whine for you.")

Whiney asked me, "Can the food be quick?"

"The food has trouble taking instructions in terms of speed," I replied.  "I can ask the cook to rush your order."

This was a request that would appease both diner and waiter.

Whiney continued, unmoved by my sardonic display of humor, "I want that thing.  Ugh.  You know, it's big, filled with meat, has sour cream on top."

My go-to response would have been, "he's sitting right across from you," but I instead pointed out that he was thinking of a burrito.  

"Is it good?"

"Which one?"

"What do you mean?"

"We have about 10 different burritos."

"Ugh."

Jeffy shot him a look that would have made Satan weep.  He then directed his subdued hostility towards me.

"While he's deciding, I'd like a strong margarita if that won't take you too long."

I told him I couldn't give him an exact time commitment, but that a one-minute turnaround would be the expectation if that would please her majesty.

Whiney whined, "Ugh.  What about me?  I want a drink, too!"

"Then order one," Jeffy said through pursed lips.  

"What should I get?"

"Whatever you want to drink..."

I had to hand it to Jeff.  While I immediately disliked him, I found all of his responses to be quite amusing.  

"Ugh.  Can I do a strawberry margarita?"

"Yes," I replied through pursed lips, paying homage to Jeff.

"And I guess I'll do a chicken burrito.  Ugh."

I didn't even bother asking which kind of beans he wanted on the side, knowing that it would trigger an entirely new set of unwanted neuroses.  

Before I could run away, Jeffy said:

"And remember.  We're in a hurry."

I gave him the same look I gave my mom in 8th grade when she nagged me to wear my headgear at night, a look that garnered a raise of his left eyebrow.  

Their food and drinks arrived in record time.  I performed my automatic quality check minutes later and asked:

"How is everything?"

"Satisfactory," Jeff replied.  Bill was busy picking his teeth with his fingers.

"Ugh.  There's a grain of rice stuck in my teeth."

I wasted no time dropping off their bill.  Jeffy looked at it as if I had unleashed an anaconda on the table.  

"We're not ready to pay."

"Oh, I just assumed I'd leave the check because you two are in a hurry."

Jeff just looked away.  Bill was literally using dental floss to fish out his lost rice.

Finally, when the pay stand-off was over, and Jeff clearly emerged as the victor, he placed two twenty dollar bills on top of the $34.56 check.

"We'll need change," he said.

Anticipating this scenario, and having already seen the $40 before approaching the table, I went to the trouble of having exact change in my pocket.  Without moving, I handed him his change and, through pursed lips, said "Thanks."

(Crickets)

And then the expected 10 percent tip.

Jeff and Bill walked out about five feet apart, Jeff's arms folded and Bill's right hand still picking food out of his teeth.  Having witnessed such partnered bliss in person, I can only hope that the state of California eventually does allow gay marriage so that these two can legally consummate their unbridled, infectious bliss. 

Ugh. 

A hair-brained scheme

As a server, I've been accused of many unflattering things, most of them true.  

However, when it comes to unsanitary ways of punishing naughty customers, I've always refrained from tampering with the food (with one great exception, one that won't see the light of day as long as I'm still employed by my current restaurant).  

So imagine my insult when two back-talkin' female customers accused me of putting a hair in their salsa bowl, a hair that looked like it had seen better days in a Bronx roller rink in the late '70s; a hair that, logically, was longer than all of my short hairs combined.

I knew I was in for a sassy time when one of the two asked me for a drink upon being sat.  A free drink, that is.

(Me:)

"Hi, how are you to..."

"Can I getta strawberry raspberry passion fruit blue-colored cherry-garnished nectar-infused bubble gum-flavored margo-daqua-colada?"

"I..."

"And I don't think I should hafta pay for it 'cause last time I was here, I didn't like my food."

"I see," I replied cautiously, knowing that my every response was being meticulously deconstructed for 'tude.  "Did you talk to a manager last time?  Did he give you a free drink token?"

"No," she retorted, like I'd just asked if Big Bird had taken a crap in her mailbox that morning.

"Well, I don't think there's any way I can get your drink for free."

(Dead.  Silence.)

"May I bring..."

"Strawberry margarita.  Two.  Make them good or we'll send them back."

"Oh my pleasure!"

After I brought the drinks (to which I had the bartender add an extra shot each, free of charge and as a a possible pacifier), the ladies seemed settled.  They ordered their meals with no fuss.  I checked in after the food had been delivered, and everything seemed okay.

And then, when I made my final quality check, at which point both meals were nearly 95% consumed, one of the ladies sought my attention with an unhappy, "Uhmmmm, excuse me?"

"Yes?"

"What's 'at?"

She pointed to a long, dark hair that had been carefully placed not in the salsa bowl, but on top of the salsa bowl. 

"Ahhh," I replied, quite familiar with this song and dance, knowing exactly where we were headed.

"Would you like a new bowl of salsa?"

"Uhm, NO.  Now I can't eat the rest of my food.  I feel nauseous.  I think you should take this off the check."

"And what exactly is left to consume on your plate, the cilantro garnish or the fluorescent logo?"

"Y'all need to be careful and make sure your nasty hair doesn't end up in customer's food."

"That...is so not my hair."

"WELL IT AIN'T MINE!"

"Then I guess we'll agree to disagree."

Inevitably, the restaurant owner was brought into the picture (a man not exactly famous for his people skills or tolerance).  He gave them one free drink token but refused to comp any portion of their meal.

As a result, with a $39.80 bill, they left $40.  I followed them to the parking lot with their 20 cents to ensure they didn't need change but was instead met with a gesture that expressed exactly how I felt.

I know I've said I don't tamper with people's food, but when those bitches come back to redeem their free cocktail, I'll inadvertently help their cause .  Because you can guarantee if it's a hair they want, it's a hair they'll get.

Unhappy Hour

In an effort to capitalize on and exacerbate my disdain for humanity, the owners recently expanded our Happy Hour to appeal to every bargain shopper, bad tipper and spandex lover within a 30-mile radius.

Before I proceed, know that:

1) Happy Hour is from 4-7.

2) Happy Hour is only available in a specific part of the restaurant, which fortunately is never in my section.

Last week I waited on a group of four prototypical Caucasian corporate tools (two loud-mouthed males, two bimbo secretaries).  We got off on the wrong foot when Alpha male 1 approached me -- as I was in mid-sentence with another table -- and boarishly interrupted to inform me that he needed a pitcher of margaritas.

Without shifting focus from my current table, I said, "Have a seat and I'll be there when I'm ready to take your order."

As if I'd just spoken Yiddish, he stood there like a Republican at a tolerance museum, unable to understand the concept.

"And we need four glasses" he said.

I took care of the current table then approached the corporate wasps.

"Yes?"

"Pitcher?"

"Rocks or blended?"

No one seemed prepared for this curveball, so bimbo 1 took the helm.

"Uhm.  We want them slushy."

"Blended?"

"Slushy."

"Blended."

"Slushy?"

Before I continue, know that:

1) This took place at approximately 2:30 pm.  Happy Hour is from 4-7.

2) This took place in my section.  My section was not inclusive of Happy Hour prices.

I delivered the pitcher, and the four were relatively low maintenance from that point on.  They ordered another pitcher (at about 3:30) and asked for the bill around 4:15 or so.

After a quick perusal of the bill, Alpha male 1 summoned me.

"Hey, guy, you charged us full price for the pitchers."

"I'm known to do that, yes."

"Uhhhhh, HELLO, happy hour?"

"Mm hmm."

"We need this check adjusted.  I'm not paying full price."

"First of all, you're not in the bar area.  Happy Hour isn't available here."

(Blank looks from all)

"And second, you ordered your two pitchers before Happy Hour even starts."

(Blank.  A collective canvas of idiocy.)

"Ok, let me see if I can explain this simply.  Happy Hour starts at 4.  You ordered your drinks BEFORE 4, right?  Happy Hour isn't retroactive."

(Crickets)

"Happy Hour...isn't where you are.  You are here.  Happy Hour...is over there.  Right?"

(...)

Before I could bust out my Etch-a-Sketch to paint a picture of this abstract concept, Alpha male addressed me as if I'd messed up the quarterly report or the TPS evaluations.

"Yeah, guy, we're gonna need to see a manager.  You should have given us happy hour prices."

"Oh?  And why is that?"

"HEY!  WE COME IN HERE ABOUT THREE TIMES A WEEK, BUDDY.  WE'RE HERE MORE THAN YOU ARE!"

"Unfortunately I'm here about five times a week, so I shamefully win that trophy, and even if this were a who's-here-more-often-contest, first prize isn't half off your drinks."

"Do you have a manager?"

"Yeah, I think so.  Let me find him so he repeat what I just said."

I found my manager.  He stood his ground and refused to comp their drinks.

Alpha male 1 approached me with four credit cards (naturally, because why would either of the men offer to buy their employees drinks?) and informed me, with great pleasure, that he'd be hanging onto the bill so he could have it adjusted by one of the owners.

"Congrats.  I'll be back with your cards," I said.

I delivered the four receipts (with one pen) and walked away.  I heard one of the men mutter something about "stick up his ass" and the four howled with laughter at this polysyllabic bon mot.

They headed to the bar to continue drinking (at Happy Hour prices) and were about to order another pitcher.  However, the manager and I agreed that anything more than two pitchers among four people within less than two hours would be over the legal blood alcohol limit.

I informed the bartender, in front of my corporate friends, that they were cut off.

"They're technically over the limit," I announced.  "Ask this gentleman.  He has the receipt to prove it."

Twitter Waiter

Bitter Waiter is now on Twitter.  I'm as familiar with Twitter as I am with Polynesian cuisine, so give me time to acclimate.  

Twitter

Long distance dining

Call me old-fashioned, but I think it's supremely rude when customers talk on cell phones while I'm trying to take their order.  Nothing makes me turn my back to a table and storm off quite like the gesture of an index finger in my face, telling me to wait while this person finishes a call.

The other day I waited on a plump pair of douche bags with hair everywhere but their heads.  They walked into the restaurant, ignored the hostess, and sat themselves in my section.  

For two reasons, I did not make an effort to greet them.  First, my co-workers and I have an unspoken rule about self-seaters.  Namely, we ignore them until they put two and two together and realize that the person up front, the one in all black, with menus in hand, seating people at tables, is the person with whom they should have spoken.

Second, they were both on their cell phones.  They spoke in some Middle Eastern language, simultaneously spitting on one another as they competed to see who could raise his voice higher while telling his shrouded wife what to prepare for dinner.

As self-seaters are oft to do, they eventually waived their ape-like arms in the air to attract my attention...while still on their cell phones.

"Yes?" I said with one eyebrow raised as I approached.

I stood there for five seconds as they continued their conversations, both giving me the index finger.  I walked back to the server station a few feet away and pretended to watch the TV behind the bar.

30 seconds later, they flagged me down again.

"Yes?" I said with one eyebrow raised.

"KEH KEH KEH KEH," one of them said into his phone, which I translated to mean, "My servant has finally arrived to take my drink order and pluck my shoulder hair.  Woman you will wait with your hand in boiling water while I humiliate him."

"TWO PATRON SHOTS CHILLED EXTRA LIMES CHEESE KESSA-DEEYA CHICKEN EMPANADAS STEAK FAJITA."

And with that, he resumed his phone call.

"Small or large?" I inquired.

"KEH KEH KEH KEH" (translation: "This servant is really haggling with me over the price of three mules.  Woman you will now pour that boiling water all over your head while I make this servant tap dance.")

"WHAT?"

"Your 'kessa-deeya.' Small or large?"

The two men conferred with each other, discussing the appetizer size and plotting my ransom price.

"LARGE."

He once again resumed his phone call.

"How would you like your steak cooked?"

"KEH KEH KEH KEH" (translation: "Woman if you've ever bore me any girls, pour the boiling water on them as well while I punch this meddling servant in the balls.")

"MEDIUM WELL."

This time I waited several seconds while he continued the phone call.

"Which two sides would you like?"

"I DON'T CARE, JUST BRING THE FOOD."

"Well the decision is yours, not mine.  You need to select two sides."

"WHAT ARE OPTIONS!?"

"They're listed in the menu."

"JUST GIVE US BEANS AND RICE."

"Black beans or pinto?"

"BLACK!!!!"

I once again let his resume his phone call.  And then.

"Would you like corn or flour tortillas with your fajitas?"

"BOTH!!!!!  ANY OTHER QUESTIONS?!"

I looked down at my blank notepad as if I had a server script to follow.

"No.  Thanks!"

I delivered the shots, which were promptly consumed with all the grace of a hoth.

The food arrived and sat untouched for at least five minutes while the two remained on the phone.  Finally, the more vocal of the two began his feast (while still on the phone).  The other man never once touched the food.  At no point did he veer from his phone call.

Because I sensed no objections, I dropped off their bill right after the food was delivered.  Without thoroughly examining the bill, the vocal one dropped three $20 bills and waived it in the air once he saw me.

Just as I began to bring him his change, I noticed they were getting up to leave (still on the phones), leaving 75% of their food behind.  More importantly, the man was so wrapped up in his phone call that he didn't bother waiting for his change, which amounted to a %100 tip for me.

While some of you might want to believe that he intended to be so generous, I like to think that a fool and his money soon part ways, especially when that fool can't be bothered to get off the phone while dining.

I shall call it..."birth control."

As a server, I'm often mistaken for a therapist, an indentured servant, or a shoulder upon which to cry.  However, the job skill most out of my jurisdiction that really turns me sour is that of babysitter.  

I've alluded to other experiences in which Mom and/or Dad needed to get sauced, with junior in tow, leaving me in charge of their little cherubs (granted, if I were *really* left in charge of their children, they'd be out on the street holding up a sign, begging for my rent money while *I* got properly tanked).

Yesterday I waited on the stereotype most guilty of dumping their little ones onto someone else: SINGLE MOM.

SINGLE MOM can be identified by the following characteristics:

1) A desperate need for adult conversation with anyone who will/is forced to listen.  It's not so much a conversation as it is a monologue, as she shares with you all the pitiful details of bathroom stories, man-hating anecdotes, the trouble with traffic, rants about bitchy soccer moms, "that time of month," etc.

2) A complete disregard for the fact that you're trembling while holding 15 heavy plates, using sounds to indicate that you couldn't care less about "carpool day" stories, and nodding your head to your 12 other tables (all angry) to show that you know they need you.

3) The erroneous assumption that you think her little tyke is as precious as she does.  When Junior spills the entire sugar packet all over the table and draws a swastika, SINGLE MOM expects your heart to melt.  

In short, SINGLE MOM is a self-pitying shrew whose offspring somehow manages to be even more annoying than she is.

Take for instance Jimmy.  Yesterday I waited on Jimmy and his perpetually 25-year-old (read: mid-40's) roadie-wannabe harlot of a mother.  

I began the conversation with the usual pleasantries and "Hi how are you"s, to which she responded:

"I'd be a lot better if I were drunk and didn't have to watch this one today."

To say that in front of an infant is tacky, even though the infant can't process the information.  To make that statement in front of a five-year-old is reason enough to call Child Services.

"Aw.  Yeah.  How about an iced tea or Arnold Palmer?" I replied insincerely.

"FUCK that!  I want a Patron Silver margarita, double, cadillac, extra shot of Gran Marnier on the side."

Jimmy (whose name I learned during one of mom's many disciplinary tirades) looked at me with an evil glare as he played with his toy truck, anticipating the following question from SINGLE MOM.

"Jimmy, what do you want to drink?"

"I WANT CHOCOLATE MILK!"

"Jimmy, you know they don't have chocolate milk here."

"I WANT CHOCOLATE MILK!!"

"Jimmy, how about a Coke?  Or a Cherry Coke?"

"I.  WANT.  CHOCOLATE.  MILK!!!"

I stood by saying a silent prayer that God would be merciful and take me.  Right then and there.

"FINE JIMMY...THEN YOU WON'T DRINK AAAAAANYTHING!"

Jimmy looked at me as if this were somehow my victory, his glare seeming to say, "You won this battle, asshole, but watch who wins the war."

I returned with the margarita.  I also had 10 glasses of water on my tray for another table.  Upon seeing this, little Jimmy exclaimed:

"I WANT A WATER!"

I reached for one of the waters, until he countered my offer.

"I.  WANT.  A.  KID'S CUP!!!!!"

I returned with a kid's cup.  I set it down in front of him, his chubby little digits greeting the cup like Satan greets a doomed soul.

"I'LL BET I CAN DRINK THIS WHOLE THING BEFORE YOU LEAVE THE TABLE!"

"I'll bet it will take even less time for me to never refill it," I said.

SINGLE MOM interrupted this exchange with the proclamation that she was ready to order.  Granted, I only got to the bottom of that mystery after hearing about her hangover, Jimmy's deadbeat father, and her thoughts on the stimulus ("Do I need to call someone to get my portion?  Do they mail me a check?")

She ordered a large plate of melted cheese for lunch.  She and Jimmy shared this rare delicacy, which only the most skilled gourmet can perfect with a microwave and a slab of Velveeta.

Jimmy devoured most of the plate as if he were going for the gold in a pie-eating contest.  Mom texted, pretending not to notice as Jimmy's crayon drawings strayed from the kid's menu to the table itself.

I was almost free when the little beast indicated that it wanted dessert.

"What do you want Jimmy?  The sundae?" Mom asked through the dragon breath of her own inebriation.

"I.  WANT.  A BROWNIE!!!!"

These words were music to my soul, as our restaurant carries no such dessert.

"Jimmy, you know they don't have brownies here."

He looked at me like I gave a rat's ass, and echoed his primal cry for a brownie.

I felt a slight joyous tingle in my pants as I said, with euphoric disdain, "Your mom's right.  We don't have brownies."

And with that, SINGLE MOM and Jimmy left after paying the check.  He made sure to crash his toy truck into every hard surface on his way out, with SINGLE MOM grabbing onto those same surfaces in an effort to walk straight.

The markings of a cavewoman

Last week I waited on a group of six ignorant white teens from some Kentucky town of 200 where Caveman Speak was still the preferred language, spoken by both animals and humans alike. 

The girl on the far right closest to me could have been an extra in any zombie film.  It would appear that learning the alphabet in Mother's Day Out was enough to max her brain, and her facial expressions were limited to either "I'm bored" or "Where's the kitty?"

When it came time to take her order, I said in a very slow, understanding voice,"What would you like...to EAT?"

She gave me a patently blank look, held her hand to her mouth, spit out her gum, and casually placed the gum in my open hand.  I was stunned.  Her friends had been too busy chasing their tails to see what transpired.  This was a moment that zombie girl and I shared.

I looked at her, and she looked back at me like a Cocker Spaniel who's indifferent to the pile of shit on the kitchen floor.

I tossed the gum into her open dinner napkin, said "Oh thank you," and ran off to tell every co-worker on the clock.  I did not return to the table until the barbarians used both smoke signals and cave drawings to indicate that they were ready to return to their underground city.   

They seemed confused when I said, "I'll be your cashier when you're ready to pay," as if there had been some previously discussed trade of one of the table's virgins in exchange for food and drink.  They figured out the math, even adding an 18% tip, and left.

Zombie girl and I locked eyes one last time.  I glared at her with the hatred of a hundred savages.  She stared blankly at me, then stared blankly at one of the rotating ceiling fans (no doubt frightened by the voodoo magic).  

As she left, she popped in a new stick of chewing gum, which undoubtedly found its way into the hand of an unsuspecting gas station worker or passerby on the street.

The Idiot Diet

I offer my most insincere apologies for my unexpected hiatus.  Therefore, I won't waste a minute in pursuing my vigilante efforts of unmasking imbeciles & offenders of the service industry.

Today's special guest star? People who claim to be on a strict diet, yet eat at a fatty Mexican restaurant.  

Though our delusional owners claim that our menu offers "healthy, low-fat" Mexican cuisine, one look at some of our menu options would lead you to believe differently.  

For instance, our "Queso Fundido" is a large plate of four different mixed cheeses, melted together, and meant to be consumed with salty chips and flour tortillas.

Now that just screams diet to me.  Your "after" picture is right around the corner...

Or better yet, feel comfortable stepping on the scale after wolfing down our "Pollo Gariando," a diseased-looking chicken breast smothered with four different cheeses, served with mashed potatoes and vegetables soaked in more butter than Paris Hilton at a Friday night gang bang.

And yet it happens every night.  Hundreds flock to our restaurant under the impression that they can lose weight and still eat greasy, cheesy Mexican bar food.

One of the most notable people to perpetuate this myth is my favorite F-list celebrity Jessica Simpson.  Years ago, she and her monosyllabic jock de jour would frequent the place and (in an effort to make a "no carb" margarita), she would order:

1) lime juice

2) ice

3) two shots of Patron Silver tequila

4) three packets of splenda

This concoction, which she would make at her table with the grace of a three-year-old at a lemonade stand, later found a place on our menu as "The Jessica Simpson Margarita," boasting "NO carbs" and "NO sugar."

Given the ease with which people believe this blatant lie, I might as well start telling customers that our black beans, if planted into the ground, can create a beanstalk so tall you can climb up to a giant's house and have him chase you around magic unicorn fields.

Just because diets have evolved into a nauseating trend, certain facts still remain.  Cheese will ALWAYS be fattening!  Items such as lime juice and tequila DO contain carbs and sugar!  Or better yet...you will not magically lose weight just because an ill-informed restaurant owner promises you that his food is "health-conscious!"

Last night I waited on two barges who informed me that 2009 was their year to diet (while it looked more to me like 2009 was their year to use each other as furniture).  

They ordered a *pitcher* of Jessica Simpson margaritas (enough to constitute your recommended calorie intake for 1.5 days, no lie), split a chicken caesar salad (with fatty rotisserie chicken instead of grilled chicken), and for their entree, they split a plate of STEAK NACHOS (but without sour scream to avoid those unwanted fat rolls come beached-whale season).

I've heard people say that "the best way to diet is to not diet at all."  Based on my experiences with the overweight and delusional, I'd say that's the most popular diet of all.