bitter waiter

The continued offenses of Jessica Simpson

Seeing how I like to be the center of the Bitter Waiter universe, I rarely tread into celebrity territory for fear that it will take a little sparkle out of my own star. That said, I've been contacted by several readers regarding a highly publicized public display of intoxication by one of my least favorite celebs, and I must put aside my own narcissism for the greater good of my readers.

By now you've probably read through Perez, TMZ, and a host of other unreliable gossip Web sites that Jessica Simpson recently visited my humble restaurant. It's true. And I was there for the whole thing. And as someone with a four-year history of Jessica Simpson run-ins (all unpleasant), I'll gladly recount the entire evening.

The least-talented Simpson arrived around 4 p.m. with two lady friends (one of them Cace, her former assistant who's usually the only friendly member of the party) and Cace's boyfriend Donald Faison of Scrubs. They ordered pitcher after pitcher of an evil concoction called "The Jessica Simpson Margarita."

(Years ago, Jessica used to demand packets of Splenda, lime juice, ice, and tequila, and then mixed them together at her table. She claimed her margarita had no calories. Our owners gladly acquiesced to these demands and found the grating little blonde's creation so charming, they put it on the menu.)

As poor Cace became so drunk she began to vomit, Jessica did what any best friend would do. She went to another booth and proceeded to text Tony Romo, Nick Lachey, John Mayer, or any one of the men who've recently dumped her for a more talented celebrity.

Donald was too busy talking about football with one of the bar regulars to help, leaving the other female friend to assist Cace as she threw up all over the table, under the booth, and hopefully into Jessica's expensive handbag.

As managers, bus boys and servers (not me, natch) did everything they could to clean up, Jessica stood there horrified, as if watching footage from a Malawian massacre. In between text messages, and without looking up from her phone, she would occasionally chirp "Oh, I'm sorry we...(trailing off)" or "Cace, does this hideous white sun dress make my fat ass look fat?"

Mama Tina Simpson saved the day, looking like she flew in from a Southern church bake-off, and transported the Simpson posse to safety.

Next time the Simpsons strike, you can bet I'll do my part to expose their naughty behavior.

The four most disturbing people I served yesterday

1. Fat family of five

Dad strolled in wearing a T-shirt that said "I am Fartacus." They left before ordering because our kid's menu was too "fancy" for his army of Truffle-Shufflers. Mom was clad in a style reminiscent of family church directory photos from the late '80s.

2. The Pointer Sisters

Unable to communicate in any manner other than pointing or nodding, these Asian sisters made quite the presentation while ordering. We eventually established several non-verbal clues and their meanings. One nod meant "Everything is acceptable, American servant." Two nods and a grin meant, "This rotisserie chicken is succulent, cute white waiter." And a weak smile from me meant, "I anticipate your bad tip, friends of Hello Kitty."

3. Blissfully in love couple

Trumpets echoed and doves accompanied this euphoric couple as they announced to all that their love transcended anything we mere plebeians should ever hope to experience. Doting boyfriend trumped my question of "Anything to drink?" with "Isn't she the most beautiful thing you've ever seen?"

"At this booth, yes," I replied.

4. Wannabe celeb and her manorexic friend

Nothing screams "I'm someone" like wearing a pair of sunglasses indoors while dining. Not-Lindsay ordered in a tone that deftly mixed condescension with what must have been abdominal pain. Her anemic she-male comrade didn't look up from his Razr once and sucked iced tea like a West Hollywood bar regular. They split a salad and stayed for hours, discussing flat irons, sundresses, and someone named Chikezie.

With today being Cinco de Mayo, and yours truly working the middle of the battlefield, expect a particularly colorful entry tomorrow.

Pulling out all the stops

I'm always amused when someone waltzes into my cheap Mexican restaurant and announces that someone in the group is celebrating a birthday.

Like. I. Care.

This call to give a shit is always accompanied by a tacky store-bought birthday cake, dollar store decorations, and the expectation that I'll be bowing down to every birthday whim like some sort of medieval jester.

Recently, a family of four escorted their senile grandmother into my section to celebrate what must have been her 500th birthday.

Not only is the restaurant dimly lit; The sound system notoriously and almost offensively blares B-grade 80's pop confections and disco music. Not that any of this mattered to Grandma. In addition to being partially blind and mercifully deaf, I doubt she had any idea where she was.

Nevertheless, alpha male dad was prepared to make this the greatest night for Grandma since The Andrews Sisters performed a televised tribute to the boys at Pearl Harbor.

Poor Grandma was clad in a cheap birthday hat with a chin strap that kept missing her chin and aiming for her mouth. When I asked her what she'd like to drink, I unintentionally scared the shit out of her. Dad insisted that "Mimi" would like a Chardonnay.

Mimi's two fat grandsons sat on either side of her, scarfing chips like they'd survived internment, while Mom and Dad downed margaritas across the table. Dad would occasionally check in with Mimi, insisting she was having the time of her life beneath her comatose facade.

I watched in horror (and, yes, sympathy) as the food arrived. Mom and Dad continued their drunken exchange while the young chubs shouted around Mimi and shared the latest fart jokes. By the time Dad demanded I present Mimi with their unsightly grocery store pastry, Mom wisely suggested that they take the celebration elsewhere.

As they left, I whispered "Happy Birthday" to Grandma. She gave me the same look I give tables when they ask me an insanely stupid question and said, "Thank God for wine." I said a silent prayer that she would outlive all her immediate kin and put the whopping 12% tip from Dad in my pocket.

(The grandson in me wanted to help Mimi escape and take her somewhere peaceful where we could watch Humphrey Bogart movies and enjoy the silence. Should my children, grandkids, nieces or nephew ever try to put on such theatrics for my 100th birthday in a place so obviously geared toward a younger, drunker, poorer crowd, I'll leave them nothing in my will but a collection of cassette singles)

WARNING: not for the politically correct

By now you should all know that Monday is a trying night to work, what with the trashy masses turning out in droves for 30% off all food.

What amazes me most about the Monday night crowd is their shameless, unabashed sense of entitlement. These are the people who count their pennies and couldn't possibly afford to dine in public unless offered the promise of a bargain. I know if *I* had to take advantage of this meager discount, I'd do so with great humility. After all, being a regular on Monday night screams, "It's either this or the soup kitchen," not "How many wishes do I have left, oh enslaved genie of mine?"

And yet the Monday night crowd is the most demanding of all. From counting ice cubes in an iced tea to demanding a basket of chips and salsa for everyone at the table, they have no shame. Thus, I am unmasking the most rank Monday night offenders.

THE HUNGRY JEWISH FAMILY

This family of four frequently tries in vain to recapture the miracle of Jesus turning one fish into many by splitting one fajita entree and hoping it will suffice. Inevitably, they will balk at the "meager" portions and demand extra sides, chicken, tortillas, etc. and demand to not be charged. Like clockwork, the check comes to $13.76 and they left $15 to cover the check and tip.

THE BLACK BITCHES

Apparently they know what to expect from me. Before I could even set down the basket of chips and salsa, the sassiest one said, "Oh HELL no, I remember him from last time. Tell the host we want to move."

I can't imagine WHY she didn't think we'd get along. I fondly recall our previous night together, during which Sassy got her bitch on when I told her she couldn't sample each of the fruit flavors used in the fruit margaritas. My comment went something along the lines of "This isn't Baskin Robbins, and I don't give samples."

With one fierce wave of her heavily adorned hand (featuring pastel press-on nails), I was dismissed. Whew.

THE FAT FUCKERS

This rude, obese couple go to town when it's discount night. Tubby hubby and wife each start with a plate of nachos and one crab and shrimp quesadilla. She feasts on cheese enchiladas and he all but gulps the grease off the rotisserie chicken dinner. I've never felt better about my body.

THE HILLBILLY BUSINESSMEN

The ring leader, a hair-implanted, pug-nosed, acne-stricken, Napoleon-complexed redneck from the bowels of Virginia, immediately drinks to excess and lets his laughter bellow throughout the building with a mouth full of braised beef and idiocy. He calls his server "guy" and engages in my personal favorite game, "I know more about the menu and the tequila list than you do."

(Unless I am married to Madonna or appear like I give a rat's ass about the essence of Patron, don't give me homoerotic nicknames or challenge my knowledge. I will always win)

The hillbillies make it a point to find the single ugliest woman in the bar, get her drunk, and dampen her face at the table. Class, to them, was simply something they ditched in favor of shooting stray cats.

THE PERFUME-LADEN PERSIAN POSSE

Without fail, two members of the group show up at 9 and request a table for 10. An hour later, the rest of the party arrives, armed and drenched in an arsenal of equally strong, conflicting knock-off colognes and perfumes that could raise the dead.

They generally share one appetizer, the ordering of which takes a good half hour as 1) I try to translate and 2) they draw straws to see which of the group will actually get to eat the token starter.

Gratuity is never an issue because it's always included, but on a check totaling $16 (maybe $20 on a good night), we're not exactly talking rent money.

Clarissa annoys us all

The Bad Tipper of the Week award goes to Clarissa, a cloying show-biz mom who wasted my time last week with her precocious child actress daughter and token gay best friend, who spent the night texting, complaining about sauce, and impersonating a sassy black woman.

I knew things would go awry when Clarissa asked if we had queso dip. I said no. She seemed indignant and said that every other Mexican restaurant she'd ever been to (in Kentucky) had queso dip. I explained, in a tone used to potty train an infant, that our cuisine was more authentic Mexican (well...at least compared to Kentucky, where she was born and farmed).

This lack of tex mex set the tone for my entire experience with the Clarissa clan. Her fussy friend ordered his enchiladas without any sauce yet complained that his "beef was too dry" (I bit my tongue at his choice of words, while he rolled his around his lips). When I gave him the standard shrug and "Now you're hoist on your own petard" look, I could feel the Kentucky banjos play as Clarissa and co. displayed their anger.

"We'll take the check. Now."

Overjoyed with the anticipation of their exit, I'd already printed the bill and immediately set it on the table without missing a beat. Clarissa left a $5 tip on a $60 check.

I was, however, able to track down Clarissa via Google. It seems she has a Web site devoted to her goals, a Web site where other dreamers can send her well wishes and quote certain portions of "The Secret" to cheer her on. Enjoy this (my personal favorite is goal #4).

The 5 dumbest questions I've been asked all week

1. "Are you the server?"
No, bitch, Halloween came early and I decided to go as a disgruntled employee trick-or-treating at my local Mexican restaurant.

2. "Is this flavored tap water?"
Despite the typically verbose nature of my rants, I feel this particular question needs no additional commentary.

3. "Did you see the car crash outside?"
Yeah, it's weird, I have these visions of what's going on in the outside world when I'm inside a barely lit building at night.

4. "I didn't see it on the menu, but you all have calamari, right?"
Yes, we feel it would benefit our sales tremendously if we left the popular items off the menu but still offered them to our customers.

5. "My son wants a light green crayon to color his kid's menu, can you find one?"
Do I look like the fucking Reading Rainbow to you? The odds of me searching through crayon boxes at the host stand for a light green crayon aren't nearly as good as the odds of you pulling one out of your fat ass.

Triple sat

Fear not, faithful readers, the update is coming today. Remember, bitter waiter must balance his saucy stories and egregious exploits with, you know, his personal life.

The Five People You Meet in Hell, part four

(i.e. "The Five Dumbest People I've Waited on All Month.")

4. White trash Brittany and poser cohort

You can imagine the fine clientele that my restaurant attracts on Monday evenings, when all food is 30% off. Every cliche, minority and starving lower-class family endure the almost-hour-long wait in a scene straight out of Schindler's List, all to save a couple dollars on Mexican food.

And inevitably, before I drop the check at least five people different people will ask:

"Now the discount's already added in, right?"

I assure them, with my stoic disgust, that it is. In most restaurant situations, the customer feels he/she has the upper hand. Not so on Monday nights, when I can sense the desperation and penny-pinching. I almost feed off the misery of the broke.

Last Monday, Brittany and her boyfriend/gay partner/tragic poser friend came in to split one beef burrito, two waters, and a never-ending supply of gratis chips and salsa. I could smell their bad tip coming from a mile away, as evidenced by their complete lack of manners and deodorant.

I begrudgingly refilled their waiters (to no "Thank you," of course) and made 5 or 6 trips to refill the chip basket that their dirty little hands couldn't empty quickly enough.

The total for this grand feast came to $7.57. Brittany paid using her credit card and left no tip of any sort, just a salsa smudge and the parting refrain of her Rite Aid knock-off perfume.

This is Brittany's myspace profile. Finally, you can see what I have to deal with. Notice the painfully self-proclaimed depth, the inevitable angst and loneliness, the myriad of misspelled words, and the awfully misinformed nickname "Penny Lane."

Thanks Brittany! Always remember that Taco Bell is a few miles north of my restaurant with a menu tailored much more to someone of your class, intellect and financial status.

The Five People You Meet in Hell, part three

(i.e. "The Five Dumbest People I've Waited on All Month.")

3. Douche bag businessman and his coked-out stripper girlfriend

Rarely do I give off the impression that I enjoy talking to the people I wait on. That's why I always find it amusing when someone insinuates that I'm being a pest by asking such personal, imposing questions as "Are you finally ready to order?" and "Any dessert or coffee?".

Last night I waited on Mr. Asshole, an imitation-brand-suit wearing big wig with all the self-importance of Thurston Howell, III. Sitting centimeters away was his prostitute girlfriend, no doubt coagulating at the thought of doing coke off Mr. Asshole's unmentionable parts in some sleazy hot tub around midnight.

Reluctantly, and after a silent prayer by the host stand, I approached the table. I stood by the table for a good 20 seconds waiting for some sort of acknowledgment. Mr. Asshole was too busy regaling his girlfriend-by-the-hour with stories of mergers, meetings, and other two syllable words that went right over her head.

"Drink?" I said with beautiful disdain.

"We're not ready to order drinks," he barked. "Come back in five."

Twenty minutes later, Mr. Asshole approached me at the server station.

"Two grey goose martinis. Very dry. No olive."

I obligingly rang in the drinks, then checked some text messages, shot the shit with our line cook, went outside to chat with the smokers, greeted a few other tables, called my mom and dad, filled out a schedule request, made a list of places to visit before I turn 30, wiped a stain off my apron, took a piss, then delivered the cocktails after naming all 50 state capitals with a co-worker.

"Ready to order?" I asked as I dropped off the drinks.

"No, we'll let you know if we're hungry," he said as his girlfriend licked the rim of his martini glass.

"Actually, sir, seeing as how this is a restaurant and we're on a wait, you can't sit at the tables just for cocktails. Ready to order?"

"Quesadilla," he said.

"What kind?"

"Small."

"Not what size, what kind?"

"Chicken."

"Grilled or pulled rotisserie?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Grilled or pulled rotisserie?"

"Whichever's better, okay?"

Our rotisserie chicken is frequently manhandled by the unwashed hands of three or four Mexicans who have far more contempt for humanity than I do. Naturally, this is what I selected for the lovebirds.

After a few more rounds of grey goose, girlfriend-by-the-hour was clearing servicing Mr. Asshole underneath the table with her hands. I found every excuse I could to interrupt this exchange, each time earning more and more of Mr. Asshole's ire.

Eventually it was tab time (after three hours of hogging my section). Mr. A handed me a $50 for the $45.24 tab. I interrupted his tongue contest with a most energetic, "Can I keep the change??"

Fortunately for me, I have enough good karma in the bank that the universe loves me in spite of my service industry exploits. While clearing the remaining glasses after the happy couple left, I found that Mr. A left behind his Prada knock-off sunglasses.

I'd like to report that I took the higher road and headed straight to the lost-and-found and turned in the glasses. But I didn't. I gave them to one of the Mexicans as thanks for making the quesadilla that would no doubt interrupt the happy couple's post-dinner hot tub session.

The Five People You Meet in Hell, part two

(i.e. "The Five Dumbest People I've Waited on All Month.")

2. Patronizing single dad and his gratingly precocious daughter

In the restaurant world, parents often embody one of two types. They're either endearingly apologetic for bringing their disruptive offspring into public (meaning they tip well), or they're so self-absorbed as to think that serving their obnoxious by-product is a rare privilege.

"Oh isn't that cute! Little Gertrude spilled her 'sippy' all over the booth. Think of her fondly as you clean up after my child. Here's 10%."

One of my least favorite regulars is Mark, a perpetually single father on the prowl. The sideshow of Mark's almost vaudevillian efforts to attract women is his unbearably precocious four-year-old daughter. Picture the most annoying co-star from any episode of "Punky Brewster" or "Silver Spoons," add an eerily intentional resemblance to Shirley Temple, and you've got Mark's daughter.

I've nicknamed her Annabelle, because she looks like someone a greedy parent would prop up at a state fair with a microphone and a bucket just begging for spare change.

When Mark brings in Annabelle, he offers a running commentary on the dining experience for the sake of everyone around.

"Isn't that cute? Annabelle just used her big-girl fork!"

or

"Say, Annabelle, how do you pronounce enchilada again? Geez, listen to her adorable tongue just mangle that word. Isn't that the cutest thing you've witnessed?"

I am inevitably expected to engage in this exploitation as if I'm an extra in a Frank Capra film, just grateful to be a fly on the wall of each precious moment. Mark and Annabelle are, of course, completely unaware of my palpable contempt.

Even if I were to say, "I hope the Hezbollah kidnap your daughter," he would look at me as if I'd exclaimed "I'll take one just like her!"

A few weeks ago, while dealing with my usual dose of the Father/Daughter Tag Team of Terror, Mark brought along a date. To my extreme pleasure, Annabelle did not take kindly to the 22-year-old bleached blonde receptionist.

Though I can't stand the little shit, I respect her clear mastery of manipulating daddy. Throughout the meal, she claimed one ailment after another in a clear effort to ditch Nancy Drew and lay the foundation for years of paternal control.

"Oh angel," Mark pleaded, "Just 10 more minutes and we'll go home. Say, why don't we order the brownie sundae and let you work on that for a bit?!"

Mark made the fatal mistake of offering something that wasn't on the menu. Bright little Annabelle played his bad move like a Stradivarius.

"I DO want a brownie sundae, now! Brownie sundae, BROWNIE sundae, BROWNIE SUNDAE!"

Thus Mark escorted his ladies out of the restaurant to avoid the potential temper tantrum. Little Annabelle skipped to the door, beaming with satisfaction. And a small part of me grew to hate her a little less.