I've always gotten a kick out of working on Valentine's Day. People only choose to celebrate the Hallmark holiday at my restaurant if they're either 1) single and boozing or 2) on a date yet unable to afford something nicer, like TGI Friday's or an assisted living cafeteria.
Or 3) they're a couple of recently single white trash cougars just looking for more reasons to be miserable.
"Becky" and "Trisha" sat in my section determined not to have a good time, and I was more than happy to oblige.
"How are you two this evening?" I asked.
"Why is it so loud in here tonight??" Becky whined.
"Because it's Valentine's Day and everyone here is drunk (including me)."
Becky looked at the complimentary chips and salsa as if I'd set an anaconda on the table.
"THOSE are covered in grease," she said. "Don't you have any low-fat chips??"
Yeah, they're called "ice cubes."
"Uh no, we only have those chips. May I start you off with drinks? Appetizers?"
Make-up remover? Age-appropriate clothing?
"We'll take two of your no-calorie margaritas," Becky informed me.
I wanted to tell her that no-calorie margaritas were a contradiction in terms like "rap music" or "gay Republicans," but instead I let her believe in our falsely advertised product.
As I delivered the drinks, I heard the girls talking about their respective failed relationships, how it was all his fault, and how the universe let this happen because something better was around the corner.
"He didn't deserve me," they both agreed.
"Ready to order?" I asked.
"I want the tostada salad with steak. NO. GUACAMOLE..." Becky said.
"Would you like the small or regular size?"
"NO...GUACAMOLE. I don't want it touching my salad. I don't even want it anywhere near my salad."
"I won't even use it in the same sentence as your salad," I said.
"And I want the steak medium well. Not red at all. But not completely well done, either."
Caution: bitch ahead.
"And for you?" I asked Trisha.
"I just want more chips, and a side of guacamole," she said.
"Speaking of, WHAT do I NOT want near my food?" Becky asked.
Joy, forgiveness, or any sign of a smile?
"I'll try my best to remember," I said.
After another round of margaritas, the entree arrived. The steak was, to my horror and Becky's, a perfect medium rare. Before I could open my mouth to say, "I'll take that back to the kitchen for you," Becky proclaimed:
"This. This is medium rare. Does this look red to you?" Becky asked Trisha.
"Oh yeah, ewww," Trisha said with a small dab of guacamole on her chin.
"I'm sorry, I'll..." I tried to interject.
"This is unacceptable. This is medium RARE!" Becky said. I became increasingly concerned that she would begin sobbing at any moment. And empathy has never been one of my gifts.
"I can have the kitchen recook..."
"Why? Why would your cook do this to me?"
Because Raul, our Mexican cook who speaks three words of English, has it out for you something fierce. This is just the first of many atrocities he plans to commit.
"I don't know if he necessarily did this to you, but I'll make sure he recooks it."
"I don't even WANT it anymore!" she said in a tone much like a dejected Jan Brady after learning that Marcia has stolen her boyfriend.
"Yeah, ewwwww," said Trisha.
So helpful, thank you Jennifer Coolidge.
I presented the salad to the manager, who removed the sacrilegious item from the bill. The ladies had finished their latest round of drinks and I asked if they'd like anything else. By this time, our restaurant was on a 45 minute wait and I was eager to rid myself of them and meet my next blog fodder.
"We might have a few more drinks," Becky informed me. "Check back in about 15 minutes or so."
"So sorry," I said, "but you either have to be dining or drinking to remain in a booth when we're on a wait."
"Well...I WOULD be dining, but you ruined my salad."
Bitch, the only thing *I* ruined is the latter part of my 20s by working in this shit shack.
"Yeah, sorry. You're going to need to order another round or pay your bill."
"Fine," Becky said. "We'll take the check and go somewhere less noisy with better service and MUCH better food!"
Oh the slings and arrows! Insult my restaurant skills...but please, I implore you, DON'T demean the kitchen!
Becky and Trisha gave me specific amounts to put on their credit cards (because God forbid one offer to pay for the other) and each left $1.00 as tip, underlined and circled to drive home the point that I was the most recent in a long line of men who would feel their ire after unceremoniously scorning them.
I didn't deserve them.