bitter waiter

Big brother is watching you

Feast your eyes on the newest shackle to make me further curse my day job:

That's right, boys and girls, security cameras!

And, no, these cameras were NOT installed to prevent theft or vandalism.  They were installed, according to one of the restaurant owners, to keep an eye on "drunken thieving servers."

In addition to the four you see on screen, an additional 17 cameras will appear before the month's end.

But the terror has already started.  On one particularly leisurely Friday afternoon, when I thought the owners had fled for Palm Springs, the restaurant phone rang.  

"TELL (BITTER WAITER) TO BUTTON HIS SHIRT!!!!"

The cameras are connected to the Internet.  The owners and managers can watch my misery from the comfort of their own homes.

Bitter Waiter, in deed.

A penny saved is a penny burned

Nothing screams "big tip coming" like a customer whose questions are all cost-related.

"What's your cheapest margarita?"

"Are the chips and salsa free?"

"Does it cost extra to make the drink stronger?"

100% of the time, these tedious inquiries beget (at most) a 15% tip.

And, oh!  Did I know I was in trouble when one particularly thrifty lady plopped her penny-pinching ass in my section...

We'd met before.  I never forget the face of cheapness, and I always bring my mental Rolodex of grudges to work.  And in that Rolodex, under "bad-tipping whore," is a picture of this woman (whom I call Penny Pincher)

On this day she was accompanied by her equally unpleasant friend, who'd left no bin unturned at "New to You" in her search for modest footwear.

"Anything to drink?" I asked.

"Oh hiiiiiii!" she said, all peaches and cream.  She was about to ask me for a favor.

"Drinks?"

"I knoooooow it's not happy hour yet (big smile), but maybe you could just bring out my drink and then ring it in once it's happy hour?" she asked.

Hell no...

"Hell no..."

"Oh, BOO!" she said.  "Come on, I come here all the time!"

No, bitch, *I* come here all the time.  

"Happy hour doesn't start until 4," I said, grinning.  "And besides, it's only available at the bar.  Not in my section."

"Well then," she countered.  "I'll just order my drink from the bar when it's happy hour."

"Then you'll have to sit at the bar."

"Why are you making this so complicated?  I just want a happy hour drink!  Isn't the customer always right?"

Silence.

"Drinks?"

"I'll just have a margarita," her friend said, instinctively adding "the cheap one."

"Of course," I said.  "And for you?  Drink?"

"Well if you're not going to give me a happy hour drink I'll just have an iced tea."

Ah! The sting of her vengeance is MERCILESS!!!!

I dropped off the drinks and took their food order.  The ladies each ordered a cup of soup and a chicken caesar salad.

Upon delivering the meals, Penny Pincher looked at me with a shit-eating grin and said:

"Uhm.  This salad has dressing on it."

Very astute.  Please, continue with your declarations of the self-explanatory.  Tell me which utensils are on the table.

"Yes, it does have dressing on it." I said.  "Would you like more iced tea?"

"But I always order this salad with dressing on the side."

"You didn't tell me you wanted dressing on the side."

"I just assumed you knew because, you know, I come in here all the time and I always order my salad this way."

"But you didn't tell me that today..."

"I just assumed..."

I grabbed the salad from her miserly hands and stormed off mid-sentence.  Minutes later I returned with the salad, dressing on the side.

"You know what?" she said.  "I think I would like a margarita."

"The cheap one?" I asked.

Fast forward to bill time, and Penny once again called me over.

"I notice I was charged for my salad," she said.

"Well...yes.  You did eat the entire thing, didn't you?" I asked.

"Yes but I don't think I should be charged for it.  You messed up my order.  I wanted the dressing on the side, remember?"

"I do remember, because I wasn't aware of that fact until after you received your salad."

"Well...I think I should at least get my drink for free."

After nearly 20 seconds of awkward silence, through which reciprocal levels of disdain were conveyed, I said I'd "consult" with my manager and get back to her.

I asked the owner of our restaurant (a fellow penny pincher) an ambiguous question about giving away a free margarita.  He gave me a curt "No," and I returned to Penny with the verdict.

"Yeah, no, sorry," I said.  "I talked to the owner himself and he said we won't be taking anything off the bill.  May I bring you two anything else?"

"NO." 

Penny threw down exact change for the bill, and she and her cohort left abruptly.  Days later, Penny returned.  And while she wasn't sat in my section, I heard her ask the server, "I knoooooow it's not happy hour yet, but maybe you could just bring out my drink and then ring it in once it's happy hour?" 

As for the price difference between a regular margarita and a happy hour margarita?  

$1.29

Fingers, fingers, toes and thumbs

Businessmen are very important.  Their need to take work-related phone calls while dining in public supersedes their need to be remotely civil or polite.

I once approached "Jim Smith" and "Mike Jones," two such professionals, after they'd been sat in my section.

While hefty Jim was playing Chubby Bunny with the tortilla chips, Mike was on a VERY important phone call. 

I asked if they'd like anything to drink.  Jim said "I IKE A IC E," which, when spoken by someone whose mouth isn't full, translates to "I'd like an iced tea."

I gave Mike two seconds to put the call on hold and tell me what he wanted.  He did not.  I packed up my pen and pad and began to walk away, until Mike's free hand grabbed my wrist.  I gave him the "Oh no you didn't" look and hovered over him like a lion whose cubs had just been hunted. 

He pointed vaguely in the direction of the beer list. 

"WHICH ONE?" I asked in a volume that would register with the person on the other line.

He then pointed at the Dos Equis.

"AMBER OR LAGER?" I asked.

He gave me a thumbs up.

"AMBER.  OR.  LAGER?" 

He gave two thumbs up in rapid succession.  Lager it was.

I returned with the drinks.  Mike was finally off the phone.  

"No no, I wanted the Dos Equis AMBER," he said.

"I can't really tell what someone wants when he uses his fingers and thumbs to order."

"Well, it wasn't the lager."

"Oh no problem," I said.  "I'll just exchange this one for the Amber."

And then take it out back and drink it myself.

I returned with the "correct" beer, ready to take their order.  However, two things distracted me:

1) Jim waived the empty chip basket in front of me like he was collecting money for the poor outside Wal-Mart.

2) Mike was once again on his phone.

I said, "I'll come back," but Mike waived his hand in the air to stop me.

I took out my pen and clicked away at an obnoxious, audible pace.  

Jim ordered the carne asada, well done, with double french fries instead of grilled vegetables (natch).

Mike just gave me a thumbs up after pointing to himself.

"You want the same thing?  The carne asada?"

Apparently I could have asked Mike anything, like "Were you breast fed beyond a normal age?" or "Do you think Jim is dangerously obese?" and I suspect he would have given me the same thumbs up.  Anything, of course, to rid himself of me and my pesky questions.  

After all, who was I to disrupt his phone call?

Two carne asada steaks arrived just as Mike got off the phone.

"What is this??" he asked.

"It's the carne asada you inadvertently ordered."

"But I didn't want anything.  I already ate.  That's what I was trying to tell you."

What's that, Lassie?  You don't need any dinner?  Of course I understand this, because interpreting hand gestures and thumb movements is a prerequisite for working in the service industry.

"Yes," I countered, "but when I asked if you wanted the same thing as your (Prehistoric) friend, you gave me the thumbs up."

"Well," he continued, beginning to lose his cool, "What I think anyone else would have picked up on is that I didn't want to order any food."

"Because you gave me the thumbs up?!?!"

I knew I needed to walk away immediately or risk redeeming-yet-fiscally-irresponsible termination.  I brought over the manager who listened to Mike hoot and holler for a few minutes.  His beer was taken off the bill, and the table was transferred to another server.

As Jim and Mike left the restaurant, I stood by the door and gave them two enthusiastic thumbs up.  Mike replied with a different finger gesture altogether. 

Shift change

Bitter Waiter is headed home for a few days to tend to the personal life.  Expect the same brand of bitterness and loathing you love upon my return.

I look at all the lonely people

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.

The impractical joker

On one unfortunate Cinco de Mayo, I shouldered the burden of serving an aspiring comedian and his posse of unwed mother-strippers.

I greeted the table, only to have him interrupt with a drunken: 

"Hey HEY hey!!!"

"May I bring you all anything to drink?" I asked.

"It's CINCO DA MAYO, hold da MAY-O, BWHAHAHAHA" he exclaimed.  Lord knows how many painkillers and paint fumes came together to construct that sentence.

I can only describe our budding entertainer as a mix between SNL's Keenan Thompson and every crazy beggar who's ever harassed you on the streets.  

"Yes, it IS Cinco de Mayo," I continued.  "And may I bring you all anything to..."

"Lighten up, man!" he said.  "You so serious!"

I offered the same weak smile I give to someone who offers unsolicited advice or tells me I look like David Cassidy.  

"Drinks?"

"Aiiiiight.  We're gonna do TRES MARGO-RITAS.  Double...no TRIPLE, the tequila, BWHAHAHAHA!!!"

Is it wise for someone I presume to be homeless to mix prescription pills with copious amounts of alcohol?

"Would you like those blended or on the rocks?"

Mr. Crazy mulled this over as if I'd inquired about the meaning of life or the best Hollywood intersection for purchasing a Yugoslavian prostitute.

"Which is better?" he asked after two minutes of introspection.

"I prefer on the rocks." 

"AWWWWWW, that's how you roll, huh?  On the rocks?  Like Rocky, on the rocks?  Are you a boxer?  BWHAHAHAHA!!"

"Yes.  I'll be right back with your drinks."

I returned with the margo-ritas.  To my dismay, the hookers at the table were encouraging Mr. Crazy by fervently laughing at his jokes. 

"Is everyone ready to order?" I asked.

"IS EVERYONE READY TO ORDER?" Crazy repeated.  I assumed he was checking on the hookers to see if they were ready.  

"What may I get for you?" I asked.

"WHAT MAY I GET FOR YOU?" Crazy said.  Ah yes.  The mimic game, the old standby in any good comedian's bag of tricks, especially if that comedian is four years old.

I stood there like a statue as Crazy cackled.

"Should I come back later?" I asked.

"SHOULD I COME BACK LATER?"

"Nothing I say is funny." I said.

"NOTHING I SAY IS FUNNY..."

And with that I walked away.  Naturally, I left them alone for a good ten minutes.  And when I returned, they were gone.  The drinks were still on the table but Crazy and company had flown the coop.

I looked around to see if their retreat had been recent.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Crazy peering from around a corner, covering his mouth to conceal his laughter.

He walked toward the table with his harem of fleas.  

"WE GOT YOU GOOD MAN!  YOU THOUGHT WE DINED AND DASHED, BWHAHAHA!"

I was not amused.

"Yes, how clever of you," I said.  "From now on I'll need a set of keys or a credit card if you're going to continue sitting here.  And by the way, because it's Cinco de Mayo, you're only allowed to sit at a table for 90 minutes.  You've been here for almost an hour.  It's time to order."

"OHHHHHHH dude!  I get it.  Now YOU'RE trying to fuck with us!  90 minutes, hahahaha that's a good one."

"Riiiiiight," I said.

Once they hit the 89 minute mark, I informed the manager, who told Crazy & co. that their time was up, that they'd need to find an open mic night in Van Nuys, Reseda, or any other spot in the valley that would accommodate his ill sense of humor.

Crazy left a piled of crumpled bills as payment ($3 tip on a $40 bill), as well as an invitation to watch him perform stand-up at some venue in Orange County.

Anyone want to go?

I heard that

Long ago I waited on a questionable couple, probably celebrating a parole or successful convenience store robbery.

I kept my distance during their dining experience, both out of annoyance as well as fear for my life.

And then came bill time.  I stood close by to ensure this wouldn't turn into a game of "Dine and Dash."

They dropped cash (full amount + five percent tip) and then left.  On their way out, I heard the female say to the male, "Did you pay all of the bill this time?"

"Uh, yeah." he said.

"You did?  Why?" she retorted.

Finding Emo

If I only hate one group of people One of the many groups of people I hate are emo hipster teenagers and their overly expressed and equally unfounded angst.

Seriously, how hard could life be at 18?  In between riding their skateboards to Hot Topic and incorporating Avril Lavigne lyrics into haiku, what could they possibly have to complain about?

On one particularly hot Los Angeles night in July, six hipsters sat themselves in my section, all clad in bulky sweaters, all held hostage by their pencil jeans, all conforming to a preconceived notion of nonconformity.

"What may I bring you kids to drink?"

Did everyone take their uppers before sitting in my section?  Because I won't be doing your fragile egos any favors.

The female ring leader, a depressed hipster meets I-wish-I-were-Anna-Paquin in True Blood, looked at me (the closest thing to an authority figure) and immediately took a tone of rebellion.

"We're waiting," she told me.

"Oh, are you expecting more people?" I asked.

"No.  We're just waiting."

"Oh, ok."

And wait they did.  In the time it would have taken to fake comprehension of a Jack Kerouac novel, I kept my distance as they texted, glared, rolled their eyes, and thought "Why me, non-existent God?"

Finally I strolled back up to the table, full of sunshine.

"Hey guys!!  Are we still waiting, or is anyone thirsty?"

Not-Anna-Paquin's long-haired unisex love interest took pause from his/her self-loathing to request "a soda."

"Any particular soda?" I asked.

"a......Coke," s/he whispered.  I couldn't hear a word it said and asked it three times to repeat itself.

"A.  COKE." Not-Anna-Paquin shouted (finally, she was sticking it to The Man).

Fast forward to 30 more minutes of emoting, and no ordering, and Not-Anna-Paquin summoned me to the table with a faint raise of her arm.

"There was a hair in the Coke," she said of the unisex love companion's beverage.

Any chance that vile follicle came from your young lover's head as your were picking out strands to use as dental floss, you stupid bitch?

"Oh my, that's rough.  Let me bring you another Coke." I said.

"Actually.  We're leaving."

And with that, they exited the restaurant single file, except for Not-Anna-Paquin, who comforted the ambiguous object of her non-affection.  I assume they viewed the hair-in-drink experience as yet another way in which the world was constantly trying to keep them down.

And even though it was brief, I was thrilled to give them something to complain about.

If you don't have anything nice to say, shut the hell up.

I strongly believe some people exist in the world solely to complain about it.

Take for example Bertha, a portly woman clad in a darling mumu whose sole form of communication was whining and griping.

I greeted Bertha and her equally sour friend on one particularly hot August L.A. evening.

"How are you two tonight?" I asked.

"Ha," Bertha said.

"Ha?" I replied.

"How am I doing??" she bellowed. "What do you want to hear about first, my doctor's appointment this morning or what my cats did to my living room?"

Neither. What I want is to be at home wearing nothing but an eye mask and spilled vodka.

"Oh, wow, sounds like you've had quite the day. May I bring you anything to drink?"

"Well, I wish, but my doctor says I need to lay off the alcohol."

No...

"Oh, wow, that's unfortunate," I said insincerely. "How about a Diet Coke?"

"I can't have caffeine."

"Lemonade?"

"I'm supposed to avoid sugar."

"Water?"

"I hate water. Just bring me a Sprite."

The Forces of Stupid overcame me, and I asked, "Is 7-Up okay?"

"God, this isn't my day. I hate 7-Up. Fine, I'll take 7-Up."

Way to accept your fate, Eeyore.

The friend mumbled as if she'd just endured a lobotomy but I translated her grunts into "Miller Genuine Draft."

I delivered the drinks and fearfully inquired if they were ready to order.

"Who chooses the music you play here?" Bertha asked.

"Our managers. Why? Do you like it?"

"No. It's too loud!! My head is literally spinning. I think I have a migraine now. Please ask them to turn the music off."

"Off? I don't think they'll turn the music off. Perhaps they might turn it down."

"Uhhhh. My head."

I informed our indifferent manager of the volume request. It was met with a weak crank of the dial and no noticeable difference in the blaring of cheesy 80's hits.

I returned to the table and took the food orders. To my surprise, Bertha spared no calorie while ordering the large cheese dip to start, an order of pulled pork for her entree, and warned me in advance that she'd be wanting dessert.

I performed my routine quality check once the food arrived, fearing I'd hear stories about dead cats, heart congestion, cankles or the apocalypse.

With a mouthful of food, Bertha informed me that everything was "ok."

"Just ok?"

"Ok. No problems yet."

What the fuck does that mean?

After dessert, I cleared the plates with four pairs of latex gloves, a nose guard and several shots of straight Absinthe.

Before I could deliver the bill, Bertha informed me that "there was barely any pork on my plate."

From the looks of it, you have enough pulled pork in your system to feed all of Somalia until 2045.

"Oh really? Sorry. You should have let me know when I came by to check on your food."

"I thought it would be enough. But it wasn't."

"Would you......like.....to order another serving of pulled pork?"

"I guess I'll take one to go. But don't charge me."

Of course I won't charge you! Welcome to America, where we give freely to the obese and unemployed. Let us pay YOU to dine here!

"Sorry, that won't happen."

"Then we'll just take the bill. Do you take personal checks?"

"Uh, no. Just the untraditional cash or credit card."

"Ohhhh fine," whimpered Bertha in her Eeyore voice.

The ladies cracked open their piggy banks and left the exact amount of the bill. And no tip.

I know some of you might be drawn to pity these ladies. But when you've worked in the service industry for years, and you witness those who are already dangerously overweight gorge themselves on melted cheese, greasy pork and vanilla flan, you tend to feel zero sympathy.

And when they leave no tip whatsoever? Well, you blog about it, naturally.

Separation of church and steak

I'm usually wary of waiting on a family fresh from church.  

Years ago I overheard a customer proclaim, "If I only tithe God 10 percent, why would I tip a waiter more than that?"

My bias was reinforced when a group of seven Wednesday night church-goers once insisted that I join them in blessing their food.  As they remained seated with eyes closed, I reluctantly stood at the head of their table, holding hands with two complete strangers, all of us storming God's throne for mercy.

On a recent Sunday afternoon I waited on the McProtestants, a family of four who came straight from church.  Despite being dressed in their Sunday finest, the looks on their faces seemed more apropos for a family trip to Darfur than a morning of scripture and song.

The dad ("Ted," I decided) seemed the most determined to put on a happy face.  On the other hand, his wife ("Peggy") was massively unpleasant, and their two children will no doubt grow up testing homemade bombs on small animals.  

"Hello, how is everyone this morning?" I asked.

"WONDERFUL!"  Ted said in a sing-song voice.

"GREAT! May I bring you anything to drink?" I asked.

The daughter shot me a look that suggested I do something unpleasant to myself.

"You don't have Root Beer, do you?" she asked.

"No, we don't. Sorry."

"See, Dad, that's another reason I HATE this place!  Ugh!!!!!!!"

Listen, Kelly Osbourne, no one has a longer list of reasons why this restaurant should spontaneously combust.  I'll show you bitter.

With that, she laid her head on the table and rarely emerged from her unfounded cocoon of angst and resentment.    

And then the son ordered his drink.

"*I'd* like a Shirley Temple with LOTS and LOTS of extra cherries."

He immediately earned my pity.  I wanted to distract his parents, provide him with cash and a fake ID, and encourage his escape to Key West, Chelsea or anywhere in Europe.

Peggy was busy glaring and making hand gestures to Ted about their hibernating daughter.  I met mom's inner beast when I asked: 

"Ma'am, what would you like to dr..."

"NOTHING.  I'm fine," she said.  I imagine this served as her response to any number of questions.

Ted politely paused from playing charades with his bitch wife to inform me that he'd like a coffee.

As I delivered drinks to the men, and looks of fear to the ladies, I noticed the menus were stacked neatly in a pile, the chips and salsa moved the edge of the table, and Ted's credit card was ready.

"We'd like three breakfast burritos with black beans.  And then the bill," he said.

"Anything for...her?" I stupidly asked as I pointed to the daughter.

"ABBY..." Mom bellowed (I gathered this pseudonym was the human name for the little demon).

"I DON'T...WANT ANYTHING...TO EAT!!!!!!!!!" Abby informed the restaurant.

"FINE.  DON'T EXPECT DINNER, EITHER."

"GOOD."

"GOOD."

With that, I turned in their order as fast as I could, printed the check, and ran the credit card.  Ted had signed the receipt and placed it at the edge of the table long before the food arrived.

He left a 10 percent tip with a big "THANK YOU" written at the top of the credit card receipt.  

As they walked out, Ted remained about 10 feet ahead of everyone else.  Peggy followed, arms folded, with sweet little Abby in tow.   

And the young son brought up the rear with a big smile and a friendly wave.  "Buh bye!!!!'

I will pray for that poor boy every night for the rest of my life.