the bitter waiter

"Off the record, on the QT, and very hush-hush..." (part three)

This entry marks the long-awaited, years-in-the-making revelation of my least favorite celebrity encounter of all time.

Make that "encounters," actually (read on).  So without further ado, allow me to introduce the talentless, personality-deficient, dead-inside, walking-product endorsement known as...

JESSICA SIMPSON

DAY ONE:

We first met many years ago when I was complementing my restaurant gig with a job at a highfalutin, overpriced "gym" in Beverly Hills, which is like complementing nipple spikes with a rusty rectal thermometer.   

My job was simple.  Make sure every single member checks in.  No matter who they are, what they've won, or whose anatomy they've sniffed coke off of to win it.   

In waltzed preciously Proactiv'd Mizz Simpson, sunglasses on, nose in the air, three gym bags on her orange-tanned shoulders, and a dog in a carrier.

She walked right past me.

"Excuse me?" I said.  "Hi.  Are you a member?"

She looked at me as if I'd just hurled all over her Birkin.

"Uhm...................yeah?" she answered, waiting for the logic in why I would dare ask such a question.

"Soooo," I replied with condescending hand motions, "You need to....check in?"

"Yeah, sure, you can look up my name on your little computer.  It's Simpson?  Jessica?"  And with that, she turned on her bitchy heels and strolled off. 

"EXCUSE ME?" I called again.  "Dogs aren't allowed in the club."

And clearly I've already bent that rule once today.

"Yeah," she smirked.  "The manager said it was cool."  She smacked her Splenda-sweetened gum and walked off.

--

DAY TWO:

Mizz Simpson returned later that week, this time with a friend in tow.  They both walked right past me without checking in.

"Excuse.  Me," I said firmly.  "You both need to check in."

"Oh, she's not a member," she reassured me.

"Okaaaay," I replied.  "So...do you have a guest pass?  If not you'll need to purchase one."

She stood there, annoyed and indecisive.  Her polite friend said, "Sure, I'll buy a pass, no problem."

"Uhm.  No."  Jessica retorted.  "I pay good money to work out here, and my friend is thinking of joining [BULL SHIT], so why should I have to buy a guest pass?"

I tried to explain the logic to her, but I found this akin to giving verbal clues for a scavenger hunt to a group of deaf children.

With that, she stormed into the manager's office, and I was written up that afternoon for "being difficult."

LATER THAT NIGHT...

I hightailed it from my job in Beverly Hills over the canyon with only 20 minutes to spare until my dinner shift at the restaurant. 

I walked in to find I'd be taking over a lunch server's table, a table I could hear bellowing drunkenly from the parking lot.

A table that featured Jessica Simpson at its helm.

"....Hi," I announced after glaring at everyone present for a good five seconds.

Everyone acknowledged me, except Jessica.  She was too busy texting and smacking her gum to care that a waiter was in her presence.

But once she noticed me?  Hisssssss.  Though she never addressed our mutual hatred, she expressed it through complaining about her food, sending back her order, and asking to speak to the manager because I "wasn't friendly."

So.  I was written up twice in one day, at two different jobs, because of this vocally impaired, tuna-loving trollup. 

THE LAST TIME I SAW HER:

Months later, Mizz Simpson and her sickening band of sycophants returned to the restaurant.  Fortunately for me they were sat in someone else's section. 

And even though I really shouldn't disclose what happened next, as it was a bit of a tabloid scandal...

Jessica Simpson looks onward while friend throws up in restaurant

...it was a banner night.  Jessica, her assistant (who in all fairness is lovely, polite and very gracious), and her assistant's boyfriend (who is not) decided to get over John Mayer's choosing more Jen Aniston and less Jess by consuming copious amounts of tequila for four hours straight.

And her poor assistant became quit ill and took to hurling projectile vomit all over the booth. 

The boyfriend quickly ran outside to get the car, as someone - perhaps me - had alerted the paparazzi, who were lying in wait with their flashes. 

And while the manager and several other servers took to comforting the assistant as she continued to throw up, Jessica sat disinterested two booths down, chatting up Tony Romo on the phone.  No holding her friend's hair while she vomited, no offering to help clean up, no assistance whatsoever.  Her sole interaction with her poor friend was to glare at her while she flirted with her rebound.

I can't help but think that if Jessica had handled herself with just an ounce of humility, a semblance of gratitude, an iota of genuine kindness, that she wouldn't be so wildly reviled by servers and gym employees the world over.  Her fading career, limited talents and increasing waist size are all karma, in my opinion. 

-

I'm not quite done trash-talking celebrities just yet.  Stay tuned next week for the final installment of "Off the Record!"

"Off the record, on the QT, and very hush-hush..." (part two)

Today is part two of our journey down the red carpet.  Now pop some pills, be up to date on all your injections, and let's get on with the show. 

In alphabetical order...

TERI HATCHER:

I've had more fun as a hostage in a convenience store than I did waiting on Teri Hatcher.  The speed of the ceiling fan, the temperature of her soup, the volume of my voice, the type of music playing in the background, the lack of blue corn tortilla chips, the size of the silverware, the quality of toilet paper in the bathroom -- this crazy loon complained about EVERYTHING.  And I suppose she was under the impression that I actually watch her fledgling faux comedy on ABC, because every time I approached the table she looked at me like I was about to ask for an autograph.

And speaking of, she threw a fit when I had to chase her down to the parking lot because she had neglected to sign her credit card receipt, and I can't claim my tip (in her case 15 percent) unless I have a signed credit card slip. 

"But I did sign it," she protested as I held the clearly un-signed piece of paper in front of her.

KATHERINE HEIGL:

Oh Katie Heigl, with your proclamation that "I'll be the easiest person you've ever waited on!" 

I'm not sure you and I agree on what constitutes "easy," given the amount of times you returned your Diet Coke to see if I could "fix the syrup level."  I get it.  There's a precise balance in these types of beverages that will make or break them.  But after sending back a Diet Coke four times, maybe you should order an iced tea instead.  I think you got your fix whilst smoking that entire pack of cigarettes in between bites, anyway. 

 KATIE HOLMES: 

I have killed cockroaches at work with more warmth and personality than Katie Holmes (and I met her pre-Scientology when she was still with dufus Chris Klein - see below).

What I remember most about Katie, other than her oozing condescension, is that upon seeing how much Chris Klein tipped me (50%), the little darling couldn't help herself and exclaimed "No waiter deserves that much money!"

The same can also be said about actresses who were once relevant but now couldn't open a Bargain Mart, let alone a motion picture. 

CHRIS KLEIN:

The guy really is dumber than a blind dog fetching a frisbee, but he couldn't have been nicer.  Every question or statement came with a smile, and he always said "please" and "thank you." 

The poor fool had my complete sympathy, as his then-girlfriend did nothing but nag him, insult his shirt, comment on how much he ate, and, yes, even judged his tip.  And with each bitter quip from Katie, Chris just smiled and adored her. 

I hope he takes some vindication in the death of her career.  I know I do, and I only had to deal with her for one meal.  He must have the patience of Job.   

 MATT LEBLANC:

"Jesus, leave me alone, let me sit in peace for a minute!" was the response I received to my inquiry of "May I bring you anything to drink?"

And thus fat, pompous, gray-haired Matt LeBlanc, whom I've always suspected of being just slightly mentally retarded, did not see me again. 

 

 

 

EVANGELINE LILLY:

She's even more gorgeous in person, exceptionally low-maintenance, witty and engaging, and radiantly warm and friendly.

But beware, for as one annoying customer from across the restaurant found out, she doesn't enjoy discussing the secrets of LOST while brunching with friends.  

 

GWYNETH PALTROW

I'll bet you really wish I had something awful to say about Gwyneth Paltrow, don't you? 

Sorry.  And while she isn't my #1 favorite celebrity customer of all time, she ranks highly up there. 

Gwyneth, from my limited experience, is gracious, personable, and wickedly funny.  She's the kind of girl who makes you want to pull up a chair and enjoy some macrobiotic treats and dark beer in her presence.  She even took the time to pose with a group of chatty Asian tourists, who I later learned thought she was Kirsten Dunst. 

JULIA ROBERTS

If she's America's sweetheart, then America needs to spend an evening serving her.

For starters, Julia Roberts is not friendly.  Not by a long shot.  Entitled, annoyed, and condescending?  Yes.  But friendly? Nope.

I wish I could say I communicated with her directly, but instead each time I took her order, she rolled her eyes at me and whispered to her husband, who communicated the order to me.  For example:

ME: What would you like to drink?
(Julia rolls eyes, whispers in her husband's ear)
HUSBAND: She'd like a martini.
ME: Vodka or gin?
(Julia rolls eyes, whispers in her husband's ear)
HUSBAND: Vodka. 

I made it a point to ask her husband as many questions as possible, including my favorite, "Is she done with her plate?"  Her husband seemed mildly nice enough, but she was a diva of the worst kind - one who finds herself too good to talk to the rabble. 
--
Stay tuned next week, during which I will reveal the identity of my least favorite celebrity customer of all time...a celebrity who's so awful, he/she gets his/her own entry.

 

"Off the record, on the QT, and very hush-hush..." (part one)

During my eight years in Los Angeles I've encountered a motley assortment of Hollywood elite as I served and slurred my way through many different day jobs.  For the first - but certainly not last - time in Bitter Waiter history, I present an uncensored look at some of my more memorable celebrity encounters.  Some good.  Many bad...

Today is merely part one of several in our journey down the red carpet.  Now pop some pills, be up to date on all your injections, and let's get on with the show. 

In alphabetical order...

PAULA ABDUL:

She's even crazier in person than during one of her horse tranquilizer-induced stream-of-consciousness fits you've seen on T.V. Though she was perfectly polite to me, she couldn't be distracted from sifting through the various contents of her industrial strength garbage bag-sized purse while searching in vain for her cell phone (it was on the table next to her the entire time).  She spent so long stressing, searching - and yes, sobbing - that she didn't even order.  We spent an awkward 20 food-and-drink-less minutes together before she and her equally daffy assistant just left.

CHRISTINA AGUILERA:

What a miserable, talentless, horrible little troll.  Nevermind her highly affected "Yes I know I'm someone famous" sense of entitlement.  Forget the layers of cheap make-up that made her look less pop star and more powdered donut.  Overlook the mangled pronunciation of basic menu items.  No, what I find contemptible is that for someone worth so much money, she tipped five percent.  FIVE percent. 

Cheap, insincere, and massively unpleasant, Christina Aguilera is my second least favorite celebrity of all time.  I hope someday the ugly truck comes back and runs over you again, you nasty bitch. 

KRISTEN BELL:

I love me some Veronica Mars/Gossip Girl, and Bell is both delightful and a good tipper, but the gaggle of obnoxious fan boys at her table made me roll my eyes so many times I thought someone would have to shove a spoon down my throat. 

 

CHACE CRAWFORD:

Look at that face.  How could I have anything negative to say about him?  Well, I don't.  He even asked my name, and upon learning that it's the same as his (albeit, mine is spelled correctly) he said I was the first person in L.A. he'd met with the same name. 

We'll always have that moment together. 

Forever. 

 

JENNIFER GARNER:

Whereas Xtina is my second least favorite celebrity, Jennifer Garner is my second most favorite.  Her food order is simple.  Her smile makes you feel like you're her best friend.  Her laughter solidifies your choice to be a comedic actor (or at least encourages you to prolong the delusion). 

And her tip?  Her tip could have paid half my rent. 

I heart you, Jennifer Garner. 

 

DAVID HASSELHOFF:

If you took a dozen monkeys, gave them each a hit of acid, dressed them in medieval clothing and threw them a collective birthday party at a Mexican restaurant, that sight would still appear more lucid than waiting on David Hasselhoff.  He wasn't rude, just crazy.  Each simple menu inquiry of mine was met with a ridiculous nonsensical joke:

ME: Would you like black beans or pinto beans?
DAVID HASSELHOFF: Which ones are better singers?  HAHAHAHAHAHA!!
ME: I'll be out back seeing how much Isopropyl fits into my flask.

I don't remember his tip, if he even tipped, or if he merely dined and dashed.  Not since I helped out at a center for the mentally disabled* have I witnessed such illogical attempts at attention.

*Never happened.

--

That's all for today's dish, but I'll see you in 2012 with a piping hot serving of gossip, contempt, and wit.  Have a happy and safe New Year's Eve.

 

Bitter Waiter's Christmas list

Dear Santa,

God made it pretty clear that he gave up on me, so you're my last resort. 

I used to pray solely for a new job.  Any job.  We're talking a return to my high school gig at the Disney Store quarreling over holiday-themed Beanie Babies with obese cat-sweater women and rebuffing the advances of repressed grandfathers. 

So, yeah, you're my last hope.  I've tried quitting my job (twice).  And I've attempted everything short of kidnapping the owners to get fired. 

But it seems God in all his infinite glory has decided to keep me in this hell hole, shoveling chips and salsa into the mouths of the ghetto, the gawdy, the trashy, the tubby, the cheap and the cheesy.

So in lieu of what I do want for Christmas this year, would it be too much to simply tell you what I don't want for Christmas? 

NO MORE CHATTY CUSTOMERS

Santa, I'm not what you'd call a warm person.  I have the patience of Kirstie Alley in a donut shop, and sometimes I drive just so I can rehearse my road rage rants.  I have a very busy schedule at work.  In between gossiping with my co-workers and shirking my side work, I have a flask to think of.  How can I possibly be bothered to engage in idle prattle with the McJohnsons from Ft. Jesus, Texas?  It's their first time in LA and they want suggestions on where to eat?  There's an app for that. 

NO MORE PDA

I'm thrilled that Tina and T'Shawn found true love while doing police-enforced community service together, but I do wish they'd consummate this winning partnership elsewhere, like in a motel parking lot or an above-ground swimming pool.  Watching them grope and groan makes me wish I'd been born without genitals.  It dulls my faith in humanity.  And it makes me hate Christmas and all other 364 days.

NO MORE HOLLYWOOD D-LISTERS

I am no more impressed with Jessica Simpson or Kim Kardashian than with the random homeless man who screams "Shit on the sun" outside my bedroom window each morning.  In fact, I find the latter far more endearing, and unlike the former two, I'll actually give him my money.  Santa, I'm not what you'd call a complimentary person.  "I've seen better" is usually my default answer when someone asks for an opinion on his/her appearance.  So to be forced to fawn over someone whose biggest achievement is using her breasts to endorse Midori seems unfair. 

NO MORE KIDS

Listen well, Santa.  If you elect to grant only one Christmas wish for the rest of my life - aside from bestowing upon me countless millions of dollars or a life-time team of servants - please let it be that I may exist in a world where everyone enters the world already 26 years old (minus my adorable nieces and nephew, and a few of my friends' kids).  I don't find them cute.  I don't feel some long-repressed paternal instinct to feign interest in their drawings or stories.  I mean, seriously?  A customer's five-year-old draws a picture of Buzz Lightyear that more closely resembles Lori Petty, and I'm supposed to act impressed?  Fuck that.  Give me the crayons; I'll show you Buzz Lightyear. 

NO MORE ARMENIANS

I know, I know.  It's not kind to single out any particular race, religion or sexual orientation (I came *this* close to asking for no more lesbians, but I love Ellen, Portia and Justin Bieber).  But seriously, I think God let Satan take over the drawing board when he made Armenians.  They're rude, they're bossy, and they hiss when they demand more vodka and Red Bull.  Besides, I can think of 1,000 truly offensive terms that I'd rather be called than "Bro."  And I don't know what they're packing into those cigarettes they so liberally smoke in my face, but they smell as if they were packed with dog shit covered in fish remnants and burnt hair.  

NO MORE ELDERLY

Santa, I'm not what you'd call an affectionate person.  Don't get me wrong; I think the elderly are perfectly cute when they're seated far away from everyone at a Christmas party and my interaction is limited to three minutes of discussing the Oklahoma City snow storm of 1986.  Beyond that, I have about a four-question limit in any context, and the elderly use up all four questions just figuring out how to open the menu.  No, I don't know where we catch our fresh Red Snapper.  No, I don't think it's too cold in the restaurant.  No, I don't think it's too hot in the restaurant.  No, I don't know your son Clive.  No, you didn't order a big bowl of spaghetti. 

NO MORE CHRISTMAS MUZAK

Every year, before I've even picked out my slutty Halloween costume, I'm unexpectedly bludgeoned over the head as I enter the restaurant to hear some band of six-year-olds singing Wham's "Last Christmas" over satellite radio.  Fuck me with a candy cane.  Seriously?  Which moronic music producers have decreed that all barely tolerable Christmas pop originals should be remade by a bunch of prepubescent Disney cherubs?  Bing Crosby and Nat King Cole must be flopping like fish in their graves.  I'd rather hear a choir of slaughtered lambs than the drivel they pump out for two months during the holidays.  Please, Santa, if I have to hear your anthem "Santa Baby," I can stomach one listening of Eartha Kitt's version.  But the Hilary Duff version should only be played in Hitler's chamber in Hell. 

Get this winter over with!

Please bear with your bitter waiter as he tries to survive this wretched holiday season.  I promise a new entry on Tuesday.  But as is the case with most of my tables, I just wanted to offer a quick explanation as to why I've been so absent. 

Dinner with the Rosensteins

When you're looking to be spoiled on your birthday, whom better to celebrate with than six of your closest Jewish friends?

Enter Sharon, an uptight Jewish housewife with a louse of a husband and three couples-worth of penny-pinching companions. 

I greeted four of the eight members of this bargain bin birthday bash.

"Were you waiting for more to arrive?" I asked.

"Yeah, the town car just went to pick them up," Oscar informed me.

"Pardon?" I asked.

"Well a limo was too expensive," he explained, "So we rented a town car instead, and the town car is taking us to dinner and back in shifts.  The rest should be here in about 45 minutes or so."

"How economical," I responded.  "Anything to drink while you're waiting?"

"Depends," Oscar replied.  "Would those drinks be on the house because it's her birthday and we're inconvenienced by having to wait for our friends?"

I'm indifferent to the former and not responsible for the latter.  So, no.   

"Not unless you count four free waters as birthday drinks," I replied.

"Bah humbug!" Oscar mock-shouted. 

For the next hour, Sharon and friends didn't order a thing.  They'd hold up empty water glasses and crumb-filled chip baskets to let me know they were ready for more free stuff. 

Finally the rest of the fun-loving frugal friends arrived.  No one seem nonplussed by this inconvenient manner of transport.  I suppose because it saved a penny, it was accepted as the more obvious choice than, say, shelling out the extra bucks for a limo or driving their own modest automobiles.  My annoyance at their town car scheme gave me a rare moment of sympathy.  For the driver.  I wanted to give him a swig or two from my flask or concoct a scheme for him to leave these cheapskates stranded at the restaurant. 

But that would involve me having to deal with them longer than tolerable, so better his suffering than mine.

The minute the remainder of the party sat down, Oscar waived his hands in the air like a plane crash survivor.

"Where've you been?" he bellowed.  "We're ready to order drinks."

"So soon?" I responded.

"We'd like a bottle of wine," he said.  "And eight glasses."

"Eight?" I raised an eyebrow.  "You'd get more wine at communion than one bottle among eight people."

"I didn't know we got ourselves a waiter and a mathematician," Oscar joked.  "Just bring us the bottle and I'll bet we can spread it out."

Wow, a Jew trying to multiply his gains to provide for his friends.  How Christ-like of you.

I returned with the bottle and smiled victoriously as each party guest took parceled sips to preserve the pittance of alcohol.  These party goers were out of control.

I began the arduous process of taking food orders.  Each of the couples split a modest entree, with the exception of Oscar and Sharon.  Sharon ordered a crab and shrimp salad.  Oscar perused the kid's meal and tried to order the kid's quesadilla.

"Unless I miss my guess, you're a hair more than 12 years old," I said.

"So?  It's her birthday," he retorted.

"Right.  And unless it's her 12th birthday?  She's not ordering off the kid's meal, either."

"Fine," Oscar said.  "I'd like the kid's quesadilla.  To go.  For my, uhm, 12-year-old daughter."

I threw my hands up in the air and let him have his way.  Given how small the kid's portion is, I was going to revel in his hunger and thirst.  His small victory over my modest Mexican restaurant paled in comparison to the self-created suffering of shuttling around in a town car and enjoing a modest wine-tasting. 

The meals were consumed quickly, and no more wine was ordered.  Oscar instructed me to bring out their birthday cake, which turned out to be a slice of birthday cake from a fancy bakery.  Yes, that's right.  One large slice for the entire table.  I wish I made this shit up.

Come bill time, and the tab was split among the four couples.  Three of them paid with credit card, and one of the couples paid in cash.

"I see the gratuity is added," Oscar said.  "Any chance we can negotiate something a bit more reasonable?"

"Sorry, the tip isn't up for negotiation," I said. 

"Says you," Oscar challenged me.

The first four friends took the town car shuttle back to the Rosenstein residence.  Oscar, Sharon and the other two friends stayed behind. 

And when Oscar thought I wasn't looking, he returned to the table and tried to pocket the cash that his friends had left as part of the bill.

"May I help you with something?" I asked him as he was caught with his hand in the rugelach jar.

"Oh, I, uh, thought I left my car keys here," he stammered.

"But...I thought you all took a town car?" I said.

"Oh!  Right!  That's why I couldn't find my keys, haha."

"Yeah.  Oh, and would you mind putting the cash back on the table?  Otherwise it's a criminal offense to steal, and I'd really hate to ruin this lovely evening you've created for your wife."

"Haha, sure," he said.  He quickly placed the cash back on the table and ran out. 

And I'm pleased to say that's the last time I anticipate seeing Oscar in my restaurant.  For as others have learned before, far more accommodating options exist for celebrating a birthday than my section.

Especially a birthday party with a shoe-string budget. 

Waiter rant

Hey you, hipster in the wool cap and unwashed flannel?  I don't mind your dour expression and sense of entitlement, but when you sit in my section and treat me as if I'm part of this imaginary group of people who continually suppress you?  Oh no.  That won't fly with me.

First off, let's start with your posture and tone when you address me.  I've merely asked, "What would you like to drink?", not "When are you going to get a job?" or "Did you remember to use deodorant?"  If you don't want to be bothered by my questions and infrequent visits, order a pizza at home so your Avril Lavigne listening party goes uninterrupted.  Believe me, in the Who-Can-Be-More-Hateful Olympics, you won't even make it past training while I take home the gold, silver and bronze.  So put that in your Jack Kerouac-inspired pipe and pretend to smoke it.   

Second, allow me to critique the paradoxical structure of your statement-making attire.  Your faux vintage T-shirt was made three weeks ago by underage children in Taiwan who don't earn in one year what it takes to replenish your used fedora collection at the flea market swap each week.  Glare at my red shirt and filthy apron all you'd like.  At least I'm dressed in an outfit that genuinely expresses how I feel...Dirty, used, and dead inside. 

Third, why don't we review how the restaurant dining system works?  Within a reasonable amount of time (3-5 minutes if I really have to spell this out for you), you'll peruse our menu of rehashed Mexican items.  You'll keep questions to a minimum.  You'll order, eat, pay and tip.  Then you'll LEAVE.  What you won't do is ignore the menu then ask, with great disdain, if I can just "make up a vegetarian soup" for you.  Just like your name absent from the cast lists of all those high school plays for which you auditioned, if you don't see it in print, it's not happening.  Also, when you're finished, you won't be lingering in my section.  This isn't Silverlake.  You're not in a coffee shop.  If you want to discuss all the various problems in the world and your complete apathy in resolving them, I suggest you find a more appropriate venue.  Like the carpool lane of the 405.

Finally, the tip.  I know you aren't compensated with gratuity at the quaint record shop where you earn minimum wage.  But I am.  Not only do I have to take your order, refill your drinks, supply you with chips and salsa to spread all over the table I get to clean later, and split your bill in ways that would give Einstein pause; I have to do this for the six groups around you, as well.  Then I have to tip out the hostess for double-seating me, the bartender for ignoring my drinks, and the bus boy for letting me clean my own tables.  So at the end of the night when you're looking at that "TIP" line and you...

Oh fuck it.  Why would I waste my time lecturing hipsters?  Your mind-boggling self-importance and undefinable belief system would never lead you to read about someone else's suffering.  I'll just continue charging you for items you didn't order and attempting to run you over after my shift while you linger in the parking lot, chain-smoking and bitching about that stuck up privileged server who didn't understand all your vast misery and unchanneled depth.  Go fuck yourselves.

 

 

End on a high note

Someday, when I finally quit my job, it will be in a similar fashion:

Guy Uses Marching Band To Quit Job.

Tip FAIL

You getting cute with your tip + my inability to stop buying booze % the fact that you're really a lousy tipper = Go lick yourself.