the bitter waiter

Entitlement

Many of my comrades in the service industry have already watched this nauseating tale of entitlement, racism, and customer revenge gone awry, but if you haven't?  It's worth the 8 minutes just as a guarantee that you WILL feel better about yourself after reading the story & watching the posted video in the article...

http://bullettmedia.com/article/watch-the-literal-worst-customer-ever-demonstrate-how-to-be-a-horrible-human-being/

"I am Wonder Woman!"

By now you have likely heard all about the great "Kitchen Nightmares" meltdown starring Amy and Samy Bouzaglo of Scottsdale, AZ, who own the local restaurant Amy's Baking Company.  And if you haven't, I pity you and the guilty pleasure of which you've been deprived.  A quick crash course can be found here:

This Is The Most Epic Brand Meltdown On Facebook Ever

And I highly recommend watching both parts of the episode:





All caught up?  Good.

As we approach minute 14 of Amy and Samy's fleeting 15, it almost seems unfair to criticize two clearly delusional individuals who refuse to accept any shred of responsibility for their monumental personal and professional problems.

After all, what's left to attack?  Thousands upon thousands have already taken Amy & Samy to task for confiscating server tips, for passing along frozen pasta and store-bought baked delicacies as their own, and for going Faye Dunaway crazy on their social media outlets.

No, what I personally find most disconcerting is that they refuse to let their freak flag fly and embrace the hundreds of thousands of newfound fans who celebrate their brand of insanity.  As much as I revile them, I want to see them on TV again even more.

Not since Omarosa or Tonya from "The Real World: Chicago" have I taken such pleasure in watching the irrational win, and in an age in which even swamp people from the bayou nag a slot on reality T.V., why the Hell shouldn't Amy and Samy?

So I implore you, deciders of reality T.V., PLEASE find these two their own half-hour of hilarity.  You've given everyone from Dennis Rodman to Denise Richards their own exercises in altered tedium; why not celebrate these two loons for whom the entire country is cheering to fail?

I, for one, am rooting for this place to stay open, even if just long enough for me to take a road trip to Scottsdale.

I heard that...

OVERHEARD:

YOUNG MAN: You're going to put the entire bill on your credit card?
YOUNG WOMAN: Yeah, just give me cash and I'll use it for my card payment.
YOUNG MAN: You know there's interest, right?
(beat)
YOUNG WOMAN: Ryan, I like you, too.  But right now I'm focusing on me.
(awkward silence)

 

Thoughts from last night's shift

1.  God that woman has small hands.  I hope I don't have to wait on her.
2.  Oh I'm the only server on for the next hour?  So every table is mine?  Oh bliss!    
3.  How can a woman with such small hands go through so many chips at once?
4.  Yes, asshole, there's alcohol in your drink.  Not as much as in my blood stream, but still.
5.  Oh you're in a hurry?  But you ordered your steak well done and sent back your drink three times? 
6.  Thank God there's a mirror on the wall above this booth.  Let's tune out these Armenians and study the reflection.  Ooh, wait.  That's actually a very sexy face you just made.  Do it again.  Ok, do it again, but this time, pout the lips just a little bit more.  Oh my God, so sexy.  I'll take a picture.  Ugh, if only I could crop these shitbags out of the picture.  Shit.  What did they order again??
7.  Small tip from small hands.
8.  "Oops I did it again.  I played with your heart, got lost in the game.  Ooh baby, baby..."
9.  Oh Billy's running late?  Got lost coming back from his audition?  So I need to start his tables, do all the work, then transfer them to Billy when he arrives and let him collect the tip for all my efforts?  It'll be a snowy, sober day in Hell before that happens.
10.  I can't understand what that Armenian woman asked for, so I'll just come back to her table with a Diet Coke, side of lemons, more salsa, and a hair net.
11.  Of course I don't mind running to the drug store next door to buy you a pack of cigarettes!  By the way, I love your Ed Hardy shirt - it really brings out the leopard print in your hooker's dress!
12.  Oh, she's your mother?  That's weird!
13.  No, Billy, I won't close the restaurant for you.  I'm sure your one-line reading for "Pretty Little Liars" was taxing and all, but I have a bottle of gin and a playlist full of The Carpenters waiting impatiently for me at home.
14.  I don't understand, old Armenian woman, you want doggos?  What the fuck are doggos?
15.  Yes, point to the menu, because it's so well-lit in this cavern.
16.  Oh, TACOS.  You want TACOS. 
17.  Yes, officer, your meal is free.  You know that.  I know that.  No need to see whose is bigger by reminding me every time you come in.
18.  What was that, Sharmeeka?  You didn't like your burrito and you don't think you should have to pay for it, even though you ate every bite like a cannibal on a cruise ship?
19.  STOP ASKING ME HOW MUCH LONGER FOR YOUR DOGGOS, YOU AWFUL MISSING LINK!
20.  When I get home, I am going to black the fuck out.
21.  Oh you work in a restaurant too, so you'll be super easy to wait on?  Then stop asking me to give you the happy hour price when it's not happy hour, and stop talking.
22.  Thank you, officer, but I don't need to know what you'll be doing in the bathroom, only that you'll be leaving when you're done with your "massive dump."
23.  Fuck this, I am going to black out here and now...

The tears of a clown

Be careful, my testosterone-laden lady-loving male customers.  I, as your server, have at my disposal all manner of ways to make your date a success or a stalemate.  Treat me well, and I'll do everything legally in my power to make you look good and ensure she's a sure thing (tampering with a drink notwithstanding).  Piss me off, however, and the only thing you'll be going home with is the salsa stain I failed to tell you about and for which I was likely responsible.

As a cautionary tale, meet Luciano, a hot shot Italian lothario.  He would have been much more handsome had it not been for his bizzarely manicured facial hair, bouffant pompadour, and the incendiary scent of his cologne, which seemed a blend of fabric softener and old dog farts.

While waiting for his date, he was polite enough, even friendly.  But once she arrived, Luciano gradually became more and more of an ass rash, metaphorically whipping it out so that his date and I constantly knew who was in charge.

As for his date, I'd love to tell you that she was a massive bitch with breasts as even as a water balloon and an orphan sock.  I wish I could say she looked like she'd slept in her clown make-up and woken up five minutes before her date.  How I'd savor the chance to compare her to a drunken French whore.

But alas, she was a sweet, adorable, apple-pie type girl next door.  Which only made me that much more compelled to expose Luciano once his true colors started scratching the surface.

"Hi, I'll be with you in just a minute," I said as she sat down, my hands stacked high with about 10 dirty plates.

"No, you'll be with us right now," Luciano said.  "The lady would like a drink."

"Oh, it's fine, you can drop those off and come back!" she said.

I dropped off the dishes and returned.

"Splenda margarita, blended, strawberry," Luciano said.

"Okay," I replied.  "And for the lady?"

"That IS for the lady," he said.  "I'll have a stoli and tonic."

I returned with the drinks.

"That's not what she ordered," Luciano said dismissively. 

She and I exchanged puzzled looks. 

"I think it is..." she said.

"No baby, we want it in the bigger glass," he said.

"No, I don't need a double," she said.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, this one's great, thanks!"

"Were you two ready to order?" I asked.

"What's the rush, dude?" Luciano inquired.  "I think it's really rude to hurry your customers.  I'll let you know when we're ready to order."  He shoo'd me away with a waive of his hand.  I smiled sadly at his date and walked off.

My short fuse had already been reached.  I just needed Luciano to be a cock ring one more time, and my plan for vengeance would be set in motion.  I knew it wouldn't take much.

And like clockwork, Luciano snapped his fingers five minutes later. 

"We've been out of chips and salsa for, like, ever," he said.  "What's the deal?"

"Sorry, I'll refill them," I said.

"You're struggling, dude," he informed me.

And with that, the switch was flipped.  He underestimated the extent of my acting training, the raw bundle of nerves that dwells inside, soaked with gasoline, just waiting for a match to set them off.

I let the lip quiver.  I allowed that beautiful, sole tear to fall from one eye.  I looked to the ground, so ashamed of my display of emotion, so dismayed at my vulnerability.

"Ohh...awwwwww," his date said.

"Sorry, I just...I just had to put my cat to sleep this morning, and I couldn't get anyone to cover my shift, so yeah, I am struggling," I said.  "I'm so sorry, let me pay for your meal out of my own pocket."

They both sat silently, if not a little awkwardly.  For the remainder of their meal, they exchanged very few words.  When I set down the bill, Luciano muttered a rehearsed, "Sorry about earlier..." and paid, still only leaving a 10 percent tip.

His date left on her own after offering an insincere "I had a good time..."

Luciano went home alone, hopefully having learned a valuable lesson.  

Flash dance

Poor Donna.  A jilted lover who's hard to root for because she's such a grating bitch, she and her gal pals recently strutted into my section for a night of tequila and testosterone-bashing.

Her support sisters, four equally obnoxious single ladies, came preprogrammed with a litany of Sex and the City style cliches to boost Donna's spirits.

"Honey, it's HIS loss!!!"

"Sweetie, you deserve someone who realizes how AMAZING you are!!!"

"Girl, it's not you, it's HIM!!!"

I stood within earshot at the bar, stirring the pitcher of a neighboring racist, redneck table with my index finger.  After blackmailing the bartender into giving me a shot of vodka, I greeted the pussycat pep rally.

"Hieeeeee!" I said perkily as to combat any anti-male sentiment, pretending that I was just a sardonic, sassy male-hater or something equally out-of-character.

"We're gonna need your strongest pitcher!" MaryAnnaBeth exclaimed!

"But maybe just, like, the cheap house pitcher!" LaDonna added!

"I want it blended!" Charisse squealed!

"No, on the rocks!" Veronica countered!

"How about half blended and half on the rocks!?" Donna chirped!

How about we really meet halfway and I just run you all over with my car?

The girls decided on a moderately priced pitcher prepared "flash" style (half blended, half on-the-rocks, and if any of you ever orders a pitcher this way I'll plant child porn and meth in your car and call the cops).

"Or are you gonna disappoint us, too, like every other man?" Donna asked me.  Upon closer inspection, Donna was a mid-40s New York transplant who was yoga hot, meaning her body was toned but her harsh face could instill gratitude in the blind.

I returned with the flash pitcher.  Now, if you're a rational person, the concept of a flash cocktail would be a wee bit contradictory, yes?  A drink that is prepared either on the rocks or blended wouldn't logically seem to have a happy medium, right?  I mean, to me, blended is blended.  Sure, there's 7-Eleven Icee blended, and then there's casual cocktail blended, but they're still void of "rocks."

In general, the rare few who order a pitcher or cocktail "flashed" are always disappointed.  There's either not enough blended texture, or a few errant ice cubs tilt the scale too far in the other direction.

Before I could set down the pitcher, Donna groaned.

"I KNEW he wouldn't get it right," she told the others, who all nodded their heads in agreement.

"Were you not LISTENING?" MaryAnnaBeth asked.

"Do you not know what 'flash' means?" LaDonna inquired.

"Is this your first day or something?" Veronica queried.

"Did they not train you?" Veronica wondered.

"I mean, you can leave that here?  But we're NOT paying for it," Donna insisted.

I had a theory.  I took the pitcher out of sight of the ladies.  I took a beat, during which time I downed another shot of vodka, affirmed myself in the mirror, affirmed myself to the bus boy, practiced my ever-changing choreography to the rendition of "Vogue" I plan on performing solo during my entrance at my high school reunion, and re-tossled my hair.

I returned to the table with the same pitcher, unaltered.

"THAT'S much better," Donna told me.  "But still, we've now had to wait 20 minutes for a drink, so we're not paying for this pitcher."

This occurred at 5:05.  I clocked in at 5:00, greeted them at 5:02, and was drunk by 5:04.  Twenty minutes, my perfectly arched foot.

They guzzled that first pitcher, and ordered another with aplomb.  The passive shift manager agreed to remove the first flash from their bill, much to my chagrin and in spite of the temper tantrum I threw in front of everyone.

So, fresh from vacation and disturbingly happy to resume my old tricks, I came up with a tried and true form of vigilante justice.  I knew just how to avenge myself from these stupid old witches.

They consumed two additional pitchers.  Both were prepared perfectly.  Both were met with a 10 percent tip.

And both were completely void of any alcohol.  Oh, and like the racist, redneck table that preceded them?  Both pitchers were stirred by yours truly.

 

 

 

I wish I worked here

Hate

Dearest readers,

If the following article doesn't sicken you and compel you to boycott Applebee's, I'm afraid you and I are not a match:

http://www.wisconsingazette.com/wisconsin-gaze/applebees-employee-gay-bashed-by-husband-of-co-worker-says-he-was-told-not-to-return-to-work-due-to-bad-publicity.html

Wish you were here

FIVE THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM NOT WAITING TABLES FOR TWO WEEKS:

1.  People are actually pretty awesome!  I've found this to be true every day I've lounged on the beach, just listening to my headphones, reading magazines, taking naps, speaking only to order food and drink, pretending I'm stranded on a desert island with only my waiter.  Yeah, people are actually pretty awesome when you have absolutely no obligation to interact with them.

2.  You can have just one drink.  Isn't that weird?  When life is calm, and stress isn't going for your groin every 20 seconds, you don't feel an overwhelming urge to drown your dread until your inner and external monologue are both slurring.

3.  There's a whole functioning world at 8 a.m.!  People are out jogging, coffee shops waft the comforting aroma of caffeinated-goodness, there's this thing called breakfast with bacon and utensils, people are perky, hangovers are not allowed at 8 a.m.!

4.  When you're without employment for a brief period of time, with zero income coming in, you spend money as if it's left on your windshield by an Armenian night club promoter.  When there's no money in the bank, there's even more expensive clothing on daddy's back.

5.  After two weeks of rest and repose, I will return to my lot in life a new man.  Gone are the outbursts, snarky comments, and temper tantrums.  No more letting the entitlement and temper tantrums of impolite society ruin my days and nights.  I will stride into work with a song in my heart and a spring in my step.  I will be forever changed by these two weeks.  Just me, and a sunny disposition.  I'll keep the blog around *just in case* I have that rare bad mood.  Like, on the off chance that I return to work Monday and all of this relaxation goes out the window.  But that won't possibly happen, not to this new man...

Unchained

You'll pardon my absence, but I've been overworked, so if I seem particularly pissy today, blame the double shifts, the shitty tips, the lack of respect from management, the ones who says they'll call and never do, the ones who shouldn't call and always do, and the fact that I've given up coffee.

Oh, and blame Angela and Jessica, who were responsible for the suspension I just received from work.

Yesterday, in the throngs of a busy lunch shift - a lunch shift that was busy because the managers agreed to give their pet server the day off for his BIG AUDITION, even though I was denied a half day off to have my teeth cleaned but WHATEVER - I had 12 tables at once.  That's roughly 50 people, all in a hurry, all bellowing for my attention, all presenting their ridiculous requests as more important than the ridiculous requests of their neighbors.

Angela and Jessica waltzed in, and the MENSA member of a hostess - who was seating the place as unevenly as the bumbled boob job she bought herself through a Groupon - gave me my 12th table while my co-worker stood polishing condiments in her empty section. 

"We're ready to order," Angela said as she snapped her fingers when I passed by in a frenzy.

"IN A MINUTE," I yelled.

"Am I the only person here with sight?" I asked our moronic manager, Pee Wee.

"Yeah," he said dryly. 

"Because you might want to explain to your hostess that, in an elaborate scheme to balance out the work of the restaurant, we actually recommend seating both sections instead of stacking one server's section first."

"You're cute when you're angry," he said while chewing his BIC pen lid down to a plastic turd.

I huffed and puffed and returned to my tables, caught them up, made it clear to Angela and Jessica that I was ignoring them, grabbed a drink out of the bartender's hand, gulped it, and greeted the newest horrors in my house of freaks.

"Yes?" I said to greet the gals.

"Did you not hear me when I said I was ready to order?" Angela asked with some serious 'tude.

"I did," I replied.  "Just as I heard all of those other people who've been here longer tell me that they need more water, more chips, and more salsa, as I'm currently the server to everyone in the restaurant."

"Uhmmmm, Joss-ica?" Angela said, revealing the cacaphony of her valley girl accent.  "I think someone's not getting a tip."

Joss-ica rolled her eyes and chimed in, "Can we seriously just, like, hurry this up?  We have massage appointments."

Who the fuck eats Mexican food right before a massage appointment?

"Who eats Mexican food right before a massage appointment?" I decided to ask.

"We're not EATING, we're DRINKING," Joss-ica snapped.

"Then I suggest heading to THE BAR where the BARTENDER has little better to do than practice his two-line audition for Pretty Little Liars!"

"We'll sit wherever we want, THANK YOU!" Angela countered.

"Fine, but don't be upset if I can't get to you right away, as you're my 12th table in a row!!!!" I replied.  "Now what do you want to drink?"

"A manager," Angela said with sassy, orbital move of her head.

"Not a very strong choice, but I'll be right back with that!"

I let Pee Wee deal with Angela and Jessica.  After all, he'd fielded complaints about me before, always followed by an indifferent lecture and some mildly bi-curious come-ons.

But not this time.  No, in an effort to really show those two sluts his manhood, he decided to inform me, in front of them, that I was suspended.

So yours truly now has a week off to have my teeth cleaned, fix those things around the house that needed fixing, see some matinees...

And who knows?  Maybe I'll return to work a happier, more well-adjusted employee?

Or maybe this suspension will really propel me into a place of extreme sardonic vengeance...