bitter waiter

Unhappy Hour

Last night I had the misfortune of waiting on a "self-seater," a customer who walks straight past the host stand and seats him or herself without regard for the restaurant staff.

Our place clearly has a hostess who stands at the very front of the restaurant in front of the front door.  There is no sign saying "Please seat yourselves" (thought I often wish there were a sign instructing people to do other four-letter verbs to themselves).  Nevertheless, we deal with self-seaters on a frequent nightly basis.   

This particular gentleman (term used loosely) looked like an extra from a Color Me Badd video, what with his freshly frosted blond hair, tucked-in tropical T-shirt and high-waist jeans.  The ensemble was accentuated with a long brown leather belt (tied in a knot at the end, natch) and cheap white Keds.  

Because he sat himself, neither the hostess nor I was about to greet him, clean off the table or offer him menus.  I stood directly in his eyeline, responding to text messages, pretending to laugh at the other server's stupid jokes and making sure the day's tan was even in the nearby mirror.  

When I simply couldn't convey any more indifference, I approached his table.  Before I could rattle off one of a million insincere greetings, he said:

"This table is dirty." 

"You're right!  That's because you sat yourself at a dirty table.  The hostess normally greets people...here and at pretty much every other restaurant in the world.  Drink?"

"I'll take a happy hour margarita."

"Sorry, happy hour is only available at the bar."

"Then I'll order it from the bar."

"Then you'll sit at the bar."

(Just so you know -- happy hour is $1 off house margaritas.  One dollar.  House margaritas.)

Eventually his lady friend joined him and ordered a dirty martini.  After three rounds and 30 minutes, I checked to see if they were ready to order their meals.  He said:

"We're just having drinks.  Couldn't you tell?"

"No, I couldn't.  I guess the presence of menus and silverware on your table threw me for a loop.  And these tables are reserved for dining, so if we go on a wait, you'll have to move to the bar."

"But we come here all the time."

"Me too.  Tables are for dining only.  Thanks."

With that, Color Me Badd asked for the check.  Fortunately his lady insisted on treating him, and treated me to a 10% tip.  They informed me, with great attitude, that they'd be sitting at the bar from now on.  I said the first word that came to my mind.

"Promise?"

All in the family

Any server worth his/her salt knows how to behave when dining out.  Make no absurd requests, drink your water at a moderate pace, and tip well.

And under no circumstance try to bond with your server simply because you two share the same profession.

Sure, a brief but polite, "I work at______________restaurant.  How's your night going?" is acceptable.  It establishes that you understand how the show works and lets your server know that good service will not go unrewarded. 

The other night I waited on a bartender from a certain obnoxious establishment on Sunset that caters to drunken tourists, chunky wanna-be-Sex-and-the-City sorority girls and Asian boys in sideways ball caps.  

(Yes, Miyagi's, where the last celeb sighting was the 21 Jump Street wrap party)

Sunset Boy and his entourage of three skanked-out cokies were sat at my one available table.  After what seemed like eight lifetimes worth of unsolicited advice & Miyagi's anecdotes, the four decided on a round of Adios Mother Fuckers, a blue libation that's very popular with low-income alcoholics.  

Sunset Boy, a perpetual frat boy in his mid-30s, was quite eager to point out how he might have done things differently than me.  

"Cardboard coasters under the drinks bro?  Try paper napkins bro.  They're classier bro."

"She ordered a strawberry margarita bro.  You didn't ask if she wanted salt on the rim bro.  Just keeping you on your game bro."

"You didn't ask if we wanted grilled chicken or rotisserie chicken on the Rotisserie Chicken Nachos bro.  Options bro."

Each suggestion was met with the same look, a look that even the blind could interpret to mean "Shut the fuck up."

Cokie #2 ordered a burrito without "any cheese."  When the burrito arrived without goat cheese, the table was stunned.

"Where's her goat cheese bro?  That's the best part pro?"

I replied, "She ordered it without cheese.  That includes goat cheese.  Bro."

"Ahhh, bro, you knew she meant regular cheeses bro.  Who orders that without the goat cheese bro?"

"They must do things differently at Miyagi's.  When someone orders something from me without any cheese, that includes goat cheese.  Would you like a side of goat cheese?"

"Nah, bro, have them recook it bro.  Sorry bro.  You should have asked which cheeses she didn't want bro."

Yes, that's exactly what I should have done, because I interpret "without any cheese" to mean "further inquiries appreciated," you valedictorian.

After the new and improved burrito arrived, I hid from Sunset Boy and his harem.  Only when another server was beckoned to ask for the check did I reappear.

"You been on your break bro?"

"Yes."

"You should have told us you were going on break bro."

"Yes."

"We'll take the ch..."

I dropped the check on the table before he could finish his sentence.  I stood there waiting for payment and didn't waste a second when he dropped a wad of cash on the table.  

"Keep the change bro."

The change amounted to a 15 percent tip.

Fortunately my tale has a silver lining.  Unlike every other awful person I bitch about, I know where this guy works, and I'm fully prepared to return the favor.  

 

It's never what -- but whom -- you know

Years ago, in an effort to encourage customer loyalty, the owners of my miserable restaurant created the "I Know the Owner" card (or....the "IKO" card, as it's affectionately called by the dozens of loud-mouths who waive it in the air like a stray ball from a Cubs game). 

Nothing makes the bile build in my stomach like serving an IKO card holder. The card makes the following provisions for its lucky owners: 

1) Immediately move to the front of the wait list regardless of the wait time for the other angry customers 

2) Receive a free dessert if the check averages out to more than $20-per-fat-ass 

3) Remind your server as often as you want that you know the owner and therefore expect the best service possible at a low-end Mexican restaurant where the staff is practically panting for a bloody revolution against the customers.  

The other night I had the pleasure of serving not one but two respective groups of IKO card-holders. The first was Bud, an awkward high school teacher who only dines at the restaurant when a discount and modest tip are involved. Bud is usually joined by his bizarre wife, who can go from civil to Sybil in a matter of seconds. 

They split an appetizer and two cocktails, meaning their check was several dollars short of the necessary $20/person to receive a free dessert. 

Bud and "Sybil" did not ask for a free dessert. They demanded a free dessert. 

"Don't you think, as often as we come here, that they should give us a free dessert regardless?" 

Riiiiiiiiiiiight, because the sale of one appetizer and two cheap drinks is what's keeping the restaurant afloat Bud. 

"Sorry, I don't make the rules. Wish I could help. Here's your check." 

Bud and Sybil one-up'd my triumphant display of indifference by calling over one of the owners. They were granted their free dessert and marked their territory by leaving me an even lower tip than usual. 

Thirty minutes later I was treated to a triumvirate of meatheads, one of whom held the sacred IKO card. I observed as they approached the host stand and asked about the wait. The poor hostess, new to the job and still polite, had never heard of the IKO card. The lead meathead deftly explained, in a mix of monosyllabic words and grunts, that he was to be sat stat. 

Naturally, their path lead to my section. Our exchange began with the usual joke that IKO-card-holders regale in telling:

"Hey bud, I Know The Owner, so you'd better be nice to me! Just kidding." 

My glare must have put the kibosh on his sense of entitlement, because I didn't hear about the card again. 

Until... 

He ordered his steak with "a little bit of RED in it." Not pink. Not brown. Red. That, to me -- a seasoned server with a knack for getting things right the first time for the sole reason of avoiding the customers -- spells medium rare/medium. 

Thus his steak arrived, "with a little bit of red in it," and our VIP customer was not happy.  

"There's not enough red," he said. 

"You asked for a little red. Did you want it rare?" 

"No. I wanted it the way I ordered it." 

So I had the kitchen cook up a bloody ribeye. 

"Now there's too much red." 

"Would you like something else? There isn't a lot of wiggle room between the two shades of red I've brought to the table." 

"You know...since I have this card, why don't you send one of the owners over and see if they can't fix this?" 

"(Sigh) Gladly." 

Minutes later, our owner brought out a different ribeye with the exact amount of red as the first steak I delivered to the table. 

"See, now that's a little bit of red," he said with the glib satisfaction of a 4th grader who just solved his first Encyclopedia Brown mystery. 

You can imagine the smile that crossed my face when I realized that his ribeye actually was the first one I delivered to the table. Even owners have a sense of humor.

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.