How to exchange your bitter waiter for a happier one

As a server, a certain sight can strike the fear of God deep into my hateful heart...namely, the site of a host or hostess setting up a large party in my section.

It's not that I can't hang with a large group. Regardless of what a rookie waiter might tell you, most servers worth their wages can deftly handle the pressure of a few extra people.

No, no. The nausea induced by big groups stems solely from the fact that I can't stand people. Multiply the obnoxious neediness of a typical guest by the amount of high-maintenance requests and divide by my almost palpable indifference and you've got an equation for disaster.

Last week, one such party wobbled into the restaurant to test my patience and rouse my ire. Eight rotund women of various ethnicities (namely, the ethnicities that servers try to avoid by stacking dirty plates on clean tables) checked into my corner of Hell for a birthday party.

Knowing that fat people love chips and salsa, I prepared four or five baskets and bowls and "greeted" my guests, half of whom were texting and calling their other overweight friends as fragments of food did the Roger Rabbit out of their munching mouths.

I took the drink order, which consisted mostly of blue drinks and cocktails with a lot of grenadine. I didn't bother to see IDs, knowing that the revelation of their respective weights would make me bellow with laughter.

Then I headed to the service station to prepare ice waters. I came back to the table with my tray of eight glasses in one hand and carefully began to set them down. Before I could get the second h20 out of my free hand, one particularly vile and sassy Latina waived her emtpy salsa bowl in my face like she was collecting alms for the poor.

"Yo, I need more salsa."

My insides felt all warm and tingly. A prayer had been answered. This was the chance I had been waiting for to express that I was wholly better than this virus that East L.A. had unleashed in my place of work.

Very, very dryly, I asked, "Do you think I could maybe finish setting down these waters before I refill your salsa?"

Sassy did the one finger across the face, as if to say "Oh no he didn't." I immediately left the table to grab their array of colorful cherry-garnished cocktails from the bar. No sooner than you can say "strawberry daquiri," a manager had been summoned to my table. I joined the conversation a bit late, but heard

"An' he haad an aaaaatt-tude from da start. He don't need to be like that. We want another sar-ver."

Before my timid superior could say anything, I looked at him (while setting down their Midori-laden goodness) and said, "Yeah, it's not really working. Maybe someone else could deal with them? Ladies, enjoy your drinks!"

And with that, I lost my eight friends to my poor co-worker. Over the course of their evening, the finicky fatties sent back five different entrees, went through three more staggered rounds of banana martinis and then split their bill eight different ways.

Sometime later in the evening, I think I was given a lecture about the importance of customer service. Though I can't remember the details of that particular pow-wow, rest assured I'll be a lot nicer next time...

Comments

[JEANIE]

typical borderline-racist dribble from a spurned white man. but...i love it.

[Topher]

I too hate those damn Canadians...