bitter waiter

Condescending soccer mom and her merry band of menstruating bitches

Last week I had the pleasure of waiting on five young Jewish mothers and their five ugly, almost androgynous children.  These little demons had been cursed with names like "Marlena" and "Parker," as if Aaron Spelling had bequeathed to them a B-grade night-time soap before his death.

Before I could posit the completely insincere query of "HI HOW IS EVERYONE DOING TODAY?!", I was met with the mission statement of the head mama.  She highlighted each word as if I'd expressed a need for her to communicate via sign language.

"We're in a...HURRY.  We need...FIVE...kid's milks....with lids......
...
...
...
...and S-T-R-A-W-S."

With the aid of a translator and some illustrations, I was eventually able to digest and grasp this complex notion presented to me, a lame peasant who makes a living fetching food and beverage for the richest Jews in all the land.

I returned with the milks, only to be asked, "You're sure these are all MILKS, right?"

"Well, I didn't milk the cow myself, but the label did say 'MILK' on the container."

No one at the table laughed.  Instead, I could sense horns slowly emerging after gestating in a venomous pool of estrogen and hatred.  They could smell my waspy man chemicals and, therefore, I needed to be put in my place.

Their vengeance came in the form of an order than would have made Rain Man's head explode.

Before I could dart off and drink liquid detergent, head mama said, "And we'll need forks and napkins for our food."

Friends and casual readers, I can't elaborate enough on the gravity of this revelation.  Never before has a woman so succinctly and accurately expressed her needs.  Forks and napkins!  It seems so abstract, but when presented by a Jewish soccer mom, I grasp the meaning behind the beautiful prose. 

The food arrived.  Apparently one of the kid's meals came with rice instead of fries as requested (sometimes soccer moms communicate in such a poetic, haunting manner of speech that "fries" becomes "rice," and "I need more water" becomes "Enter my love cocoon, virile waiter stud.")

"Uhm...She wanted french fries.  This is rice."

God damn if Jew #2 hasn't won a Pullitzer for her grasp of concepts both interpretive and obvious.   I retreated quickly to my journal to scribble "This is rice" and returned to the table to address her concerns and assure her of our budding relationship.

I then fetched the glorious fried potatoes that would no doubt nurture her man-daughter and pave the way for bad skin come Bat Mitzvah time.

The "hurry" that these women and their budding yodelers were allegedly in manifested itself in the form of a long coffee-and-gossip session following the feast.  Nasty snack foods stored in Zip-loc bags created a moat around the table.  Children burped and ran around while the 'steins and 'felds gabbed and applied make-up.  Needless to say, no one was in a hurry.

Enter me, mindful of the damsel's initial expression that time was of the essence.

"I know you are all in a huge hurry, so here's your check.  I'll be standing by in case you need to leave quickly."

The women utilized everything from a protractor to an abacus to dissect and analyze the parchment that presented their charges.   

"Sybil, didn't little Herman have the orange juice?  You owe an extra $1.25."

"Oh wait, my darlings Esther and Elijah split a kid's meal, so we owe $4.67 less than everyone else."

And then, almost in unison, "Oh wait, gratuity is included.  Hmm, 18 percent."

I bid adieu to my new friends as they ventured off to explore the world through their self-focused lense.  Though my goodbye wasn't met with so much as a friendly glance, I understood the non-verbal meaning behind their (lack of) communication.  Parting is difficult after quickly establishing such a symbiotic bond. 

I can only hope that the God of Abraham will grant them a quick and safe return to me.

The simple pleasures of being difficult

Most of the time, my haughty behavior is (in my irrational opinion) called for because of the offensive nature of many restaurant diners. 

Other times, however, I am simply in a bad mood and ready to be difficult for the sheer purpose of my own entertainment.

Take last Thursday for example.  After an early morning argument prior to my shift, I arrived at the restaurant with my horns already exposed, eager to trample on anyone and everyone's good mood. 

The antics began with the whaling of a fat Mexican woman seeking a high-chair for her offensively ugly, shrieking newborn (a high-chair seemed a less appropriate request than, say, a mask and some sedatives).  It wasn't so much that she asked me, it was how she asked me.

For starters, I wasn't her server.  Second, I had my hands full of three scalding hot plates for my own table.  Third, the tone in her voice implied that I was responsible not only for her having to wait for a high-chair, but for all the horrible things that had turned her into an obese, loud-mouthed alarm siren, as well.

Her request was met with no direct eye contact and a particularly curt, "Ask someone with empty hands."

As I brushed past her en route to my table, I noticed I'd been sat with a group of regulars every server tries to avoid.  These businessmen, with their habit of wolfing down chips as if participating in some eating contest at a fair in the deep south, always tipped $1 per person.  They demanded constant iced tea refills and barked at the small portions on the thrifty lunch specials. 

I became erect in anticipation of ruining their day.

I approached their table with a facial expression and body language that said, "Go fuck yourselves."  But before I could fire off an incendiary introduction, I was met with:

"Hey pal, we need extra chips.  And I think this booth is broken.  It sinks.  Can you fix it?"

"Yeah, let me go grab my toolkit and wood supplies out of my Honda.  I'll be right back with iced teas and three discounted soup and salad meals."

"Whoa bud, don't need the attitude.  And besides, we're celebrating.  We'll take three carne asada steaks, well done."

"You are aware that those are on the regular menu, and you won't be able to get a discount?"

"Why don't you send over your manager and we'll discuss a few things with him, like getting a new server."

"I'll dab my eyes and get right on that."

I immediately sought my manager, who is as indifferent to customer complaints as the day is long.  Unfortunately, he was otherwise engaged with the whaling woman who still hadn't found a high-chair.  I stood there, like a blank canvas, listening to the conversation.  He assured her that he would take care of her concerns with all the sincerity and conviction of an automated customer service recording.

"I think table 16 wants to see you," I warned.  "And I'm pretty sure you'll want to transfer them to another server."

As I walked back to my station, I noticed the whaling woman writing a lengthy note on the back of her check.  My prayers were answered when she angrily handed it to me on her way out.  I expressed my gratitude with a shit-eating grin and gathered my other servers to participate in the reading.  In closing, I leave you with the original, unabridged works of an angry customer:

"Dear Sir,

You have alot [sic] to learn about customer service.  When a guest askes [sic] for something, your [sic] supposed to help out and not have a bad attitude.  People like you are mad that you have to wait tables because you can't do anything else.  You should quit and become homeless if you don't want to deal with people.  Me and my family won't be coming back to this restaurant.  You lose business when you act like you act.  Don't be so bitter."