bitter waiter

I'm not your bitch (aka My Top Ten Pet Peeves)

Boundaries to a bitter waiter are extremely important.  Here are 10 violations I've suffered as a result of a customer's inability to distinguish between server and servant.

1. I AM NOT THE HOST

See that girl at the front of the restaurant?  The one dressed in all black, cleaning menus, answering the phone and taking people to tables?  That's the person with whom you should speak if you need to be sat.  Not me, especially while I'm in mid-sentence with another table.  If you ask me "Where can we sit?," I will say, "Preferably at another restaurant."

2.  I AM NOT YOUR BABYSITTER

Your children are not cute.  The only thing separating them from me & a dunking tank is the table and legal action.  No I will not fill the sippy with warm milk.  No I will not continue to pick up crayons off the floor.  And, no, I will not stop making your child cry.  Did the plastic toy fall in the cracks of the booth because you were too busy not disciplining your child?  Here, a flashlight and a shovel.  While you're finding the toy, dig a pathway back to Hell and stay there.

3.  I AM NOT A PHOTOGRAPHER

Oh how cute.  Tiffany's getting hitched and has decided it's Bachelorette Party night at the shithole Mexican restaurant.  Will I take a picture?  Of course not.  I'd have to stand 30 feet away just to get all 12 of you sluts in the frame.

4.  I AM NOT THE COOK

Ok, so you don't like the grilled tuna.  I understand.  But know that the full extent of my powers involves reporting this information to the kitchen.  I don't cook anything, so let's drop your stupid insinuation that I had something to do with your dissatisfaction.  Believe me, if I had it my way, I'd make the most of my limited culinary abilities and use an Easy Bake oven to make a burrito filled with rat poison just for you.

And then I'd borrow the camera from table 3 to capture your last moments on film.

5.  I AM NOT IMBUED WITH A HEIGHTENED SENSE OF SIGHT

When ordering, don't you dare point at a menu item and say "I'll have that."  Use your words.  Sound it out.  "Boo-reet-oh."  "Kay-sa-deeya."  We're in a dimly lit space.  If you can't summon the strength to say what you want, I suggest you invest in a Speak N' Spell.

6.  I AM NOT YOUR DOCTOR

Yes, I see you're on crutches.  No, I didn't miss the fact that you have a cast on your leg.  Unless it pertains to me or my job description, why on earth would I want to hear the details beyond a polite inquiry?  

Need sympathy?  Buy a shot of Cuervo and a Tecate for the boy who washes our dishes and complain away. 

7.  I AM NOT SHAZAM*

Imagine this.  Some horrible Belinda Carlisle song is blaring from the speakers.  The tune catches a girl's fancy and she stops me (with 12 dirty plates in my arms) to ask:

"Who sings this song?"

"Who gives a shit?"

8.  I AM NOT A CALCULATOR

The fact that I'm a waiter should tell you something about my math skills.  When it comes to the bill, and you want X and Y on this credit card, and A and B on this credit card, I have a brilliant idea.  Why don't you just give me a SPECIFIC AMOUNT for each card?  Otherwise, don't be surprised if a few erroneous charges appear on your bill later.

After all, should you really trust someone you've never met to do math with your credit card, especially someone with a bright red banded-collar shirt, a salsa-stained apron, and a glare that could kill Christmas?

9.  I AM NOT YOUR BIRTHDAY ENTERTAINMENT

Yes, I get it.  Five of the six people in your party have discreetly told me it's Javier's birthday.  I already pity him that this place is where you chose to celebrate his life.

But fortunately for him, I have a real treat!  A FREE chocolate flan covered in lard!  Yay!!  Aren't you glad you went to all that trouble to spoil him?  Doesn't he feel like a real king now?

What's that?  You want me to sing for him?  Ten men with twenty guns at an execution post in Guadalajara couldn't coax me into singing "Happy Birthday" to a complete stranger.  Neither can you.

10.  I AM NOT INTERESTED

I'd rather spend the rest of my life eating expired yogurt at home alone watching "Sex and the City," while simultaneously listening to "All By Myself," than entertain the idea of going on a date with you.  Leave me your number.  Leave me your e-mail address.  Leave me the keys to your house.  But above all, leave me alone.  

This isn't playing hard-to-get.  This is complete, total repulsion.  Make one more inappropriate comment, and I'll switch sections with a different, less attractive server.  

__

*Shazam, for those of you who live in a cave, is an iPhone application that will tell you the name and artist of whatever song is coming from the speakers.

There are no such things as stupid questions, just stupid people

This weekend resembled a symposium of the mentally deficient as customers competed in a contest to ask the dumbest questions possible.

No group was as guilty as the cologne-laden Armenian "bro's" who soiled my section just as I was about to be off for the night.

Their shirts, a collection of Ed Hardy's tackiest patterns, would have given me instant epilepsy had the lights not been so dim (not that I don't appreciate a black v-neck t-shirt with golden skulls on top of pink and blue clown hats with layers of nondescript silver writing thrown in for good measure).

I approached their table to take a drink order, pen and pad in one hand, the other hand cupped over my nose to register my offense at the smell of their "Sex Panther"-style cologne.

"May I bring you...gentlemen anything to drink?"

"HEY BRO!  Grey Goose and Red Bull."

"We don't carry energy drinks."

"What's something that will keep me awake, bro?"

"The sound of your own voice and the stench of your cologne?" *

"Perhaps a coffee?" **

His cohort wasted no time chiming in with his own queries.

"HEY BRO, what does a cadillac margarita come in?"

"A glass."

"NO BRO, like, what kind of glass?"

"One made by a delightful Amish family we keep in the back." *

"A glass made for drinking." **

The requisite prostitute at the table chimed in once she awoke from her Rohypnol-induced nap.

"Vat kind of sangria you have?" the concubine inquired.

"None.  We don't have sangria."

"But this is Mexican restaurant."

"Yes, and sangria is Spanish."

"Jah, and Spain is in Mexico," she told me with the unbridled confidence of a four-year-old explaining the whereabouts of Santa Claus.

"Right.  How about a nice white zinfandel spritzer, or a vodka and cranberry juice?"

"Vat comes in vodka cranberry juice?"

"Vodka.  Cranberry juice."

They continued their line of questioning without actually ordering any cocktails.  An additional truckload of their Euro trash friends arrived, and they requested a bigger table.    

"HEY BRO, we need a bigger table, where can we find that?"

"Try a furniture store." 

Silence.  Crickets.  Blank stares.  The whore passed out again.

"Ask the hostess."

"HEY BRO, will you still be our waiter?"

"Satan will be building snow men in Hell before I continue dealing with you ass monkeys." *

"Unfortunately not.  I'm done for the evening, and a different server will be taking over." **

I watched with relief as they moved to a bigger table, their expanded group resembling the enthusiastic audience members of Armenia's Got Talent.  

And while I pitied the poor server who had to shoulder the burden of serving them...better her than me.

_____________

* What I wanted to say

** What I actually said

He said she said

I recently waited on a loud, white trash couple from either some small town in West Virginia or an unchartered cavernous colony in the Appalachians.  Their function, as a couple, was to reiterate everything the other one had just said to me.

"THE SONGS IS TOO LOUD IN HEERE!"

"HE SAYS THE SONGS IS TOO LOUD IN HEERE!"

Followed by:

"AISLE HAVE THE CHEECKEN FA-HEEEETAS."

"HE SAID HEEL HAVE THE CHEECKEN FA-HEEEETAS."

At first I thought they were either yanking my chain or high on home-made crystal meth, but I soon realized they were just as dumb as a box of rocks.  

"And would either of you two (Flintstones) care for anything to drink?"

"HUH?"

"HUH?"

I loosely pantomimed drinking, or servicing a caveman, and their faces lit up with recognition.

"DAH-ET COKE."

"DAH-ET COKE."

Their appetizer, a doomed plate of steak nachos, lasted about 30 seconds.  I watched in terror as they devoured the greasy dish like blind cannibals in an emergency room.

And then came the main sacrifice, an order of chicken faheeeetas.  To which the less hairy of the two said:

"NUH UH, HE ORDERED CHEECKEN KWAYSA-DELIA."

"YEAH, I SAYS CHEECKEN KWAYSA-DELIA."

"No.  You both said chicken fajitas."

"NUH UH, HE SAYS CHEECKEN KWAYSA-DELIA."

"YEAH, I SAYS CHEECKEN KWAYSA-DELIA."

"So, let's be clear.  You want two tortillas, filled with chicken and cheese.  A quesadilla.  Not the fajitas?"

"NO, I'S WANT THE CHEECKEN IN A TORTILIA WITH CHEESE AND THE GREEN STUFF."

"You want a chicken taco?"

No blank canvas or piece of sheet paper could have conveyed an emptier look.  Two of them, to be precise.

"Or do you want a chicken tamale?"

Crickets.  Blank stares.  Drooling.

"Or a chicken enchilada?"

"WHEEL JUST EAT THIS CHEECKEN THANG."

"YEAH WHEEL JUST EAT THIS CHEECKEN THANG."

The two studied the hot skillet and its various components as if it were an exhibit from "The World of Tomorrow."  After a few minutes, they figured out how to consume the dish, sans silverware (or napkins).  

Soon after, I dropped the bill.  Imagine my surprise when he pulled out not only a wallet (instead of a hobo bag on a stick) but a CREDIT CARD.  And it wasn't stolen or declined!  

I could scarcely make out the amount of the tip because the credit card receipt was covered in grease.  

The two slowly (very, very slowly) walked out of the restaurant, his hairy arm around her hairy neck.

 

The feminine mystique

A power woman (PW) is a single woman who's made an impressive career for herself in a male-dominated field and seeks to display her power over the opposite sex in any way she can.

Especially if that means being a massive bitch to her male server.

I recently waited on one such PW and her merry band of menstruating bitches.  From the get-go, the four sought to establish their reign and superiority.

"Hello, how are you doing today?" I asked.

"Four margaritas.  No salt.  Rocks.  Guacamole.  Ceviche.  Flour tortillas.  One water without ice, no lemon.  Three waters, ice, lemon.  Straws."

Knowing that accepting this order without rebuttal or further questioning would have been my wisest move, I lingered and asked:

"Any preference on the tequila?  Would you all like to upgrade to a pitcher?  Would anyone care to make his margarita a double?  Or a grande?  What's your favorite song?"

The eyes of the head PW did not veer from her BitchBerry, on which she was no doubt sending a missive to fire some poor man in front of his cancer-stricken children.  

"No.  No.  No.  No.  And no," she said.  She was onto my game.  

I delivered the four 'ritas.  PW took one sip and, without looking at me, dismissed the inadequate libation.

"This isn't strong enough."

"Right.  That's our house margarita.  That's why I ask people if they want to specify which tequila, because then the margarita is hand-poured, a lot stronger and..."

"This.  Isn't.  Strong.  Enough."

"Would you like to order one with a specific..."

"Fix it."

I charged her for an overpriced tequila and delivered the new drink.  The appetizers had arrived, and I inquired:

"How is everything?"

"Adequate."

"Let me know if I can bring you anything else." (Like a village of dying Malawian children to create energy for your home on stationery bikes wired for electric shocks).

As I was in the middle of taking an order at the neighboring table, PW turned her head 180 degrees and said, "I want a chicken caesar salad.  No dressing.  Grilled chicken, not rotisserie.  Split for two."

I ignored her.  After I turned in the order for said neighboring table, I returned to the witches den.

"Did you need something?"

"Yeah.  My salad."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I was actually in the middle of a conversation with another table and just assumed you were talking to someone else.  Which kind of salad?"

"Chicken.  Caesar.  Grilled..."

"I'm just kidding.  I heard you."

"And another round.  Four margaritas.  Rocks.  No salt."

"Would you care to pick a specific tequila?"

"Something strong."

"Anything else?  More guacamole?  A group of missionaries I can have slain in front of your table, 

Japanese-restaurant style?"

"Anyway, Christine, as I was saying before the waiter interrupted me, I'm not happy with Vicki's lack of initiative."

The salad and drinks arrived.  The PWs sucked them down while plotting a corporate takeover and another attack on a major US city.  

Hours later, once the drinks were merely melted ice and the table had been stripped of everything but the varnish, I asked if they needed anything else.

"The check."

Among the weapons in my arsenal of Bitter is the customer's printed bill at any given stage of their dining experience.  I usually drop the bill on the table before the customer can finish his/its request.

"Whenever you're ready!!!"

PW immediately dropped her black Amex and shoved the bill back at me.  She tipped an inoffensive

18% (much more than the Anthrax-infused quarters I was expecting).  However, the women lingered at 

the table long after paying, while we were on a wait, effectively ruining my money-making potential.

And they never hesitated to ask me for water refills.  In new glasses.  With a side of lemon, dead 

puppies, and crushed dreams.

I heard that

A first date is easy to spot by the awkward display of reserve, as well as the polite, superfluous banter.  

I generally feel a certain comfort while waiting on first-daters because, in an effort to impress the other, neither one is rude or demanding.

But they are sometimes koo koo crazy.

While eavesdropping on a recent first date between a quiet man of reason and a verbose woman of cheap perfume, I pitied the poor man more and more.  I gathered they met online, this was their first date, and she was recently single.

In between sips of her white zinfandel spritzer, she talked aaaaaaall about her break-ups, her jobs (both plastic and professional), and her insecurities.

"You know, it's funny," she said with a delusional smile.

"Yes?" he inquired.

"My therapist tells me it's too soon to even be dating again," she said proudly.  "He doesn't think I'm ready to be with someone."

"Well.  Uhm.  Then what prompted you to meet me tonight?"

Without a word, she continued sipping her spritzer and looked at the ceiling as if someone up there had just called her name.

Out with the old

I tend to immediately resent waiting on the elderly.

From their inexplicable inability to distinguish hostess from server from bus boy, to the disorientation caused by questions such as "How are you today?", I've found that no single group of people better knows how to try my paper thin patience.

For better or worse, my time with the carrot-and-raisin salad crowd is mercifully short because they tend to dine no later than 6 p.m.  That, however, means that from 5 until 6, it's all soft foods and speaking up.

Last night must have been "Dentures Eat Free" night, because my section resembled a meeting of the Wilford Brimley fan club.

I unintentionally scared the shit out of the first group of senior citizens simply by placing the standard chips and salsa in front of them.  Following with the question, "What would you like to drink?" didn't help matters.

"WHHHHAAAAAT?" said the Mrs. Garrett look-alike, in a tone that also matched the physical resemblance.

"DRINK," explained the husband, with makeshift hand gestures that seemed more appropriate for "I think we're being robbed."

"Oh," said Mrs. G.  She looked at me with fear in her eyes and asked:

"What do you...haaaaaaave?"

"Water.  Milk.  Iced tea."

"ehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh uhmmmmm cough cough."

Silence.  At any moment I expected her dementia to kick in.  I braced myself for a rollicking rendition of "The Good Ship Lollipop" or "I've Written a Letter to Daddy."

Her husband took the helm and muttered (in a voice that resembled Eeyore) "I think we'll take two waters.  No ice.  Lemon on the side.  And some packets of Splenda.  Do you all have pork chops?"

"No, sir, we do have pulled pork."

"Pulled WHHHHAAAAAT?"

"Pork.  It's called...  Oh nevermind.  Pulled pork."

"Is it soft?"

"As a baby's ass." (In my mind, yes, I said that.  But actually I replied with...)

"Yes sir, it's shredded."

"Is it spicy?"

"No."

"Does it come with any sides?"

While I admired Eeyore's adherence to the rules of "20 Questions," I directed him to the menu and told him he could choose any two sides he preferred.

"We'll take two orders of that.  Mashed potatoes and....do you have carrots?"

"No sir."  (Because if we had carrots, that would have been listed as one of the side options on the menu you just looked at.)

"What else is soft?"

"Soup."

"We'll take two cups of that.  Does the soup come with crackers?"

"Not unless I bring over the majority of servers who work here.  I mean, 'No.'"

After about 10 or 12 more asinine questions, I turned in their order.  The food came and went without 

incident.  When I did my normal quality check, I was met with two glares.  I dropped off the bill soon after.

Eeyore paid with a credit card after studying the bill for erroneous charges, while Mrs. G. looked out the window as if anticipating a tornado.

I'll never know much they tipped, or if they even tipped, because the darling man took all copies of the credit card receipt, which meant no tip for me.  Granted, I realized this as he and Mrs. G. were still strolling out of the restaurant, but I knew my request for the credit card receipt would have been too much for them.  Even Bitter Waiter has rare moments of mercy.

I heard that

In an effort to more frequently update Bitter Waiter, I'll be offering up bits of dialogue I've been fortunate enough to overhear from unsuspecting customers.

Recently I waited on a group of grating teenage girls, all of whom brought in their skinny decaf soy chai hazelnut lattes from Starbucks, ordered water and one plate of guacamole.  

The uglier of the four said to the prettier of the four:

"I mean, Andrea, like, if I just tried a little harder I think I could be as pretty as you, you know?"

To which Andrea replied, in all sincerity, "Yeah!  You mean, like if you lost a bunch of weight?"

The uglier one happily nodded her head in agreement while sipping her latte.