the bitter waiter

The ABCs of a Bitter Waiter, part two

N is for Negro Modelo, a popular Mexican beer.  And judging from how you've mispronounced it, I wouldn't recommend you ordering it in Compton.

O is for orange skin.  You're not tan.  You look like a Fanta.  Stop stinking up my section with your bargain bin beauty.    

P is for patience.   I was born without it.  So let's limit our stupid questions to three. 

Q is for queso.  Fact:  Queso dip is common in Midwestern Tex Mex chains, not in authentic Mexican restaurants.  So when I tell you we don't have queso dip, and your come-back is "But they have it at On the Boarder," I hope we'll share a moment wondering why you aren't there in the first place. 

R is for restaurant.  That's right, you're in a restaurant.  Not a sports bar.  Not a day care.  Not a coffee shop.  Not a speed dating event.  Not a brothel.  Not a coke house.  Not a beauty salon.  Not a theme park.  Not a hotel.  Not an Apple store.  Not a storage locker.  Not a gym.  Not a slide show.  Not a scrapbooking party.  Not a doctor's office.  Not your mistress' house.  A restaurant.  Behave accordingly. 

S is for server.  That's right, I'm your server.  Not your best friend.  Not your babysitter.  Not your psychiatrist.  Not your personal assistant.  Not the cook.  Not the hostess.  Not the owner.  Not your personal DJ.  Not your compliment dispenser.  Not your baby fawner.  Not your self-esteem booster.  Not your boyfriend.  Not your prospect for later tonight.  Your server.  Behave accordingly.

T is for tipping.  I'm not here because of my passion for rattling off shity menu items or watching you drink away your low self-esteem.  I'm here for the cash, just like every other working American.  You think Don the car salesman loves pulling into the Toyota lot each morning because he can't wait to talk someone into a Camry?  Or that Tia goes to sleep each night counting the hours until she can answer phones at the law firm again?  No.  They want cash.  So don't act like it's some privilege to wait on you.  All I see when I look at you is my Mastercard balance.

U is for ugly women in in appropriate clothing.  They should be tied together and locked in the freezer.  Just my two cents. 

V is for victory.  Though you might carry a modicum of power with your wallet and your ability to complain about me to management, I am not you, and therefore victory is mine. 

W is for "We're in a hurry?"  Oh yeah?  Then find a drive-thru, asshole. 

X is for Xanax.  I pop them like Skittles.  You may thank them for my fleeting good mood. 

Y is for youth.  I don't get them.  They text, they Tweet, they talk in monosyllabic exclamations that go way over my head.  They rack up a $20 bill among eight people, tip for shit, never say "Please" or "Thank you," and have no idea how vastly superior I am.

Z is for zeal.  My job does not foster zeal.  So if you expect me to roll up to your table all sunshine and smiles, you are in need of a clown, not a waiter.  

The ABCs of a Bitter Waiter, part 1

Whether you're a server, polite restaurant diner, or newbie to venturing out into public, keep these 26 facts and tips in mind, and we'll all leave the restaurant happy, and alive. 

A is for artichoke dip.  My restaurant is a Mexican restaurant.  We don't have artichoke dip.  You keep asking, and I keep telling you each week, "No, we don't have artichoke dip."  Time to take your fat ass out of my booth and to the frozen food section of your local grocery store.  They have frozen artichoke dip  from TGI Friday's.  You get your dip.  I don't have to smell you.  Everyone wins.

B is for Botox.  You've had too much of it.  So bat your store-bought lashes all you want, because the only guy taking you home will be Henry, and that's to his cardboard box after he's done digging through our Dumpster for day-old tortillas.

C is for chips and salsa.  And I'll refill them at my convenience, not yours.

D is for "Don't forget, I want dressing on the side."  I heard you the first three times.  No need to remind me.  You're not giving me the clearance code to the Pentagon.  You're saying you want your Ranch in a cup.  I get it.  Now go lick yourself clean. 

E is for "Every time I come here, they mess up my order."  Color me progressive, but if I have just one bad experience at a restaurant, I don't perpetually return in hopes that maybe this time around they'll get it right.  You deserve your multiple bad experiences and a raging case of Eczema. 

F is for free refills.  They're free, not frequent. 

G is for guacamole.  You're from Glendale, not Guadalajara.  So stop making "guacamole" the one word you pronounce with a tacky Mexican accent.  

H is for Hostess.  I'm a server.  We have entirely different job tasks and skill sets.  So don't approach me while I'm taking an order to let me know that you need a table.  I'll refer you to a furniture store. 

I is for "I don't mean to be difficult."  That's like me saying "I don't mean to be a complete bitch."  We're both lying, and we know it.

J is for Jagermeister.  If you merely mention the word, I will hurl all over your table as memories of Junior year coming flooding back to me.  Please, I beg you, don't order Jagermeister while I'm in the building, let alone at your table. 

 

K is for kids.  Unless you can prove they're mine, I won't tolerate yours.  Besides, they look like extras from Village of the Damned. 

L is for lovers.  They belong in bedrooms, not booths.  So let's take this skin-revealing sex buffet to a place more worthy of its consummation, like a Motel 6 or a Sizzler bathroom.

M is for Mexican food.  In this kooky, elaborate scheme of the restaurant's to make money, we offer Mexican food because we are a Mexican restaurant.  So, you saying "I don't like Mexican food" is like me going into a whore house and saying "I don't like hiding the sausage."  You're in the wrong place.  Asking me if we have pasta?  Nope, that's Italian.  Calamari?  Mediterranean.  Pizza?  Mostly Italian.  Salmon?  Sea food.  I suggest you consult the menu, or try a place with which you're more familiar that better suits your complex taste.  Like a vending machine. 

A Server's Cinco de Mayo Survival Guide

DO...

Do plan for a long evening.  I suggest two flasks (one in each front pocket, but never the back pockets, as those are easily seen by management), and at least one back-up mini bottle (available at most convenience stores) in the crotch or tush areas of your underwear.  This is mandatory, and balk now as you might at my suggestion, by midnight the only thing remaining in your panties will be desperation.

Do bring ear plugs.  True, you won't hear your customers' requests, but you'll also be blissfully oblivious to the sounds of the cheap mariachi band whose musical cue is any time you speak.

Do slap that dumb bitch who insists you wear a sombrero.  Insist she wear a girdle.

Do address any inquiries as to why a non-Mexican is a server at a Mexican restaurant.  Sit down and explain in great detail all the thought that goes into hiring servers at an establishment such as yours.  Apologize for not being Mexican, and pay one of the kitchen staff to stand in for you as server.  Take a well-deserved break with your flask while your customers enjoy the now completely authentic experience of Cinco de Mayo.

Do add automatic gratuity to every party as the night goes on.  You'll never see people as drunk as they are tonight, and I promise you management is too busy keeping a head count to stave off over-capacity threats to notice. 

Do oblige those obnoxious yet boring people from the paper clip company who only dine in public once a year.  Shake your maracas, speak in a Spanish accent, act like you're having the time of your life.  At the end of the night, you get to go home.  Those people will still be themselves in the morning.  Pity them.

DON'T...

Don't be too nice to that table of paper clip pushers.  Shortly after they've bought your act about being their buddy, they'll try to milk this feigned camaraderie for free shots or staying after last call.  Send a message.  For every two nice things you say or do, balance those gestures with something definitively bitchy, like storming away from the table mid-sentence, or passively aggressively insulting Gertrude's kitty cat blouse.

Don't drink the cheap tequila.  Ever.  You might be their server, but if anyone offers you a shot of anything that begins with "Jose" and ends with "Cuervo," slap yourself if you consider accepting.  You could make better tequila in your bath tub with rubbing alcohol and the tears of a homeless man.

Don't share your alcohol with anyone.  As much as you might love Sean, the awkward new server with a penchant for quoting Encino Man in between picks of his nose, Sean should have been smarter and brought his own roadie to work.  Fuck Sean, he is now dead weight. 

Don't E-VER acknowledge anyone who says he or she will "hook you up" if you go out of your way to accommodate him/her.  They won't.  Just like "I didn't inhale" and "I swear I'll pull out," "I'll hook you up" is a lie that men tell to mask their true intentions.  And in this case, the true intentions involve putting a cute little cap on you and making you play a musical instrument for the amusement of people who can't even spell amusement.   

Don't eat.  Sure, that extra order of beef tacos sounds appealing, but it will only stand in the way of you numbing the pain of the night with the party in your pants (flasks and travel bottles, natch). 

Don't stay a second longer than you should.  I don't care if the owners up and announce a free trip to Hawaii for the server with the tidiest section at the end of the night, you get your ass home and in the company of a sleeping pill, stat.  All the whores in Rio shouldn't be able to convince you to remain in that habitat of horror any longer than necessary.  Run.  It's 2 am and the restaurant is closed.  You've made your money.  Now go laugh at all the people receiving DUIs on your way home.