the bitter waiter

You've got hate mail

I'd like to extend a big thank you to everyone who watched my 20/20 stint and took the time to e-mail your kind words.

I'd also like to thank those of you who had enough time on your hands to tell me how much you hate waiters, hate my blog, and hate the frigid way I walk through a restaurant candidly on camera.    

And on the heels of such disdain comes this occasional feature in which I'll repost some of my favorite hate mail/comments, along with my responses.

First up we have Benji, who wrote in response to my recent blog entry in which I expressed a lack of gratitude for receiving a tanning bed I.O.U. on a napkin as my tip.

Benji writes:

Dude did u ever think someone might have been short on cash etc.You never know someone's sitch.As for your other rants..Man you are one whinnying waiter!Did it ever occur to you that customers might be acting rude because they can sense your bitchiness and disgust of them.Sure there are rude ass peeps but there are also rude ass waiters .Chill a little u don't no what kind of day someone is having.

Dear Benji,

It's obvious you've never worked in a restaurant.  If someone can't afford to tip, then someone should get a Hot-N-Ready from Little Caesar's.  I don't know about you, but I'm always cognizant (look it up) of how much cash I have on me.  And should I find myself in a "sitch" without cash where I need to tip?  I run to an ATM.  I borrow cash from a friend.  But I DON'T leave a note on a napkin.  It wasn't my problem that Mindy was short on cash, so why should I be the one who's inconvenienced for her lack of consideration?

You see, unlike almost every other profession, servers make their living through tips.  Not minimum wage, not tans, not I.O.U.s, not verbal compliments.  Tips.  And on top of that, with each table we have to tip out the hostess, the bartender and the bus boy a percentage of the table's bill.  So not only did Mindy not tip me; I still had to tip out the aformentioned out of my own pocket.  In essence, I PAID to wait on Mindy.  Understand how all that works?

How would you like it if your boss told you you'd be paid in a coupon to On the Beach Tanning instead of monetarily (look it up)?  You wouldn't be very pleased, would you?  So please tell all your friends and family who can't afford to tip to avoid restaurants and stick with Taco Bell.
--
Something named "ImDaBomb" writes:

Dude ur blog is hella fucked up and racist.  You sound like a stupid gay homo and entitled and angry. If ur so angry about ur job maybe you should just shoot yourself and get it over with?

Dear ImDaBomb,

First, thank you for the suggestion.  My flask is almost empty and I was worried about how I'd cope with my upcoming double shifts, but through your prose I see a solid possibility.

Second, if you really, truly read my blog, you'll know that no one is safe from my ire.  I ridicule people for their dining behavior regardless of whether they're black, white, Christian, atheist, fat, thin, Hispanic, Armenian, blonde, brunette, strippers, actors, doctors, other waiters, and yes, even those pesky queers.

By the way, in your articulate, Rosa Parks-esque plight against racism, I see you use gay in a derogatory fashion.  Many of your DMV co-workers and neighbors in your welfare-subsidized dwelling could very well be closeted homosexuals, afraid to come out because you might go all hate crime on them.  So while you pride yourself on an anti-racism platform, you might question your integrity across the board as it pertains to equality.  

But thanks for reading.  I know that words not spray-painted on a billboard are usually outside your scope of comprehension. 

I'll tan her hide

Thanks Mindy!  Go lick yourself.

 

Mean girls

I recently had to babysit an uppity, foul-mouthed teenage girl and her fugly friends in my section.  They arrived with their ill-conceived air of superiority and gum-smacking mall speak.

I approached the table and interrupted their dish sesh from the school day's happs.  The three of them shared a collective glare as I posed my normal question, "May I bring you anything to drink?"

And then suddenly, Lolita the ringleader, turned the frown upside down and gave me a fake smile.

"We'd like, like, a pitcher of margaritas?"

"Mmmm hmmm," I responded.  "May I see your IDs?"

With that, Lolita gave me a coy look and pulled out a Woodland Hills Country Club Swim Membershp ID.

"Yeeeeeah," I said, "I mean, like, a driver's license or something with, like, your birth date?"

Lolita misinterpreted this as, "I'm flirting with you," and hunkered over just a hair to reveal some of her Hit Me Baby One More Time jail bait.  Whereas she likely envisioned all my manly chemicals rising into rapacious sexual desire, I would have rather watched "The 700 Club" while wearing wet clothes than peer into her Forever 21 blouse.

"What if, like, I left my ID in my car?" she purred.

"Then go get it," I countered.  "Or did you girls ride your bikes here?"

With that, Lolita could tell I wasn't playing around and she slumped back into her seat, folded her arms, looked at her fugly friends in disbelief and demanded a water "NO lemon, NO ice, AH straw."

"Sure!" I said with effervescent sunshine radiating from my shit-eating grin.  "And for you girls?"

The girls looked to their leader.

"Uhm...same?  Water?  NO lemon?  NO ice?  AH straw?" she said on their behalf.

I smiled again and walked off. 

From that point on, I could tell Lolita and her fugly (like, REALLY fugly) friends wanted to punish me.  Me?  I'd spent the night before facing Nyquil-induced terrors about being in high school naked, my TiVo had unceremoniously skipped "30 Rock," and I woke up to discover I had cereal for breakfast but was out of gin.  So I was exceptionally pissy.

"Uhm, is there any reason our guacamole is taking so long?" Lolita asked.

"Beats me," I replied, "but I think it's because you never ordered it."

"Uhm, yeah we did?"

"Uhm, no you didn't?"

"Jessica?  Sally?  Did I not, like, order guacamole?"

Jessica and Sally gave each other a nervous look.  They knew they'd be lying if they said yes. 

"Yeah, didn't think they remembered it because it didn't happen," I said in a blatant mimmick of Lolita.  "Do you want me to, like, put in an order of guacamole?"

"No, not if you didn't put it in when I first told you to."

That's what she said.

"Mmmkay great everyone ready to order?" I asked.

"We're going to split a caesar salad," Lolita said.

I could tell she wanted some sign that her pittance of an order annoyed me.  But like my stoic ancestors from the prairie before me, I refused to let adversity make me crack, and took her abuse with another smile.  Also, I knew I was seconds away from taking my afternoon sleeping pill, so I didn't give a fuck.

The salad came to the table.

"Uhm...we wanted this split three ways?" Lolita said.

"Sorry," I said, "we don't split small salads."

"Uhm...then maybe we should talk to a manager?" Lolita said.

"Today's actually my last day," I lied.  "So you can tell him whatever you want."

"Wow, sounds like someone really doesn't want us to tip?" Lolita said.

"Yeah, I had a table leave me, like, $100 earlier because it's my last day?" I responded.  "So I really don't need a tip on a small caesar salad."

With that, Lolita and company asked for the bill.  When she tried to pay with a credit card, I lied and said it was declined.  Neither Jessica nor Sally offered to pitch in, so I told Lolita she'd have to run to an ATM and withdraw cash.  She tried to up and leave right then and there, but I also told her she'd have to leave collateral in case she didn't return.

She left her cell phone, and about 40 seconds after she ran to the ATM, the manager told me I was cut for the day.  So I transferred Lolita's table to an unsuspecting server and stored her collateral in a safe place.

The walk-in freezer.