Anyone who enters my section - regardless of age, race, gender, or sexual orientation - is an immediate enemy and affront to all I stand for when he/she enters with entitlement, impatience, and an entourage. I have no fucking time for that.
First, if you are hoping to impress upon the world the extent of your wealth and power, as evidenced by your deer-blood-fueled, dick-size-compensating oil rig of a car, dining here is no testament to your desired stature. Perhaps they roll out the red carpet for you when you pull up to The Ivy or Mastro's, but here? All you'll step on en route to the front door is the urine of a homeless man who's eating the tortilla chip crumbles he found on the patio floor.
Second, don't come to a restaurant if you're in a hurry. Just don't. It's like making a quick stop by the post office one week before Christmas on your way to the airport. What valedictorian hopes to get a quick bite at a busy restaurant on a weekend without a reservation when in a hurry?? I DON'T UNDERSTAND PEOPLE.
So. Keeping those two thoughts in mind, meet Jaay and his posse. Jaay, a Germanic Aryan if ever there was one, entered in layers of sweat suits, a basketball jersey, an askew ball cap, trinkets, earrings and a lone corn row. Towering over the table at 5'5", Jaay had a Goliath of an ego.
His posse was an array of equally entitled and delusional young munchkins. They barely spoke to me during the ordering process, which was mercifully brief, and the volume of their party ensured me a minimum of 18% tip, so that alleviated some of the tension. Until.
"Yo, man, we're in a hurry," Jaay informed me without peering up from his iPad. "Can you, like, tell chef to put a mad spin on it."
"Yeah I'll get right on that," I replied.
I ran to the kitchen and told the chef to take his time with Step Up's order. He didn't understand me, but smiled anyway.
I returned to find that, despite my best attempts, the food had been delivered to Jaay and company.
I actually couldn't tell if he'd said "Thanks DUDE" or "Thanks BOO" but I knew I didn't give a fuck either way.
The shit really hit the fan when it came time to pay the bill. His credit card was declined. We went through the awkward, militantly polite first round exchange of "Oh there must be something wrong with the card"/"Sure I'll try it again."
And once again, the card was declined.
"No dice," I said.
"That's racist," I heard someone mutter in the back of the booth.
"Uhm, that can't be declined," Jaay said. "It must be your machine."
"Nope," I said.
"Lissey," his equally Aryan friend told me.
"Excuse me?" I asked.
"LIS-TEN," he repeated. "...I don't think you know who [Jaay] is..."
"I don't know who any of you are," I said.
"This is JAAY...THE DANCER? For Gaga and shit?"
I shrugged my shoulders and ran a hand through my perfect hair.
"I don't know dancers," I said. "And the fact remains - the card was declined."
One by one they each threw in just enough money - to the penny - to cover the bill.
Oh his way out, Jaay came up to me.
"Tell the owners I won't be back," he said.
"Thank you," I replied.