We're located close enough to Brentwood to be a popular lunch spot for rich, bitchy women. They complain, they fuss, they become indignant when told, "No, your dog may not sit on the table."
One recent Wednesday afternoon, five Brentwood BFFs insisted on sitting at a window-side table in my section. I'd already been sat with two parties at the same time, a fact the hostess mentioned to the BFFs to convince them to sit elsewhere.
"Uhm, no, we want to sit there," one of them said dismissively.
Thus they were sat in my section, and thus they waited and waited and waited for me to greet them.
I approached with a loose smile and asked for drink orders. Instead of acknowledging or answering me, the five women continued having five completely different conversations at each other.
Minutes later, Helen, the condescending ringleader, waived me over with raised eyebrows and a fake smile full of pig fat and chemicals.
"Yeah, hi, you're the server?" she asked.
No, I'm the host. We wear aprons and carry trays and serve tables and stand anywhere except the host stand.
"I believe I am," I replied. And with that...
"I'll have the cobb salad. No dressing. No bacon. Avocado on the side," Charlana said.
"I'll also have the cobb salad, but with dressing on the side, extra bacon, no egg, romaine lettuce only," Carlotta said.
"I'll also have the cobb salad, but no dressing, just lemon and olive oil, no bacon, no avocado, no egg," Mary Joan said.
"I'll also have the cobb salad, but with balsamic vinaigrette instead of lemon vinagrette, no bleu cheese, goat cheese instead, no bacon," Suzebeth said.
"And I'll also have the cobb salad, but with light dressing, no bacon, no egg, no bleu cheese, no tomato," Helen said.
They each ordered a water - some with ice, some without - and a Diet Coke.
"Should we ask him to lower the blinds?" Carlotta asked as if I were nowhere near. The others thought this over, and I knew a request might be coming. So, off I pranced.
Shortly thereafter, the salads arrived in all their gutted glory. I gave the ladies a few minutes, waiting for a break in their conversing and cackling, yet one never came, so I gently performed a quality check to see if everything was as tediously requested. I asked how everything was. They paused briefly, stared up at me like I'd just asked which way to Narnia, said nothing, and then resumed conversing and cackling.
As I cleared the table, each of them asked me to box up her salad despite the pittance remaining on each plate.
Helen handed me her plate, scowled, and said, "Excuse me? I said light dressing? But there was the normal amount of dressing on my salad? I could barely eat it!"
"Awww..." I half-said as I removed her almost empty plate to box up its remaining leaves. "You should have told me when I asked how everything was, I would have been happy to have the kitchen remake it for you!"
Off I pranced.
When I returned and set down the to-go boxes, Helen put her hand on my arm.
"Excuse me? When someone says they could barely eat their meal, the correct response is 'Oh my goodness, I'm so sorry,' not 'There's nothing I can do, you should have told me earlier.'"
I looked her straight in the eyes, inhaled, fake-smiled, and said, "Oh my goodness, I'm so sorry."
I dropped the bill.
Off I pranced.