the bitter waiter

"Off the record, on the QT, and very hush-hush..." (part two)

Today is part two of our journey down the red carpet.  Now pop some pills, be up to date on all your injections, and let's get on with the show. 

In alphabetical order...

TERI HATCHER:

I've had more fun as a hostage in a convenience store than I did waiting on Teri Hatcher.  The speed of the ceiling fan, the temperature of her soup, the volume of my voice, the type of music playing in the background, the lack of blue corn tortilla chips, the size of the silverware, the quality of toilet paper in the bathroom -- this crazy loon complained about EVERYTHING.  And I suppose she was under the impression that I actually watch her fledgling faux comedy on ABC, because every time I approached the table she looked at me like I was about to ask for an autograph.

And speaking of, she threw a fit when I had to chase her down to the parking lot because she had neglected to sign her credit card receipt, and I can't claim my tip (in her case 15 percent) unless I have a signed credit card slip. 

"But I did sign it," she protested as I held the clearly un-signed piece of paper in front of her.

KATHERINE HEIGL:

Oh Katie Heigl, with your proclamation that "I'll be the easiest person you've ever waited on!" 

I'm not sure you and I agree on what constitutes "easy," given the amount of times you returned your Diet Coke to see if I could "fix the syrup level."  I get it.  There's a precise balance in these types of beverages that will make or break them.  But after sending back a Diet Coke four times, maybe you should order an iced tea instead.  I think you got your fix whilst smoking that entire pack of cigarettes in between bites, anyway. 

 KATIE HOLMES: 

I have killed cockroaches at work with more warmth and personality than Katie Holmes (and I met her pre-Scientology when she was still with dufus Chris Klein - see below).

What I remember most about Katie, other than her oozing condescension, is that upon seeing how much Chris Klein tipped me (50%), the little darling couldn't help herself and exclaimed "No waiter deserves that much money!"

The same can also be said about actresses who were once relevant but now couldn't open a Bargain Mart, let alone a motion picture. 

CHRIS KLEIN:

The guy really is dumber than a blind dog fetching a frisbee, but he couldn't have been nicer.  Every question or statement came with a smile, and he always said "please" and "thank you." 

The poor fool had my complete sympathy, as his then-girlfriend did nothing but nag him, insult his shirt, comment on how much he ate, and, yes, even judged his tip.  And with each bitter quip from Katie, Chris just smiled and adored her. 

I hope he takes some vindication in the death of her career.  I know I do, and I only had to deal with her for one meal.  He must have the patience of Job.   

 MATT LEBLANC:

"Jesus, leave me alone, let me sit in peace for a minute!" was the response I received to my inquiry of "May I bring you anything to drink?"

And thus fat, pompous, gray-haired Matt LeBlanc, whom I've always suspected of being just slightly mentally retarded, did not see me again. 

 

 

 

EVANGELINE LILLY:

She's even more gorgeous in person, exceptionally low-maintenance, witty and engaging, and radiantly warm and friendly.

But beware, for as one annoying customer from across the restaurant found out, she doesn't enjoy discussing the secrets of LOST while brunching with friends.  

 

GWYNETH PALTROW

I'll bet you really wish I had something awful to say about Gwyneth Paltrow, don't you? 

Sorry.  And while she isn't my #1 favorite celebrity customer of all time, she ranks highly up there. 

Gwyneth, from my limited experience, is gracious, personable, and wickedly funny.  She's the kind of girl who makes you want to pull up a chair and enjoy some macrobiotic treats and dark beer in her presence.  She even took the time to pose with a group of chatty Asian tourists, who I later learned thought she was Kirsten Dunst. 

JULIA ROBERTS

If she's America's sweetheart, then America needs to spend an evening serving her.

For starters, Julia Roberts is not friendly.  Not by a long shot.  Entitled, annoyed, and condescending?  Yes.  But friendly? Nope.

I wish I could say I communicated with her directly, but instead each time I took her order, she rolled her eyes at me and whispered to her husband, who communicated the order to me.  For example:

ME: What would you like to drink?
(Julia rolls eyes, whispers in her husband's ear)
HUSBAND: She'd like a martini.
ME: Vodka or gin?
(Julia rolls eyes, whispers in her husband's ear)
HUSBAND: Vodka. 

I made it a point to ask her husband as many questions as possible, including my favorite, "Is she done with her plate?"  Her husband seemed mildly nice enough, but she was a diva of the worst kind - one who finds herself too good to talk to the rabble. 
--
Stay tuned next week, during which I will reveal the identity of my least favorite celebrity customer of all time...a celebrity who's so awful, he/she gets his/her own entry.

 

"Off the record, on the QT, and very hush-hush..." (part one)

During my eight years in Los Angeles I've encountered a motley assortment of Hollywood elite as I served and slurred my way through many different day jobs.  For the first - but certainly not last - time in Bitter Waiter history, I present an uncensored look at some of my more memorable celebrity encounters.  Some good.  Many bad...

Today is merely part one of several in our journey down the red carpet.  Now pop some pills, be up to date on all your injections, and let's get on with the show. 

In alphabetical order...

PAULA ABDUL:

She's even crazier in person than during one of her horse tranquilizer-induced stream-of-consciousness fits you've seen on T.V. Though she was perfectly polite to me, she couldn't be distracted from sifting through the various contents of her industrial strength garbage bag-sized purse while searching in vain for her cell phone (it was on the table next to her the entire time).  She spent so long stressing, searching - and yes, sobbing - that she didn't even order.  We spent an awkward 20 food-and-drink-less minutes together before she and her equally daffy assistant just left.

CHRISTINA AGUILERA:

What a miserable, talentless, horrible little troll.  Nevermind her highly affected "Yes I know I'm someone famous" sense of entitlement.  Forget the layers of cheap make-up that made her look less pop star and more powdered donut.  Overlook the mangled pronunciation of basic menu items.  No, what I find contemptible is that for someone worth so much money, she tipped five percent.  FIVE percent. 

Cheap, insincere, and massively unpleasant, Christina Aguilera is my second least favorite celebrity of all time.  I hope someday the ugly truck comes back and runs over you again, you nasty bitch. 

KRISTEN BELL:

I love me some Veronica Mars/Gossip Girl, and Bell is both delightful and a good tipper, but the gaggle of obnoxious fan boys at her table made me roll my eyes so many times I thought someone would have to shove a spoon down my throat. 

 

CHACE CRAWFORD:

Look at that face.  How could I have anything negative to say about him?  Well, I don't.  He even asked my name, and upon learning that it's the same as his (albeit, mine is spelled correctly) he said I was the first person in L.A. he'd met with the same name. 

We'll always have that moment together. 

Forever. 

 

JENNIFER GARNER:

Whereas Xtina is my second least favorite celebrity, Jennifer Garner is my second most favorite.  Her food order is simple.  Her smile makes you feel like you're her best friend.  Her laughter solidifies your choice to be a comedic actor (or at least encourages you to prolong the delusion). 

And her tip?  Her tip could have paid half my rent. 

I heart you, Jennifer Garner. 

 

DAVID HASSELHOFF:

If you took a dozen monkeys, gave them each a hit of acid, dressed them in medieval clothing and threw them a collective birthday party at a Mexican restaurant, that sight would still appear more lucid than waiting on David Hasselhoff.  He wasn't rude, just crazy.  Each simple menu inquiry of mine was met with a ridiculous nonsensical joke:

ME: Would you like black beans or pinto beans?
DAVID HASSELHOFF: Which ones are better singers?  HAHAHAHAHAHA!!
ME: I'll be out back seeing how much Isopropyl fits into my flask.

I don't remember his tip, if he even tipped, or if he merely dined and dashed.  Not since I helped out at a center for the mentally disabled* have I witnessed such illogical attempts at attention.

*Never happened.

--

That's all for today's dish, but I'll see you in 2012 with a piping hot serving of gossip, contempt, and wit.  Have a happy and safe New Year's Eve.

 

A portrait of the artist as a young tool

I recently waited on the ultimate Hollywood asshole, a veritable trifecta of terror: 

He was an

1) old gay

2) Jewish

3) agent.

Lenny (so said the name on his credit card) was accompanied by Brett, an over-tanned muscle-bound 20-something "actor" who appeared a bit too eager despite his incessant claims of not being gay.

Brett arrived in a black v-neck T-shirt and jeans so tight you'd swear his flesh was composed of cheap denim.  

"Heeeeey Lenny, man, so sorry I'm late, bro.  Traffic, man," Brett said as if auditioning for two lines on One Tree Hill.

"Oh Brett," Lenny gushed.  "No apologies my friend, you were worth the wait in those jeans."

Sensing the two were in pleasant enough moods, I figured we'd all get along.  A leering gay, a gorgeous stud, and Brett.  

"May I bring you two anyth..."

"Do we look like we're done talking??" Lenny bellowed (as his toupee shifted in sync with his sudden anger).  "Give us a few minutes!  JESUS!"

Brett cackled as if he'd just heard the world's funniest black joke.  He also made sure his shellacked hair didn't lose the meticulously messy frat bro coiffure while giggling. 

I left Lenny to lie about how he could help Brett's acting career.  Inevitably, as a result of completely ignoring the two for a good half hour, I was unceremoniously summoned to the table with a raise of Lenny's hand, which resembled a Nazi salute.  

"Yeeeees?" I inquired.

"We'd like something to drink.  Jesus.  We've been sitting here forever."

"My most sincere apologies.  What do you want?"

"Two margaritas.  Very strong."  

Sensing Lenny was in a hurry to exile me once again, no doubt to prepare a date rape drug for Brett, I furthered my line of inquiry.

"Doubles?  Blended?  Preference on the tequila?  Fruit flavor?  Cadillac?  Shot on the side?  Pitcher?"

"FIGURE IT OUT.  JESUS."

I delivered two double margaritas with our most expensive tequila and told the bartender to make them unholy strong.  Watching these two get sauced would no doubt be the highlight of my evening.

An hour later, with two more rounds and no food, they were both drunk.  I can't tell you what question prefaced Brett's response, but I approached the table only to hear:

"Nah, I tried it once, bro.  Just wasn't for me."

"Well maybe if you met the right...WHAT DO YOU WANT?" he yelled while I stood there stoically indifferent.

"Just seeing if I can bring you two lovebirds anything else."

"Yeah, another round."

"Oh, I'm sorry, you've both had too much to drink and I'm unable by law to serve you anymore. I've prepared your bill and can't wait to take care of that for you.  Please let me know if I may call either of you a taxi."

"YOU'RE NOT CUTTING ME OFF!"

"Yes, and with my manager's permission."

"Do you KNOW what all I OWN in Los Angeles?!"

"A 1991 Geo Metro?"

"I own three VERY prominent apartment buildings and a successful agency!!!  I've never been cut off in my life."

"While I completely get the correlation between those accomplishments and your ability to be legally intoxicated, I'm not serving you anymore.  If you have a problem, feel free to discuss it with my manager."

I dropped the bill and walked off.  The two sat there giggling, making obnoxious hand gestures and exchanging curious looks of temptation for an additional half hour.  Finally, Lenny handed over his credit card.

And it was declined.  As were the other two he tried to subsequently use.

Each time a card was declined, it was inevitably my fault.  After the third card, I made no effort to hide my glee, chuckled, and dryly asked Brett, "I don't suppose you'd be able to pay the bill?"

The color drained from Brett's spray tanned fan as he reluctantly reached into his wallet.  Though it was an expensive lesson ($128...$120 for the bill, $8 for me), let's hope the young thespian learned about the dangers of sleeping one's way to the top of Tinsletown.

One-woman show

Los Angeles is allegedly a city that fosters countless unknown stars, all searching for any and all means of exposing their raw talent.

To the annoying, loud-mouthed, self-obsessed young 20-something hooker who sat in my section and sang her way through the entire evening, my section is not the proper showcase for you to share your minimal vocal abilities.

When she and her five friends (dirty gypsies, all of them) sat at my table, she shouted "OH MY GOD I LOVE THIS SONG!" as Madonna's "Hung Up" blared over the speakers.

Not one to appreciate the deprecation of Madge, I immediately interrupted.

"Would you like anything to drink?"

"EVERY LITTLE THING THAT YOU SAY OR DO, I'M HUNG UP...I'LL HANG UP ON YOU!!!" she squealed into an invisible hand-held microphone.  I came this close to holding my invisible shotgun to my head and pulling the invisible trigger.

(Regarding "Screechy's" musical prowess, imagine a group of grieving gypsy women at a funeral, simultaneously screaming, breathing and bellowing.)

Her friends, each one more stoned than the other, seemed indifferent to her theatrics.  She took their silence as permission, and proceeded to belt out every song that followed.

What annoyed me even more than her crooning were the self-adoring looks she'd give me, as if the pen and pad in my hand were meant for her autograph.  However, once "Manic Monday," "Always Something There to Remind Me" and "Hollaback Girl" came and went, I began to realize that only two people from this gypsy tribe were ordering, and "Screechy" wasn't one of them. 

She did, however, manage to consume three shots of our shitty house tequila, paid for by the neighboring table of nasty Armenian men who hadn't seen such thrilling live entertainment since selling their youngest daughter to a brothel.

As the night progressed, Screechy did not let up.  On the contrary, she found ways to incorporate dance into her routine, which I gleefully put the kabosh on.  

"You have to stay seated."

"Ohhhh come on man," she said in her affected poser beatnik emo gypsy hipster voice.  "I'm just having a good time."

"People are trying to get by behind you, you have to keep the area clear."

"Can you at least tell dem to turn up the music?"

"No."

"But I LOOOOVE this SOOONG" ("Single Ladies" by Beyonce)

"No, sorry.  Is anyone else ordering anything or can I..."

"DON'T...TREAT ME TO THE THINGS OF THIS WOOOOOORLD..."

I dropped off the check.  The third copy, to be exact, which I placed next to the previous two copies I'd left within the preceding hour. 

Once they finally left, I didn't even bother to sort through the pile of dollar bills, pennies and plastic 

trinkets they used to pay their check.  I did, however, enjoy a rare ride home void of any music.

   

The continued offenses of Jessica Simpson

Seeing how I like to be the center of the Bitter Waiter universe, I rarely tread into celebrity territory for fear that it will take a little sparkle out of my own star. That said, I've been contacted by several readers regarding a highly publicized public display of intoxication by one of my least favorite celebs, and I must put aside my own narcissism for the greater good of my readers.

By now you've probably read through Perez, TMZ, and a host of other unreliable gossip Web sites that Jessica Simpson recently visited my humble restaurant. It's true. And I was there for the whole thing. And as someone with a four-year history of Jessica Simpson run-ins (all unpleasant), I'll gladly recount the entire evening.

The least-talented Simpson arrived around 4 p.m. with two lady friends (one of them Cace, her former assistant who's usually the only friendly member of the party) and Cace's boyfriend Donald Faison of Scrubs. They ordered pitcher after pitcher of an evil concoction called "The Jessica Simpson Margarita."

(Years ago, Jessica used to demand packets of Splenda, lime juice, ice, and tequila, and then mixed them together at her table. She claimed her margarita had no calories. Our owners gladly acquiesced to these demands and found the grating little blonde's creation so charming, they put it on the menu.)

As poor Cace became so drunk she began to vomit, Jessica did what any best friend would do. She went to another booth and proceeded to text Tony Romo, Nick Lachey, John Mayer, or any one of the men who've recently dumped her for a more talented celebrity.

Donald was too busy talking about football with one of the bar regulars to help, leaving the other female friend to assist Cace as she threw up all over the table, under the booth, and hopefully into Jessica's expensive handbag.

As managers, bus boys and servers (not me, natch) did everything they could to clean up, Jessica stood there horrified, as if watching footage from a Malawian massacre. In between text messages, and without looking up from her phone, she would occasionally chirp "Oh, I'm sorry we...(trailing off)" or "Cace, does this hideous white sun dress make my fat ass look fat?"

Mama Tina Simpson saved the day, looking like she flew in from a Southern church bake-off, and transported the Simpson posse to safety.

Next time the Simpsons strike, you can bet I'll do my part to expose their naughty behavior.

Kirsten Dunst is an average tipper

This will come as no shock to most of you, combined with the equally non-revelatory news that she has weird teeth and no personality.

Timberlake, Furtado named "Worst diners"

From IMDB:

Justin Timberlake and Nelly Furtado are the worst behaved diners in showbiz, according to celebrity restaurateur Guy Rubino. Rubino claims Timberlake insisted on ordering off the menu and Furtado acted like a diva during visits to his Toronto, Canada eaterie Rain. The chef tells The New York Daily News, "Timberlake comes into Rain, doesn't even look at the menu and shouts for random food that we don't make. If he knew what he wanted, why come to an Asian restaurant in the first place? (Furtado) made a reservation for 10 guests. She showed up an hour late with five extra people in tow. For parties that size, we do a prix-fixe type of menu. Nelly objected and was really rude about it. She expected individual dishes to be prepared. Her manager even came into the kitchen and had the gall to say, 'Just f**king do it! I told her that she and her client could just f**king leave." In contrast, Rubino claims Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta-Jones were the best guests: "They're very polite. Every time they come in, they pop into the kitchen to say hello. I just love them."