bitter waiter

The 5 dumbest questions I've been asked all week

1. "Are you the server?"
No, bitch, Halloween came early and I decided to go as a disgruntled employee trick-or-treating at my local Mexican restaurant.

2. "Is this flavored tap water?"
Despite the typically verbose nature of my rants, I feel this particular question needs no additional commentary.

3. "Did you see the car crash outside?"
Yeah, it's weird, I have these visions of what's going on in the outside world when I'm inside a barely lit building at night.

4. "I didn't see it on the menu, but you all have calamari, right?"
Yes, we feel it would benefit our sales tremendously if we left the popular items off the menu but still offered them to our customers.

5. "My son wants a light green crayon to color his kid's menu, can you find one?"
Do I look like the fucking Reading Rainbow to you? The odds of me searching through crayon boxes at the host stand for a light green crayon aren't nearly as good as the odds of you pulling one out of your fat ass.

Triple sat

Fear not, faithful readers, the update is coming today. Remember, bitter waiter must balance his saucy stories and egregious exploits with, you know, his personal life.

The Five People You Meet in Hell, part four

(i.e. "The Five Dumbest People I've Waited on All Month.")

4. White trash Brittany and poser cohort

You can imagine the fine clientele that my restaurant attracts on Monday evenings, when all food is 30% off. Every cliche, minority and starving lower-class family endure the almost-hour-long wait in a scene straight out of Schindler's List, all to save a couple dollars on Mexican food.

And inevitably, before I drop the check at least five people different people will ask:

"Now the discount's already added in, right?"

I assure them, with my stoic disgust, that it is. In most restaurant situations, the customer feels he/she has the upper hand. Not so on Monday nights, when I can sense the desperation and penny-pinching. I almost feed off the misery of the broke.

Last Monday, Brittany and her boyfriend/gay partner/tragic poser friend came in to split one beef burrito, two waters, and a never-ending supply of gratis chips and salsa. I could smell their bad tip coming from a mile away, as evidenced by their complete lack of manners and deodorant.

I begrudgingly refilled their waiters (to no "Thank you," of course) and made 5 or 6 trips to refill the chip basket that their dirty little hands couldn't empty quickly enough.

The total for this grand feast came to $7.57. Brittany paid using her credit card and left no tip of any sort, just a salsa smudge and the parting refrain of her Rite Aid knock-off perfume.

This is Brittany's myspace profile. Finally, you can see what I have to deal with. Notice the painfully self-proclaimed depth, the inevitable angst and loneliness, the myriad of misspelled words, and the awfully misinformed nickname "Penny Lane."

Thanks Brittany! Always remember that Taco Bell is a few miles north of my restaurant with a menu tailored much more to someone of your class, intellect and financial status.

The Five People You Meet in Hell, part three

(i.e. "The Five Dumbest People I've Waited on All Month.")

3. Douche bag businessman and his coked-out stripper girlfriend

Rarely do I give off the impression that I enjoy talking to the people I wait on. That's why I always find it amusing when someone insinuates that I'm being a pest by asking such personal, imposing questions as "Are you finally ready to order?" and "Any dessert or coffee?".

Last night I waited on Mr. Asshole, an imitation-brand-suit wearing big wig with all the self-importance of Thurston Howell, III. Sitting centimeters away was his prostitute girlfriend, no doubt coagulating at the thought of doing coke off Mr. Asshole's unmentionable parts in some sleazy hot tub around midnight.

Reluctantly, and after a silent prayer by the host stand, I approached the table. I stood by the table for a good 20 seconds waiting for some sort of acknowledgment. Mr. Asshole was too busy regaling his girlfriend-by-the-hour with stories of mergers, meetings, and other two syllable words that went right over her head.

"Drink?" I said with beautiful disdain.

"We're not ready to order drinks," he barked. "Come back in five."

Twenty minutes later, Mr. Asshole approached me at the server station.

"Two grey goose martinis. Very dry. No olive."

I obligingly rang in the drinks, then checked some text messages, shot the shit with our line cook, went outside to chat with the smokers, greeted a few other tables, called my mom and dad, filled out a schedule request, made a list of places to visit before I turn 30, wiped a stain off my apron, took a piss, then delivered the cocktails after naming all 50 state capitals with a co-worker.

"Ready to order?" I asked as I dropped off the drinks.

"No, we'll let you know if we're hungry," he said as his girlfriend licked the rim of his martini glass.

"Actually, sir, seeing as how this is a restaurant and we're on a wait, you can't sit at the tables just for cocktails. Ready to order?"

"Quesadilla," he said.

"What kind?"

"Small."

"Not what size, what kind?"

"Chicken."

"Grilled or pulled rotisserie?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Grilled or pulled rotisserie?"

"Whichever's better, okay?"

Our rotisserie chicken is frequently manhandled by the unwashed hands of three or four Mexicans who have far more contempt for humanity than I do. Naturally, this is what I selected for the lovebirds.

After a few more rounds of grey goose, girlfriend-by-the-hour was clearing servicing Mr. Asshole underneath the table with her hands. I found every excuse I could to interrupt this exchange, each time earning more and more of Mr. Asshole's ire.

Eventually it was tab time (after three hours of hogging my section). Mr. A handed me a $50 for the $45.24 tab. I interrupted his tongue contest with a most energetic, "Can I keep the change??"

Fortunately for me, I have enough good karma in the bank that the universe loves me in spite of my service industry exploits. While clearing the remaining glasses after the happy couple left, I found that Mr. A left behind his Prada knock-off sunglasses.

I'd like to report that I took the higher road and headed straight to the lost-and-found and turned in the glasses. But I didn't. I gave them to one of the Mexicans as thanks for making the quesadilla that would no doubt interrupt the happy couple's post-dinner hot tub session.

The Five People You Meet in Hell, part two

(i.e. "The Five Dumbest People I've Waited on All Month.")

2. Patronizing single dad and his gratingly precocious daughter

In the restaurant world, parents often embody one of two types. They're either endearingly apologetic for bringing their disruptive offspring into public (meaning they tip well), or they're so self-absorbed as to think that serving their obnoxious by-product is a rare privilege.

"Oh isn't that cute! Little Gertrude spilled her 'sippy' all over the booth. Think of her fondly as you clean up after my child. Here's 10%."

One of my least favorite regulars is Mark, a perpetually single father on the prowl. The sideshow of Mark's almost vaudevillian efforts to attract women is his unbearably precocious four-year-old daughter. Picture the most annoying co-star from any episode of "Punky Brewster" or "Silver Spoons," add an eerily intentional resemblance to Shirley Temple, and you've got Mark's daughter.

I've nicknamed her Annabelle, because she looks like someone a greedy parent would prop up at a state fair with a microphone and a bucket just begging for spare change.

When Mark brings in Annabelle, he offers a running commentary on the dining experience for the sake of everyone around.

"Isn't that cute? Annabelle just used her big-girl fork!"

or

"Say, Annabelle, how do you pronounce enchilada again? Geez, listen to her adorable tongue just mangle that word. Isn't that the cutest thing you've witnessed?"

I am inevitably expected to engage in this exploitation as if I'm an extra in a Frank Capra film, just grateful to be a fly on the wall of each precious moment. Mark and Annabelle are, of course, completely unaware of my palpable contempt.

Even if I were to say, "I hope the Hezbollah kidnap your daughter," he would look at me as if I'd exclaimed "I'll take one just like her!"

A few weeks ago, while dealing with my usual dose of the Father/Daughter Tag Team of Terror, Mark brought along a date. To my extreme pleasure, Annabelle did not take kindly to the 22-year-old bleached blonde receptionist.

Though I can't stand the little shit, I respect her clear mastery of manipulating daddy. Throughout the meal, she claimed one ailment after another in a clear effort to ditch Nancy Drew and lay the foundation for years of paternal control.

"Oh angel," Mark pleaded, "Just 10 more minutes and we'll go home. Say, why don't we order the brownie sundae and let you work on that for a bit?!"

Mark made the fatal mistake of offering something that wasn't on the menu. Bright little Annabelle played his bad move like a Stradivarius.

"I DO want a brownie sundae, now! Brownie sundae, BROWNIE sundae, BROWNIE SUNDAE!"

Thus Mark escorted his ladies out of the restaurant to avoid the potential temper tantrum. Little Annabelle skipped to the door, beaming with satisfaction. And a small part of me grew to hate her a little less.

The Five People You Meet in Hell, part one

(i.e. "The Five Dumbest People I've Waited on All Month.")

1. Idiot teenage girl and her giggling assortment of awkward adolescents

The irony of my job is not lost on me. I hate people, and yet I work in an establishment where I not only run into many of them, but encounter the worst of them, as well.

So imagine my immediate disdain whenever I see a band of teenage hooligans come within a few feet of my section. My first instinct is to bark at them like a pit bull. My second is to instantly clutter all open tables with dirty dishes and the blood of the host staff.

This inevitably results in one of the teens (usually a sunglass-clad, anemic looking girl holding a clunky, oversized purse with the poise of a mummy) almost singing, "Hey, can we sit at that dirty table once it's cleared off?"

The other night I waited on seven Armenian teenagers who reeked of Drakkar and desperation. They split two quesadillas among them, as well as never-ending glasses of water. As I hunched over the table like Quasimodo reaching for empty glasses (with absolutely no assistance from the hairy little fuckers), I eavesdropped on their discussion of the recent movie Vantage Point.

The two things you need to know about the forgettable film are that 1) it takes place entirely in Spain and 2) it's told from 10 or so different perspectives (i.e....vantage points).

The ringleader of this Persian posse voiced her disappointment in the misleading title, "Advantage point," claiming it wasn't clear exactly who held the upper hand.

She followed that statement with, "And I heard the film took place in Europe, and I was all excited, but it actually took place in Spain."
--
I'll return tomorrow with another one of the five dumbest people I've waited on all month.

Shielding the eyes of the innocent

Last week I waited on a couple of over-protective parents and their eerily quiet, Village of the Damned son and daughter. I was asked to immediately remove all potentially harmful cutlery (i.e. all cutlery) and make sure I placed the children's drinks in plastic cups.

Did I mention that these children were about 13 years old?

Nevertheless, mommy encouraged her son to solve the complex riddles presented by the kid's menu. Junior, just a few years shy of Norman Bates issues, begrudgingly agreed.

I felt for the poor kid. I could tell that dining in public for him mandated the shameful completion of word searches and rudimentary mazes. Should he grow up straight, his children will be ordering off the adult menu before they're able to digest solid foods.

When the food arrived, mommy and daddy cut the children's meals into condescendingly small bites, as if to say "I dare you to eat anything bigger without choking to death." Dad led the clan in a simple, if not drawn-out, pre-meal prayer. Junior looked around and caught my sympathetic glance. He immediately retreated back to the steeple he'd been forced to create out of his innocent hands.

After dinner, Junior and his sister split one kid's meal dessert, a simple scoop of ice cream with a wee bit of whipped cream. Mom paid and left a polite 18% tip.

As they left, Junior gave me one last pitiful look. I wanted to tell him, "Life will get better, I promise you. You can move far away from home one day and order off the adult menu."

But I doubt Junior would have taken much comfort from someone in an apron who complied with his mother's demands of children's menus, no knives and one meager scoop of ice cream for dessert.

Condescending soccer mom and her merry band of menstruating bitches

Last week I had the pleasure of waiting on five young Jewish mothers and their five ugly, almost androgynous children.  These little demons had been cursed with names like "Marlena" and "Parker," as if Aaron Spelling had bequeathed to them a B-grade night-time soap before his death.

Before I could posit the completely insincere query of "HI HOW IS EVERYONE DOING TODAY?!", I was met with the mission statement of the head mama.  She highlighted each word as if I'd expressed a need for her to communicate via sign language.

"We're in a...HURRY.  We need...FIVE...kid's milks....with lids......
...
...
...
...and S-T-R-A-W-S."

With the aid of a translator and some illustrations, I was eventually able to digest and grasp this complex notion presented to me, a lame peasant who makes a living fetching food and beverage for the richest Jews in all the land.

I returned with the milks, only to be asked, "You're sure these are all MILKS, right?"

"Well, I didn't milk the cow myself, but the label did say 'MILK' on the container."

No one at the table laughed.  Instead, I could sense horns slowly emerging after gestating in a venomous pool of estrogen and hatred.  They could smell my waspy man chemicals and, therefore, I needed to be put in my place.

Their vengeance came in the form of an order than would have made Rain Man's head explode.

Before I could dart off and drink liquid detergent, head mama said, "And we'll need forks and napkins for our food."

Friends and casual readers, I can't elaborate enough on the gravity of this revelation.  Never before has a woman so succinctly and accurately expressed her needs.  Forks and napkins!  It seems so abstract, but when presented by a Jewish soccer mom, I grasp the meaning behind the beautiful prose. 

The food arrived.  Apparently one of the kid's meals came with rice instead of fries as requested (sometimes soccer moms communicate in such a poetic, haunting manner of speech that "fries" becomes "rice," and "I need more water" becomes "Enter my love cocoon, virile waiter stud.")

"Uhm...She wanted french fries.  This is rice."

God damn if Jew #2 hasn't won a Pullitzer for her grasp of concepts both interpretive and obvious.   I retreated quickly to my journal to scribble "This is rice" and returned to the table to address her concerns and assure her of our budding relationship.

I then fetched the glorious fried potatoes that would no doubt nurture her man-daughter and pave the way for bad skin come Bat Mitzvah time.

The "hurry" that these women and their budding yodelers were allegedly in manifested itself in the form of a long coffee-and-gossip session following the feast.  Nasty snack foods stored in Zip-loc bags created a moat around the table.  Children burped and ran around while the 'steins and 'felds gabbed and applied make-up.  Needless to say, no one was in a hurry.

Enter me, mindful of the damsel's initial expression that time was of the essence.

"I know you are all in a huge hurry, so here's your check.  I'll be standing by in case you need to leave quickly."

The women utilized everything from a protractor to an abacus to dissect and analyze the parchment that presented their charges.   

"Sybil, didn't little Herman have the orange juice?  You owe an extra $1.25."

"Oh wait, my darlings Esther and Elijah split a kid's meal, so we owe $4.67 less than everyone else."

And then, almost in unison, "Oh wait, gratuity is included.  Hmm, 18 percent."

I bid adieu to my new friends as they ventured off to explore the world through their self-focused lense.  Though my goodbye wasn't met with so much as a friendly glance, I understood the non-verbal meaning behind their (lack of) communication.  Parting is difficult after quickly establishing such a symbiotic bond. 

I can only hope that the God of Abraham will grant them a quick and safe return to me.

The simple pleasures of being difficult

Most of the time, my haughty behavior is (in my irrational opinion) called for because of the offensive nature of many restaurant diners. 

Other times, however, I am simply in a bad mood and ready to be difficult for the sheer purpose of my own entertainment.

Take last Thursday for example.  After an early morning argument prior to my shift, I arrived at the restaurant with my horns already exposed, eager to trample on anyone and everyone's good mood. 

The antics began with the whaling of a fat Mexican woman seeking a high-chair for her offensively ugly, shrieking newborn (a high-chair seemed a less appropriate request than, say, a mask and some sedatives).  It wasn't so much that she asked me, it was how she asked me.

For starters, I wasn't her server.  Second, I had my hands full of three scalding hot plates for my own table.  Third, the tone in her voice implied that I was responsible not only for her having to wait for a high-chair, but for all the horrible things that had turned her into an obese, loud-mouthed alarm siren, as well.

Her request was met with no direct eye contact and a particularly curt, "Ask someone with empty hands."

As I brushed past her en route to my table, I noticed I'd been sat with a group of regulars every server tries to avoid.  These businessmen, with their habit of wolfing down chips as if participating in some eating contest at a fair in the deep south, always tipped $1 per person.  They demanded constant iced tea refills and barked at the small portions on the thrifty lunch specials. 

I became erect in anticipation of ruining their day.

I approached their table with a facial expression and body language that said, "Go fuck yourselves."  But before I could fire off an incendiary introduction, I was met with:

"Hey pal, we need extra chips.  And I think this booth is broken.  It sinks.  Can you fix it?"

"Yeah, let me go grab my toolkit and wood supplies out of my Honda.  I'll be right back with iced teas and three discounted soup and salad meals."

"Whoa bud, don't need the attitude.  And besides, we're celebrating.  We'll take three carne asada steaks, well done."

"You are aware that those are on the regular menu, and you won't be able to get a discount?"

"Why don't you send over your manager and we'll discuss a few things with him, like getting a new server."

"I'll dab my eyes and get right on that."

I immediately sought my manager, who is as indifferent to customer complaints as the day is long.  Unfortunately, he was otherwise engaged with the whaling woman who still hadn't found a high-chair.  I stood there, like a blank canvas, listening to the conversation.  He assured her that he would take care of her concerns with all the sincerity and conviction of an automated customer service recording.

"I think table 16 wants to see you," I warned.  "And I'm pretty sure you'll want to transfer them to another server."

As I walked back to my station, I noticed the whaling woman writing a lengthy note on the back of her check.  My prayers were answered when she angrily handed it to me on her way out.  I expressed my gratitude with a shit-eating grin and gathered my other servers to participate in the reading.  In closing, I leave you with the original, unabridged works of an angry customer:

"Dear Sir,

You have alot [sic] to learn about customer service.  When a guest askes [sic] for something, your [sic] supposed to help out and not have a bad attitude.  People like you are mad that you have to wait tables because you can't do anything else.  You should quit and become homeless if you don't want to deal with people.  Me and my family won't be coming back to this restaurant.  You lose business when you act like you act.  Don't be so bitter."

Just imagine what I'd do if you left your baby...

After someone leaves a bad tip, only one thing can redeem my night (short of following the offender to his/her car and verbally indulging my scathing inner monologue). Every now and then, a beacon of hope shines through the pennies left on the table. Bad tippers sometimes forget their personal belongings.

This particularly heinous Armenian woman and her not-so-adorable bearded newborn sat at my table for nearly an hour waiting for an equally Ape-like Persian and her follicly fruitful infant to join them. Once the whole hairy foursome were together, they stayed for an additional two hours, conversing in a mixture of Armenian and spit.

Each time I approached the table to refill drinks or take an order, I was greeted with a look of death, as if I were some sort of unwelcome minority in an otherwise lovely land.

Come tip time, the Evolution revolution left me a rent-paying $3.64 on $66.36. Before the chip on my shoulder and I could refuse their meager tip, they left.

As the bus boy and I were clearing off the remnants, I noticed that cave-woman #1 left behind her scarf. Without giving it a second thought, I immediately took the scarf to the bathroom and pissed all over it. I dried it off just enough for it to not be damp and placed it up front in the lost and found.

Whether or not she came back for her scarf, I'll never know. But the relief I derived from relieving myself on her personal effects is closure enough.