bitter waiter

Unhappy Hour

Last night I had the misfortune of waiting on a "self-seater," a customer who walks straight past the host stand and seats him or herself without regard for the restaurant staff.

Our place clearly has a hostess who stands at the very front of the restaurant in front of the front door.  There is no sign saying "Please seat yourselves" (thought I often wish there were a sign instructing people to do other four-letter verbs to themselves).  Nevertheless, we deal with self-seaters on a frequent nightly basis.   

This particular gentleman (term used loosely) looked like an extra from a Color Me Badd video, what with his freshly frosted blond hair, tucked-in tropical T-shirt and high-waist jeans.  The ensemble was accentuated with a long brown leather belt (tied in a knot at the end, natch) and cheap white Keds.  

Because he sat himself, neither the hostess nor I was about to greet him, clean off the table or offer him menus.  I stood directly in his eyeline, responding to text messages, pretending to laugh at the other server's stupid jokes and making sure the day's tan was even in the nearby mirror.  

When I simply couldn't convey any more indifference, I approached his table.  Before I could rattle off one of a million insincere greetings, he said:

"This table is dirty." 

"You're right!  That's because you sat yourself at a dirty table.  The hostess normally greets people...here and at pretty much every other restaurant in the world.  Drink?"

"I'll take a happy hour margarita."

"Sorry, happy hour is only available at the bar."

"Then I'll order it from the bar."

"Then you'll sit at the bar."

(Just so you know -- happy hour is $1 off house margaritas.  One dollar.  House margaritas.)

Eventually his lady friend joined him and ordered a dirty martini.  After three rounds and 30 minutes, I checked to see if they were ready to order their meals.  He said:

"We're just having drinks.  Couldn't you tell?"

"No, I couldn't.  I guess the presence of menus and silverware on your table threw me for a loop.  And these tables are reserved for dining, so if we go on a wait, you'll have to move to the bar."

"But we come here all the time."

"Me too.  Tables are for dining only.  Thanks."

With that, Color Me Badd asked for the check.  Fortunately his lady insisted on treating him, and treated me to a 10% tip.  They informed me, with great attitude, that they'd be sitting at the bar from now on.  I said the first word that came to my mind.

"Promise?"

It's never what -- but whom -- you know

Years ago, in an effort to encourage customer loyalty, the owners of my miserable restaurant created the "I Know the Owner" card (or....the "IKO" card, as it's affectionately called by the dozens of loud-mouths who waive it in the air like a stray ball from a Cubs game). 

Nothing makes the bile build in my stomach like serving an IKO card holder. The card makes the following provisions for its lucky owners: 

1) Immediately move to the front of the wait list regardless of the wait time for the other angry customers 

2) Receive a free dessert if the check averages out to more than $20-per-fat-ass 

3) Remind your server as often as you want that you know the owner and therefore expect the best service possible at a low-end Mexican restaurant where the staff is practically panting for a bloody revolution against the customers.  

The other night I had the pleasure of serving not one but two respective groups of IKO card-holders. The first was Bud, an awkward high school teacher who only dines at the restaurant when a discount and modest tip are involved. Bud is usually joined by his bizarre wife, who can go from civil to Sybil in a matter of seconds. 

They split an appetizer and two cocktails, meaning their check was several dollars short of the necessary $20/person to receive a free dessert. 

Bud and "Sybil" did not ask for a free dessert. They demanded a free dessert. 

"Don't you think, as often as we come here, that they should give us a free dessert regardless?" 

Riiiiiiiiiiiight, because the sale of one appetizer and two cheap drinks is what's keeping the restaurant afloat Bud. 

"Sorry, I don't make the rules. Wish I could help. Here's your check." 

Bud and Sybil one-up'd my triumphant display of indifference by calling over one of the owners. They were granted their free dessert and marked their territory by leaving me an even lower tip than usual. 

Thirty minutes later I was treated to a triumvirate of meatheads, one of whom held the sacred IKO card. I observed as they approached the host stand and asked about the wait. The poor hostess, new to the job and still polite, had never heard of the IKO card. The lead meathead deftly explained, in a mix of monosyllabic words and grunts, that he was to be sat stat. 

Naturally, their path lead to my section. Our exchange began with the usual joke that IKO-card-holders regale in telling:

"Hey bud, I Know The Owner, so you'd better be nice to me! Just kidding." 

My glare must have put the kibosh on his sense of entitlement, because I didn't hear about the card again. 

Until... 

He ordered his steak with "a little bit of RED in it." Not pink. Not brown. Red. That, to me -- a seasoned server with a knack for getting things right the first time for the sole reason of avoiding the customers -- spells medium rare/medium. 

Thus his steak arrived, "with a little bit of red in it," and our VIP customer was not happy.  

"There's not enough red," he said. 

"You asked for a little red. Did you want it rare?" 

"No. I wanted it the way I ordered it." 

So I had the kitchen cook up a bloody ribeye. 

"Now there's too much red." 

"Would you like something else? There isn't a lot of wiggle room between the two shades of red I've brought to the table." 

"You know...since I have this card, why don't you send one of the owners over and see if they can't fix this?" 

"(Sigh) Gladly." 

Minutes later, our owner brought out a different ribeye with the exact amount of red as the first steak I delivered to the table. 

"See, now that's a little bit of red," he said with the glib satisfaction of a 4th grader who just solved his first Encyclopedia Brown mystery. 

You can imagine the smile that crossed my face when I realized that his ribeye actually was the first one I delivered to the table. Even owners have a sense of humor.

Pulling out all the stops

I'm always amused when someone waltzes into my cheap Mexican restaurant and announces that someone in the group is celebrating a birthday.

Like. I. Care.

This call to give a shit is always accompanied by a tacky store-bought birthday cake, dollar store decorations, and the expectation that I'll be bowing down to every birthday whim like some sort of medieval jester.

Recently, a family of four escorted their senile grandmother into my section to celebrate what must have been her 500th birthday.

Not only is the restaurant dimly lit; The sound system notoriously and almost offensively blares B-grade 80's pop confections and disco music. Not that any of this mattered to Grandma. In addition to being partially blind and mercifully deaf, I doubt she had any idea where she was.

Nevertheless, alpha male dad was prepared to make this the greatest night for Grandma since The Andrews Sisters performed a televised tribute to the boys at Pearl Harbor.

Poor Grandma was clad in a cheap birthday hat with a chin strap that kept missing her chin and aiming for her mouth. When I asked her what she'd like to drink, I unintentionally scared the shit out of her. Dad insisted that "Mimi" would like a Chardonnay.

Mimi's two fat grandsons sat on either side of her, scarfing chips like they'd survived internment, while Mom and Dad downed margaritas across the table. Dad would occasionally check in with Mimi, insisting she was having the time of her life beneath her comatose facade.

I watched in horror (and, yes, sympathy) as the food arrived. Mom and Dad continued their drunken exchange while the young chubs shouted around Mimi and shared the latest fart jokes. By the time Dad demanded I present Mimi with their unsightly grocery store pastry, Mom wisely suggested that they take the celebration elsewhere.

As they left, I whispered "Happy Birthday" to Grandma. She gave me the same look I give tables when they ask me an insanely stupid question and said, "Thank God for wine." I said a silent prayer that she would outlive all her immediate kin and put the whopping 12% tip from Dad in my pocket.

(The grandson in me wanted to help Mimi escape and take her somewhere peaceful where we could watch Humphrey Bogart movies and enjoy the silence. Should my children, grandkids, nieces or nephew ever try to put on such theatrics for my 100th birthday in a place so obviously geared toward a younger, drunker, poorer crowd, I'll leave them nothing in my will but a collection of cassette singles)

WARNING: not for the politically correct

By now you should all know that Monday is a trying night to work, what with the trashy masses turning out in droves for 30% off all food.

What amazes me most about the Monday night crowd is their shameless, unabashed sense of entitlement. These are the people who count their pennies and couldn't possibly afford to dine in public unless offered the promise of a bargain. I know if *I* had to take advantage of this meager discount, I'd do so with great humility. After all, being a regular on Monday night screams, "It's either this or the soup kitchen," not "How many wishes do I have left, oh enslaved genie of mine?"

And yet the Monday night crowd is the most demanding of all. From counting ice cubes in an iced tea to demanding a basket of chips and salsa for everyone at the table, they have no shame. Thus, I am unmasking the most rank Monday night offenders.

THE HUNGRY JEWISH FAMILY

This family of four frequently tries in vain to recapture the miracle of Jesus turning one fish into many by splitting one fajita entree and hoping it will suffice. Inevitably, they will balk at the "meager" portions and demand extra sides, chicken, tortillas, etc. and demand to not be charged. Like clockwork, the check comes to $13.76 and they left $15 to cover the check and tip.

THE BLACK BITCHES

Apparently they know what to expect from me. Before I could even set down the basket of chips and salsa, the sassiest one said, "Oh HELL no, I remember him from last time. Tell the host we want to move."

I can't imagine WHY she didn't think we'd get along. I fondly recall our previous night together, during which Sassy got her bitch on when I told her she couldn't sample each of the fruit flavors used in the fruit margaritas. My comment went something along the lines of "This isn't Baskin Robbins, and I don't give samples."

With one fierce wave of her heavily adorned hand (featuring pastel press-on nails), I was dismissed. Whew.

THE FAT FUCKERS

This rude, obese couple go to town when it's discount night. Tubby hubby and wife each start with a plate of nachos and one crab and shrimp quesadilla. She feasts on cheese enchiladas and he all but gulps the grease off the rotisserie chicken dinner. I've never felt better about my body.

THE HILLBILLY BUSINESSMEN

The ring leader, a hair-implanted, pug-nosed, acne-stricken, Napoleon-complexed redneck from the bowels of Virginia, immediately drinks to excess and lets his laughter bellow throughout the building with a mouth full of braised beef and idiocy. He calls his server "guy" and engages in my personal favorite game, "I know more about the menu and the tequila list than you do."

(Unless I am married to Madonna or appear like I give a rat's ass about the essence of Patron, don't give me homoerotic nicknames or challenge my knowledge. I will always win)

The hillbillies make it a point to find the single ugliest woman in the bar, get her drunk, and dampen her face at the table. Class, to them, was simply something they ditched in favor of shooting stray cats.

THE PERFUME-LADEN PERSIAN POSSE

Without fail, two members of the group show up at 9 and request a table for 10. An hour later, the rest of the party arrives, armed and drenched in an arsenal of equally strong, conflicting knock-off colognes and perfumes that could raise the dead.

They generally share one appetizer, the ordering of which takes a good half hour as 1) I try to translate and 2) they draw straws to see which of the group will actually get to eat the token starter.

Gratuity is never an issue because it's always included, but on a check totaling $16 (maybe $20 on a good night), we're not exactly talking rent money.

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.