the bitter waiter

Thoughts from a quarantined cunt

Hello out there in homebound land. It's somewhere between Sunday and Saturday, January and December, the beginning and the end. After nearly three weeks at home, out of work, and fully stocked up on booze, I'm crawling out of my cocoon to return to this, my first ever writing project, my creative zenith, and my beloved safe space.

How are you? I hope you're numbing out the anxiety and fear by mostly positive means, but also with booze, unless you're sober, in which case now is DEFINITELY not the time to fall off the wagon.

I digress. Fuck, all this post will be is digressing.

While I'll never apologize for the decade+ of bitching about horrible people, I've learned a great deal about myself and others in this pervasively quiet and introspective time. I miss work, I miss being on my feet, I miss a job that demands you multitask in the moment without thinking neither back nor too far ahead. Aside from screaming "GOD THAT ASSHOLE AT TABLE 34 WAS A REAL MOTHERFUCK TONIGHT!" on the drive home, I never had to "take work home." I'm grateful for a job that always gave me minimally taxed cash in hand at the end of every single shift. I see all those missed opportunities for gratitude that I'll never again take for granted. 

What I don't miss won't surprise you, but it's now through a more scrutinous lense. All those people, over all those many years, in countless restaurants, whose true colors revealed themselves in every irrational request, every imperious insult, every measure of degradation - I hope you are stewing in a social distancing of your own misery. I hope you see that all those high maintenance demands that seemed so dear and so validating reveal themselves as empty appendages of your own ego and entitlement. I hope you appreciate all those lowly people who did all those things you should have been able to do for yourself - prepare your food, do your laundry, run your errands, raise your children. More so, I hope when and if this all returns to normal, that you allow this universally humbling experience to imbue you with gratitude for people who are trying to make a living far less than yours.

Because if you don't, many others will. And your 1980's days of greed and ego met their maker when people realized how unimportant you are, those of you who make a lot of money and expect it to equate your worth. If you don't learn something from this, I will summon my strength and find a way to be an even bigger bitch. I will call you out with even more ire and venom, because this nation isn't formed on the backs of the rich. It's bolstered by the people who don't mind hard work. And you will learn to appreciate us. 

The off switch

In Los Angeles especially, some people are always "on." They're hyper, they're lying in wait to make a joke, and they desperately need attention. You're never really engaging with them as much as you are merely their audience.

Meet Meredith, an obnoxious personal trainer slash credit-less actress. She was clad in athletic wear and bouncing in her booth. I dreaded greeting her, knowing she'd attempt to lure me into her frenetic orbit. Her poor dining companion was her training client. As I approached, Meredith was enthralled in recounting some uninteresting anecdote about someone getting the schedule wrong at the gym, and she found it as funny as Lucy's Vitameatavegmain commercial. My face reflected my lack of interest.

"Hello," I interrupted.

"AHHHHH I was just telling her about my cray cray day!" she proclaimed.

"Anything to drink?" I asked.

With startling intensity, she leaned into her companion and joked, "What if we got HAMMERED after that workout? Like, what if we each ordered a bottle of wine? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!" She then threw her head back and cackled maniacally like someone getting their first taste of meth.

"I'll have a water please?" her companion said meekly.

"FINE, I'll have a water, too," Meredith said. "But is it reverse osmosis?"

"Pardon?" I asked with unmuted annoyance.

"Is your water filtered to reverse osmosis?" she inquired theatrically.

"Yes," I lied.

Using a condescending valley girl accent, she began explaining the benefits of reverse osmosis. I walked off and returned many minutes later with waters. Sensing my lack of interest, she tried to get personal.

"You look familiar," she accused.

"I doubt that," I replied. "Ready to order?"

"Have you trained at [name of her gym]?" she asked.

"I have not."

"Are you SURE?!"

"Yes," I said. "Any menu questions?"

"How do I know you??" Meredith persisted.

"Couldn't tell you."

"Yeah may I please have the steak sandwich?" her companion asked.

"Really?" Meredith pivoted. "Red meat?" Her ridicule continued until her client ordered a boring salad made even more boring by substituting the dressing and anything remotely tasty. Meredith also ordered a terrible salad, which could have been made at home with a bag of spinach, carrot shreds, and olive oil. But why settle for convenience and cost effectiveness when you can enjoy that green feast for $18 a pop?

The food arrived and fed Meredith's stage presence. Imitating another training client's bad form, she stood up in the middle of the aisle and made a flailing spectacle of herself, causing everyone to dodge her as they carried full trays and palpable contempt. She left me her business card, which I promptly tossed out with the gin-filled kid's cup I'd used to medicate my time with her.

Before she left, she hounded me to follow her on Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, SnapChat, and even Spotify. I claimed to be on a social media fast. I have no need to be someone else's audience when, like everyone else out here, I see myself as the main attraction.

Rich Dick

Many things make many horrible people feel entitled, but few are as powerful as money.

A few nights ago, I waited on Dick and his by-the-hour girlfriend Shasha. Not wanting to understate his wealth and predilections for the finest, he made a show of demanding a bigger booth, larger menus (because restaurants print menus in a variety of font sizes), an adjustment to the temperature, and a change in music. I'd never seen Dick or Shasha before, but my cowardly little manager was familiar. She acquiesced to every snap of Dick's fingers, ultimately driving my anger to a place it's never been in all my restaurant years.

Our featured entree was a serving of three beef tenderloin medallions. They're quite popular, and by the time Dick and Shasha arrived, we had one serving remaining.

In stark contrast to Dick and Shasha, two polite, no-fuss women were at the table next to them, also in my section. One of the ladies ordered the last tenderloin, minutes before Dick made up his mind to order the same thing. Minutes later, when I told him we were out, he interrupted me and pointed to the woman in the neighboring booth.

"I heard her, she ordered one," he said in an accusatory tone. 

"Yes," I said, "she ordered the last one."

Though she was mid-sentence, Dick leaned over and interrupted his neighbor. No "Excuse me," no "Hi," no "Sorry to interrupt." 

Just "I'll buy your dinner if you order something besides the tenderloin."

Annoyed that he'd interrupted her, she declined his offer with a chill and continued her conversation. This did not please Dick. 

"Really?" he continued.

"Yeah, really," she said.

"No offense, but a steak that nice will be wasted on you," he said. "Unbelievable..."

"Oh fuck off," she said calmly, then paid him no more mind. 

"Anyway what can I get for you?" I said with a smile.

"I can tell you think this is funny," he said. 

"I really don't," I replied. "I'd just like to do my job and take your order."

"Send over the manager," he commanded.

"Please," I replied.

"Excuse me?" he said.

"Send over the manager...please," I said. 

With that, Dick stood up and found the manager himself. Shasha and I enjoyed a few quiet moments before the manager asked me for a word. Apparently, he told her I was "harassing" them. And despite my side of the story, despite the neighbor speaking up in my defense, despite all the clear signs that this asshole was an asshole, the manager sucked his ego dry, letting him know just how much we appreciate his business and that a new server would be brought in to make sure his was the experience he deserved.

She also pleaded with the chef to miraculously make one more tenderloin entree, which he did only when she stroked his ego, too.

I was thrilled to be rid of Dick. When I dropped off the bill to the neighbors, he called to me, "Hey, I'd like to talk to you." I walked right past and stared right through him. Later, while the manager was sulking at the bar, wondering why everyone hates her, I helped myself in the kitchen. I helped myself in bar storage. I fed my belly and my rage, and I didn't care if I got caught. 

People who act like Dick will never learn a lesson because people like my manager will always nourish their entitlement.

Well fuck that. I'll just counteract that by being an even bigger bitch.

Back at the bottom

Having spent many years as a career server, I now wait tables in between less humiliating jobs in Hollywood. And those swaths of time outside of food service provide a much needed thawing towards humanity. While executives, actors, producers, and writers come with their own unique brand of high maintenance, dealing with egos and entitlement is rarely as frustrating as it is in restaurants.

When I return to waiting tables, there's a brief honeymoon period in which I'm almost excited to be back. I'm not sitting at a desk, I'm not tempted by the snacks in a writer's room, the cash is immediate and plentiful, and I can be drunk(er) on the clock.

But all it takes to crash the honeymoon is a return to form from one of the customers, an immediate reminder of how self-important, ill-mannered, and fucking stupid people can be when it comes to the simple task of serving them a meal.

The party came to a halt a few nights ago when I had to wait on Glen and Doris, two miserable old fossils who frequent the restaurant. They come in all the time, everyone hates them, and they've yet to decipher that ire through the sheer force of their narcissism. They're dour, they talk about themselves constantly, they send everything back, and they expect things for free.

I approached them in my final moments of enjoying being back, possessing the warmth of a teenage Taco Bell employee forced to be polite.

"Hello, what may I bring you to drink?" I asked.

"Ugh," Doris sighed. "No offense, but are you new?"

"Nope, I've worked here on and off for a few years, I've waited on you two many times," I said with a deliberate lack of enthusiasm.

"Oh, uh, okay," she replied. "I'd like a chardonnay, with two..."

"...ice cubes," I interrupted, "and a splash of soda water, not too much soda water, in fact could I bring out the soda water on the side and let you do it yourself, correct?"

"Yeah," she said.

"So, tell us what you've been up to," Glen said. Sure, at first glance it seems he's inquiring about me, but no. Like a keen double dutch jump roper, he's going to watch my words in wait for his chance to enter the center of the conversation, making it all about him. So I cut him off at the pass.

"Family stuff," I lied.

"Sure sure," he said. "That reminds me of what she and I have been dealing with. Our son just left his **successful** law practice to go and...."

I know he kept talking, but I couldn't tell you about what. During my recent stint away from the restaurant, I'd learned the art of meditating and taking deep breaths, tuning out the noise and static. I counted about 10 almost audible inhales and exhales until he finished blabbering about how great his Bernie bro son was.

After a round of drinks, they ordered their unnecessarily complicated meal, modifying the once savory Ahi tuna filet until it was just a well-cooked ghost of itself.  Before the food came out, they complained about the temperature in the restaurant, the speed of the ceiling fans, the single mother discreetly feeding her baby at the booth next to them, the music station, the volume of the music, and the shape of our ice cubes.

"Hey, Chance, do you know about how much longer on that tuna?" Glen inquired while I was mid-sentence at my other table.

Yeah about 15 more minutes, asshole...five minutes to cook, ten minutes for me to scream horrible words into my flask.

The fish came out. And then it was sent back (cooked too thoroughly), then back to them again, then sent back again (not cooked enough), until finally our impatient chef lost his shit and discussed their fish issues with them, convincing them to order the chicken instead.

Glen and Doris hemmed and hawed over the dessert menu, taking up one of my prime booths for an additional 20 minutes during a wait, opting for the bill instead. They paid, they lingered even more, and they tipped 15 percent (no matter what anyone ever tells you, it's not deemed a good tip, sorry cheapskates).

Thus, I refueled my flask, filled my lungs with recreational plant, and returned home, determined to find my next gig in Hollywood sooner rather than later.

I've waited on this girl once a day every day I've waited tables

Misery loves misery

You know how when you're not feeling well, one of the things a doctor most recommends is going out in public to a loud restaurant and drinking excessively?

Christi, a joyless, sour, attention-starved hypochondriac tried this tactic. Watching her walk meekly to my section, you'd think she'd just been rescued from a well. Her poor puppy of a boyfriend attempted to lift her spirits at every turn, but she set her mind to contaminating those around her with her miserable energy.

I was also not feeling well that day, due solely and exclusively to gin the night before (and on the drive to) work. So I was in less of a mood to deal with people than usual.

After watching her long, slow stroll to the booth, I approached them. I already knew better than to ask how they were doing.

"Hello, anything to drink?" I asked.

"The lights are so briiiiiight...." she whined and screeched in a tone that combined a car horn and a terrified bird. Also, to say our lighting is dim is an understatement. On the contrary, most patrons complain that they can't see.

"Aw, so sorry," I said with the sincerity of a bad actor. "Anything to drink?"

Brad, the boyfriend, sensed my displeasure and tried to reason.

"If there's any way to dim the lights, that would be great," he smiled. "She's not feeling well."

At his kindness, I budged just an inch.

"I'll see what I can do," I said. I didn't know how to ask this next question delicately, so I got to my point: "What's wrong with her?"

The little bitch lit up when I asked this. Rehearsed and eager to discuss the negative, she sparkled as she told me.

"I (fake cough) just feel sick," she said in a vocal fry that elicited no sympathy. "Achey, head-achey, stomach-achey (fake cough)." As if trained in the Joey Tribbiani school of acting, she patted her head and stomach when referring to them.

"Oh you poor thing," I said. "Would you care for any tea or ginger ale?"

"I'll actually do a margarita," she said.

"Good choice!" I replied.

Once the drink arrived, she complained about that. The first one was too strong, the second one was too weak. Then she griped about the restaurant's temperature, the music volume, the amount of ice cubes in her water, the other servers (one of them allegedly glared at her), the amount of butter served with the bread, her entree, his entree, her boyfriend's breathing volume, and lastly, my increasing absence from their presence. Brad remained a trooper the whole time.

With glee, I dropped off the bill after she downed her third medicinal margarita.

"We're not DONE," she said indignantly. "Don't you do anything for birthdays??"

"Oh God," I said. "Today is your birthday?"

"No," she said. "It's his birthday (fake cough)."

A portrait of the artist as a real asshole

Living in Los Angeles, a city so consumed by its love for T.V. and film, one often forgets that people paint. But for those who equate creating with crazy, rest assured that most L.A. painters are just as insane as L.A. actors.

Hot on the heels of a gallery event, The Artist and his entourage sat in my section to celebrate. Everything about him was a shallow attempt to draw attention - brightly colored hair, overalls over a silk shirt, needless military boots, sunglasses indoors. While I was pleased to see that the group covered the gamut of gender fluidity and sexual orientation, I was less thrilled to see that they were horrible garbage. I was already in a mood, trying this new thing experts only recently discovered called "Not getting drunk at work."

"Hello, may I bring you anything to drink?" I asked.

"Bro I just sold everything at my exhibit," The Artist replied in a shout.

"Great! Anything to drink?" I repeated.

"Let's.....get.....champagne..........to celebrate," his friend Antigone offered lethargically, her only tone.

No one among the five of them wanted to pick a bottle, so I ordered one of the more expensive ones on their behalf. I was so jealous of their impending alcohol as I stood feening for everything from tequila to the rubbing alcohol in the first aid kit.

After draining two bottles of champagne, talking to each other in a volume too loud even for a sports arena, high-fiving, selfie-ing, and singing "Hey Jude" in its entirety to the annoyance of no one as much as me, they finally took a gander at the menu.

"Ewww," The Artist said. "We thought you all had some French options on the menu?"

"Because of the words 'grill' and 'bar' in the name of the restaurant?" I asked.

"We'll just grab food from somewhere else and bring it back here," he decreed.

"Great....idea...." Antigone said as the words slowly escaped from her lips with an absence of enthusiasm.

"Yeah, no," I replied. "These tables are reserved for guests dining here."

"But we ordered champagne," he countered.

"Yeeeeeeeah. No." I replied.

"Fine," The Artist said, scorned. "We'll take the check."

"Oh great!" I replied and plopped down the bill I'd already printed.

Thirty minutes later, the restaurant had an unusual late night pop, and we were on a wait. The Artist and company still hadn't paid their bill. After greeting my other guests and scrambling to turn in their food orders all at once just to piss off the egomaniacal chef, I noticed Antigone and her friend Saffrine eating TACO BELL in the booth.

"Hi yeah excuse me?" I said with a bitchiness only available to me through work place sobriety. "First of all, that's food from another restaurant, even though I said that's not allowed."

"And?" The Artist replied.

"How is the French cuisine at Taco Bell?" I snarled.

"Are you telling us what we can and can't eat?" The Artist said irrationally and indignantly.

"I'm telling you where you can and can't eat food from another establishment," I replied.

And then. Without any sort of warning. The artist dramatically swiped everything off the table. The salt and pepper shakers. The empty champagne bottle. The Taco Bell. Antigone's ineffective antidepressants. The manager looked over and, hoping I didn't see him see me, looked away as to avoid being called into action.

The Artist's entourage scurried to pick up their belongings and followed him out of the restaurant. Not only did they not tip; they did not pay their bill. When the manager meekly told me I'd have to pay their bill, I simply said the word "attorney," and he comped it.

Ever the dramatic one, I played up the events of my time with The Artist to my surrounding tables, enjoying their pity tips. And when one table offered to buy me a shot of tequila, I knew I'd earned it.

Love is bland

Once upon a time there was a girl who was raised to believe she was the center of the universe and that the world spun, time rolled, and people existed solely for her. One day that girl met a boy who was raised to believe that everything he said was funny and that the world was his willing audience. Together they combined their insecurities, their desperate need for attention, and their misguided assessment of how the world viewed them, so confident that everyone would find them as endearing as they found themselves.

And then one day those dumb little fuckers wound up in my section. She was making weird whiny baby sex noises as she nuzzled his neck. He was giggling "STOP IT!" loudly as everyone around them glared daggers, no one more so than me when I first approached them.

"Sorrrrrry," she said in a grating vocal fry that made Kim Kardashian sound like an elocution coach. "We haven't seen each other all day. Awww!"

"Oh, no worries, I wasn't even paying attention to you," I smiled. "To drink?"

Her tone grew a little less pleasant when she realized I couldn't give two small shits about her obnoxious co-dependency. "I actually had a really tough day?" she said defensively, "so we'll need lots of alcohol. Babe, how about a martini?"

"What ever you want, babe," he said, needing to punctuate his agreement with a loud kiss on her cheek. She smirked, then turned her gaze to me. "I was almost killed on the 405 today," she said, no doubt expecting me to repent of my bitchiness and shower her with attention.

"Vodka or gin?" I responded.

"Vodka, right babe? Anyway I had the right of way on the on-ramp and this asshole in a Range Rover wouldn't let me over," she whined.

I raised an eyebrow. "And how did you almost die from this?" I asked.

"I had to pull over and wait to merge! On the ramp that's, like, really high up where the 10 and 405 meet!"

"And do you have any preference on the vodka?" I asked.

They downed their first round of martinis quickly (as did I, hiding behind the to-go supplies while also trying to hit my weed vape pen). They ordered two more martinis each before ordering any food, at which point they were pretty drunk.

And that's when the real feels started to crack the surface. They began to argue. When one would raise their voice, the other would try to console.

Finally the food arrived, a smattering of appetizers that she ordered preciously and with many modifications. By this point they were in full confrontation mode, and from what little I could overhear, not over anything important ("Yes but did he have a better butt than me?" he asked her heatedly). After 15 minutes, the food went untouched, and when I asked if I could bring the bill, he shouted that they weren't ready. He ordered a bottle of wine to prove it.

And yet right after the bottle arrived, they were back to deep-tonguing at the table. He paid with cash, undoubtedly not intending to leave a 30% tip, but I wasn't going to say anything.

As an even better reward for babysitting the drunken love birds, I took my vape pen, their untouched food, and their full bottle of wine to the back and had myself a lovely date night, party of one.

Into the frying pan

Like most restaurant chefs, our chef is a pompous, humorless, solipsistic, imperious egomaniac. Everything he says comes drenched in condescension, from work specifics ("That's called a RAMEKIN, have you ever heard that word before?") to simple pleasantries ("How was YOUR little weekend, hmmm?").

He recently did a restaurant tour of the southern U.S. and returned full of inspiration. He demanded that everyone show up to Thursday's dinner shift 30 minutes early so he could share his revolutionary idea. He strutted in a half hour late, proud to have kept everyone waiting for such genius. 

No time to greet everyone or apologize for keeping us waiting; he dived right in. "We'll take chicken..." he widened his stance and grinned. "Season it, prepare it, then serve it...in...a fried batter," as if to describe the cure for cancer. 

"You mean...fried chicken?" I asked.

"Exactly!" he smiled. "For the next few nights, we'll be featuring Chef's Original Fried Chicken. Sell it, upsell upsell upsell! I want it to be the only thing you sell," he insisted. "And the server who sells the most wins a $50 gift card [to our restaurant, fun!]. So don't be afraid to promote it on your social media. There will also be some kind of prize or something for most social media..." he trailed off.

Cut to Friday night, and people were actually coming in for this shit. We'd boasted on social media that we'd have the special for the entire weekend, and people made reservations because of that fucking fried chicken. We were slammed, but I was sauced. 

Around 6:45, as the older crowd gave way to the Tindr types, chef and one of his line cooks got in a pretty big argument over the temperature of something. This held up the kitchen, and because no one was paying attention, we ran out of fried chicken due to a problem with the fryer. It was now just shy of 7pm, and we were out of the reason everyone showed up. A small but vocal group of displeased patrons demanded an audience with management. The host team was told to call every Saturday and Sunday reservation and let them know we goofed on the fried goodness. 

On Saturday, prior to our dinner shift, chef took all avenues around blaming himself for Friday's failure. "We won't be able to serve fried chicken as promised," he said solemnly. "Maybe if we operated more like a team, maybe if people took sales seriously..." he once again trailed off, continuing to pace around the kitchen. It was tense. It was quiet. But I had a question.

"Yes?" chef said to my raised hand.

"So which server won the $50 gift card?" I asked.

Le Big Mac

I understand grandiose expectations of Los Angeles compared to it sometimes underwhelming actuality. While paradises like Beverly Hills and Malibu live up to their lofty legends, large swaths of the city are sterile, aesthetically devastating, overpriced parking lots. 

That said, there's a world of difference between being disappointed in a city and expecting it to function by your expectations. No wonder the French hate so many Americans; enough of us visit Paris then refuse to speak French, expect their McDonald's to be our McDonald's, and shake our fists in fury when Paris isn't just as depicted in Las Vegas. 

I waited on a family of four who crawled to Los Angeles from their landfill in rural Missouri. They were ill-mannered, entitled, smelled like lake sweat, and they did NOT approve of Los Angeles (more specifically, Hollywood). In an effort to save a buck, Darl, Darlene, and their two frumpy children, Dotty and Dumpy, were staying at a dirt cheap motel in west Los Angeles near my restaurant. I didn't even know there was an inn of such low caliber nearby, but then again, I only know the bars and liquor stores I can stumble to sometimes after work (and always before). 

Fortunately my tank was properly filled with gin before Darl and kin arrived. They tried to be seated ten minutes before the restaurant opened and were livid we wouldn't accommodate them. "You got waiters, you got cooks, you got a kitchen, you got food," Darl explained to our space cadet hostess, who lives on a different vibration than everyone else. "Why can't you seat us now, we're hungry?" he inquired. 

The hostess smiled as if she hadn't heard him. "Hi, we open at five!" she replied. 

Darl and family soon sat in their own filth at my largest booth, normally meant for six people. I made the fatal mistake of asking how they were doing.

"Is everything [in Los Angeles] over-priced?" Darl snarled. 

"Compared to some cities, sure," I said through a measured snarl of my own. "Anyway, to drink?"

"Are refills at least free?" Darlene asked in an equally put-out tone. She fanned herself with her menu in a vain attempt to prevent her bargain bin make-up from escaping by sliding down her face. 

"At least." I replied.

Through grunts, groans, and burps, the feral four finally ordered. Once the entrees arrived, they used their hands, elbows, and fingers to force that food down those gullets. Only after consuming everything down to the bone and gristle did Darl voice his complaints about the meager portion sizes. "Everything's bigger in Missouri," he exclaimed through bites of ribs.

"Ain't that the truth," I replied. 

They paid in dirty, sweaty cash that had been held hostage dangerously close to Darl's ass canal. I counted my tip (about 12 percent), took my paltry earnings and traded in those Darl-drenched dollars for some liquid magic to erase both their memory and their smell. If Missouri is the "show me" state, it's shown enough.