Halloween came early Friday night, as Satan's minions were out in full force at the restaurant. We didn't go off a wait until half past midnight, and each successive round of tables brought more and more horrible people into my section.
During my taxing sojourn into Hell, I came across a condescending soccer mom, the world's most obnoxious (and cheap) theater troupe, a mid-50s couple with a little too much affection, and, of course, a bevy of stereotypes dedicated to enforcing people's perceptions.
First up was a group of eight obnoxious theater actors on the heels of an allegedly great show. The thespians were all mid-20s, and ranged from the uber-gay to the uber-bitchy (and, in some cases, both). The most exciting beverage ordered was a Coke, and their meal consisted of four shared appetizers. Fortunately gratuity was added, even though it amounted to a whopping $10.
Just as they were about to tab out, along came the token sassy one, who joined late to feast on the complimentary chips & salsa and regale everyone with her renditions of songs from "Wicked." She then asked me, sans "Please" or "Thank you," to take three different pictures of the group. Afterwards I curtly replied "You're welcome," to which she offered an ear-to-ear "THANKS!" with all the sincerity of Paula Abdul after a night of Vicodin and vodka.
Finally the losers took their bows and called it a night. Next up were Mr. and Mrs. Tongues-All-Over, a grotesque couple in their 50s who clearly got off on the thrill of PDA.
After nearly 10 minutes of not ordering, the male, in between licking his girlfriend's fortress-like makeup and fondling her gelatinous spandex-wrapped thighs, informed me that he wanted the ribeye well done (natch). The "lady" was to dine on fried shrimp (what else?).
I ignored them in lieu of dealing with Condescending Soccer Mom, who asked me if she could try each of the three flavors of gourmet ice cream before deciding. I said absolutely not, and she whined back with "But they let me try samples at the other places." I informed her that 1) we were not at Baskin Robbins 2) there were no 31 flavors to tempt her palate and 3) vanilla, chocolate, and coffee are fairly taste-self-explanatory options. She replied with, "Then I guess we'll get dessert elsewhere."
After I neatly picked up the pieces of my shattered heart upon hearing the news, I gently swept them up and continued with my life.
I then waited on Mr. and Mrs. Armenian, and their barely-there mother, who looked like her number had been up about 20 years ago. They spit at me instead of speaking, but I was able to discern that everyone at the table wanted steak fajitas cooked beyond well done with never-ending hot tea to wash down the skirt steak.
Adding to my joy was the fact that I had a trainee, whose grasp of English was only slightly better than my college Economics professor, Mahm Mangsawod.