the bitter waiter

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."
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I'll return tomorrow with another one of the five dumbest people I've waited on all month.