the bitter waiter

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.

Clarissa annoys us all

The Bad Tipper of the Week award goes to Clarissa, a cloying show-biz mom who wasted my time last week with her precocious child actress daughter and token gay best friend, who spent the night texting, complaining about sauce, and impersonating a sassy black woman.

I knew things would go awry when Clarissa asked if we had queso dip. I said no. She seemed indignant and said that every other Mexican restaurant she'd ever been to (in Kentucky) had queso dip. I explained, in a tone used to potty train an infant, that our cuisine was more authentic Mexican (well...at least compared to Kentucky, where she was born and farmed).

This lack of tex mex set the tone for my entire experience with the Clarissa clan. Her fussy friend ordered his enchiladas without any sauce yet complained that his "beef was too dry" (I bit my tongue at his choice of words, while he rolled his around his lips). When I gave him the standard shrug and "Now you're hoist on your own petard" look, I could feel the Kentucky banjos play as Clarissa and co. displayed their anger.

"We'll take the check. Now."

Overjoyed with the anticipation of their exit, I'd already printed the bill and immediately set it on the table without missing a beat. Clarissa left a $5 tip on a $60 check.

I was, however, able to track down Clarissa via Google. It seems she has a Web site devoted to her goals, a Web site where other dreamers can send her well wishes and quote certain portions of "The Secret" to cheer her on. Enjoy this (my personal favorite is goal #4).

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.