the bitter waiter

Unhappy Hour

In an effort to capitalize on and exacerbate my disdain for humanity, the owners recently expanded our Happy Hour to appeal to every bargain shopper, bad tipper and spandex lover within a 30-mile radius.

Before I proceed, know that:

1) Happy Hour is from 4-7.

2) Happy Hour is only available in a specific part of the restaurant, which fortunately is never in my section.

Last week I waited on a group of four prototypical Caucasian corporate tools (two loud-mouthed males, two bimbo secretaries).  We got off on the wrong foot when Alpha male 1 approached me -- as I was in mid-sentence with another table -- and boarishly interrupted to inform me that he needed a pitcher of margaritas.

Without shifting focus from my current table, I said, "Have a seat and I'll be there when I'm ready to take your order."

As if I'd just spoken Yiddish, he stood there like a Republican at a tolerance museum, unable to understand the concept.

"And we need four glasses" he said.

I took care of the current table then approached the corporate wasps.

"Yes?"

"Pitcher?"

"Rocks or blended?"

No one seemed prepared for this curveball, so bimbo 1 took the helm.

"Uhm.  We want them slushy."

"Blended?"

"Slushy."

"Blended."

"Slushy?"

Before I continue, know that:

1) This took place at approximately 2:30 pm.  Happy Hour is from 4-7.

2) This took place in my section.  My section was not inclusive of Happy Hour prices.

I delivered the pitcher, and the four were relatively low maintenance from that point on.  They ordered another pitcher (at about 3:30) and asked for the bill around 4:15 or so.

After a quick perusal of the bill, Alpha male 1 summoned me.

"Hey, guy, you charged us full price for the pitchers."

"I'm known to do that, yes."

"Uhhhhh, HELLO, happy hour?"

"Mm hmm."

"We need this check adjusted.  I'm not paying full price."

"First of all, you're not in the bar area.  Happy Hour isn't available here."

(Blank looks from all)

"And second, you ordered your two pitchers before Happy Hour even starts."

(Blank.  A collective canvas of idiocy.)

"Ok, let me see if I can explain this simply.  Happy Hour starts at 4.  You ordered your drinks BEFORE 4, right?  Happy Hour isn't retroactive."

(Crickets)

"Happy Hour...isn't where you are.  You are here.  Happy Hour...is over there.  Right?"

(...)

Before I could bust out my Etch-a-Sketch to paint a picture of this abstract concept, Alpha male addressed me as if I'd messed up the quarterly report or the TPS evaluations.

"Yeah, guy, we're gonna need to see a manager.  You should have given us happy hour prices."

"Oh?  And why is that?"

"HEY!  WE COME IN HERE ABOUT THREE TIMES A WEEK, BUDDY.  WE'RE HERE MORE THAN YOU ARE!"

"Unfortunately I'm here about five times a week, so I shamefully win that trophy, and even if this were a who's-here-more-often-contest, first prize isn't half off your drinks."

"Do you have a manager?"

"Yeah, I think so.  Let me find him so he repeat what I just said."

I found my manager.  He stood his ground and refused to comp their drinks.

Alpha male 1 approached me with four credit cards (naturally, because why would either of the men offer to buy their employees drinks?) and informed me, with great pleasure, that he'd be hanging onto the bill so he could have it adjusted by one of the owners.

"Congrats.  I'll be back with your cards," I said.

I delivered the four receipts (with one pen) and walked away.  I heard one of the men mutter something about "stick up his ass" and the four howled with laughter at this polysyllabic bon mot.

They headed to the bar to continue drinking (at Happy Hour prices) and were about to order another pitcher.  However, the manager and I agreed that anything more than two pitchers among four people within less than two hours would be over the legal blood alcohol limit.

I informed the bartender, in front of my corporate friends, that they were cut off.

"They're technically over the limit," I announced.  "Ask this gentleman.  He has the receipt to prove it."

Twitter Waiter

Bitter Waiter is now on Twitter.  I'm as familiar with Twitter as I am with Polynesian cuisine, so give me time to acclimate.  

Twitter

Long distance dining

Call me old-fashioned, but I think it's supremely rude when customers talk on cell phones while I'm trying to take their order.  Nothing makes me turn my back to a table and storm off quite like the gesture of an index finger in my face, telling me to wait while this person finishes a call.

The other day I waited on a plump pair of douche bags with hair everywhere but their heads.  They walked into the restaurant, ignored the hostess, and sat themselves in my section.  

For two reasons, I did not make an effort to greet them.  First, my co-workers and I have an unspoken rule about self-seaters.  Namely, we ignore them until they put two and two together and realize that the person up front, the one in all black, with menus in hand, seating people at tables, is the person with whom they should have spoken.

Second, they were both on their cell phones.  They spoke in some Middle Eastern language, simultaneously spitting on one another as they competed to see who could raise his voice higher while telling his shrouded wife what to prepare for dinner.

As self-seaters are oft to do, they eventually waived their ape-like arms in the air to attract my attention...while still on their cell phones.

"Yes?" I said with one eyebrow raised as I approached.

I stood there for five seconds as they continued their conversations, both giving me the index finger.  I walked back to the server station a few feet away and pretended to watch the TV behind the bar.

30 seconds later, they flagged me down again.

"Yes?" I said with one eyebrow raised.

"KEH KEH KEH KEH," one of them said into his phone, which I translated to mean, "My servant has finally arrived to take my drink order and pluck my shoulder hair.  Woman you will wait with your hand in boiling water while I humiliate him."

"TWO PATRON SHOTS CHILLED EXTRA LIMES CHEESE KESSA-DEEYA CHICKEN EMPANADAS STEAK FAJITA."

And with that, he resumed his phone call.

"Small or large?" I inquired.

"KEH KEH KEH KEH" (translation: "This servant is really haggling with me over the price of three mules.  Woman you will now pour that boiling water all over your head while I make this servant tap dance.")

"WHAT?"

"Your 'kessa-deeya.' Small or large?"

The two men conferred with each other, discussing the appetizer size and plotting my ransom price.

"LARGE."

He once again resumed his phone call.

"How would you like your steak cooked?"

"KEH KEH KEH KEH" (translation: "Woman if you've ever bore me any girls, pour the boiling water on them as well while I punch this meddling servant in the balls.")

"MEDIUM WELL."

This time I waited several seconds while he continued the phone call.

"Which two sides would you like?"

"I DON'T CARE, JUST BRING THE FOOD."

"Well the decision is yours, not mine.  You need to select two sides."

"WHAT ARE OPTIONS!?"

"They're listed in the menu."

"JUST GIVE US BEANS AND RICE."

"Black beans or pinto?"

"BLACK!!!!"

I once again let his resume his phone call.  And then.

"Would you like corn or flour tortillas with your fajitas?"

"BOTH!!!!!  ANY OTHER QUESTIONS?!"

I looked down at my blank notepad as if I had a server script to follow.

"No.  Thanks!"

I delivered the shots, which were promptly consumed with all the grace of a hoth.

The food arrived and sat untouched for at least five minutes while the two remained on the phone.  Finally, the more vocal of the two began his feast (while still on the phone).  The other man never once touched the food.  At no point did he veer from his phone call.

Because I sensed no objections, I dropped off their bill right after the food was delivered.  Without thoroughly examining the bill, the vocal one dropped three $20 bills and waived it in the air once he saw me.

Just as I began to bring him his change, I noticed they were getting up to leave (still on the phones), leaving 75% of their food behind.  More importantly, the man was so wrapped up in his phone call that he didn't bother waiting for his change, which amounted to a %100 tip for me.

While some of you might want to believe that he intended to be so generous, I like to think that a fool and his money soon part ways, especially when that fool can't be bothered to get off the phone while dining.