the bitter waiter

A portrait of the artist as a young tool

I recently waited on the ultimate Hollywood asshole, a veritable trifecta of terror: 

He was an

1) old gay

2) Jewish

3) agent.

Lenny (so said the name on his credit card) was accompanied by Brett, an over-tanned muscle-bound 20-something "actor" who appeared a bit too eager despite his incessant claims of not being gay.

Brett arrived in a black v-neck T-shirt and jeans so tight you'd swear his flesh was composed of cheap denim.  

"Heeeeey Lenny, man, so sorry I'm late, bro.  Traffic, man," Brett said as if auditioning for two lines on One Tree Hill.

"Oh Brett," Lenny gushed.  "No apologies my friend, you were worth the wait in those jeans."

Sensing the two were in pleasant enough moods, I figured we'd all get along.  A leering gay, a gorgeous stud, and Brett.  

"May I bring you two anyth..."

"Do we look like we're done talking??" Lenny bellowed (as his toupee shifted in sync with his sudden anger).  "Give us a few minutes!  JESUS!"

Brett cackled as if he'd just heard the world's funniest black joke.  He also made sure his shellacked hair didn't lose the meticulously messy frat bro coiffure while giggling. 

I left Lenny to lie about how he could help Brett's acting career.  Inevitably, as a result of completely ignoring the two for a good half hour, I was unceremoniously summoned to the table with a raise of Lenny's hand, which resembled a Nazi salute.  

"Yeeeees?" I inquired.

"We'd like something to drink.  Jesus.  We've been sitting here forever."

"My most sincere apologies.  What do you want?"

"Two margaritas.  Very strong."  

Sensing Lenny was in a hurry to exile me once again, no doubt to prepare a date rape drug for Brett, I furthered my line of inquiry.

"Doubles?  Blended?  Preference on the tequila?  Fruit flavor?  Cadillac?  Shot on the side?  Pitcher?"

"FIGURE IT OUT.  JESUS."

I delivered two double margaritas with our most expensive tequila and told the bartender to make them unholy strong.  Watching these two get sauced would no doubt be the highlight of my evening.

An hour later, with two more rounds and no food, they were both drunk.  I can't tell you what question prefaced Brett's response, but I approached the table only to hear:

"Nah, I tried it once, bro.  Just wasn't for me."

"Well maybe if you met the right...WHAT DO YOU WANT?" he yelled while I stood there stoically indifferent.

"Just seeing if I can bring you two lovebirds anything else."

"Yeah, another round."

"Oh, I'm sorry, you've both had too much to drink and I'm unable by law to serve you anymore. I've prepared your bill and can't wait to take care of that for you.  Please let me know if I may call either of you a taxi."

"YOU'RE NOT CUTTING ME OFF!"

"Yes, and with my manager's permission."

"Do you KNOW what all I OWN in Los Angeles?!"

"A 1991 Geo Metro?"

"I own three VERY prominent apartment buildings and a successful agency!!!  I've never been cut off in my life."

"While I completely get the correlation between those accomplishments and your ability to be legally intoxicated, I'm not serving you anymore.  If you have a problem, feel free to discuss it with my manager."

I dropped the bill and walked off.  The two sat there giggling, making obnoxious hand gestures and exchanging curious looks of temptation for an additional half hour.  Finally, Lenny handed over his credit card.

And it was declined.  As were the other two he tried to subsequently use.

Each time a card was declined, it was inevitably my fault.  After the third card, I made no effort to hide my glee, chuckled, and dryly asked Brett, "I don't suppose you'd be able to pay the bill?"

The color drained from Brett's spray tanned fan as he reluctantly reached into his wallet.  Though it was an expensive lesson ($128...$120 for the bill, $8 for me), let's hope the young thespian learned about the dangers of sleeping one's way to the top of Tinsletown.

Oops I did it again

Among the lengthy list of things likely to put me in a foul mood is patronizing repetition.  Though my profession is humble, I assure you I only need to hear your menu requests once.

A recent conversation set an especially tense tone with an uptight, fake, condescending bitch (and the customer he waited on).

"And what would you like to eat, ma'am?"

"Hiiii!!!" she said as if this were a "very special" episode of Full House and I was the Tanner family's retarded cousin.  "I'll take the tostada salad.  NO.  CHEESE.  Of any sort."

"Sure.  Would you like the small or regular size?"

"NO.  CHEESE.  NONE.  Last time I came here they..."

"Yeah, no cheese, I'll try my hardest to remember such a complex note, would you like the small or regular size?"

"Regular.  And remember..."

Don't you dare say it again.

Before she could remind me, her tribe of well-groomed but inherently evil children collectively screamed for more chips and salsa.

"Oops, kids!  Is that how we ask for more chips and salsa?  Use your church words please."

As I delivered the refills, mommy astutely pointed out, "Oh kids, look, the waiter brought more chips and salsa!!"  I half expected her to reach in her Louis Vuitton bag and pull out a chew treat for me.

Before I could flee, she said, "I'd like some more ice water, please.  You can just refill this glass."

As opposed to what?  Building a conduit system that would provide a free-flowing stream next to your table?  No shit, I can just refill the glass?!

And then the food arrived.  She looked at her salad, cringed, looked at me and pointed to the entree as

if we were playing Connect Four in a learning-disability diagnosis lab.  

"Oops!" she said in the same tone one normally saves for "Merry Christmas!" or "It's a girl!"

"Mmmmm?" I said with one eyebrow raised as I carefully studied the salad.  

No.  Cheese.

"OOPS!" she said again, pointing with even more intensity.

"I don't see what the problem is with your salad."  Just use your church words and tell me.

"Oops there's...no goat cheese.  That's my favorite part!"

"Oops you said 'no cheese' a good two or three times."

"Yes, but...I meant no regular cheese." 

"Oh, I'm sorry, I only have the ability to hear what you say, not what you mean.  Why don't I just bring out a side of goat cheese?"

"Yes, but...I like the goat cheese mixed in.  I think you should take it back there, have the chef toss the goat cheese in a bowl with the rest of the salad and..."

"Yeah, I understand the nuances of tossing a salad, thanks.  I'll be right back with that."

I instructed "Chef Manuel" to add goat cheese while we said vile things about the woman in Spanish.

I returned with the salad.

"Thanks.  Oops!"

I stared blankly.

"Tommy needs more lemonade, don't you TOMMY?"

"Yes!" he screamed.

"Oops.  Yes, WHAT, Tommy?"

"Yes.  Please."

I returned with Tommy's lemonade.  Mommy had impressively stacked all of the dirty dishes on top of one another, silverware, napkins and all.  

"We're ready for our bill."

"But MOMMY I want ice cream!"

"Oops, we didn't eat all of our meal, did we?"

Before this could escalate into a reenactment of The Omen, I followed Mommy's lead as she slid a credit card into my hand.  I looked at the card.

"Oops, we don't take Discover."

"Oh, tee hee, yes you do.  I pay with Discover all the time."

"I've worked here longer than I care to admit and we've never, ever accepted Discover.  No.  Discover."

"I'm sure you do.  Why don't you bring over a manager?"

"Oh SURE!"

As she talked to my manager, and was told the same exact information I'd just relayed, her determined smile gave way to the woman scorned that I knew was lurking underneath.  No more Mrs. Nice Mommy.

I returned to the table, trying to conceal my Emily Blunt smile.  

"Were you ready to pay?"

"Don't go anywhere," she said in a much different tone than before as she searched her purse.  Tommy became restless and started to bounce up and down in the booth.

"DAMMIT, TOMMY, SIT DOWN RIGHT NOW!"

My concealed smile faded as I experienced a rare moment of pity for these children.  I wouldn't wish living with Mommy on my worst enemy.  

(However, I couldn't help but smile again when the kids laughed gleefully at Mommy's outburst.)  

A fine whine

Last week I waited on two sisters, both dead ringers for the Olsen twins (except dumber, blonder and exponentially heavier).

In addition to sharing a Fanta-colored spray tan, as well as a hair stylist who never met a bottle of peroxide he didn't like, they both spoke in the same whiney tone of voice.

(Actually, "whiney" doesn't do it justice.  Imagine a girl of 25 imitating a five-year-old by talking through her nose.  Mix in several pauses, "like"s and "uhm"s, and you have a recipe for my contempt)

"Ladies, may I bring you anything to drink?"

While sending a text message (probably to her sister), #1 asked:

"Uhm, what kinds of, like, strawberry margaritas do you.........have?"

I gave her my best "Awwwww, you're mildly retarded" smile and replied:

"What...kinds of strawberry margaritas??  Uhmm...strawberry?"

"Yeah, but like, what kinds of strawberry........?"

"Garden?"

#2 chimed in, and thank God, because she cleared up matters by asking:

"Are they, like, slushy strawberries or.........like....uhm...."

(No, you rocket scientist, they're magical strawberries with hats that giggle and dance and run from the Purple Pieman)

"Do you girls mean a blended strawberry margarita versus a strawberry margarita on the rocks?"

"We want it, like, slushy. Like a slushy."

"Do you want a pitcher?"

The girls looked at each other as if I'd just asked if I could urinate in their purses.  

"Uhmmm...a picture of what?"

"A pit-cher.  For your slushies."

"Oh-my-gah I toooooootally thought he said picture!"

"Oh-my-gah ME...too!!" chimed in #2

"Hahahaha!"

"Hahahaha!"

"Hahahaha do you want a f*cking pitcher or not?" 

The two ordered a pitcher, a "melted cheese thingy" and "the thingy with cheese and 'check-en' inside a tortillia."

The food came, as did my unbearable migraine from listening to them speak, and the girls sat for literally 15 minutes before eating.  They were too busy texting.

Thus, when I walked by 15 minutes later, #1 waived her hand in the air and said, "Excuse me, waiter?"

(Diners, just a tip, should you ever want to inspire your server to poison your food, call him or her "waiter")

"Uhm...like...this food is cold."

"Yes.  That's because it's been sitting there for 15 minutes."

"Can you, like....uhm.....put it in the microwave?"

"We don't have a microwave."

#2 sensed her chance to display her unparalleled skills of logic and reasoning

"Uhmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm...then, like, how do you melt the cheese?"

"I believe the radical thinkers of our time call it a stove.  We also utilize what's called 'an oven.'"

"Oh...uhm...also...there's not enough check-en in this check-en quesadilla."

"I can charge you for an extra side of chicken."

"But like...we shouldn't be charged 'cause, like, look at this check-en. Uhhhh."

She lifted the top layer of the quesadilla to reveal a full breast of chicken, the standard amount.

"See, like, there's the cheese and...then the check-en."

(Wow, thank you Julia Child for your unmatched ability to describe culinary delicacies)

"Sorry.  That's the normal amount of chicken.  Would you like to order an additional side?"

"Uhhh.  No.  I mean.  Well.  Uhhhm.  Ugh...like....can we....we need a box."

"So...do you want me to heat up the food or do you want me to bring a box?"

"Uhm...yeah."

I brought out boxes.  They asked for the bill, which I promptly set on the table.

The girls studied the bill as if it were the itinerary of a sorority scavenger hunt.  Money was carefully pulled out of designer knock-off billfolds.  And I knew I was royally screwed when pennies and nickels came out, as well.

They exited, and I rushed to the table to ensure that they'd at least paid the entire bill.  They left $5 too little (meaning I'd actually have the pleasure of paying for a portion of their meal instead of receiving a tip).

I chased them to the parking lot.  It took me 10 minutes to explain why the money they left didn't equal the total of the bill.  I used charts, diagrams, a calculator and even an abacus.  They vehemently disagreed but paid the additional $5.

Upon returning to my section, I found that the table once occupied by the twins had now been sat with six young blondes.  But we'll save that story for next time.

Love is in the air

If my powers of evil were limited to hating only two things, those two things would be:

1) Ugly couples who sit on the same side of the booth

2) Fat Latina girls who over-enunciate every Spanish word in a sentence

Imagine my joy when those two traits were combined into one table.

Chunky and her man (a dead ringer for any Mexican stereotype in a Grand Theft Auto game), sat in my section, hand in hand, lips on lips, giant thigh on giant thigh.

"May I bring you two anything to drink?"

She batted her false eyelashes at me and leaned over to reveal her overly pronounced casaba melons.

"Tonight is our anniversary..."

(Shoot me square in between the eyes now)

..."So we'll be doin' lots of celebratin'."

"Here and at home..." he chimed in.  

"Oooh baby, you so funny," she cooed like a pig in slop.

"What can I say, I gots so much BEAUTIFULNESS to enjoy."

Gentlemen, just a tip.  If you're ever trying to sweet-talk a girl, and the three simple syllables of a complimentary adjective aren't enough, by all means just elongate the word as you see fit.

Before I became further dragged into this "Rock of Love" episode, I insisted:

"Drinks.  Please."

Without looking at me, Chunky said:

"We'll take two shots of tequila."

"Any preference on the tequila?"

"Oooh, baby, let's do somethin' nice, 'cause it's our anniversary," she said.

He looked up at me like a man on death row, unable to string two words together.  He knew an upgrade would be expensive, but if he wanted to run for her boarder later, he'd have to pony up.  After all, if the bill was too expensive, he could always cut back on the tip.

"You pick, honey."

"Ooooh, baby, let's do two shots of DON HHHHHUUUULIO REPOTHADO."

I was most grateful for this phonetically grating Spanish pronunciation, as I never would have understood the nuances of the language without Chunky's roll of the tongue.

I brought out the shots and asked if they were ready to order.  It took me a good 20 seconds to realize why they seemed especially distracted this time around.

Let's just say this particular boy was not keeping his hands to himself, and from what I could tell above the table, she was undulating at the feel of his pick-pocketing hands.

"Cough cough vomit vomit were you two hoodlums ready to order?"

"Oooh, baby, I'm so hungry.  Let's order some appetizers!"

"You pick, honey."

"Ooooooh, let's start with the fresh CEVISSSSSHAY, a POYO QUESSSSA-DEEEEEYA, y beef EMPA-NADATH.  Doesn't that sound good, baby?"

His hand, unabashedly placed on her breast, squeezed her melon in agreement.

"OOOOH baby you so silly!"

After making myself a martini of rubbing alcohol and ice, and chugging it like I were at happy hour on armageddon, I picked up their food from the kitchen.  The thought of watching them eat made me wish I'd fallen prey to the pig flu.

I approached the table, where she was feeding him chips and salsa as if it were a rare aphrodisiac delicacy.

"Ooooh, baby, look the food is here!"

(And I thought I had the tendency to over-narrate).

"Mmmmm, baby, this CEVISSSHAY smells so good.  Mmmmmm.  Mmmmm.  Oooooh."

After three more rounds of shots, a plate of nachos and two vanilla flans, the lovers were ready to return to their nest and devour each other.  Just as I'd begun to slowly rid myself of sight with a kitchen knife, Chunky put me out of my misery with a waive of her bedazzled-jewelry-wearing hand.

"We'll take the check.  And a to-go box."

I didn't even want to imagine which unfortunate food item was going to join in their sexual elephant show.  I just grabbed my 5 percent tip and donned a full latex gown to clean up the remnants of their

love feast.