the bitter waiter

Finding Emo

If I only hate one group of people One of the many groups of people I hate are emo hipster teenagers and their overly expressed and equally unfounded angst.

Seriously, how hard could life be at 18?  In between riding their skateboards to Hot Topic and incorporating Avril Lavigne lyrics into haiku, what could they possibly have to complain about?

On one particularly hot Los Angeles night in July, six hipsters sat themselves in my section, all clad in bulky sweaters, all held hostage by their pencil jeans, all conforming to a preconceived notion of nonconformity.

"What may I bring you kids to drink?"

Did everyone take their uppers before sitting in my section?  Because I won't be doing your fragile egos any favors.

The female ring leader, a depressed hipster meets I-wish-I-were-Anna-Paquin in True Blood, looked at me (the closest thing to an authority figure) and immediately took a tone of rebellion.

"We're waiting," she told me.

"Oh, are you expecting more people?" I asked.

"No.  We're just waiting."

"Oh, ok."

And wait they did.  In the time it would have taken to fake comprehension of a Jack Kerouac novel, I kept my distance as they texted, glared, rolled their eyes, and thought "Why me, non-existent God?"

Finally I strolled back up to the table, full of sunshine.

"Hey guys!!  Are we still waiting, or is anyone thirsty?"

Not-Anna-Paquin's long-haired unisex love interest took pause from his/her self-loathing to request "a soda."

"Any particular soda?" I asked.

"a......Coke," s/he whispered.  I couldn't hear a word it said and asked it three times to repeat itself.

"A.  COKE." Not-Anna-Paquin shouted (finally, she was sticking it to The Man).

Fast forward to 30 more minutes of emoting, and no ordering, and Not-Anna-Paquin summoned me to the table with a faint raise of her arm.

"There was a hair in the Coke," she said of the unisex love companion's beverage.

Any chance that vile follicle came from your young lover's head as your were picking out strands to use as dental floss, you stupid bitch?

"Oh my, that's rough.  Let me bring you another Coke." I said.

"Actually.  We're leaving."

And with that, they exited the restaurant single file, except for Not-Anna-Paquin, who comforted the ambiguous object of her non-affection.  I assume they viewed the hair-in-drink experience as yet another way in which the world was constantly trying to keep them down.

And even though it was brief, I was thrilled to give them something to complain about.

If you don't have anything nice to say, shut the hell up.

I strongly believe some people exist in the world solely to complain about it.

Take for example Bertha, a portly woman clad in a darling mumu whose sole form of communication was whining and griping.

I greeted Bertha and her equally sour friend on one particularly hot August L.A. evening.

"How are you two tonight?" I asked.

"Ha," Bertha said.

"Ha?" I replied.

"How am I doing??" she bellowed. "What do you want to hear about first, my doctor's appointment this morning or what my cats did to my living room?"

Neither. What I want is to be at home wearing nothing but an eye mask and spilled vodka.

"Oh, wow, sounds like you've had quite the day. May I bring you anything to drink?"

"Well, I wish, but my doctor says I need to lay off the alcohol."

No...

"Oh, wow, that's unfortunate," I said insincerely. "How about a Diet Coke?"

"I can't have caffeine."

"Lemonade?"

"I'm supposed to avoid sugar."

"Water?"

"I hate water. Just bring me a Sprite."

The Forces of Stupid overcame me, and I asked, "Is 7-Up okay?"

"God, this isn't my day. I hate 7-Up. Fine, I'll take 7-Up."

Way to accept your fate, Eeyore.

The friend mumbled as if she'd just endured a lobotomy but I translated her grunts into "Miller Genuine Draft."

I delivered the drinks and fearfully inquired if they were ready to order.

"Who chooses the music you play here?" Bertha asked.

"Our managers. Why? Do you like it?"

"No. It's too loud!! My head is literally spinning. I think I have a migraine now. Please ask them to turn the music off."

"Off? I don't think they'll turn the music off. Perhaps they might turn it down."

"Uhhhh. My head."

I informed our indifferent manager of the volume request. It was met with a weak crank of the dial and no noticeable difference in the blaring of cheesy 80's hits.

I returned to the table and took the food orders. To my surprise, Bertha spared no calorie while ordering the large cheese dip to start, an order of pulled pork for her entree, and warned me in advance that she'd be wanting dessert.

I performed my routine quality check once the food arrived, fearing I'd hear stories about dead cats, heart congestion, cankles or the apocalypse.

With a mouthful of food, Bertha informed me that everything was "ok."

"Just ok?"

"Ok. No problems yet."

What the fuck does that mean?

After dessert, I cleared the plates with four pairs of latex gloves, a nose guard and several shots of straight Absinthe.

Before I could deliver the bill, Bertha informed me that "there was barely any pork on my plate."

From the looks of it, you have enough pulled pork in your system to feed all of Somalia until 2045.

"Oh really? Sorry. You should have let me know when I came by to check on your food."

"I thought it would be enough. But it wasn't."

"Would you......like.....to order another serving of pulled pork?"

"I guess I'll take one to go. But don't charge me."

Of course I won't charge you! Welcome to America, where we give freely to the obese and unemployed. Let us pay YOU to dine here!

"Sorry, that won't happen."

"Then we'll just take the bill. Do you take personal checks?"

"Uh, no. Just the untraditional cash or credit card."

"Ohhhh fine," whimpered Bertha in her Eeyore voice.

The ladies cracked open their piggy banks and left the exact amount of the bill. And no tip.

I know some of you might be drawn to pity these ladies. But when you've worked in the service industry for years, and you witness those who are already dangerously overweight gorge themselves on melted cheese, greasy pork and vanilla flan, you tend to feel zero sympathy.

And when they leave no tip whatsoever? Well, you blog about it, naturally.

Separation of church and steak

I'm usually wary of waiting on a family fresh from church.  

Years ago I overheard a customer proclaim, "If I only tithe God 10 percent, why would I tip a waiter more than that?"

My bias was reinforced when a group of seven Wednesday night church-goers once insisted that I join them in blessing their food.  As they remained seated with eyes closed, I reluctantly stood at the head of their table, holding hands with two complete strangers, all of us storming God's throne for mercy.

On a recent Sunday afternoon I waited on the McProtestants, a family of four who came straight from church.  Despite being dressed in their Sunday finest, the looks on their faces seemed more apropos for a family trip to Darfur than a morning of scripture and song.

The dad ("Ted," I decided) seemed the most determined to put on a happy face.  On the other hand, his wife ("Peggy") was massively unpleasant, and their two children will no doubt grow up testing homemade bombs on small animals.  

"Hello, how is everyone this morning?" I asked.

"WONDERFUL!"  Ted said in a sing-song voice.

"GREAT! May I bring you anything to drink?" I asked.

The daughter shot me a look that suggested I do something unpleasant to myself.

"You don't have Root Beer, do you?" she asked.

"No, we don't. Sorry."

"See, Dad, that's another reason I HATE this place!  Ugh!!!!!!!"

Listen, Kelly Osbourne, no one has a longer list of reasons why this restaurant should spontaneously combust.  I'll show you bitter.

With that, she laid her head on the table and rarely emerged from her unfounded cocoon of angst and resentment.    

And then the son ordered his drink.

"*I'd* like a Shirley Temple with LOTS and LOTS of extra cherries."

He immediately earned my pity.  I wanted to distract his parents, provide him with cash and a fake ID, and encourage his escape to Key West, Chelsea or anywhere in Europe.

Peggy was busy glaring and making hand gestures to Ted about their hibernating daughter.  I met mom's inner beast when I asked: 

"Ma'am, what would you like to dr..."

"NOTHING.  I'm fine," she said.  I imagine this served as her response to any number of questions.

Ted politely paused from playing charades with his bitch wife to inform me that he'd like a coffee.

As I delivered drinks to the men, and looks of fear to the ladies, I noticed the menus were stacked neatly in a pile, the chips and salsa moved the edge of the table, and Ted's credit card was ready.

"We'd like three breakfast burritos with black beans.  And then the bill," he said.

"Anything for...her?" I stupidly asked as I pointed to the daughter.

"ABBY..." Mom bellowed (I gathered this pseudonym was the human name for the little demon).

"I DON'T...WANT ANYTHING...TO EAT!!!!!!!!!" Abby informed the restaurant.

"FINE.  DON'T EXPECT DINNER, EITHER."

"GOOD."

"GOOD."

With that, I turned in their order as fast as I could, printed the check, and ran the credit card.  Ted had signed the receipt and placed it at the edge of the table long before the food arrived.

He left a 10 percent tip with a big "THANK YOU" written at the top of the credit card receipt.  

As they walked out, Ted remained about 10 feet ahead of everyone else.  Peggy followed, arms folded, with sweet little Abby in tow.   

And the young son brought up the rear with a big smile and a friendly wave.  "Buh bye!!!!'

I will pray for that poor boy every night for the rest of my life.