the bitter waiter

Fingers, fingers, toes and thumbs

Businessmen are very important.  Their need to take work-related phone calls while dining in public supersedes their need to be remotely civil or polite.

I once approached "Jim Smith" and "Mike Jones," two such professionals, after they'd been sat in my section.

While hefty Jim was playing Chubby Bunny with the tortilla chips, Mike was on a VERY important phone call. 

I asked if they'd like anything to drink.  Jim said "I IKE A IC E," which, when spoken by someone whose mouth isn't full, translates to "I'd like an iced tea."

I gave Mike two seconds to put the call on hold and tell me what he wanted.  He did not.  I packed up my pen and pad and began to walk away, until Mike's free hand grabbed my wrist.  I gave him the "Oh no you didn't" look and hovered over him like a lion whose cubs had just been hunted. 

He pointed vaguely in the direction of the beer list. 

"WHICH ONE?" I asked in a volume that would register with the person on the other line.

He then pointed at the Dos Equis.

"AMBER OR LAGER?" I asked.

He gave me a thumbs up.

"AMBER.  OR.  LAGER?" 

He gave two thumbs up in rapid succession.  Lager it was.

I returned with the drinks.  Mike was finally off the phone.  

"No no, I wanted the Dos Equis AMBER," he said.

"I can't really tell what someone wants when he uses his fingers and thumbs to order."

"Well, it wasn't the lager."

"Oh no problem," I said.  "I'll just exchange this one for the Amber."

And then take it out back and drink it myself.

I returned with the "correct" beer, ready to take their order.  However, two things distracted me:

1) Jim waived the empty chip basket in front of me like he was collecting money for the poor outside Wal-Mart.

2) Mike was once again on his phone.

I said, "I'll come back," but Mike waived his hand in the air to stop me.

I took out my pen and clicked away at an obnoxious, audible pace.  

Jim ordered the carne asada, well done, with double french fries instead of grilled vegetables (natch).

Mike just gave me a thumbs up after pointing to himself.

"You want the same thing?  The carne asada?"

Apparently I could have asked Mike anything, like "Were you breast fed beyond a normal age?" or "Do you think Jim is dangerously obese?" and I suspect he would have given me the same thumbs up.  Anything, of course, to rid himself of me and my pesky questions.  

After all, who was I to disrupt his phone call?

Two carne asada steaks arrived just as Mike got off the phone.

"What is this??" he asked.

"It's the carne asada you inadvertently ordered."

"But I didn't want anything.  I already ate.  That's what I was trying to tell you."

What's that, Lassie?  You don't need any dinner?  Of course I understand this, because interpreting hand gestures and thumb movements is a prerequisite for working in the service industry.

"Yes," I countered, "but when I asked if you wanted the same thing as your (Prehistoric) friend, you gave me the thumbs up."

"Well," he continued, beginning to lose his cool, "What I think anyone else would have picked up on is that I didn't want to order any food."

"Because you gave me the thumbs up?!?!"

I knew I needed to walk away immediately or risk redeeming-yet-fiscally-irresponsible termination.  I brought over the manager who listened to Mike hoot and holler for a few minutes.  His beer was taken off the bill, and the table was transferred to another server.

As Jim and Mike left the restaurant, I stood by the door and gave them two enthusiastic thumbs up.  Mike replied with a different finger gesture altogether. 

Shift change

Bitter Waiter is headed home for a few days to tend to the personal life.  Expect the same brand of bitterness and loathing you love upon my return.

I look at all the lonely people

I've always gotten a kick out of working on Valentine's Day.  People only choose to celebrate the Hallmark holiday at my restaurant if they're either 1) single and boozing or 2) on a date yet unable to afford something nicer, like TGI Friday's or an assisted living cafeteria.

Or 3) they're a couple of recently single white trash cougars just looking for more reasons to be miserable.

"Becky" and "Trisha" sat in my section determined not to have a good time, and I was more than happy to oblige.

"How are you two this evening?" I asked.

"Why is it so loud in here tonight??" Becky whined.  

"Because it's Valentine's Day and everyone here is drunk (including me)."

Becky looked at the complimentary chips and salsa as if I'd set an anaconda on the table.

"THOSE are covered in grease," she said. "Don't you have any low-fat chips??"

Yeah, they're called "ice cubes."

"Uh no, we only have those chips.  May I start you off with drinks?  Appetizers?"

Make-up remover?  Age-appropriate clothing?

"We'll take two of your no-calorie margaritas," Becky informed me.

I wanted to tell her that no-calorie margaritas were a contradiction in terms like "rap music" or "gay Republicans," but instead I let her believe in our falsely advertised product.

As I delivered the drinks, I heard the girls talking about their respective failed relationships, how it was all his fault, and how the universe let this happen because something better was around the corner.  

"He didn't deserve me," they both agreed.

"Ready to order?" I asked.

"I want the tostada salad with steak.  NO.  GUACAMOLE..." Becky said.

"Would you like the small or regular size?"

"NO...GUACAMOLE. I don't want it touching my salad.  I don't even want it anywhere near my salad."

"I won't even use it in the same sentence as your salad," I said.

"And I want the steak medium well.  Not red at all.  But not completely well done, either."

Caution: bitch ahead.

"And for you?" I asked Trisha.

"I just want more chips, and a side of guacamole," she said.

"Speaking of, WHAT do I NOT want near my food?" Becky asked.

Joy, forgiveness, or any sign of a smile?

"I'll try my best to remember," I said.

After another round of margaritas, the entree arrived.  The steak was, to my horror and Becky's, a perfect medium rare.  Before I could open my mouth to say, "I'll take that back to the kitchen for you," Becky proclaimed:

"This.  This is medium rare.  Does this look red to you?" Becky asked Trisha.

"Oh yeah, ewww," Trisha said with a small dab of guacamole on her chin.

"I'm sorry, I'll..." I tried to interject.

"This is unacceptable.  This is medium RARE!" Becky said.  I became increasingly concerned that she would begin sobbing at any moment.  And empathy has never been one of my gifts.

"I can have the kitchen recook..."

"Why?  Why would your cook do this to me?"

Because Raul, our Mexican cook who speaks three words of English, has it out for you something fierce.  This is just the first of many atrocities he plans to commit.

"I don't know if he necessarily did this to you, but I'll make sure he recooks it."

"I don't even WANT it anymore!" she said in a tone much like a dejected Jan Brady after learning that Marcia has stolen her boyfriend.

"Yeah, ewwwww," said Trisha.  

So helpful, thank you Jennifer Coolidge.

I presented the salad to the manager, who removed the sacrilegious item from the bill.  The ladies had finished their latest round of drinks and I asked if they'd like anything else.  By this time, our restaurant was on a 45 minute wait and I was eager to rid myself of them and meet my next blog fodder.

"We might have a few more drinks," Becky informed me. "Check back in about 15 minutes or so."

"So sorry," I said, "but you either have to be dining or drinking to remain in a booth when we're on a wait."

"Well...I WOULD be dining, but you ruined my salad."

Bitch, the only thing *I* ruined is the latter part of my 20s by working in this shit shack.

"Yeah, sorry.  You're going to need to order another round or pay your bill."

"Fine," Becky said.  "We'll take the check and go somewhere less noisy with better service and MUCH better food!"

Oh the slings and arrows!  Insult my restaurant skills...but please, I implore you, DON'T demean the kitchen!

Becky and Trisha gave me specific amounts to put on their credit cards (because God forbid one offer to pay for the other) and each left $1.00 as tip, underlined and circled to drive home the point that I was the most recent in a long line of men who would feel their ire after unceremoniously scorning them.

I didn't deserve them.

The impractical joker

On one unfortunate Cinco de Mayo, I shouldered the burden of serving an aspiring comedian and his posse of unwed mother-strippers.

I greeted the table, only to have him interrupt with a drunken: 

"Hey HEY hey!!!"

"May I bring you all anything to drink?" I asked.

"It's CINCO DA MAYO, hold da MAY-O, BWHAHAHAHA" he exclaimed.  Lord knows how many painkillers and paint fumes came together to construct that sentence.

I can only describe our budding entertainer as a mix between SNL's Keenan Thompson and every crazy beggar who's ever harassed you on the streets.  

"Yes, it IS Cinco de Mayo," I continued.  "And may I bring you all anything to..."

"Lighten up, man!" he said.  "You so serious!"

I offered the same weak smile I give to someone who offers unsolicited advice or tells me I look like David Cassidy.  

"Drinks?"

"Aiiiiight.  We're gonna do TRES MARGO-RITAS.  Double...no TRIPLE, the tequila, BWHAHAHAHA!!!"

Is it wise for someone I presume to be homeless to mix prescription pills with copious amounts of alcohol?

"Would you like those blended or on the rocks?"

Mr. Crazy mulled this over as if I'd inquired about the meaning of life or the best Hollywood intersection for purchasing a Yugoslavian prostitute.

"Which is better?" he asked after two minutes of introspection.

"I prefer on the rocks." 

"AWWWWWW, that's how you roll, huh?  On the rocks?  Like Rocky, on the rocks?  Are you a boxer?  BWHAHAHAHA!!"

"Yes.  I'll be right back with your drinks."

I returned with the margo-ritas.  To my dismay, the hookers at the table were encouraging Mr. Crazy by fervently laughing at his jokes. 

"Is everyone ready to order?" I asked.

"IS EVERYONE READY TO ORDER?" Crazy repeated.  I assumed he was checking on the hookers to see if they were ready.  

"What may I get for you?" I asked.

"WHAT MAY I GET FOR YOU?" Crazy said.  Ah yes.  The mimic game, the old standby in any good comedian's bag of tricks, especially if that comedian is four years old.

I stood there like a statue as Crazy cackled.

"Should I come back later?" I asked.

"SHOULD I COME BACK LATER?"

"Nothing I say is funny." I said.

"NOTHING I SAY IS FUNNY..."

And with that I walked away.  Naturally, I left them alone for a good ten minutes.  And when I returned, they were gone.  The drinks were still on the table but Crazy and company had flown the coop.

I looked around to see if their retreat had been recent.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Crazy peering from around a corner, covering his mouth to conceal his laughter.

He walked toward the table with his harem of fleas.  

"WE GOT YOU GOOD MAN!  YOU THOUGHT WE DINED AND DASHED, BWHAHAHA!"

I was not amused.

"Yes, how clever of you," I said.  "From now on I'll need a set of keys or a credit card if you're going to continue sitting here.  And by the way, because it's Cinco de Mayo, you're only allowed to sit at a table for 90 minutes.  You've been here for almost an hour.  It's time to order."

"OHHHHHHH dude!  I get it.  Now YOU'RE trying to fuck with us!  90 minutes, hahahaha that's a good one."

"Riiiiiight," I said.

Once they hit the 89 minute mark, I informed the manager, who told Crazy & co. that their time was up, that they'd need to find an open mic night in Van Nuys, Reseda, or any other spot in the valley that would accommodate his ill sense of humor.

Crazy left a piled of crumpled bills as payment ($3 tip on a $40 bill), as well as an invitation to watch him perform stand-up at some venue in Orange County.

Anyone want to go?

I heard that

Long ago I waited on a questionable couple, probably celebrating a parole or successful convenience store robbery.

I kept my distance during their dining experience, both out of annoyance as well as fear for my life.

And then came bill time.  I stood close by to ensure this wouldn't turn into a game of "Dine and Dash."

They dropped cash (full amount + five percent tip) and then left.  On their way out, I heard the female say to the male, "Did you pay all of the bill this time?"

"Uh, yeah." he said.

"You did?  Why?" she retorted.