As if waiting on one touchy-feely couple isn't bad enough, imagine my disdain when dealing with two equally gelatinous pairs on a double date.
The genetic make-up of the four was a playground for Armenian and Hispanic stereotypes. I'll exercise no restraint in perpetuating these cliches.
The fun began when "Bro #1" and "Bro #2" sat down while waiting for the ladies to arrive.
"Gentlemen, may I bring you anything to drink?"
"Nah, BRO, we're waiting for the ladies to arrive," chortled Bro #1.
"Yeah, BRO, it looks gay if two guys are drinking alone," Bro #2 added. "And we ain't gay, BRO."
Whew. Imagine my relief. I'd hate to wait on a group of people known for being fun-loving, generous tippers. Now, make room for me on your flying carpet and get that 10 percent tip ready!!
"Haha," I laughed nervously.
Within minutes the bros summoned me over by waiving the empty chip basket in the air like the head of a prized chicken they'd torn off with their bare hands.
I grabbed the empty basket and salsa bowl to refill them. As I walked away, Bro #2 yelled:
"We need more chips and salsa, BRO!"
I'll give you 20 Armenian drams if you can accurately guess why I just grabbed the bowl and basket off the table...
The "ladies" arrived. I didn't know if I should take a drink order or find a trough in the back and fill it with mud.
"Hi ladies what would you like to..."
"I WANNA MARGARITA OR A DAQUIRI OR SOME-TING FROOTY!" one of them bellowed.
Her friend agreed:
"OOOOOH ME TOO I'LL HAVE WHAT SHE'S HAVING!! AY AY AY ARRIBA ARRIBA ONDELAY ONDELAY!
"So...which would you prefer?" I asked.
"Just some-thing frooty!"
"It's your drink order, not mine," I said. "Which do you want, a daquiri or a margarita?"
"Which has less calories?"
Honey, you lost that battle long ago. And that tube top only makes you look pregnant.
"Neither."
"HEY BRO...just bring them something to drink...Something strong."
Please...it doesn't matter if I bring a Long Island iced tea or a ginger ale, you've probably got enough Rohypnol in your fake leather jacket to keep her out for days.
I rang in two double margaritas with the most expensive tequila. And made them banana in flavor.
The ladies loved the libations, as evidenced by their nauseating "MMMMMMmmms" and "DAMN THIS TASTES SOOOO GOOOOD, MMMMMM!"
When I'd reached my threshold of pain from observation, I inquired:
"Is everyone ready to order?"
"We already did BRO."
"Yes. How stupid of me to not be painstakingly specific with you people. Is everyone ready to order FOOD?"
"BRO...we're just drinking. We already ate. And BRO, we'll take two top shelf long island iced teas."
Natch.
Each time they ordered a round, I printed the most up-to-date copy of the bill and placed it on the table, even though 1) the drinks were full and 2) no one had asked for the bill.
Finally, come pay time, BRO #1 flagged me down.
"Yeeeeeees?"
"Uh, BRO, these drinks aren't happy hour price."
"Correct. Off the top of my head, that might be because happy hour was three hours ago."
"But we always get happy hour prices BRO."
"And that's probably because you usually come during happy hour."
"DAT'S MESS UP!" drunken whore #1 added.
"Sorry, as much as I'd love to help you, my hands are tied," I said. "Management will not grant happy hour prices unless it's actually happy hour. Silly, I know."
With that, I walked away. Unfortunately I was then sat with three tables at once and had no way of monitoring whether or not the bro's and ho's paid their tab.
They paid with cash, $15 short of the tab. Guess whose pocket that came out of?
I tried to chase them to the parking lot but they'd made an unusually stealthy retreat despite their collective obesity. I returned to work, downed a shot far away from the menacing security cameras, and made the same promise to myself that I've been making for years:
"Just a few more months and I'm out of here."