the bitter waiter

Hillbillies and Hocus Pocus

I tire of blogging mostly about ghetto, Armenian and Hispanic stereotypes.  Not because I strive to be politically correct, but because blogging about them is the result of interacting with them.

So imagine my uneasy mix of elation ("Yay!  New blogging material!") and disgust ("Boo! Where are my prescriptions?") when a group of pie-making, plaid-loving hillbillies stopped by my section for some vittles, moonshine and chit chat.

They entered the restaurant from the back entrance adjacent to the parking lot, clearly confused by the tricky lay-out.  They saw empty tables.  They saw me.  They did NOT see the host at the front of the restaurant.  So as I was in mid-sentence taking a diner's order, Pa loudly interrupted me:  

"HEY YOU, do we just seat arrr-selves er what?" he bellowed.

"Excuse me," I said to my current customers.  I did a 180, horns emerging from my head, and addressed Pa and his band of extras from The Grapes of Wrath.

"There's a host," I said.  "At the front of the restaurant."

"Yeah?" he said, not making the logical connection.

"So go speak to him if you need a table."

"Well nah why can't we just sit there?" he asked, pointing to a table in my section.  "Seems silly to walk all the way to the front of the restaurant when we wanna table here in the back."

"THEN SIT THERE..."

They sat themselves.  Twenty minutes later I arrived with menus.

"We ready to order," Pa said, speaking on behalf of his wife and three ugly children.

"I WANNA MARGO-RITA!" Ma declared.  I imagine whatever spirits and libations she'd been concocting in the family bath tub had given her a craving for the good stuff.

Then came the food inquiries.

"Are fa-jih-tas those thangs that come on the sizzling thang?" asked the eldest daughter.

"Yes."

"Is it like where the guy comes to the table and chops everything up for you?"

"That would be at a Japanese restaurant," I replied.

I finished taking the food orders, gathered the menus, and started to walk away.  Then my curiosity got the better of me.  I never bore myself with the personal details of customers, save the anecdotes for this blog.  But I had to ask...

"So, are you all visiting from out of town?"

"Yes," Pa said.  "We're here to meet our daughter's husband."

Has your *daughter* met her husband?  Or will he be joining us later with a blue-ribbon pig and a contract for land exchange?

Before the food arrived, I brought over the iced tea pitcher to refill everyone's glasses (except Ma...now I understood why she was on her second margarita.)  I watched in disgust as they downed their refills before I left the table.  So I set the pitcher on the table and walked away.

The meals came, and as expected, everyone wanted sides of ketchup and steak sauce to accompany their sizzling plate thangs.  The food was devoured in seconds flat, and the iced teas never ceased to be empty.

Finally, bill time.  What happened with the bill and its tip (roughly 18%) are unimportant to the story's end.

It was the state of the table after they left.  Ketchup was smeared not only all over the table, but on the seats of the booth, as well.  Food they didn't even order (french fries?) was left on the floor.  All I knew was that 1) they were the first people to sit at that booth that day, 2) the youngest child was at least 13 years old and 3) I never saw anyone make a mess during my calculated observation.

It would seem, whether intentional or not, that those straw-chewing hicks had the last laugh without affecting my tip.  Difficult customers are now resorting to black magic and deceptive form to make my job that much more unbearable.  

Time to up my game*.

*Or, get a new job.

Cougar Town

If you want to instantly find yourself on your server's hit list, wave your hand in the air like a charismatic Jehovah's Witness when you need a water refill (or a side of dressing, or an extra napkin, or some other tedious accoutrement) and see what kind of reaction you get.

I promise that NOTHING you need merits this obnoxious gesture, a symbol of self-entitlement and high maintenance.  You're not drowning, you're not dying, you're not on fire (yet...).  I'll check on you soon enough, as it IS my job.  That annoyed look on my face as I race past your table, with 12 plates stacked in my arms, ignoring your salute to Hitler?  That looks means I'M BUSY!!!  

In a shocking, unconventional ploy to pad my pocketbook, I've done something really crazy: I've taken other tables besides yours!  Yes, those polite people waiting patiently around you?  With NO hands in the air?  Those are my customers, too.  

But I digress to today's story.  I can't tell you why a hand in the air frosts my cookies so, but it does.

On one recent rainy LA night, towards the end of my shift -- i.e. when freedom is imminent, i.e. when I can practically taste the martini awaiting me at home -- a cougar woman from another server's section flagged me down.

This woman had the (current) cheekbones of Faye Dunaway, the eyes of Joan Rivers, and the desperate attempt at normalcy of Heidi Montag.  In short, she looked like a Halloween mask.

She and her date were on the same side of the booth, sucking suckling each other.

I walked by...12 plates stacked in my arms...and she flagged me down like I was her last chance of fleeing the sinking Lusitania.  

"WHAT?" I asked, stopping dead in my tracks.

She raised her empty water glass and shook it as if she were Annie Sullivan teaching Helen Keller to speak.

"I take it you need more water?" I asked.

"Uhm....YEAH.  And I've asked you five times," she said, slurring and spitting her way to incoherent speech.

"Uhm....I'm not your server," I countered. "You haven't asked me for a thing." 

"Oh.  Well you look like him."

"He's about 6'3"?" I asked.  "Waivy hair down to his neck, perpetually startled look on his face? Yeah, we look nothing alike."

"Buddy," her sleazy date intervened, no doubt taking a brief respite from selling sweat shop workers online.  "She just needs more water, ok?"

Before I could walk away, he added:

"Oh, and she'll take another apple martini."

I fled, so grateful they weren't in my section, and told their server that he needed to pay them a visit pronto.

"Can you just refill her water?" he asked. 

I reluctantly obliged, grabbed the water pitcher, and returned to Cougar Town.  

"Uhm...I still need more water!" she said.

What do you think is in this pitcher, you reptilian bitch?  Juvederm?

Sleazy protested, "Hey, I thought I ordered an app..."

"TELL YOUR SERVER!" I shouted as I made a mad dash away from the jungle.

I clocked out, stripped to a T-shirt and jeans, and made my escape.  My exit wouldn't have been complete without one last raise of the hand from Mizz Cougar, a raise of the hand that I this time ignored with a smile.  Once again (but only temporarily), free at least.

On the side (in which I link to others)

Someone else's amusing take on restaurant diners

"It's my party, and I'll [be an unbearable bitch] if I want to."

I rarely suffer headaches during a shift (mostly because I keep my flask overflowing for such situations), but a recent table of seven sassy sisters celebrating a birthday nearly drove me to an aneurysm.

I knew they'd be trouble when it took them 10 minutes to find a "suitable" table.

"Uhm, this table is too small," I heard one say to the hostess.

"Yeah, uhm, and that one needs to be cleaned," I heard another say to her friend.

Finally they were sat in my section.  I downed the remnants of my flask like a hooker about to sleep with George Hamilton and greeted my customers.

"How is everyone doing this evening?" I said, mildly buzzed.

"Hiiii there!" chirped the ringleader.  "I'm LaKeesha, and it's my birthday, so we need to feel extra special tonight!" 

And like that, my buzz died.

"Ok," I said.

"First of all, we'd like a pitcher of margaritas," she said.  "Happy hour margaritas."

I braced myself for the umpteenth rendition of "Sorry, Happy Hour Isn't Available In My Section" and said:
"Sorry, happy hour isn't available in my section."

"Oh," LaKeesha said.  "But it's my birthday and that's what I want. So..."

Oh really?  So birthdays are a big deal, huh?  Let's suppose for a minute it were my birthday and I walked into your place of employment...let's say the DMV...and I said, "LaKeesha, it's my birthday.  And I want you to make ME feel special," Would you behave any differently towards me?  No.  So if being fussed over is important to you on this day like every other day, I suggest hiring a clown for your next party.

"Sorry.  Not an option.  What would you all like to drink instead?"

"Uhmmm," LaSheeka's friend (we'll call her "Latte") said.  "You need to go tell a manager it's her birthday and get a Happy Hour pitcher."

"Can't wait," I said.

I told our lovably and equally indifferent manager about the request.  I watched from afar in euphoric bliss as he reiterated what I had just said. 

I went back to the table.

"Drinks?"

"We're ready to order," Latte said, very displeased.  

I collected the seven food orders and turned them into the kitchen.  To retaliate against our no-happy-hour ruling, five of the seven did not order cocktails.  

The food arrived.  Minutes later, I was summoned to the table.  And for the first time in my restaurant "career," each and every entree was sent back to the kitchen because not one of the ladies liked her entree.

"Too salty."

"This ground beef is ground too small."

"I thought there'd be more fried shrimp than this."

Just as I thought my head would spin 360 degrees, an additional EIGHTH person joined the party!  This meant "automatic gratuity," which is currently one of the sexiest things someone can say to me.

Before my mouth could form a full grin I had the manager add the tip.  I couldn't wait for this to upset my guests.

Latte informed me, again, that it was LaKeesha's birthday.  

"So what do you do for birthdays?" she asked.

(Anyone who knows me knows I've given the following response before.  And I didn't hesitate to use it again.)

"I usually get drunk and embarrass myself in public," I said.  "What do YOU do for birthdays?""

Latte was not amused.  She told me to bring out a festive (free) dessert, candles, and sing "Happy Birthday."

"That last part won't happen," I said.  "We don't sing here."

"Dang you all don't do ANYTHING special on birthdays, huh?" she said.

"On the contrary!" I said.  "We bring out the finest free dessert you'll ever eat."

I delivered the cheaply mad sundae.  And the bill.  And that's where our story takes a turn for the worse.

Latte took the helm and meticulously scrutinized the bill.  She asked the hostess for three menus so that she and the rest of the payment committee could ensure they'd been fairly charged.

Nearly 30 minutes later...

Latte approached me at the computer.  My fellow servers were bracing themselves for a showdown.  Fortunately I'd just popped a Xanax so all was calm, all was bright.

"Yeah, we have a lot of problems with this bill," Latte said.

"Namely?"

"First of all, we were still charged for some of the entrees we didn't like."

"Oh?  Let's take a look."

Latte and I studied the bill.  I pointed to this:

"You see underneath the entrees, where it says "Comp Food" and then has a negative price?" That means we took those items off your bill," I said.

"Then why is it even still on the bill?" Latte asked.

"Because those items were still made and for inventory purposes we need to keep track.  Don't worry, it doesn't affect you in any way."

"Ok," she said suspiciously, as if I'd just pulled a Machiavellian fast one on her.  She reported back to the group and they continued their study of the bill.  Latte approached me again.

"We didn't order an iced tea or a banana split" she said.  "I think you brought out the wrong bill."

 

"Correct," I said.  "No one ordered an iced tea.  But your friend ordered a Long Island Iced Tea, and your other friend ordered two splits of champagne."

Latte once again retreated to her dining guests and reported.  Second later, she was back for more.

"My friend ordered soup with her entree.  It's only supposed to be $2.25 to add on a cup."

"Yes, exactly," I said.  "It's only $2.25 to add on a cup of soup.  A bowl, however, is $4.70.  Your friend ordered a bowl." 

Latte left and once again returned.

"Don't you all give some sort of Birthday Discount?"

"Yes, we do," I said.  And reminded her of:

 

And before Latte could sit down again, she pointed at

and said, "Really?  Do we have to pay this?"

Of course not!  In fact, let's reverse that charge and I'll pay you a "Privilege Fee." After all, it's not everyday I get to wait on the Birthday Princess and her demanding band of bitches!

Defeated, Latte returned to her friends.  She, LaKeesha and company then turned on one another as they discussed who should pay what.  LaKeesha didn't hesitate to throw in, "It's my birthday so I'm not paying a thing!"

Nearly 10 minutes later, they finally left, $5.00 short of what they actually owed.  Tempted as I was to chase them to their cars/bus stops, I couldn't bear the thought of exacerbating an already splitting headache.  I might have had the last laugh in terms of not submitting to their birthday demands, but more than any opponent I've faced in my service days, they left a mark.  

My head throbs just reliving it.

A hot mess

Among the things I don't relate to in many of those who dine in my restaurant -- frugality, obesity, stupidity, a penchant for Audigier clothing -- is an inability to handle one's alcohol.

If I can chug three martinis before work and still maintain my stoically emotionless front, surely a hefty sorority girl can drink three raspberry margaritas and call it a night without incident?

No.  Not Serena.

Serena was the 7th wheel in a group of triple-daters.  I pitied her until we played 20 Questions about which fru fru drink she should order.  She settled on a peach daquiri and asked for her own basket of chips because she liked extra salt (and extra chips).

I delivered the daquiri.  She paused from pretending to understand the political discussion at the table and took a sip.

"Ohhhhhhhhhhh," she said, disappointed.

Normally this is my cue to ask, "Is everything ok?  Would you like a different drink instead?" 

Like Dexatrim?

Instead I looked up with an oblivious grin and asked, "Is everyone ready to order?"

"Hmmmmmm," Serena tried once again.

Don't hem and haw, John Candy.  If you don't like your island-only appropriate cocktail, speak up.  Use your words, other than Delta, Gamma, and Kappa.

Everyone ordered.  To the credit of Serena's fellow sorority sisters and their manly man dates, the six were eloquent and expeditious in stating what they wanted.  No questions, no modifications, just practical and polite ordering etiquette.

And theeeeeeeen came Serena's order.

"Uhmmm, I'm looking for something with chicken?" she said.

Oh hi there!  No, it's not the waiter talking.  Look down, it's me, your MENU!  I'm here to help you through the difficult and complicated process of deciding what you want to eat (other than the entirety of a Sunday School snack supply).  Crazy as this sounds, I list detailed descriptions of everything the restaurant has to offer.  Don't see something you'd like?  That's probably because you're asking for spaghetti in a Mexican restaurant.  Don't be afraid to look within me.  Very few of my words have more than one syllable.  No need to be scared.  Though I'm one of the few things on the table you can't eat, there's no need to fear me.  I am your friend.  I am a menu.  Look at me.

Serena settled on chicken fajitas.  Also, she found her voice:

"This daquiri tastes...weird," she said.

"...Weird?" I replied.

"Yeah, like, can I get something else?"

"And what would you like this time?"

"Something fruity, but something good."

Sensing my imminent (or already palpable?) frustration, Serena's friend took the helm.

"Serena, why don't I finish your drink?" she said.  "The other girls ordered a pitcher of raspberry margaritas, maybe you'd like that?"

Touched by this rare display of logic and selflessness, I smiled sincerely at the friend and choked back a tear as I said, "I'll go grab an extra glass."

A few pitchers later, Serena transformed from wallflower to wild child.

As the satellite radio cranked one 80's tune after another, she belted in unison.  I recoiled in horror as she desecrated everything from The Cure to a-ha.

("Take...all...me.  Take all me!  Take...me...all.  Take all me!")

Serena laughed a little too loudly with her friends, frequently snorting and/or falling out of the booth. 

And then came the waterworks.  I missed the discussion that instigated the emotional outburst, but when I came to deliver the bill, Serena was in tears.  Her three gal pals were coddling her fragile ego and reassuring her.  The dudes drank their beers with no expression whatsoever.

I couldn't help myself. 

"Is everything ok?" I asked. 

"Oh we're fine," said the rational friend.  "I think we need to get her home."

After paying the tab, and tipping quite generously, the friends escorted Serena out of the restaurant.

"This...was so...much fuuuuuuuuuun!" Serena said.  "Promise me we...can do it...again?"

With threats like that, it's my earnest pledge to be out of the restaurant business by year's end...just as I resolved last year, the year before, and the year before that.