the bitter waiter

Verbatim

Among the many tedious regulars who frequent the restaurant are Mr. and Mrs. Gonzalez, an ironically named old Jewish couple who refuse to smile, say "thank you," or show any signs of warmth whatsoever.

Mrs. Gonzalez speaks slowly and loudly when dealing with servers.  By her own frequent admission, none of us ever pays attention or delivers her order correctly.  She's also a massive hypochondriac who has mistaken my glares to mean "Gosh, I'm so sorry, tell me more about your back pain" instead of "I hope Satan makes a fiery geyser out of your remains when you ultimately get seated in Hell, you evil old bitch."

Mr. Gonzalez knows which questions accompany his order ("Black beans or pinto? Corn or flour tortillas?") and relishes the chance to interrupt us just as we've started the question. He also repeats his drink order three times, reminding all servers that "They have yet to get it right."

THEN WHY THE HELL DO YOU TWO SAGGY, MISERABLE FOSSILS KEEP EATING HERE??

I, of course, LOVE waiting on Mr. and Mrs. Gonzalez.  Because their requests are simple enough, I take great pride in disrupting their pattern of persnickety by being accurate, expedient, and -- dare I say it -- polite (and by "polite," I mean "polite" in the same way Nellie Oleson addresses customers at the Oleson Mercantile -- insincerely warm and sincerely condescending).

"Well good evening Mr. and Mrs. Gonzalez," I said with a pained smile.

"We'd like..." Mr. Gonzalez began.

..."One double margatini, two chilled glasses with salt, and extra limes on the side," I interrupted. "The usual order of guacamole as well?"

Mr. Gonzalez glared and waived his hand dismissively, bidding me an unspoken reminder of his superiority in our server-customer relationship.  

I returned quickly with the drinks.  As I poured the cocktails from the martini shaker, I couldn't help myself.

"Mrs. Gonzalez, how is your chronic back pain?" I asked.  "I know from last time it was really acting up."

"Well it was fine until I sat in this uncomfortable booth, which just gets lower and..."

"Oh I'm SO sorry to hear that," I interrupted.  "Were you two ready to order?"

"I'll have..." Mr. Gonzalez began.

"...Chicken fajitas, black beans and rice, corn and flour tortillas, chicken well done," I said.  "And for you, Mrs Gonzalez? The Enchiladas Suprema with goat cheese on the side, red sauce instead of green sauce, add a dry salad with nothing but lemon on the side?"

"Not quite," Mrs. Gonzalez replied. "I don't want ANY goat cheese, inside or on the side.  I don't want goat cheese anywhere on my plate.  Nowhere.  No goat cheese."

"Yes, of course," I replied.  "No goat cheese."

I knew full well that the pinto beans were covered in coteja cheese, which is quite different from goat cheese, but still.  The severity of her tone indicated that she wanted no cheese, but if a customer is going to complain about a server getting her order wrong, then said customer needs to be specific.

The food came.  Mr. and Mrs. Gonzalez snarled when I told them to enjoy their meals.  Seconds later I was summoned to the table.

Mrs. Gonzalez had a fork full of pinto beans lifted in the air.

"Yeeeeessss?" I said while batting my lashes.

"There's CHEESE on these beans," she said, circling the fork in the air as if she were about to play "airplane" with me.  I stifled a snicker.

"Yes ma'am!" I replied.

"I guess you didn't hear all the times I specifically said 'NO...CHEESE.'"

"Well," I said.  "I did hear all the times you specifically said no GOAT cheese."

"Yeah and GUESS what this is?!!" she bellowed while pointing to her fork.

Proof that your alleged back pain has spread to your brain, making you even dumber?

"That," I said, "would be coteja cheese, not goat cheese."

"Well I meant no cheese at all," she said.

"Well I can't take orders based on what you mean, now can I?" I replied.

"I don't care what kind of cheese this is," she said, "I WANT IT OFF MY PLATE, NOW!"

"Oh well certainly, Mrs. Gonzalez," I said.

"NO...CHEESE!" she admonished before I left the table.  

"Of course, Mrs. Gonzalez," I smiled.  "Now that you've distinguished between goat cheese and no cheese, the kitchen will be happy to accommodate your order."

I returned minutes later with the plate exactly as she intended.  Seconds later, I was once again beckoned to the table.

"Mmmm hmmm?" I said with a raised eyebrow.

"There's nothing INSIDE these enchiladas except chicken and black beans!" she said.

"Correct," I replied.  "You said NO cheese, and the Enchiladas Suprema also come with mixed cheeses in addition to goat cheese."

"Well I can't eat it with this texture! It's just chicken and black beans inside a tortilla!"

"Oh that's unfortunate," I replied, "because I turned in your order verbatim, just as you expressed it to me."

"I just assumed there'd still be cheese INSIDE the enchiladas," she hissed.  "Jesus, how do I eat an enchilada without cheese?"

Easy.  With a fork and knife.  While being dragged behind a Greyhound.

"Just take this back," she said.  "Just give me a chicken fajita salad.  Quickly."

I returned minutes later with the salad.  I set it on the table, as usual to no "Thank you" or sign of gratitude.

"You're welcome," I muttered under my breath.

"Excuse me?" Mr. Gonzalez said.

"Oh I'm sorry," I said.  "I thought I heard you say 'thank you.' My bad."

Mrs. G. quickly finished her salad.  In between bites, she muttered "Unbelievable," and "What a smartass."  Each time I passed by and overheard this, I smiled and nodded, as if to say "Why thank you."

Finally they requested their bill.  

"What IS your name?" Mr. Gonzalez asked.  "So we'll know for next time."

I assumed he meant for purposes of avoiding my section.  Or for calling to complain about me later (by this point, I think our phone directory lists its own option, ie "If you're calling to complain about Bitter Waiter, please press 6.")

"Billy," I replied.  

Minutes later, as I clutched the 10 percent tip in my hand, I waited by the door as they exited.

"Good night," I said.  "And ask for me next time!"

Mr. and Mrs. Gonzalez stared at me as if I were truly off my rocker.  They continued to complain audibly about me as long as they were within earshot.  

Though I suffered financially for the fun at their expense, I left work that night with a sense of vindication.  And I gladly signed the write-up I received from management the following day, thanks to a phone call from an "anonymous unhappy customer."

Mating rituals of the cheap and slothenly

In all my lowly years as a server, I've rarely had someone go out of his way to explain a bad tip.  Most customers, if they feel slighted (or if they're just one of the many stereotypes I loathe), will let the tip speak for itself.  

Not Enrique, the Casanova of Commerce City, the smooth-talking purveyor of p*ssy in the San Fernando area.  

I almost gouged out my eyes when I saw him sit at one of my tables with Gordita, his inappropriately dressed, body-glitter-wearing tub of love.  

Like so many before, they were on a date.  And like so many before, they wanted the world to know, kisses, licks, gropes, straddling and all.

I approached the taco truck of love and offered the sacrifice of chips and salsa.  Gordita was making her own hors d'oeuvre out of Enrique's ear. 

"Anything to drink?" I asked.

"Naaaaah man, we aight," Enrique replied, half-asleep, fully stoned.

Because the smell of their homegrown marijuana wafted through the restaurant, I knew the two would soon find themselves with the munchies.  Instead of snacking on each other's ears and lips, they'd trade body parts for melted cheese and rotisserie chicken, no doubt finding little difference in texture and grease.

Five minutes later, Enrique flagged me down.  He was trying his best to lie down on one side of the booth with Gordita.  

"We gunna order," he informed me.

Soon after, two rotisserie chicken quesadillas, one crab cocktail, and one large plate of melted cheese with shrimp arrived.  The food was devoured in mere seconds, mostly through their joint efforts to feed each other while giggling.  I fought the increasing desire to stab any one of us in the name of decency.

I put on my Hazmat suit to clear their table scraps.  I didn't offer dessert, as I felt that was only one bus ride, can of whip cream, and Lane Bryant outfit away.

I delivered the bill.  A good 30 minutes passed.  Enrique eventually looked at the bill, consulted with Gordita for a few minutes, and called me over.

"Hey man," Enrique said.

"Yes?"

The seconds I allotted for his response turned into minutes.

"We get it, you know?  Tipping?" he said.

"....Yeah?"

"But it's like...........times are.....different now, you know?"

"Uh huh."

"'Cause back in the day dude I would have dropped 10, 15 percent for tip, yoknowwhutumsayin?"

"No."

"I'm on unemployment, bro?"

Really?  You haven't taken the time to answer those job ads seeking a lazy, slow-speaking, cologne-drenched douche bag to call in sick, steal from the boss, and complete a cumulative total of 20 minutes of actual work per week?  

"I'm sorry, what exactly are you trying to say?" I asked.

"Like, we didn't even have money to order drinks, dude."

"Mmm hmmmmm.....?"

"So, you know, I'm sure everyone else is doing the same thing, but I can only leave, like, a buck or two for the tip."

"Actually," I replied, already knowing the pointlessness of the speech, "most people who can't afford to tip don't go out to eat.  If the economy is affecting them so."

"Dude, you and I both know that ain't true."

Really?  You're all the sudden Senor Server, a wise man imbued with knowledge of what MY job is like?  You who currently doesn't have employment?  Because I'd love to pull up a paint bucket, have a seat and listen to your vast knowledge about what IS true about my job.

"It's not my place to comment on or suggest what someone leaves as a tip," I replied.

I said this, of course, while flipping through my credit card slips from earlier customers, audibly mumbling, "20 percent, 25 percent, 20 percent, 20 percent, 18 percent, 20 percent..."

But as I feared, my words fell on deaf ears, and I later wiped the grease off my $2 tip from Enrique and Gordita.

Carry on, bags

I recently dealt with two botched-Botox lipstick lesbian bitches who decided that my innocent patio section would serve as their coven.  

Per usual, I was already in quite a mood (merely from clocking in), and could anticipate the condescending tone, the bitchy glares and the incessant drinking.  And I had no idea how the lesbians would react.

I greeted Lips, the brunette of the couple.  She was smoking on our clearly marked non-smoking patio.

"I'm sorry, you can't smoke out here," I said.

She took a puff, blew it in my general direction, and asked:

"How do you fire someone?" 

Easy.  Handle it with the finesse I'm assuming you'd give to any such gentle situation.  Go over to his/her house in the middle of the night and scream while throwing objects through windows.

"Get drunk," I replied.  "And, again, no smoking."

She continued puffing as if I were only capable of speaking internally.

"I'll have a Grey Goose Lemon Drop," Lips said.

"UHHH!" the comely blond companion whined.

"Oh fucking shit fuck ass shit fuck cock," Lips said.  "Make it two."

Class.  It's not just a thing at trade school where you learn how to inject fat from a woman's ass into her face.

I delivered the drinks.  Lips was no longer smoking, but the blond (heretofore referred to as "Anna Nicole") was now puffing smoke out of the fag in her hand.

"Sorry," I said.  "Actually neither one of you can smoke out here.  No one can."

"Ohhhhhh weeeeeeell uhhhhhhhhhm," Anna Nicole stuttered.

Lips injected...I mean Lips interjected, and said, "We'll order."

After almost 10 minutes of modifying two simple tostada salads, I retreated to the indoor portion of the restaurant to ring in the order.  Our owner, of whom I rarely blog and about whom I often nightmare, approached me.  He barked at me for allowing the ladies to smoke and told me to handle the situation.

I returned to Lips and Anna Nicole, hoping to reason with them.

"Ladies, look," I said.  "The owner himself has yelled at me for letting you smoke out here.  You've got to put out your cigarettes."

"Only if you bring us another round," Lips said.

"Okay," I replied.

I returned with the drinks.  The two were already drunk, discussing strategy for firing an employee.  Anna Nicole offered her insight after great thought.

"I think we should tell her, like, face-to-face, you know?"

Define "face?"

Lips and Anna Nicole downed their drinks then requested the bill, which I had on my person.

"Uhm, excuse me?" Lips said.

"M?" I replied.

"We had a deal, remember?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You said if we stopped smoking, you'd buy us a round?"

"No no no no no no no NO no no no no no no no no," I said.  "I said I'd BRING you another round.  I've had every member of my immediate family in here, and I never offered to buy THEM a round of drinks.  I certainly made no such promise to you."

"Well I'm not paying for that second round," she said.

"Neither am I," I replied.  "Why don't I bring over the owner?  Or the police if you decide to steal from us by not paying for something you consumed?"

"Honey I don't give a flying sheep's fucking cock and balls ass shit fuck cock if you call the fucking President of the fucking ass United dick States," she said. "I'm not PAYING for those drinks!"

"FINE!" I bellowed, turning on my heels to go tell Mr. Owner.

When we returned, the ladies had dashed.  They left just enough cash to cover about half of their tab.

"Well," The Owner said, perusing the bill.  "Looks like you only owe about $20 to cover the difference."

I cleared the table, carefully avoiding the large amounts of lipstick that remained on each glass, plate, and utensil.  I went to my happy place, ignoring the incident altogether.  

And in my happy place, I was running over those dumb bitches, repeatedly, with a John Deere tractor.

Five-minute break

While preparing for the filming of a certain project titled "Bitter Waiter," my priorities have shifted.  Bear with me, and I'll return momentarily with my snarky service, politically incorrect puns and alcohol-laden adventures.