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.
Gordita!
Posted by: Mel | July 04, 2010 at 11:21 AM
You should have suggested that their next night out be at Taco Bell!
Posted by: NayNay | June 27, 2010 at 02:09 PM
Such people are true scum.
Posted by: LJLundberg | June 23, 2010 at 09:33 AM