In an age where dependable childcare is both costly and hard to come by, I've seen countless lazy parents drag their offspring into restaurants and leave them in the care of the wait staff.
Take for instance "George and Priscilla," a nauseating couple of yuppies who dressed up baby Thurston in a darling outfit from Piccolino in Beverly Hills and brought him along on a recent drinking binge.
I greeted them as Priscilla was spoon-feeding Thurston some mashed peas and the guarantee that he'll grow up to hate the suffocating bitch. When I asked what they'd like to drink, Priscilla didn't change tones between talking to her baby and to me.
"I'd like a glass of PEE-NO GREE-JEE-OH," she said as if I were some limbless retarded child selling cookies at her doorstep. "You know, the white one?"
"We don't have Pinot Grigio," I informed her.
"Oh? I think I've had it here before," she countered with a disgusting smile. "Are you sure you don't carry it?"
You know what, Priscilla? In my five years at this restaurant I just assumed we don't have it because it's not on the menu. However, thanks to your condescension, I just remembered that, yes, we DO have Pinot Grigio. I'll just add some ice and seltzer, and we'll have ourselves a soiree!
"Yes. Completely sure," I said.
Instead of accepting this as fact, she turned to her husband, a man surely as gay as the day is long.
"Honey," she said, "I'm pretty sure I had Pinot Grigio here. Right?"
"Beats me," George said while gazing out the window, no doubt daydreaming of a life in Key West with a strapping black man and some glow sticks.
Defeated, she ordered a margarita. George cut out the middle man and went straight for straight tequila on the rocks. Priscilla also added:
"And this little guy would like some milky wilky, wouldn't you?"
Please be referring to Thurston...
I returned with the first round. And the second, third, and fourth. Clearly this waspy clan wasn't ordering any food. Instead, George and Priscilla were going to numb the pain of their white-picketed delusions in my section.
As they imbibed more and more, George came out of his shell and caused Priscilla to produce a horrible, shrill sound as a poor substitute for laughter. In his inebriated state, George flailed about like the main attraction in a drag tribute to Judy Garland.
An hour later, George approached me as I was plotting a massive Armenian massacre with my fellow servers.
"We're gonna (hiccup) go outside and (hiccup) smoke a cigarette," he said with his hand firmly on my shoulder.
"Ok..." I said. I didn't even bother asking for keys or a credit card, the required collateral for stepping outside to ensure no dining-and-dashing.
Minutes later, as I passed by their booth, I discovered they'd left collateral of a different kind. Little Thurston was sitting in his high chair, completely unattended.
At first we gave each other the same "Thank God they're gone" look, then I realized that I was inadvertently in charge of the little guy. When I fled to find his parents, he began to cry, no doubt fearful of spending more time with Mommie Dearests.
"Excuse me," I interrupted as Priscilla was flirting with the handsome man smoking next to her outside. "Are you two returning soon? Your one-year-old is alone in the restaurant..."
Neither Priscilla, nor George (who was also staring admiringly at the male smoking companion), seemed to care.
"He'll be fine," she said. As she took a drag from her cigarette, there was no sign of the patronizing tone or the condescending confidence. Clearly this wasn't the first time she'd left her baby alone in a public place to unwind and have a quick smoke. This was a woman who, like many white-bread yuppies before her, chose to handle her problems the old-fashioned Protestant way: By pretending they simply didn't exist.
Oh come on, really??! Next time it might be wise to call child services. They don't deserve to be parents.
Posted by: meribon | July 28, 2010 at 12:58 PM
That poor, poor kid. Thank you for giving me just enough of a glimpse behind me to remember why I'm never ever going back to serving ever again. Unless there is suddenly no need for family therapy, then I'm royally fucked.
Posted by: April | July 17, 2010 at 08:52 AM
We took Maya on her first Boy's Town tour. She loved the strapping black men and glow sticks. She also thinks the two of you have some quality playing to catch up on.
Posted by: Toph Wunder | July 16, 2010 at 11:40 AM
at least she didn't point at the menu and ask what a "Pee-knot Griss" is.
"strapping black man and some glow sticks" -- you owe me a new monitor.
Posted by: The Bartender | July 15, 2010 at 08:56 PM
Oh, Chase...how I hope your shift tonight brings another BW entry.
Posted by: M Sigmon | July 15, 2010 at 03:05 PM
'Please be referring to Thurston...'
I shat myself when I read that! God I love your humor!
Posted by: Lisa Lawrence | July 15, 2010 at 02:49 PM
Scarily enough Chase, I have a quasi-girlfriend who does this and she actually spent thousands upon thousands of dollars procuring said child from Russia. Ahhh... toddlers the new purse pets.
Posted by: Aly | July 15, 2010 at 02:16 PM
The Pinot - "We didn't have all those other things"
Thinking the baby isn't really theirs (or is that in current usage "they'res" or "there's").
Babies do make the best accessories...
Posted by: LJLundberg | July 15, 2010 at 10:19 AM