the bitter waiter

After dinner entitle-mints

Other than drinking on the clock, I like one thing about my restaurant.

We don't sing for your birthday. 

We don't collectively dress up in sombreros and clap along to a meticulously choreographed "Happy Birthday" brouhaha.  We don't supply you with fruity shots on the house.  We don't fall over ourselves to celebrate your ability to achieve what every single creature on the planet has successfully done before you. 

I'm not your family member.  I'm not your friend.  If your loved ones need to make you feel special on your birthday by leaving it in the hands of a complete stranger at a restaurant, then your loved ones suck.

--

I was first introduced to Birthday Entitlement Fever way back in the sticks of Missouri at a part-time job in college.  A particularly rowdy group of white trash had put me through the ringer during their dining ritual, which included open-mouthed consumption and asking other tables if they could "borrow" some dinner rolls.

Finally, a rather tubby, drunken creature folded her arms, belched, and said with great entitlement, "It's my BIRTHDAY.  What do you do for BIRTHDAYS?"

"Well," I replied, "My parents usually take me out to a fancy restaurant and then my high school friends get me drunk.  What do YOU do for birthdays?"

(Minutes later, the Birthday Girl found out that firing your server after you complain is one thing a restaurant will do for your birthday.)

--

All of this came flooding back to me recently when four single, sassy Latina divas left no pinata or polyester dress unused to announce that Chica was celebrating a case of Birthday Entitlement Fever.

"ISSS HER BIRRRRRTHDAY!" LaAmiga screamed as she came stumbling in the restaurant with balloons, streamers, and a grocery store cake with a sticker on top that said "50% off."  I looked at the one open booth in the restaurant (in my section) and said "Oh shit."

LaAmiga took this to mean that I was in on the fun.  "YEEEEAH...WE GUNNA GET CRRRRRRRRRRAZY!"

Normally the birthday dinner protocol is as follows.  Friend #1 will leave the table under the guise of a potty break or important phone call.  He or she will discreetly track down the server and say "It's his/her birthday.  Do you mind bringing out a dessert with a candle?"  When that's the case, I'm happy to oblige.  No one's asking for something on the house.  I'm not expected to sing.  Everyone's polite and appreciative.

On the contrary, LaAmiga told the tables to her left and right -- as well as the hostess, both bartenders, every server on the clock, and our manager -- that it was Chica's birthday.

I, of course, was reminded of this every time I stopped by the festivities, which looked less like a restaurant booth and more like any number of lawns in Echo Park.

"WE NEED MORE NA-KINS," LaAmiga would bellow.  "AND DON' FORRRGET...ISSSS HER BIRRRRRTHDAY!!!!!"

After dinner was served and once the plates were cleared, LaAmiga folded her arms, smiled, and said, "ISSSS HER BIRRRRRTHDAY!!!!  WHAT DO JEW DO FOR BIRRRRRTHDAYS!?!"

"Well..." I began.

"GET ALL THE SERRRRVERRRS TO COME SING TO HER, JA JA!"

"Sorry," I replied.  "We don't do that here."

"But it's her BIRRRRRRTHDAY!!!" LaAmiga countered.

Yes.  And if she keeps eating that store-bought cake with her bare hands it will likely be her last.

"Sorry," I said.  "I'm happy to bring out a chocolate flan with something resembling a candle.  Maybe I'll even smile."

"CAN WE TAL' TO A MANAGERRRRR??  BE-COOSE DAS CRRRRRAZY THAT JEW DON'T SING FOR A BIRRRRRTHDAY!!"

I fetched the manager, whom I've nicknamed Eeyore for his disposition and indifference to customer service (love you, Eeyore).  He stood there, listened to the girls request some Birthday Entitlement Fever, shrugged, and walked off.

"Do whatever you want," he said to me.

Minutes later I appeared at the table with a birthday flan, with TWO candles, smiled, and said, "Happy Birthday!"

"WE DON' EVEN WAN DIS," LaAmiga said, pushing the dessert aside.  "WE'LL JOOS TAKE THE CHECK."

They paid in cash and left no tip, a clear repercussion for my refusal to participate in Birthday Entitlement Fever.

They also left behind 1/4 of their disgusting discount cake, which I immediately threw away.  To my supreme satisfaction, LaAmiga reappeared almost an hour later and demanded the remainder of the cake. 

"Sorry," I said.  "I threw it away literally just a second ago.  We're not allowed to keep leftover food for more than an hour after a customer has left."

Total lie.

LaAmiga and her fat ass stormed out after swearing at me in Spanish, something about a bitch, a stick, and never returning.

I retreated to the back and devoured the untouched birthday flan I'd hidden in the restaurant's walk-in freezer.  Happy Birthday, Chica. 

What's wrong with this picture?

The cloying couple canoodling above were so impressed with themselves that they took to staring at each other in that mirror for a good hour. 

The stench of insanity

I recently waited on someone I believe to be homeless, along with his cardboard box-mate, a gray-haired loon who might have been the man's mother.  Or girlfriend.  It was unsettling that their body language communicated both possibilities.

I knew the delicious cuckoo-ness was merely simmering when I approached the table.  The man ("Gary Busey") was clad in tattered flannel and some sort of wool hat last seen in Northern Exposure.  The Mom-Girlfriend was wearing a darling mumu/shawl/beaded vest combination.  They reeked of marijuana.  I tried to greet them.

"Hi, how are...?"

"What I really want is some pasta," Gary Busey interrupted, looking intently at the palm of his hand.

"You do realize this is a Mexican restaurant, don't you?" I asked.

"What does that mean?" he mumbled.

Mom-Girlfriend cackled, revealing a set of sporadic teeth and decayed breath that Satan no doubt filtered through the vents of Hell.  I immediately turned my head and covered my nose.  Not that they noticed.  I could have done the Roger Rabbit on their table and I imagine it would have been business as usual.

"It means we don't have pasta," I said.

"Well what do you have?" 

Hello there!  No, don't look at the waiter.  Look down.  Why, it's me again!  Mr. Menu!!  From a combination of strategy and common sense, I've been created to best guide you on this scary journey of dining in public.  Tempted to order Stromboli and old newspapers for dinner?  That's crazy!  Better stick with me when deciding what to select, because I hold all the secrets of the restaurant.  I'll tell you what they do and don't have.  Now pass that doobie and let's start floating!

"Mexican food," I replied, still pinching my nostrils with my left hand.

"I THANK HE MAINS INCHY-LADAS AND CALO-MARY," Mom-Girlfriend interjected.  She dabbed her previously used tissue and wiped a bit of dirt off Gary's face. 

"Mmmm, calamari sounds good," Gary Busey replied.

"We don't have calamari," I said.

"WELL YA SHOED," Mom-Girlfriend yelled.  "MEXA-CAIN, YEAH?"

Mexican.  Mediterranean.  Tomato, tom-ah-to.

"Perhaps you two would like to look over the menus while I grab you something to drink?" 

"How about chicken?" Gary Busey asked in a tone that was less curious and more accusatory.

"Yes...many options.  All listed in the..."

"We'll take the chicken," he said.

"Chicken fajitas? Soft tacos?  Tamales?  Nachos?  Quesadilla?  Empanadas?" I asked, trying to display my inconvenience, going so far as to make up chicken dishes just to prove some necessity for specificity.

"Tacos," Gary Busey said, eyes closed.  "And tamales."

"And to drink?" I asked.

"WE BROUGHT 'ER OWN!" Mom-Girlfriend replied.  I could only imagine what poor cleaning detergent had been improperly mixed in a hostel bath tub then concealed in a flask just to give these two some giggles. 

She moved from her side of the booth to his, and rested her head on his shoulder.  I'm pretty sure she fell asleep instantly. 

I grabbed the menus, fled, and finally took a breath.  Minutes later, the food was ready.  I gathered the plates and headed to their table.

But they were gone.  I looked outside to see if they were getting stoned.  Nope.  The restrooms?  Nope.  The bar?  Nope.  Patio table?  Nope.

Just as a feeling of relief set in, I heard "OVER HERE" amidst the crowd.  Gary Busey and his lady had moved across the dimly lit restaurant to a different table.  A table in another server's section.

"We wanted something closer to the restrooms," Gary Busey said.  My job wasn't to ask why.  It was to set the food down and have the manager transfer the table to a different server.

--

As I left work later that night, I saw Gary Busey and Mom-Girlfriend arm in arm, roaming the parking lot. 

"Hey!" Gary Busey called upon spotting me.  I feared them asking me for a ride to some hovel or questionable apartment in Hollywood.  Thus, with no subtlety, my pace went quickly from casual stroll to scared sprint. 

What's wrong with this picture?

A $77 bill, paid entirely in quarters by a woman whose credit card was declined (thanks to my friend Jeremy R. for this.  God bless the staff of Bubba Gump's Shrimp Co.).

Et tu, Brute?

There's a special kind of Hell reserved for a server-by-day/difficult-customer-by-night.  So imagine what awaits the waiter who commits the evil of being difficult while dining in a restaurant where he used to work.

This individual recently sat in my section with his girlfriend and her parents.  And while he hasn't worked at my current restaurant in a few years, he should have known better...

On his own, he's a nice enough guy.  On the contrary, his girlfriend is clingy and uptight, and her parents appear to be in a perpetual competition to see who can emit the least warmth.

I greeted the table, sure that this would be a pleasant experience. I recognized ______ , my former co-worker, and smiled. 

"Hey ______ , how are you?" I asked.

Dad immediately cut me off.

"Do the drinks just bring themselves to the table or can you grab us a pitcher of margaritas?" he snapped.  I smelled Texas on his breath and thus hated him instantly. 

I looked at ______, who tried to avoid my puzzled gaze.  I suppose he was no stranger to his potential father-in-law's treatment of the working class.

"Oh...hey," ______  replied weakly.

"Do you want the pitcher on the rocks or blended," I asked?

Mom, Dad and ______ agreed they wanted it on the rocks.  Not so with Missy Sue, the difficult girlfriend.

"Uhhhh," she sighed passive-aggressively, arms folded, joy non-existent. 

"Honey, do you prefer the pitcher blended?" Dad inquired as if to say "Did you have a nightmare, darlin'? Scoot over and let Daddy crawl into bed with you."

"Uh!!  You know I don't like drinks on the rocks!!!!!!!" she said, half-smiling, knowing she was about to get her way.

"We'll take them blended then," Dad said while clutching my forearm (?).

"Jeee-sus CHRIST!" Mom bellowed while reading the menu.  "Is it always this dark in here?"

"Not until five minutes ago," I said.  "I mean, when management dimmed the lights, that is."

They looked at me knowingly.  They were onto my game.  ______  had probably even mentioned my blog (narcissist that I am, it is my natural assumption that anyone, anywhere, at any time...is talking about me).  

I returned with the pitcher and the drinking glasses, trying my hardest to be nice.  Who knows?  Maybe Dad was just joking with me.  Maybe he was torn between the natural warmth of ______ and the cold caverns protected by his harpy wife and his shrew daughter. 

"Geez, did you just spit on these glasses to clean them?" he shouted.  "We'll take new glasses.  CLEAN glasses."

He thrust all four of them in my direction, even though both of my hands were holding the pitcher.  I set down the pitcher, looked at the glasses, and saw neither dirt nor smudge anywhere.

I shot ______ a quick "HELP ME" look and walked away.

In the midst of four other demanding tables, I took the glasses to hot water and polished them myself.  I returned to find Dad tapping his fingers on the table.  Mom and Missy Sue were both staring up at the ceiling, all but wearing signs that said "We're inconvenienced."

"We're ready to order, pal," Dad said.  "And we'd like a new pitcher.  This one melted while we were waiting for you to run down to Ikea and buy new drinking glasses."

"Ha ha," I replied.  "It's this whole 'multiple-tables-at-a-time' thing.  Keeps me busy.  Crazy, I know."

Complete silence.  Dad, Mom and Missy Sue stared blankly at me.

"What may I get for you?" I asked Mom.

Dad interrupted.

"When I said 'new pitcher,' I meant right now," he said.

"Yes, I know," I replied.  "I thought I could turn in your food order so that it would be prepared while I took care of the pitcher."

"Do this," Dad said.  "Bring us a new pitcher.  Then come to the table.  Pour the drinks.  Then take our orders.  Then turn them into the kitchen and tell those Mexicans to cook the food as fast as possible.  Got it?"

"Yeah, I think so," I replied with a giant smile.  "I'll be back if I need you to repeat that so I can write it down." I grabbed the perfectly fine pitcher off the table and stormed off.  I could hear Dad laughing behind me.

I may or may not have tampered with the new pitcher.  That detail will be revealed when I'm no longer at my current place of employment.  I dropped if off (literally) and proceeded to take the orders.  Dad fired off all four entrees, stressing each syllable to make it clear he'd had enough time to learn everyone's dinner order in the minute or so it took to fetch a new margarita pitcher.  

As I was grabbing the empty tortilla chip basket and empty salsa bowl, and immediately after I said, "I'll be back with more chips and salsa," Dad clutched my forearm yet again and said, "We want more chips and salsa.  Where are you going with those?"

Couldn't you tell? I was going to ship the remnants back to my hungry family in Oklahoma.

"That's the general idea," I replied.  "I do have to take them away to refill them."

Fortunately for me, the food came out quickly.  "Almost too quickly," according to Mom.

They inhaled their four various plates of red meat, accompanied by sounds foreign to those who dine with utensils.  Dad asked me for the bill in the midst of a mouthful of gravy (I didn't even know my restaurant had gravy, by the way...Maybe Mom smuggled it in her purse).  

I dropped off the bill and tried to retreat.  Dad, for the third time, clutched my forearm. 

"We're ready to pay NOW," he said.  He pulled out his wallet, saw that the bill was $92, handed me a $100 bill and said, "Keep the change."

I looked at ______ , whom I know saw all of this unfold, and said, "Oh, you're too kind."

Ten minutes later, as they sat at my booth laughing and bellowing, Mom saw me and pointed to her empty water glass.  I raised the water pitcher in my hand, smiled, and walked in the other direction.

Finally they left.  ______ was the last to leave.  He paused and looked at me like a pussy-whipped puppy, shrugged, and said "Hey, good to see you again."

I couldn't help myself.  I stood there, silent and scowling as my middle finger unabashedly did the talking.  Though he had no direct part in my misery, I blamed him for bringing those horrible creatures into my life and then shrinking away in defeat.

He shrugged again and retreated to his own punishment.  I sauntered to the back and consumed the first draft of that perfectly fine pitcher, clutching it in my hand the same way Dad had clutched my forearm.

Lights, camera, action?

Now trying to offend your TV as well as your computer.

Bitter Waiter: a show based on the blog

All the world is a stage

One of the most tedious types of people to wait on are actors (not a typical A-list actor, but an F-list, I'm-actually-a-waiter-too actor).

Meet Kyle, a Prom King from some small town in the Midwest who translated his Yearbook Superlatives and Division 2A athletic prowess into the delusion that he could act.

He arrived just as my shift was about to end.  Because my co-worker (the most recent in a string of new servers hired straight from the firing pool at Marie Callender's) couldn't take one more table, I had the pleasure of Kyle and his grimace-faced stripper date.

"How are you two this evening?" I asked, fearful of being handed a headshot, a business card, or a link to a YouTube clip.

"Hey bro, I think we're ready to order, we're kind of in a hurry," Kyle said with a pulverizing smile used more effectively to sell cars or scam the elderly out of money. "Do we order from you, or...?"

No.  Ernesto the cook is waiting to telepathically take your order. I'm just here to say I loved your work as Student #4 in that one episode of Veronica Mars.

"Yes, you order from me."

"Oh cool bro!  Say, what's your name bro?"

"Nathaniel," I lied.

"Hey Nathaniel, nice to meet you bro. Hey, buddy, I think we're just gonna do some liquid dinner, HA HA HA HA, is that cool, dude?"

"Mmmm hmm," I said.

"I think I'll have a beer, bro!"

"Any preference?" I asked.

"Surprise me, buddy," he said.  "You seem like you know what's up, Nate!"

Kyle flashed a grin to his date as if to say "Don't I win points for being nice to the retarded waiter?"

"And for you?" I asked of the wanton woman.

"Uhhhhhhhhmmmmmmmmmmmmmm," she whined.  "Do you all make yummy mojitos?"

"We can't do mojitos," I said.  "We don't have mint behind the bar."

"Uhhhmmmm...ok.  I've neeever heard of a Mexican restaurant not having mojitos," she said.

Even though mojitos are inherently Cuban...

"Couldn't you, liiiiike, just make it without mint?" 

"You just want rum, club soda, lime and sugar?" I asked.

"Yeah!"

"I can already tell you that's going to be disgusting," I warned.

"Hey, Nate," Kyle interjected. "Whatever the lady wants, ok bro?"

"But of course."

I returned with the not-mojito for the hooker and a Buckler beer for the thespian.  

"Never heard of this one before, man," Kyle said.

"It's a special beer," I said.

He poured the beer into a chilled glass without looking at the label and then handed me the empty bottle.

The lady took one sip of her cocktail and voiced her displeasure.

"This is, liiiike, waaaay too tart," she said.

"That's because there's no mint in it," I replied.

"No, it's not that," she said.  "I think the rum is spoiled.  Like, it's really gross.  Taste it and see."

May I?  Please?  Because I won't believe you until I taste your poor decision-making.

"No thanks," I replied.  "What would you prefer instead?"

"I guess, like, an apple martini," she said.

"Just make it extra strong, bro," Kyle said.  "That's the least you can do, right?"

Fast forward two more rounds, even though Kyle originally claimed to be in a hurry, and the lady was clearly drunk.  Kyle was "acting" drunk, giving a performance only a Razzie could love.  As the dénouement of his schtick, he pantomimed the "check" sign with his right hand.  

Kyle took a wad of cash and stuffed it inside the check presenter.  He escorted his date out to the parking lot.  I sped to the empty booth to assess the financial damage.

Kyle hadn't even paid the full bill.  He was short by $5.  I marched out to the parking lot just as Kyle was making sure his zipper was properly zipped.

"Excuse me," I said in a chipper tone.

"Hey Nate, sup?"

"Yeeeeah, you actually still owe $5," I said.

"Ha, I doubt that bro.  You probably just mis-added or dropped some of the cash or something."

"Yes.  OR you didn't count correctly."

"Tell you what, buddy," he said with that same nails-on-a-chalkboard grin.  "We're trying to get to a screening of this flick I did, so, here's $5 and we'll just have to call it even."

I could tell this exchange confused the hooker, as she sat in the passenger seat looking at me, then Kyle.  He ignored my glare, smiled at her, and drove off to his big (and more than likely only) night.