the bitter waiter

The 10 types of diners (part two)

6.  LE DOUCHE

Le Douche, usually of Armenian or Persian persuasion, is there to impress the ladies and demean the staff.  Every single question or command is prefaced with "HEY BRO" in a thick, Dracula-like accent.  He will only speak when he's able to interrupt you.  He can smell single on any woman within a 10-mile radius, freely offering them shots of chilled Grey Goose (and then trying to douche his way out of paying for them).

And speaking of tracking smells, guard your nostrils from his deadly signature scent of body odor, homemade nicotine, and Drakkar cologne. 

7.  THE CLASSY SLUTS

The target audience of Le Douche is usually this unusual hybrid.  Through lucrative careers in porn, these self-esteem challenged ladies of the Internet can afford the finest.  However, there's no accounting for taste.  Unlike the varied orange and blonde components of their bodies, class cannot be purchased.

They're rarely polite because they believe EVERYONE -- from the horny frat boy waiter, to the married hostess, to the flamboyantly gay manager -- wants to sleep with them (and by "sleep" I mean "tie to a stairwell, role play, and degrade").  And I think it goes without saying that they're all collectively as dumb as the day is long.  But because of their moderate income and morally bankrupt fan-base, they get by.

However, even with their dick-sucking lips, ski mogul breasts, Raggedy Ann make-up and yellow follicles, they remind me of the phrase "Paint a turd gold, and it's still a turd."

8. THE PROUD PARENTS

I would never begrudge anyone for engaging in their biological right to procreate.  Expecting me to share their enthusiasm for the little bundle of joy?  That's an entirely different matter.

Furthermore, I have no issue with parents who bring small children into age-appropriate restaurants (seeing as how most of my customers can scarcely draw pictures to express themselves -- let alone speak coherently -- infants blend in seamlessly).  What really irks me is when I'm expected to cater to the child beyond a standard level of restaurant service.

It's not my job to babysit.  It's not my job to cut your child's food.  It's not my job to custom select which colors of Crayon accompany his/her kid's menu.  It's not my job to clean up after your little demon's arts & crafts session with the food.  And it's certainly not my job to coo like Mrs. Doubtfire so you can believe you've done the world a great service by getting knocked up.

Finally, if your little rug rat is throwing a tantrum, perhaps you might try taking him/her outside as not to ruin the dining experience of those around you?  No?  Feeling as though your ability to reproduce gives you license and superiority?  Think again.  No one else is excited to meet your child.  No one.

9. THE VERBAL TIPPERS!!!!

They...are so...happy to be there!!  This drink is yummy!!  This carne asada is the best I've ever had!!  May we have please please have more yum yum chips and salsa please??  Thank you!!  This was the BEST service we've ever had here, we will ask for you next time we come back!!  Call over the owner and let us tell him how A-W-E-S-O-M-E you are!!!

Followed by:

Thanks.  I took all those needless accolades you doled out in lieu of a decent tip.  I called the Los Angeles Department of Water and Power to see if I could apply your compliments towards my bill.  Guess what?  I can't.  So if you want to show gratitude, tip accordingly, and save your grating blather for The Proud Parents and their ugly baby.

10.  EVERYONE ELSE

Out of fairness, I have to make some provision for those of you who know how to dine in public.  Not everyone is a wretched customer.  In fact, I'd say 85 % of the people I serve are without annoyance or incident.  They're polite, I provide speedy and reasonably warm service, they pay the bill when they're done, tip at least 20 %, and leave. 

But what fun would it be if I blogged about them?  We'll stick to that other 15 % of humanity. 

The 10 types of diners (part one)

A wise man once said that there are 10 different types of restaurant customers.  That wise man was me, and between this entry and the next I'll be discussing the 10 most nefarious stereotypes and bad habits that have followed me for nearly a decade across restaurants in three different states ("states" meaning the 50 nifty, not chemical.  Well, not entirely). 

As I slowly begin to eye my current restaurant's exit, I'll be a lot more candid about my experiences, culminating in a tell-all expose that I hope results in some sort of law suit, then a book, then a movie starring Ryan Reynolds as Bitter Waiter, and myself as Ryan Reynolds.

So.  What type of restaurant customer are you?  In no certain order:

1.  THE PLANTATION MASTER

The minute you put on that apron, you might as well carry around a sack of feed on your back, for the plantation master sees you as his acquired property for the course of his meal.  There will be no pleasantries, no pleases or thanks.  At least twice he'll make sure to ridicule your efforts in front of his companions.  He's more apt to tip a vending machine than a waiter. 

Ironically, the plantation master is often a once-beleagured minority who enjoys the turn of events that a young, strapping white boy is willing to work for his dollar.  The plantation master can go fuck himself, because said white boy learned more from acting classes in an Oklahoma community college than the plantation master learned while cheating on the GED.

2.  THE McMISERABLES

Mr. and Mrs. McMiserable are fundamentally unhappy, and you are to blame.  For everything.  One wonders why they venture into public, given their propensity for glaring, scoffing and claiming every ailment under the sun.  All because of you.  All because of the world.  All because of everyone but themselves. 

3.  ALL THE SINGLE LADIES

Not all of them, mind you.  Just many of them.  They hem and haw, making sure they've explored EVERY option on the menu.  They need to know what Kathy is ordering, because thinking for themselves is not an option. 

Joanie is ordering the fajitas?  Maybe Suzanne can convince her to split them.  Ack!  If only Suzanne could muster the courage to ask.  No no, Suzanne will suffer silently and select the caesar salad.  It's a safe choice, one that will blend in blandly with that conformist haircut and drab dress from some "New-to-you" bargain bin.

And let's not get started on the deciphering of the bill.  Kathy only has her Discover card, which the restaurant doesn't accept, so she'll need to run down the street to the ATM.  That's because Suzanne and Joanie are too cheap to say "Hey Kathy, I'll get this one, you pay next time."  And THAT'S because Suzanne and Joanie know that Kathy will never pay them back, because she's just as frugal as they are.

What will ultimately happen is that Kathy will leave $20 cash.  She won't say "____ amount of that is your tip."  By placing that $20 in the check presenter, she's suggesting that all $20 of it go towards the bill.  That means that when Joanie and Suzanne pay on their debit cards, they'll only tip on their portion.  I could draw a Venn Diagram illustrating this simple notion.  I could call in Isaac Newton, David Hibbert and Albert Einstein to explain.  Once the cards and cash come together, even though I have circled the TOTAL of the bill in bright red ink, the math is too much for them.

And then Kathy, Suzanne and Joanie will linger for upwards of an hour in my section, while the restaurant is on a long wait, acting as the ultimate road blocks to my income.  All so they can lie to Suzanne, affirm her haircut, and remind themselves that it's HIS loss.

4.  THE W.A.S.P. NEST

They were born into white privilege.  You earn your living through actual labor.  Nary the two worlds shall meet or understand each other.

Even the answering of simple questions pertaining to beverage and food will be met with acute condescension.  In those few instances where you can assert your intelligence (and maybe even drop a hint that you, too, once benefitted from white privilege), it will only be met with the same insincere respect that was afforded to Chris Burke, the mentally retarded actor from "Life Goes On," when he released a studio album of children's music.

"Oh good for you!!!!!!!!!!" Patronizing soccer mom will exclaim while e-n-u-n-c-i-a-t-i-n-g in case you, the probable offspring of a dish washer and a tortilla maker, have hearing problems from your upbringing in a dish pit. 

They'll proudly tip you 15 percent, making sure to hand it to you themselves. 

"Here you go!!!!!!!!  Good job!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

5.  QUEEN OF QUEENS

Oh sure, everyone just loves the gays.  What with their innovations in design, music, and fashion, they're a unique mix of secular respect and social taboo. 

But more so than the others, they can bring in the biggest, most fabulous bag of entitlement this side of Stonewall.  And once the liquor kicks in, well...watch your privates.

Take Shaun, for example.  At first he's perfectly polite and reasonable.  Sure, he might mention a thing or two about his ex, a seemingly great prospect whom he met on DudesNude.com.  But he's initially gregarious and fun to be around.

But beware of cocktail #3.  That's when Shaun gets a little grabby.  That's when even the simplest utterance from you can turn into nauseating double entendre or innuendo.  For instance (from experience):

ME: "Would you like another drink?"

SHAUN: "NO BUT I'D LIKE ANOTHER DICK!"

ME: "Were you ready to order?"

SHAUN: "YEAH I'D LIKE TO ORDER YOU TO TAKE OFF YOUR (hiccup) SHIRT!"

ME: "May I bring you anything else?"

SHAUN: "YEAH HOW ABOUT YOU BRING ME A #*&,   #(@)$    #^&#!"

And once Shaun senses that you've grown tired of his advances, he'll occasionally play the homophobe card regardless of the gender or sexual leanings of his server.  Drama will ensue, threats will be made, names will be dropped, and cash will be non-existent. Very fierce. 

--

That concludes part one of this manifesto.  Part two will be delivered to your table next week.  And if I didn't offend you today, please be patient.  

Behind the music

Of all the stereotypes I've seen come to fruition in a public setting, that of aging rock'n'roller is the most substantiated.  If anything, those many SNL sketches, "This Is Spinal Tap," and "The Osbournes" are understated and restrained in their depiction of the mentally decrepit men behind the music. 

I myself only discovered this recently.  A group of four mid-50s rockers stumbled into my section last week, along with the group hooker and their creepy, googly-eyed manager. 

I greeted them with chips and salsa.

"Who ordered that?" asked Tia, the dumbest hooker I've ever waited on, and that's really saying something.

"Those are nacho chips and dip," replied Rod, the lead singer.  "They're on the house."

The rest of the rockers laughed in unison at this benign declaration.  I soon discovered that, in an effort to appease Rod and his aging ego, his cohorts would laugh at anything he said.  Anything.

The creepy manager, on the other hand, did not laugh.  At 5'4", he sat next to Tia (5'9") as if she were his babysitter.  With his shades firmly planted on his face (at 11 p.m.) and his greasy hair shellacked to his scalp, he did little except appear sinister.  Think of him as the red herring in any "Scooby Doo" episode.  You know right away he isn't really the villain behind Mr. Johnson's headless horseman scare, but he's unsettling and wacky nonetheless. 

"May I bring you all anything to drink?" I asked.

"Do you all make really good mai tai's?" Rod asked.

"I can't say we're renowned for them."

"What's, like, a really good drink to order?" Tia asked.

"I'd say a margarita, off the top of my head."

"Really?" Rod replied with genuine surprise.

Yep.  At a Mexican restaurant with the word "MARGARITA" plastered across both of the front windows.  Go figure.

"Hey guys," Rod announced.  "How do we feel about margaritas?"

The rockers waited to see if this were a test.  They looked at one another, wondering which response would appease their idol.  God forbid he become cross with them and kick them out of the band before that prized reunion appearance at a Mississippi slave auction. 

"Yeah, guys, shall we try some margaritas?"

"Yeah Rod!"

"Sure, Rod, sounds great!"

"Anything you say, Rod.  Just please don't flog me publically again while wearing that devil costume!"

With that, they ordered a pitcher of house margaritas.  My attempts to ascertain whether they wanted their drinks blended or on the rocks resulted in an abstract line of inquiry that's been ommitted for time, space, and sanity.  Let's just say they wanted their pitcher half blended/half on-the-rocks.  And I don't mean "lightly blended."  I mean half and half, literally.

Just as soon as I set the margarita glasses on the table, Creepy Manager reached into his pockets and pulled out something unmarked that resembled a Splenda packet.  He unabashedly poured the substance into each of the six glasses.  I did not ask, I did not judge, I just poured.

I left the band and its groupies to their substances.  Within minutes, the empty restaurant was filled with sporadic vocal riffs and mock-instrument sounds.  I could tell this was a magical night for them, replete with musical inspiration and dreams once more of really living out the band's potential.

Thirty minutes later, I reappeared. 

"Were you all ready to order?"

"Order what?" Rod replied.

That leopard-print statue of Jesus Christ you've been eyeing for your next garage show, of course.

"Your food?" I said. 

"Didn't we already order our food????" Tia asked.

"I think so," the bass guitarist said.

"No guys, we only ordered drinks," Rod said.  The rockers laughed nervously.

"I don't think we're hungry, mate," Rod informed me.

"But we'll take another pitcher of mai tai's!" Tia exclaimed.

Somewhere between ordering the second round and my delivery, something was said to Rod that deeply disturbed him.  I returned to find his head on the table as Tia tried to console him.  From what I gathered and translated, Creepy Manager had offered a piece of constructive criticism (perhaps "Yes, really, brush twice a day" or "No more syphening gas") that fell on deaf ears.

I began to set the pitcher on the table.

"WE DON'T FFFFFFFUCKING WANT THAT ANYMORE, GET IT OUT OF MY FFFFFFFFFACE!" Rod exclaimed.

"I think we'll just take the invoice," Tia informed me.

As I set the invoice on the table, Creepy Manager pulled out a credit card and begged of me a speedy departure.  I complied, and wished the rockers a good night. 

Though I had my hopes set on a revival for this nameless band, I fear I'm the first to inform you that they're going their separate ways.  For once, it was someone else's dreams of stardom that died in my section. 

What's wrong with this picture?

If dining out and splitting a bill between two people creates something akin to a chalkboard prop from "A Beautiful Mind," then you should probably travel with calculator.