the bitter waiter

The grandfather clause

More than most days spent in a restaurant, I dread the day after Thanksgiving. 

The rich are out shopping, the poor are out begging, and the Persians are out permeating society with their toxic stench of Rite Aid-brand cologne and homemade cigars.

And no one, including the wait staff, is in a pleasant mood.

So when Grandpa Gay and his dainty house boy, an irritating Latino number, strolled into the restaurant and sat themselves in my section, I thought my pretty little head was going to explode.

"This table is dirty," Grandpa barked at me while I was talking to another customer.  He was dressed in what appeared to be a cloak and some slacks that were no doubt expensive.  In 1976.

"That's because you sat yourselves at a dirty table," I said, barely turning my head in his direction. "Maybe if you ask the host nicely, he'll clean it off for you.  Hell, he might even throw in a menu and some utensils."

"SO WHERE DO I FIND THE HOST?" Grandpa snapped.

"Think hard...where's the last place you remember seeing him?" I asked.

Granpda fired off an order to Lucy Ricardo to go fetch the host, which caused the house boy to get quite sassy.  Arms folded, shades drawn, and nose in the air, he sauntered up to the host stand with the poise of Carmen Miranda and the speed of any common bus boy.

I grabbed chips and salsa and braced myself for Grandpa.

"Well hi there!" I sang.  "May I bring you two anything to drink?"

"We'll take two iced teas," Gramps said while scowling at the tortilla chip in his hand.

"Aye, NOOOOOO!" Lucy Ricardo protested.  "Jew said we coot have margaritath!?!?!"

"No," Grandpa replied coldly.  "Iced teas."

"HMPH!" Lucy exclaimed, trying his best to rotate 180 degrees in the booth and turn his back to Gramps and me.  He busted out his Blackberry, no doubt Tweeting to his fellow house boys that he hoped they fared better in the border slave auction.

I returned with the two iced teas.  Before I could set them down, Grandpa waved the menus in my face and said, "Two cobb salads."

"Aye, NOOOOO!" Lucy protested.  "But I'm tho HUNgry!"

Funny, and I was under the impression you'd recently been stuffed with white meat.

"Then have a chip," Grandpa replied.

"HMPH!" she exclaimed again and retreated to her Blackberry.

As I collected the menus, grandpa waved his wrist at me in expediting annoyance as if to say, "That's all."

No shit, Angela Lansbury, what did you think I was going to do, stick around and sing The National Anthem?

The salads were prepared and delivered with merciful speed.  Minutes later, Grandpa set his empty plate and silverware on the very edge of the table.  I grabbed the plate and began to walk off, until Lucy shrieked, "Wait!!!  I'm almoth done with myyyyne!"

I stood there, watching him finish the remains of his salad.  In the time it took to complete this, I could have accomplished any number of more important things, like doing magic tricks with Grandpa's cloak or calling the authorities to verify if Lucy was legally staying in the states.

Hours later Lucy was finished and I took the dirty plates back to the dish pit.  When I returned, Grandpa demanded, "Where's my to-go box?"

"I beg your pardon, madam?"

"I wanted you to put the rest of my salad in a to-go box," he said, eyes closed.

"There was nothing left on your plate except your fork and knife," I replied.

"There was a small piece of chicken.  I wanted to give that to my dog."

Then you should have reached across the table and handed it to him.

"Your plate's already being meticulously cleaned by Mario, our dishwasher," I said.  "I can bring you a small piece of chicken if you insist."

"Idiot," he muttered under his breath. 

"Ja ja ja!!" Lucy giggled.

I had to think fast.  Nevermind whether or not to bring out chicken, I needed to figure out how I could get my comeuppance in this situation.  Like I said in posts earlier, the years spent working at this place are starting to get to me, thus I must find new and inventive ways of making my job fun.

And then Grandpa interrupted my deep thinking.

"You just bring the bill," he announced.  "I'm going to the restroom."

To emphasize this point, Lucy made the infamous "We'll take the bill" motion with his free, non-Twittering hand.  And then inspiration arrived.

As quickly as I could, I rang in a margarita and flew to the bar to retrieve it.  While Gramps was still powdering his nose, I quickly and quietly set the margarita in front of Lucy while she was busy Tweeting.

Minutes later I returned.

"What's this?" Grandpa asked. 

"That's a margarita," I replied.

"Why is it on the table?"

"Jeah, why ees it on de taay-bull?" repeated Lucy.

"Because I thought you ordered one while he was in the restroom, remember?" I said with doe eyes.

"You ordered a MARGARITA?!" Grandpa demanded.

"Non, non!" Lucy begged in fear of the belt.

"I'm...pretty sure you did," I said.  "Oh, and here's your bill.  Whenever you're ready..."

I stayed within close enough proximity to hear the exchange.  Try as he might to defend himself, Lucy failed to convince Grandpa that he hadn't attempted to sneak a libation while not under watch.  They exchanged haughty words, then Lucy stormed out.  Grandpa paid the bill (minus the margarita, plus a 10 percent tip), flung his cloak over his JC Penney blouse and slacks, and strolled out.  

I took the untouched margarita to the back, away from the line of the security camera, and once again savored the sweet taste of revenge.

Of fanny packs and frugality

My restaurant is located within an unfortunately close proximity to Universal Studios. It's not close enough to be in the park, thank God, or I would have startled unsuspecting visitors by jumping in front of a tour bus long ago.

But it's within few enough miles that we attract the inevitable ilk of fanny-packers.

This past weekend I greeted a family of three who were fresh from the park. Dad, a cheesy prankster with a penchant for jokes from Bob Saget's waste basket, and Mom, a frumpy, joyless creature who did nothing but hover over her portion of the table, made it CLEAR that 1) they were from out of town and 2) they wanted the most bang for the buck at our low-end, couldn't-be-any-cheaper Mexican restaurant.

"What's your name?" Bob Saget asked. I cringed. And like an idiot, I gave him my actual name instead of a made-up moniker.

"Oh, like the bank," he said.

I rolled my eyes and tried to remove them with my pen.

"Say, I'd like to make a withdrawal and get some cash, HAHAHAHAHAAHAHAAHAHA!"

He looked at Mom (no laughter), daughter (no laughter) and me (blank canvas). Yet he kept on laughing.

"Well we're from out of town," he continued, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. "Never been to LA before."

You're kidding...

"So maybe you can guide us through the menu. I don't like anything weird or gay, so no salads or fru fru stuff. But maybe something really good, like steak."

"Of course," I replied. "Might I start you with off with a masculine beverage while you peruse the menu?"

"I'll take your least expensive margarita," he said. "My wife can just have a water, and does chocolate milk come with the kid's meal?"

"No," I said. "We don't have chocolate milk."

"How about strawberry milk?" he asked.

"God. No."

"Well why don't you just add a shot of grenadine syrup to the milk?" he suggested while looking at his daughter and nodding his head.

She shrugged her shoulders, no doubt counting the seconds until she turned 18 or convinced her local state court to emancipate her at a young age.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"Yes Mr. Banker," he said. "Let's give it a try, I think it sounds great!!!"

I returned with the drinks. As I was setting them on the table, Bob Saget fired off a dozen or so of the dumbest questions I've ever been asked in regard to the menu.

"Are chicken fajitas made with chicken or steak?"

"I see lunch specials are only available until 4. Does that mean I can't order it [now at 7 pm]?"

"How many tacos come on the any-two-item combo?"

"What kinds of pasta do you have?"

And finally, while I was doing everything I could to indicate that I was in fact busy, Dad asked, "Buddy, look, what's the cheapest thing here?"

"The customers," I replied.

Bob Saget laughed weakly, looked at his comatose wife and daughter, and then looked back up at me.

"I think that zinger calls for bringing over the manager," he said.

"Fine," I replied, and summoned the manager from his nap in the office.

A free dessert was offered to smooth over my impulse reaction, and my request to transfer the table was denied.

Bob Saget and company ordered and consumed their meals without incident. I think he was less offended by my remark and more hurt that I didn't find him as amusing and endearing as he found himself

Subsequent returns to the table to inquire about the quality of meals and such were met with meek statements like "We're fine, I guess," and "Yeah, ok, she can have more cherry milk, I guess."

Come bill time, I was surprised to find that Bob Saget left me a $10 tip on a $30 bill.
--

Thirty minutes later, the host approached me.

"Did you wait on a table that gave you a $10 tip on a $30 bill?" he asked.

"Yes," I replied. "Please don't tell me he's calling to tell me another joke."

"No," the host said. "He says he accidentally over-tipped you and wants some of his money back."

I let the manager deal with that conversation and gladly returned the $5 this man so desperately needed. If it in any way expedited his return to small-town living, where he was no doubt regarded as a high king of comedy, I would have paid for the entire family's airfare.

The Bitter Waiter Fan Club meeting

Once in a blue moon I'll somehow wait on a complete stranger who's read this enchanting little blog. Never, though, has this chance encounter been intentional.  Until...

A few evenings ago, I was suspicious when the host pointed to a group of unknowns he'd just sat in my section.

"They requested you," he said.

"Who are they?"

"They just said they wanted to be waited on by the guy who writes the blog," he said.

"Shit."

I played dumb when I greeted the table.  I'll describe them as three pale, pudgy stoners with clothes better left to those with hacky sacks and rainbow-beaded dreadlocks.

"Hi, how are..."

"WE WANT WALK-O-MOY-LAY!" bellowed the apparent ringleader of this poorly veiled undercover operation.

"I see," I replied.  "Would you like..."

"WE WANT WALK-O-MOY-LAY NOW!" he said again, looking around to see if his dining companions were laughing.  They were.

"You know, I read your blog," said Shaggy, the man in charge.

"Yes, I gathered," I replied.  "And so that actually made you want to see it in person?"

"Our friend went to college with you, and she said while we're in LA we should come bother you and be in your blog."

"Which friend?" I asked.

"She doesn't want me to tell you."

"Well.  I don't normally make it a habit to blog about people who intentionally come in here," I said.  "It's only funny when people genuinely behave badly, not when they're making an effort to be annoying."

"Oh I think we can behave badly enough," he said.  "I'll bet I can get you real pissed off so I can be on your blog."

I think your efforts towards fifteen minutes of fame would be better suited for The Biggest Loser.

Tempting as this was to go mano a mano with my pungent new friend, I told the manager I was being harrased by my new table and would need to transfer them.

He said no.

I was in no mood to "perform" for a group of people whose sole purpose in patroning the restaurant was to piss me off.  Nevertheless, sometimes it's all a matter of giving the public what they want.  I returned to the rumpus room.

"What do you annoying little drop-outs want to eat?" I asked.

"I want the chicken nachos," Shaggy said.  "With black beans on the side.  And guacamole on the side.  And sour cream on the side.  And jalapenos on the side.  And salsa on the side.  And the cheese on the side.  And the chips on the side."

"Fine," I replied.

I looked at his lady friend, an uncanny dead ringer for both Danny DeVito and Rhea Pearlman.  "And what may I..."

"Wait," he said.  "My water is empty."

"You poor thing.  Anyway, as I was about to ask, what may..."

"I need more water now, please.  This salsa is very spicy."

"Ok," I smiled.

I let them watch me chat with my co-workers, play with my hair, sit down and chat at the booth of my regulars, stand on the patio and watch the stars, giggle with the host, and pretend to watch football at the bar. 

And then I went outside with my servers who smoke cigarettes and held my breath as I feigned interest in their personal lives.  I restocked straws at the service station.  I swept the tortilla chip area.  I ran food for other servers to their tables.  I helped an old lady take a large take-out order to her car.  I greeted new tables.  I texted my Christmas list to my mother.  I double-checked my grocery list.

Finally, the host let me know that my fan club requested my presence.

"Oh I'm so sorry, I completely forgot all about you," I said.

"Did you turn in those chicken nachos?" Shaggy asked.

"Nope."

"So are you now, like, trying to be a bad waiter just for the Hell of it?"

"Seems there's a theme there, doesn't it?" I replied.

"Look, man, we aren't really going to try and make things difficult," he said.  "______ said you were really funny so we thought we'd come have a little fun.  Lighten up."

"You offered the warning that you wanted to behave badly," I said.  "I was just playing along for your amusement."

"Nevermind, man, you don't get it.  We were just having fun."

"And were you all ready to finish ordering?" I asked.

"We'll just take the nachos, some more water, and the bill."

I delivered the nachos, and the bill. 

Shaggy pointed to his empty water glass without looking at me.  Clearly I'd upset him by not playing along.  I returned with the restaurant's water pitcher and left it on the table for them.

Shaggy then yelled "Excuse me" while I was taking the order of the table next to him.  He pointed to the credit card on top of the bill.

I took the credit card, ran it, and returned with the bad news.

"Declined," I said.

"Not possible," he said.

I presented him with the receipt of the failed credit card transaction.

"But I put $1,000 in there before we left town," he said looking at Danny/Rhea.

I stood frigidly at the table with my arms folded, eyebrow raised.  "Perhaps you might want to try a different card," I suggested.

"Just try this one again," he said.  After four unsuccessful attempts, I returned to the table.

"It's not going to work."

He checked his wallet to find he didn't have enough cash to pay the bill.  So he pardoned himself and went to the ATM down the street.  He returned with an ample amount of cash, paid the bill, and handed me one dollar on his way out, along with the middle finger.

"We were just having fun, man," he shouted on his way out.

--

The only reason I'm even bothering with this tedious tale is to discourage similar incidents from occurring.  I have enough restraint and composure to withhold the Bitter goods if they're being intentionally sought.  What makes this blog funny is the genuine bad behavior of restaurant patrons, not the affected shenanigans of a grating group of bored burn-outs. 

And for the record, it's funny that a perfectly valid credit card can be declined.  When you intentionally type in the wrong numbers instead of running the card.  Hope you enjoyed your unnecessary walk to the bank, Shaggy.  May this entry make you proud.

My hero

Waiter thwarts dine-and-dish

The Feminine Mistake

About once a week I wait on a gaggle of aging witches who work at the local hair salon. 

They request free drinks, check the mirrors to inspect their anti-age injections, argue over the bill, modify meals seven ways 'til Sunday, and bat their batty lashes at me as if I find any of them remotely desirable. 

And wouldn't you know that one of them celebrated her birthday in my section last week (on Halloween)? 

The fun began at the bar while the party trickled in.  The birthday girl arrived first in some sort of monochromatic blouse first made hideous by Courtney Thorne-Smith in the early '90s. 

"Isn't this fun!?!?!" she announced to the bartender and me, referencing her tacky attire.

If by "fun," you mean "This might have looked better as the bed skirt in a Santa Fe bed and breakfast," then yes, it's "fun."

"It's my birthday, you know..."

"Oh," the bartender and I said in unison.

"So I guess I'd like an apple martini.  With Grey Goose.  Extra Grey Goose, easy on the mix.  And instead of a cherry garnish, I'd like an apple slice."

I left the bartender to the birthday girl's wishes and turned to see the host setting up a party of 15 people in my section.  Apparently the birthday girl requested those exact tables -- and her party wouldn't be complete for another two hours.

She took her apple martini (for which she left no tip) and sauntered over to the table while doing some sort of mock-dance that Oprah guests do when they first enter to say "Everyone look how fun and sassy I am!!"

"IT'S MY BIRTHDAY!!" she exclaimed to me.  Memories of 0-10 percent tips came flooding back, so you can imagine the lackluster expression on my face.

Once the other members of the coven arrived, I switched from Xanax to paint fumes to numb the cackling, the indecision of ordering, the insincere "YOU LOOK GREAT"s, and the smell of pre-Menopausal desperation. Fifteen 40-something women were screaming at me at once.  A significant piece of my soul died that afternoon. 

Each one of them ordered the exact same salad, but after all the modifications, no two salads were the same.  Extra chicken here, no red onions there, dressing on the side for Hagatha, no dressing for Gertie, and on and on and on.  

When the last member of the birthday bunch arrived, looking like Faye Dunaway but with a lot of plastic surgery, she claimed she'd already eaten and couldn't stay long (ie didn't want to chip in when the bill came). 

"I'm SO sorry, I can only stay for a bit!" Faye said.

"Well isn't that ironic?" the birthday witch whispered to me.

"How is that irony?" I replied.

"Because she can't stay long."

"That's not irony," I said.

"Uhm, clearly Mr. Waiter doesn't know what irony is."

"Clearly."

--

Minutes later the dinner servers arrived, and I played my favorite game of "Transfer the Table" to one of my least fortunate co-workers.

As I was collecting my receipts and attempting a speedy departure, I overheard the birthday witch and one of her cohorts discussing the early exits of some of their friends (without paying). 

"She didn't pay for her salad OR her drink!" the witch said.

"So does that mean you'll have to pay for it?" the friend asked without giving a second thought to pitching in.

"I...guess so.  My own birthday party and *I* have to pay for people."

As much as I wanted to offer my take on these circumstances, and perhaps even suggest a one-word summary of the situation, I felt it best to escape before I found myself sitting at the bottom of a cauldron. 

 

 

Smoke break

I'll return momentarily with another round of politically incorrect portions and a sizzling platter of scathing indictment.  Bear with me while I grab your waiter.