the bitter waiter

Bare naked ladies

How to properly identify if the female customer in your section is a stripper and/or porn star:

1) Her formidable perfume scent is a hybrid of candy corn and baby wipes.

2) She will speak to you, no matter what the statment or question, in a nasal baby-talk voice that some steroid-popping prick once told her was endearing.

3) Her skin is orange (not tan), her hair yellow (not blonde), and her eyes cerulean (not blue).

4) Even if you have four large fajita platters, two pitchers of margaritas and a random whole watermelon, nothing at the table is as substantial as her uneven cleavage.

5) I don't care if you're as gay as John Travolta in a West Hollywood swim meet, she will still mistake your vaguely polite tone for a declaration of admiration and worship.

6) She will stare at the bill in confusion when no one at the bar offers to pick up her tab, despite her best efforts in the restaurant bathroom.

7) She is often dining with Asian stripper/porn star, brunette stripper/porn star, and ambiguously Latina stripper/porn star.

8) At some point in the evening, one of the desperate men who's watched her strip/pleasured himself to her movies will string a few monosyllabic words together in an effort to win her affections.  This will fan the flame of her ego, and she'll look at you as if to say, "Take that."

9) Your name throughout the evening will be "Doll" or "Honey."  Conversely, her name amongst you and your co-workers throughout the evening will be four or five letters in nature, beginning with either "C" or "B."

10) You will be tipped in ones (and not enough of them) taken straight from a cess pool of sweat and degradation. 

I heard that

Michelle, a neurotic, mid-30's "actress," and D'Rell, her requisite sassy gay black friend, sat in my section for unhappy hour.  While fishing for compliments about her garage band blonde looks, Michelle initiated the following conversation:

MICHELLE: I think I need Botox.

D'RELL: GUUUUUUUURL, NO!

MICHELLE: I am serious.  I haven't booked anything in, like, years.  Maybe around the eyes.  And lips.  And forehead.

D'RELL: No no, girl!  You are...STUNNING...just as you are.  STUNNING.

MICHELLE: Ugh, look at me!  I have crow's feet, my lips are sagging, I see wrinkles everywhere...

D'RELL: Baby listen to me.  You are just fabulous, okaay?  You just haven't met the right casting director yet.  You are perfect, you have NU-THING to change.

MICHELLE: Really?

D'RELL: Oh yeah, honey.  And remember, didn't you say you wanted to lose some weight before doing anything crazy with your face?  I'm thinking 15 or 20 pounds?

The boulevard of broken dreams

During my brief stint as a trainer for new servers -- an assignment that ended after one particularly upset young man threw a patio chair into the street after I accused him of not washing his hands after visiting the toilet  -- I encountered a handful of would-be starlets and aspiring actors.

And I heard the same story time and time again...

"Oh, I don't think I'll be working here long," they'd tell me.  "I know people say it takes awhile to make it as an actor, but I'm different.  I have what it takes to make it overnight.  Things are already working out for me.  I mean, I've only been in LA for a week, and I already got a job at this restaurant!!!"

My favorite of all trainees was Melody.  Raised in the parenting school of "Tell Your Hefty Gap-Toothed Daughter She's A Princess," she was as delusional as she was awkward. 

Each time I'd ask her a question, such as "Do you know all the table numbers yet?", she'd look at me as if I were Barbara Walters during the post-Oscar interview show.

"Well Barbara," she'd smile,  "I *do* know all the table numbers.  My Daddy tells me I'm very, very smart."  :)

After an hour of hearing the various dysfunctional accolades doled out carelessly by her parents, I stopped in my tracks when she decided to comment on my career path.

"I mean, you've been here for what, two, three years?" she asked.  "I don't mean to be rude, buuuuuut it's probably not going to happen for you," she said with a smile.

Just as she said this, I noticed one of my least favorite regulars being sat in my section.  His name was Bud, a high school math teacher whose body odor was trumped only by his bad tipping as his worst offense. 

And with that, I set about putting Melody in her place.

Ignoring her insult, I called upon my own gifts as a thespian.

"Do you see that man over there?" I asked with utmost gravity.

"Uh, yeah," she said with visible boredom.

"Melody...do you know who Darren Aronofsky is?"

"Uh, kind of yeah."

"He directed Requiem for a Dream?  The Wrestler?" I exclaimed.

"Oh wow, yeah!" she said.  "Is that him?"

"It sure is," I said.  "And normally I wouldn't advise this, but I agree with you.  You've got what it takes.  I say you screw conventional professionalism and go over there and introduce yourself.  I would myself, but clearly the odds are stacked against me in this town."

"You think I should?" she asked.

"Without question."

I stood within a few feet, pretending to set silverware, so I could hear the entire exchange.

"Excuse me, sir?" she said.

"Yeah?"

"Hi, my name's Melody, and I'm new to town.  I just wanted you to know that I'm, like, a HUGE fan of your work, and I hope we can work together someday.  I'm new to town, but I had these business cards made with my phone number and headshot.  I hope you'll consider me in the future."

I watched as confusion consumed Bud, and Melody floated away on a cloud of her own narcissism.

"Well, how'd it go??" I asked.

"Uhm, I kinda hate to say this, but I nailed it," she said.  "I could tell he was totally impressed with me."

"God I wish I had that kind of confidence," I told her.  And with that, I let her bask in the dream that she'd found a shortcut to fame.  Her ceaseless self-praise was somehow much more tolerable for the remainder of that day.

Oh snap: Coffee talk!

I'll never understand why people come in "just for coffee." After all...

1. Our coffee is generic restaurant supply coffee.
2. We have no soy milk, no skim milk or whole milk.
3. We have no espresso machine.  No cappuccinos, no lattes, no macchiatos.
4. Starbucks is directly across the street.

So when Hipster Writer #1 and Hipster Writer #2 parked themselves in my section with all manners of thrift store flannel and entitlement, intent upon discussing their latest exercise in drivel, I was not having it. 

"We're just here for coffee," Hipster 1 said.  "Two soy no-foam sugar-free non-fat lattes."

I explained that we only serve regular coffee.  Hipster 2 rolled his eyes and said, "Then we'll just take something like a latte." 

Minutes later I returned with two half cups of coffee (black) and a large glass of milk.  Hipster 1 looked away from his screenplay long enough to say:

HIPSTER 1:  Uhhhh, this isn't the latte I ordered.

ME:  Nope, sure isn't.

HIPSTER 1:  You do know what a latte is, man?

ME:  Sure do.  Had one this morning.

HIPSTER 2:  So why are we looking at two cups of coffee and a glass of milk?

ME:  Because I already told you we can't make a latte, as we have no espresso machine, yet you requested something like a latte.  So here's an ample supply of milk in case you want to try and create foam yourselves.  Hint.  Starbucks, 15 feet south. 

With that, the hipsters were out of their seats and complaining to the owner.  And following a two-week vacation (suspension), I returned with no greater mercy for anyone who would dare order a latte -- or anything like it -- from me.

A dog eat dog world

I'm not often stationed on the patio, as the owners have learned I am likely to bark at prospective customers while they stand outside and consider dining with us.

And speaking of barking, the most substantial reason I avoid the outdoor area of the restaurant is because we allow small dogs.  I am not a dog hater, mind you.  But if you think I loathe waiting on people, imagine how much I abhor waiting on dogs being treated like people.

Enter Arshig and Lala, two Armenian bimbos clad in pink sweat suits, Uggggh boots, and jet black errant hairs aplenty that looked as if they were plucked from a janitor's broom instead of a scalp. 

Also enter Lavender, Lala's miniature dog, housed in a plaid Burberry dog carrier and dressed in a heinous pink dog sweater.  If I didn't ultimately find such equal disdain for Lavender as her owners, I would have set the little bitch free.

As soon as I approached the table, Lavender started shrieking and scratching at her carrier.

"Hiiiiiiiiiiiiii," Lala said in an insincere nasal tone that trailed off.

"Hiiiiiiiiiiiiii," I mimicked.  "To driiiiiiiiiink?"

"I'd like a glass of wa-tar with no lemon, no ice, and two straws," Lala said.

"I'd like a glass of wa-tar with lemon, extra ice, and no straw," Arshig said.

"Oh and I'd like a little bowl of wa-tar for my baby here," Lala cooed.

This exchange was fairly difficult to interpret, as Lavender's shrill bark permeated the entire patio.  I've heard painful orgasms in excerpts from midget porn that were more soothing to the ear.

I returned with the waters.

"Ohhhhhh," Lala said in disappointment.  Because she did not elaborate, I ignored her.  She looked at Arshig.

"Ohhhhhh," she repeated.

I examined the pocket of my apron for excess lint.

"OHHHHH.  Er.  Hi excuse me?" she said as if I were 15 feet away.

"mm?" I responded.

"She would like a little bit of ice in her wa-tar," Lala said.

"Do you think she would be satisfied if I just brought out a cup of ice?" I asked.

"No because she wants the water cold, so the ice already needs to be in it."

Right.  I forgot about the "10 Second Rule" of ice, meaning it must be placed immediately in the desired liquid or else it is rendered useless and therefore only ornamental.

"Fine," I said.  "May I take your order first?"

"She and I will split the chicken fa-JEE-ta, with flour tortillas and extra rice," Lala said.

I folded up my notepad and walked away, but not before:

"Oh wait," Lala said.  "And she would like a small side of kobe beef with no seasoning."

"Seriously?" I asked.

Lala and Arshig giggled at each other, mistaking my impulse to strangle them with my apron strings for fondness.  Lavender continued to shriek like one of the Chipettes in a gang bang.

"Haha.  Yeeeeees!" Lala cooed.

Minutes after the food arrived, I was summoned to the kennel.

"Hi excuse me," Lala said.  "I think she thinks this is too spicy."

"She?" I inquired.

"Yeah, the dog?"

Sorry, so hard to tell you all apart.

"Ohhhhhh, she does?" I said with feigned concern.  "How can you tell?"

"She keeps, like, coughing.  And she won't eat it."

"I see," I said.  "Do you think she knows what she might like instead?"

Lala took me at my word.  "Well, sometimes she likes chicken."

"And do her tastes lean more towards rotisserie chicken or grilled chicken?" I asked.

With this, my tone had apparently cracked the Kardashian casing of the ladies, as their facial expressions finally registered a more appropriate reaction to my annoyance. 

"Uh, nevermind," Lala said.  "Ve'll just take the check.  You know, they have no problem accommodating us at [the Armenian restaurant] on Santa Monica Blvd."

Pardon me if I'm not intimidated by a C-rated restaurant that boasts "Armenian food" and "auto repair" in the same advertisement.

I delivered the bill.  Lala grabbed it quickly, threw in a wad of cash and said, "Keep 10 percent for yourself and bring us whatever change is."

"Aww, ok," I replied.  After taking out 25 percent for myself, I returned with the change. 

"You three have a great afternoon," I said. 

As I walked off, Lavender went into a shrieking frenzy.  I accidentally kicked the dog carrier (twice), and walked inside to inform the manager that I suddenly found myself allergic to dogs and therefore unable to ever work on the patio again.