the bitter waiter

Coming soon to a TV set near you!

More this week on my revenge-seeking shenanigans.  But first!  Take a peak at the world of "Bitter Waiter" in anticipation of the premiere webisodes.  Watch interviews with the characters, see behind-the-scenes photos and more, at http://www.bitterwaiter.net/

Revenge is a dish best served by me, part two

3.  "Don't mess around with the guy in shades"

One night, D'andre the pimp and his posse of bling-wearing pole-dancers decided to test my limits with all manners of bizarre requests.

"Do you have a silver tray to bring out the drinks on?"

"I thought you were supposed to make the guacamole at the table?"

"One time my friend came here and they gave him a free burrito 'cause he had to wait awhile.  Hook me up wit tat."

Come bill time, and D'andre paid the $99.97 bill with a one hundred dollar bill.  And no tip.  I threw the three pennies back at the table as subtely as I could.

"Haha, those three pennies was good for three wishes, n***a!" he cackled.  "Getting to wait on these sexy women was your tip."  As he said this, he did a hand-flourish that showcased the three beauties, each with varying states of dental decay and lopsided boob jobs.  All three of them found it knee-slappingly hilarious that they were my gratuity.

"No he dee-dn't!" they howled.  And then they left. 

Unfortuantely for D'andre, who was so drunk off cognac that he could barely walk with his for-decoration-only pimp cane, he left his sunglasses.  And one of the prostitutes left her Prada-isn't-even-spelled-correctly knock-off purse.

The sunglasses were broken into a million pieces and thrown into the garbage with D'andre's chips and salsa remnants.  And the prostitute's purse was bunt-kicked in the restaurant parking lot, no doubt spilling in front of some random stranger's car and offering up an assortment of fruit-flavored condoms.

D'andre returned to the restaurant minutes later to see if I'd procured either of his lost belongings.

"Nope, sorry," I said without looking at him.  "But here's a penny.  Make a wish, and maybe your belongings will turn up."

Revenge is a dish best served by me, part one

Sometimes, for the sake of decency, I've ommited the details of my attainment of justice at the restaurant.  But today I feel quite candid.  For in the face of needlessly difficult people, vengeance has frequently smiled upon me & helped me serve piping hot plates of comeuppance to some of the worst people ever. 

I'll be sharing my top 10 favorite revenge stories over the coming weeks.  For today, I offer these two as a mere appetizer.  Bon appetit, bitches.

1.  "Wait between the two palm trees"

When a rotund Latina girl and her Laker-loving scum-of-the-earth boyfriend held up my biggest booth for nearly three hours, I was mildly annoyed.  When the two of them had me print itemized receipts of who ordered what, my blood began to boil.  And when they tipped me $5 on an $80 bill?  I felt obliged to teach them a lesson.

"Yo we need a cab, yo," Rrrrrramon said while picking his teeth.  "And hurry 'cause we got a concert at Universal City Walk that startin' in 20 minutes."

"Oh.  Sure," I responded.  I walked over to the bar, picked up the phone, dialed my own cell phone, pretended to talk to the cab company, and returned to the booth.

"The cab driver says he'll be outside in five minutes," I said with a smile.  "Just wait outside between the two palm trees by the front door."

The two palm trees by the front door are a frequent urinal for our local homeless.  The area smells like Satan's bathroom.

So I poured myself a shot from my flask, neglected my equally difficult customers, and watched for a good 10 minutes as Rrrrrramon and his chubby lady glanced at their shared watch, held their nostrils, gestured, and finally decided to use a payphone to call the cab company themselves.  They were most certainly late for the concert. 

2.  "Do you understand??"

Within my first two weeks at the restaurant I'd been inappropriately placed on the patio.  Inappropriate because 1) I am disgusted by cigarette smoke, which at the time was still allowed on the patio and 2) I am even more disgusted by the hordes of rude Armenians who nest out there.

But my most memorable moment on the patio was with an uptight white prick who felt it his place to belittle me.

"Hi, how..." I began upon greeting him.

"Yeah great look," he said without glancing up from his newspaper.  "I want...CHICKEN FAJITAS.  FAJITAS...And I want...now write this down.  EXTRA.  CHICKEN.  Got that?  Because every damn time I come here, I *always* ask for extra chicken.  And you know what I don't wind up getting?  EXTRA.  CHICKEN.  Do you understand??"

"How fascinating, extra chicken," I replied.

"Don't patronize me," he snapped.  "Did you write down EXTRA CHICKEN?  Show me your notepad."

I flashed him a glimpse of my scribblings.  "Go fuck yourself EXTRA CHICKEN."

Unfortunately I was not around when the food runner delivered the fajitas.  And even though I had not only written it down, asked the line cook in person, AND double-checked a few minutes later, the prick's fajitas came out with a sole order of chicken. 

Of course I was not aware of this until I was greeting the table next to him.  And even though I was in mid-sentence, he felt compelled to interrupt me.  Loudly.

"HEY MORON," he yelled.  "Does this look like extra fucking chicken to you??"

You could have heard a pin drop.  The other customers stopped and stared.  I think the Muzak itself was so shocked that it enabled complete silence. 

I stared with my jaw at my knees, half-compelled to slap him, half-compelled to run into the alley and call my mother, sobbing.

Instead, I collected myself, apologized insincerely, and assured him I'd be right back with a whole new chicken breast. 

My treat.

I asked the dim-witted kitchen worker to give me a grilled chicken breast.

"Jew want that sliced?" he asked.

"No," I said.  "I'll slice it myself."

He served me a bare grilled chicken breast on a plate.  Without a word I marched to the dish area.  And although I said earlier that I am feeling quite candid today, certain details of this story -- which in my defense took place more than five years ago, which itself is a paper thin defense -- shall remain forever undisclosed.  All I'll say is that I let my dirty hands and a dirty knife smooth over the sting of being publicly labeled a moron.  Also, generous amounts of cayenne pepper.

I brought out the chicken with a song in my step and smile in my heart.  "Heeeeeere!" I exclaimed.

As I walked back into the main portion of the restaurant, I could hear the sonofabitch choking, cursing and chugging water. 

Revenge, it's a spicy dish.

Spit shine

Throughout my years in LA, I've encountered many delusional, rancid, mean-spirited homeless people.  Sadly, I've also served a few at the restaurant.  And I once made one of them so angry that he spit on me when I refused to pay his bill.

Enter Hollis, a crazy old doodle-sack-carrying hermit who used to beg for change on our patio.  Like clockwork each week, he'd stop by, give a sob story to our customers, plead, and then the owners would chase him off. 

And then one week he came inside the restaurant and demanded service.  Instead of checking with the host, instead of waiting for anyone to greet him, he headed straight to the chip and salsa bin and helped himself. 

"ExCUSE me," the owner bellowed with gross disdain.  "Those are for our paying customers."

Without a word, Hollis ate a chip, belched, and flashed a worn ten dollar bill.

"Is that for buying food?" the owner asked.

"WELL IT'S NOT FOR WRAPPING CHRISTMAS PRESENTS!" Hollis snapped.  "I want to sit over THERE!"

He pointed at my table and sat himself.  The owner shot me a look that implied I was to blame for all of this. 

"Get him out of here quickly," the owner muttered.

I approached Hollis, who was licking the crumbs and grease out of his chip basket.

"Hi," I said cautiously.  Hollis didn't look up.  He tried to hand me his saliva-soaked basket.

"Yeah, I'll grab you a new one," I said.  Upon my return, Hollis proudly held up his ten dollar bill.

"What will this get me?"

Your choice of tacos made with rotisserie chicken pulled from the hands of drunken Guadalajarans or a burrito made with ground beef from a processing plant in Galveston, TX.

"Tacos or a burrito," I replied.

"Do they come all slathered with the green avuh-cado dip, melted cheese, grilled onions, salsa and spices?" he asked as drool ran down his cheek.

"The green avuh-cado dip is extra," I responded. 

"How much extra?"

"A dollar fifty."

"So if I got the burrito and added the dip, how much?"

"Depends.  Are you ordering a drink?" I asked.

"What do you have on tap?"

"I meant a soft drink.  You don't have enough for a burrito and a beer."

"I have more money in my wallet," he said.

"Oh really?" I asked.

"Yep."

"Let me, uhm, make sure our...kegs are ready to go."

I ran off to inform the owner that Hollis wanted some hooch.  Just as I was three words into my inquiry, the owner hissed at me.

"You've been working here too long to need me to babysit you!" he yelled.  "Just DEAL with it!!"

"Fine."

And with that, I returned to Hollis' table with a beer and a free shot of tequila.  If I was going to deal with a disgusting, disease-carrying lunatic, in addition to waiting on Hollis, I was going to make this fun.

"This is on the house.  Just because."

Hollis offered no thank you or indication that this wasn't expected.

"I want my burrito," he said.

Not two minutes later, Hollis' zesty burrito was ready to meet its maker.  And after an additional two minutes, the entire thing was devoured.  Hollis then got up to leave, taking his half-consumed beer with him.

"Pardon me," I said.  "but I'll be right back with your bill.  And you can't take your drink outside of the restaurant."

"Leave me alone, I already paid," he slurred.  "I (hiccup) gave you a (hiccup) ten dollar bill."

"No, you showed me a ten dollar bill," I responded.  "And your bill is $15.45."

"I only have ten (hiccup) dollars," he said.

"You said you had more money."

"NO I DIDN'T!  YOU PAY IT!  LEAVE ME ALONE!"  And with that, Hollis spit on my Payless work shoes.  I grabbed the beer out of his hand and marched over to the office.  Knowing that being unable to pay one's entire bill is a matter for management, not the server, it pained me to bother the owner.  But I just had to.  I decided to let my least two favorite people of the day fight it out.                                                                                                                                                                                                   --

I still run into Hollis when I least expect it.  Sometimes I see him at my gym parking lot muttering nonsense to unexpecting yogis.  Other times we'll run into each other outside the grocery store, where he's digging through the trash or walking in circles. 

And once in a blue moon, I'll recommend that he return to the restaurant for another burrito and beer.  Just to make the owner's day. 

I heard that: Charlie Sheen edition

Years ago, while in the presence of Hollywood's latest train wreck, I encountered few signs of his current dementia.  I did, however, glean this nugget from the experience.

CHARLIE SHEEN: (drunk) HEY WAITER...

ME: Mmm?

CHARLIE: What do you all do with the food you throw out at the end of the night?

ME: It goes in the Dumpster.  Why?

CHARLIE: Because I have, like, a shit load of food left over from a party and I'm trying to find a place to throw it all away.  'Cause I don't want to give it to crazy homeless people.  Maybe I'll just use your Dumpter.

ME: Go right ahead.

CHARLIE: Wasn't asking for permission, bro.