the bitter waiter

With child

Hell hath no fury like a pregnant woman kept waiting.

In the midst of a hellaciously busy Friday night, a night normally reserved for people celebrating parole or honing their dine-and-dash skills, I was sat with a party of eight uppity soccer moms and their comatose, latently homosexual husbands. 

Two of the four moms were pregnant, and each of the women spoke with the same condescending cadence:

"Ooooh, Liiiiiiiiisa!  Your arms are so tooooooooned for a pregnant woman!!!"

"Ooooh, Kristieeeeeeee!  I love your HAIR CUT!!!"

"Ooooh, Waiteeeeeer, I'll have more I-C-E-D  T-E-A- please!!!"

I found them tolerable only because they were all so heavily medicated (as was I, thank Christ).  I could have stripped down to a leather harness and some indiscreetly placed feathers, and as long as I had a pitcher of iced tea and salsa refills, these ladies would continue to beam at me as if I were a retarded child selling candy bars.

When it came time to order, each lady checked in to see what the other was ordering.

"Ooooh, Liiiiiiisa!  Tamales?  Oh maybe I'll do that!"

"Ooooh, Kristieeeeeeee!  Spinach IN-CHA-LAH-DAS?  That sounds so Mexican!"

"Ooooh, Waiteeeeeer, what are those thingies that come on that sizzling skillet looking thing, with the peppers and WALK-OH-MOE-LAY?  Yummy!"

I turned in the food order and a brought by another round of iced teas.

"You are so helpful!!!!!!!!!!!" Lisa squealed.  "You're the best little waiter we've ever had here!"

"Golly, thanks!!!!!!!" I said. 

Not two minutes later I brought another salsa refill.

"ANY IDEA WHAT'S TAKING OUR FOOD SO FUCKING LONG?" Lisa asked.  It was dark in the restaurant, but I swear I saw her head do a 360 and her eyes change to red.

"I'm sure it will be a few more minutes," I said calmly.

"WHAT???" Kristie bellowed.

"I'm sure it will be a few more..." I began.

"I HEARD YOU THE FIRST TIME!!" She responded.

With that, I sprinted to the kitchen.  Those Stepford soccer moms were really starting to scare the shit out of me.

"Where's the food for table 32????" I asked the manager.

"Huh?" he asked as if he'd just woken up from anesthesia. 

"Table 32?  Food?  Need me to draw an illustration?"

"Ohhhh yeah," he remembered.  "We lost a bunch of order tickets when the printer ran out of paper."

"Soooooo, you all haven't even started the food for table 32?" I asked.

"We don't even have an order for table 32."

"Did it dawn on you in your infinite wisdom to maybe ask each of us servers if we had any oustanding orders after the kitchen printer broke?????"

"Ehhhh...ehhhhhhhhhhhh," he replied.

I returned to the estrogen den with the bad news.  I hadn't been this nervous since telling the angry customers at my high school Disney Store job that we'd run out of Timon and Pumba Beanie Babies. 

"They LOST our order?" Kristie screamed.

Lisa started to cry.  An angry cry, which really freaked me out.

"Oh now that's just ABTHURD!!" hollered one of the homosexual husbands.

"You are WITHOUT A DOUBT, the SINGLE MOST INCOMPETENT waiter I've EVER had!  And I used to eat at COUNTRY KITCHEN!!!!!!" Kristie informed me.  "WE'RE LEAVING!"

"But..." one of the husbands began to protest.

"NOW!" Lisa and Kristie said in unison.

The group of eight left abruptly.  

And like clockwork, the food runners arrived with the entrees not 30 seconds later.

The pinny penchers

I'll never understand the logic of people on a budget dining in public.  Once you add in restaurant price mark-ups, taxes, costs for sides, and, oh yes, that tedious thing we greedy servers call "tip," you've added about 250% of what it would have cost to make tacos at home. 

Meet Harold and Bertha, a hefty, thrifty couple who were so cheap they insisted on sharing a menu and occupying the same side of the booth (a real feat for fat people).  In this exchange, I do my best to teach them to be specific while seeking a bargain. 

HAROLD: What's the cheapest thing on the menu?
ME: The kid's meal.
HAROLD: We'll take...
ME: They're for kids 12 and younger.
HAROLD: Ok, what's the second cheapest thing on the menu?
ME: Iced tea.
BERTHA: What's the cheapest MEAL on the menu?
ME: A bowl of soup.
HAROLD: Does it come with sides?
ME: No.  Those cost extra.
BERTHA: What's the cheapest meal that comes with sides?!
ME: The kid's meal.
HAROLD: What's the cheapest meal on the menu that comes with sides that's not a kid's meal!?!?
ME: The cheese enchiladas.
BERTHA: But I want beef!   
ME: The kobe beef tacos.
HAROLD: We'll take an order of those.
ME: We're out of kobe beef.
BERTHA: How much are the ribeye tacos? (asked as she's looking directly at the menu description, which includes the price).
ME: They're $14.99 (total lie).
HAROLD: I'll bet it would be cheaper if we just ordered a side of tortillas, a side of steak, a side of onions, a side of cheese, a side of sour cream, and a side of guacamole. 
ME: You could do that...
BERTHA: We'll do that.
ME: You'll only be able to make three tacos that way.
HAROLD: Then we'll take two times the steak and tortillas.
ME: Ok.

(cut to bill time)

HAROLD: This bill is $33.46!?!?  It would have cost less if we'd just ordered two orders of the ribeye tacos!
ME: Correct.

Let them eat cake

If you've read any random entry from this blog, you'll know that I hate serving people with birthdays more than anyone else.

More than waiting on children, more than waiting on large parties, and more than waiting on someone I know personally who inevitably makes a condscending comment like "Oh you're still a waiter?!"

Why?  Because at a Mexican restaurant, people usually expect fanfare like this for a birthday:

Just look how fucking happy the service staff is.  What a crusty pile of bird crap.  During the one instance in which I was forced to sing "Happy Birthday," the only glee on my face was because I'd stolen a piece of birthday cake while no one was watching.

But my least favorite birthday experience ever?  Come.  Put on a festive sombrero, sit back, and let me do all the entertaining. 
---
One evening, as I was listening to the perky hostess/actress/model/singer/dancer/gum-smacking whore prattle on and on about some story that neither involved nor interested me, I watched in horror as a group of 15 Mexicans entered the restaurant with balloons, sombreros, bags of confetti, a puke green ice cream cake, and if I recall correctly, six or seven donkeys. 

"EESA BIRRRRT-DAY!" Grandma Salchicha proclaimed. 

"Happy BIRTHDAY!" the hostess squealed. 

"Fuck me with a paint ball gun," I muttered.

The hostess informed the birthday bandits that there'd be a 30 minute wait for a party of 15.  This did not please Cousin Esperanza, who fought logic with logic:

"But...EESA BIRRRRT-DAY!" she screamed.  I studied the intricate hostage/victim situation going on with her unnaturally curly hair and 100 proof hairspray. 

"Jew should geh-somethin' togayther 'coss EESA BIRRRRT-DAY!!!!"

With this, the hostess took to clumsily moving smaller tables between, by, and around unsuspecting diners.  Five minutes later, voila, a slapdash table fit for fifteen.  And placed awkwardly in the heart of my section.

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

"EESA BIRRRRT-DAY!!!!" Chubby little Conchita informed me.  "Jew should wear dees!"

(Translation: You should wear this.)

With that, Chubby little Conchita handed me a sombrero.

"I thought only the birthday girl was supposed to wear the sombrero?" I asked.

"No," Grandma Salchicha said while shaking her head.  "EESA PARRRRTY!  Everyone wear sombrero!!"

"I...can't," I said searching.  "Allergies."

"Jeh?" she asked.

"The material in the sombrero," I explained.  "Makes me sneeze."

"Este gilipollas no se puede usar un sombrero," she told the others.

(Translation: This retard cannot wear a hat.)

"We haff a birrrrrtday cake," Esperanza bragged.  "Cou jew keep it somewhere cool an safe?"

I accepted the cake and approached the hostess.

"Can you put this in back for me?" I asked her.  "I assume you know where?"

"Sure thing, 10-4!!!" she replied while giving a military salute and smacking her gum.  I wanted to tie her to my exhaust pipe and give her a tour of Southern California. 

I returned to the birthday party and took drink and dinner orders.  The meal and beverage portion of the evening went without off without a hitch.  Esperanza asked for the cake.  She also asked if we had sparklers.  I replied that she was looking at one.  She did not laugh. 

I sauntered to the freezer to find the cake.  Not there.

"I didn't see the cake in the freezer?" I asked the hostess.

"Hahahaha, you're so funny!" the hostess replied.  "No wonder everyone tells me you're so funny!  Why would I put a birthday cake in the freezer?  It's in dry storage."

"You put an ICE CREAM CAKE in dry storage!?!?"

"Ohhhhhhhh," she said.  "That was an ice cream cake?"

"IT SAID 'BASKIN ROBBINS ICE CREAM CAKE' ON THE BOX, YOU RHODES SCHOLAR!!!!" I shrieked. 

The hostess began to cry.  I hot-footed it to dry storage and opened the cake box:

Normally I'd make the hostess inform the party of her error, but in light of her tears I knew I'd have to handle this one. 

"Be subtle, be friendly," I told myself.

"So your cake's completely melted," I told them. 

Judging by the various wailings and groans I received in response, I wondered if I'd told them that a cake had melted, or that Grandpa Sanchez was sent to jail for tax evasion. 

"Dees ees un-asseptable," Grandma Salchicha told me as she wagged her finger in my face.

"I really am sorry," I told them.  "And we'd be happy to bring out a complimentary flan to make up for our moronic hostess."

And with that, the owner suddenly appeared.  The hostess had given him the sob story about me berating her, the secondary details being that she'd inadvertently ruined the birthday dessert for our party of 15. 

"I AM SO SORRY," the owner screamed like a monotone robot trying to teach his complicated language to a group of deaf people.  "WE WILL BE HAPPY TO TAKE CARE OF YOUR ENTIRE MEAL AND BRING A FEW OF OUR WORLD FAMOUS CHOE-COE-LATTE FLANS FOR YOU TO ENJOY AT YOUR FIESTA!"

We walked off together.

"Are you sure we need to comp their entire meal?" I asked.  "The bill is nearly $300."

"We can't afford to lose ANY business!" he hissed.  "And I think those are some of our best customers!"

"Compared to whom, the homeless people who steal tortilla chips from our trash bins??" I replied.

But no, I couldn't reason with him.  Nor could I muster any kind of response from the birthday party.  Even though none of this was my fault, they needed someone to blame.  I received the silent treatment from each of them as I cleared the plates.  Three far perkier servers were sent to the table to deliver the birthday flans.  They wore sombreros, used large cracked pepper dispensers for maracas, and sang "Happy Birthday" with great gay gusto. 

I, on the other hand, had the pleasure of cleaning up all the confetti, all the flan remnants, and all the chip fragments. 

For no tip, whatsoever.

So you can imagine how my muscles tense up, my head starts throbbing, and my hand instinctively reaches for my flask any time someone informs me that there's a birthday at the table...

In the news...

In lieu of the "Birthday" blog I teased earlier, I must stop the presses to share this news tidbit, which may or may not involve a restaurant with which I am well familiar...

Christina Milian: My salad had gum in it!

The happy hippies

For no particular reason, I found myself in a lovely mood during a recent lunch shift.  I greeted my newest table with a smile on my face and a spring in my step.

"Hello, how are you today?" I asked.

"Whoa man," she responded.  "Are you in a bad mood or something?"

I was shocked.  Never before had someone brought my annual good-mood-at-work to such an abrupt halt.  I studied my newest opponent.  A hippie, and not the "Hairspray" kind.  No, this creature was more Battlefield Earth meets Captain Jack Sparrow meets the villains from "Fraggle Rock."

"Excuse me?" 

"It's just...this WAVE of negative energy came over me when you approached the table," she said.

"Oh?"

"No worries man, I don't mean to be rude," she said.

"I normally don't either," I replied.

"Whoa, are these tortilla chips vegan!?" she asked, looking at the chips as if I had just set a 70 pound Black Mamba on the table. 

"They are not."

"You really should ASK people if they want chips and salsa before you just set them down like that, MAN!"

I'd been so distracted by what a massive bitch she was that I failed to recognize her dining companion, a skinny, stoned male who was either taking a nap or faking his own death. 

I began to remove the chips and salsa.

"Wait!" she said while touching my wrist to stop me.  "Let me wake him up and see if he wants them."

"Hey!  HEY!  HEEEY!" she screamed.

Bitch if you ever woke me up with that shrill scream I would hang you out a window by your dreadlocks, smash your jars of vegan soup, destroy your hearth and claim I was having a night terror while doing so. 

"Whaaaaa?" he replied.

"Do you want chips or not?"

"NOOOOOO!" he shouted, buried himself in his hoodie, and returned to his hallucination. 

"Yeah so can you take away those chips and salsa now?" she demanded.  "Oh and lemonade?"

I returned with the beverage.  She asked if our lemonade was fresh-squeezed.  I replied in the affirmative, which was apparently the wrong answer, because I was then treated to a lecture on organic farming, how highly concentrated ALL lemonade is, how oppressive California is, and why my restaurant sucks.

"Were you ready to order?" I interrupted after seeing how long I could hold my breath. 

"I need a few more minutes, MAN," she said.  "I don't see a lot of vegan options on your menu..."

No shit.  At a Mexican restaurant in the valley that boasts fried shrimp, fried chili peppers, and fried snapper?  I can see how our appearance deceived you into thinking you'd find many tasty vegan options here.

"So do I have to go find the lemonade pitcher myself or do you bring refills?" she asked.

"We don't offer free refills on lemonade," I lied.  "Sooooo unless you actually ask me for a refill?  I can't just presume you want to pay for another one."

"Typical," she responded.  "Another business taking a product that costs nothing to make, and charging some exorbitant price.  I'll just have a water...OR DO YOU CHARGE FOR THAT, TOO?"

"For you? On the house," I said. 

When I came back with the water, her companion was sitting upright, looking dazed and confused as if he'd been awoken by a cat scratching his face.

"What's your problem, MAN?" my female hippie friend inquired.

Other than the fact that you smell like a 1974 board game, my problem is that you're here. 

"We're just going to leave," she said.  "We both feel really attacked and judged here."

"Awww.  Ok.  Here's your bill," I said. 

"Oh yeah?" she replied.  "I hate it when people make me respond without love, but FUCK your bill and FUCK your lemonade."

With that, she and her oblivious friend retreated. 

I took to cleaning the booth thoroughly, trying to rid my section of the stench of body odor, cheap weed and mold.  And to cleanse the booth of the hippie's negative aura, I took to my strongest cleaning agent ever.  Grey Goose. 

And with that, I found myself once again in a lovely mood.

Bitter Waiter by the hour

3:00 P.M.
Accept the fact that my shift begins in exactly two hours.

3:01 P.M.
Frantically call all co-workers to see if someone can pick up my shift due to a last minute "rehearsal," or "sickness," or "audition," or "date," or "death of a close high school acquaintance."

3:05 P.M.
Accept that no one will cover my shift.  Consume one last dirty martini, take a nap, and set alarm.

5:06 P.M.
Wake up to the sound of a homeless man screaming outside my apartment & realize I set my alarm for 4:30 A.M.  In lieu of shower, douse myself with water from the sink and apply deodorant.  Search in vain for a flask and pour some vodka in a plastic Ziploc bag to drink at work.

5:10 P.M.
Call work in a panic to explain that I'm running late due to a last minute "rehearsal," or "sickness," or "audition," or "date," or "death of a close high school acquaintance."

5:25 P.M.
Arrive at work and apologize profusely to manager for being late.  I assume manager is pissed because he won't even face me.  Seconds later, I realize I have apologized for being late to an unfortunate looking female customer.

5:26 P.M.
Survey my section to see that I've been sat with three families of six, two elderly couples, and a grumpy old man who farts frequently without acknowledging it...all of whom have been sat since 5 P.M. and have yet to be greeted by anyone.  Thanks co-workers!

5:30 P.M.
Play "catch up" by turning in a rapid-fire amount of drink orders.  I listen to the bartender bitch about having to make eight drinks at once.  Somehow this digresses into yet another anecdote about his acting career and unrealized potential, expressed briefly with a one-line co-star appearance on an episode of 21 Jump Street.

5:45 P.M.
The gassy old man asks where his food is.  I remind him that he hasn't ordered yet.  We argue about this while I cover my nose with a cocktail napkin. 

5:46 P.M.
The first party of six is offended that the second party of six received their food first because the first party of six ordered before them.  The first party ordered steak fajita dinners, all well done.  The second party ordered two appetizers and several drinks.  Both parties can take turns kissing my ass.

5:47 P.M.
One of the elderly couples complains that the party of six is too loud and too drunk.  When I ask to which party of six they're referring, the elderly lady answers "Both of them."

5:48 P.M.
The second elderly couple attempts to leave without paying.  I remind them they haven't paid their bill yet.  The elderly man disagrees.  We argue about this while I cover my nose with a cocktail napkin (moth balls).

6:00 P.M.
I watch indifferently as the food runner delivers all of my food to the wrong tables.

6:01 P.M.
I venture outside for my first Ziploc bag break.

6:44 P.M.
I return to find that in addition to my current batch of evil-doers, I've also been sat with an obese family of two indistinguishable parents and their greasy, screaming offspring.

6:45 P.M.
I venture outside for my second Ziploc bag break.

6:50 P.M.
I return, properly prepared for the night at hand, unable to tell any of my customers apart.  I'm reminded of the new shoes I want to buy, so I get my act together and begin my own one-line co-star appearance as "Nice Waiter."

7:00 P.M. - 10 P.M.
After balancing my Ziploc break with four cups of coffee, I am flying around the restaurant like an ADHD kid in a Mountain Dew bottling factory.  I am no longer responsible for my actions, as caffeine is pulling the puppet strings.  I'm jumping away from tables before they can answer my question of "What would you like to drink?"  The restaurant has an hour wait for a table.  Every server is slammed.  I am a disgusting blend of sweat, liquor, cheap coffee, salsa stains and something I believe to be baby formula. 

10:00 P.M.
The very second that the hostess informs me that we're no longer on a wait, I begin bribing newer servers to take my current batch of customers so I can dodge my side work, lie about how much I need to tip-out the bartender, and kill the remnants of my Ziploc bag.

10:05 P.M.
Four different parties with varying numbers of Armenians request demand to be seated immediately.  We're back on a wait, and try as I might to bribe, blackmail and bitch my way out of dealing with any of the Armenians, I receive the pleasure of not one, but three of the large parties. 

10:10 P.M.
I make a general announcement - through my actions not my words - to everyone else on staff that I will be a nightmare of a bitch to deal with.  This both releases my aggression and teaches everyone a valuable lesson about not accepting my bribing, blackmailing, and bitching. 

10:11 P.M.
Everyone ignores me as they would a toddler throwing a fit in a grocery store.

10:11 P.M. - 1:45 A.M.
All the other servers have finished their side work and left for the night.  It's now me, one sleeping manager, a disgruntled bartender, and somewhere between 15 and 200 loud Armenians.  I begin playing a drinking game based on their behavior: Any time someone addresses me as "BRO" or asks if I'll run to the drug store to buy them an energy drink, I add another shot of tequila to their tab and consume it myself.

1:50 A.M.
By ringing a very large cow bell, which I've brought from home, I announce to all that it's "Last Call," and not even my own mother could convince me to serve another drink. 

2:00 A.M.
I drive home, chugging a kid's cup filled with three different types of cocktails.  Another shift, another headache.  But due to a "rehearsal," or "sickness," or "audition," or "date," or "death of a close high school acquaintance," I have finagled someone into covering my shift tomorrow.