the bitter waiter

Dinner with the Rosensteins

When you're looking to be spoiled on your birthday, whom better to celebrate with than six of your closest Jewish friends?

Enter Sharon, an uptight Jewish housewife with a louse of a husband and three couples-worth of penny-pinching companions. 

I greeted four of the eight members of this bargain bin birthday bash.

"Were you waiting for more to arrive?" I asked.

"Yeah, the town car just went to pick them up," Oscar informed me.

"Pardon?" I asked.

"Well a limo was too expensive," he explained, "So we rented a town car instead, and the town car is taking us to dinner and back in shifts.  The rest should be here in about 45 minutes or so."

"How economical," I responded.  "Anything to drink while you're waiting?"

"Depends," Oscar replied.  "Would those drinks be on the house because it's her birthday and we're inconvenienced by having to wait for our friends?"

I'm indifferent to the former and not responsible for the latter.  So, no.   

"Not unless you count four free waters as birthday drinks," I replied.

"Bah humbug!" Oscar mock-shouted. 

For the next hour, Sharon and friends didn't order a thing.  They'd hold up empty water glasses and crumb-filled chip baskets to let me know they were ready for more free stuff. 

Finally the rest of the fun-loving frugal friends arrived.  No one seem nonplussed by this inconvenient manner of transport.  I suppose because it saved a penny, it was accepted as the more obvious choice than, say, shelling out the extra bucks for a limo or driving their own modest automobiles.  My annoyance at their town car scheme gave me a rare moment of sympathy.  For the driver.  I wanted to give him a swig or two from my flask or concoct a scheme for him to leave these cheapskates stranded at the restaurant. 

But that would involve me having to deal with them longer than tolerable, so better his suffering than mine.

The minute the remainder of the party sat down, Oscar waived his hands in the air like a plane crash survivor.

"Where've you been?" he bellowed.  "We're ready to order drinks."

"So soon?" I responded.

"We'd like a bottle of wine," he said.  "And eight glasses."

"Eight?" I raised an eyebrow.  "You'd get more wine at communion than one bottle among eight people."

"I didn't know we got ourselves a waiter and a mathematician," Oscar joked.  "Just bring us the bottle and I'll bet we can spread it out."

Wow, a Jew trying to multiply his gains to provide for his friends.  How Christ-like of you.

I returned with the bottle and smiled victoriously as each party guest took parceled sips to preserve the pittance of alcohol.  These party goers were out of control.

I began the arduous process of taking food orders.  Each of the couples split a modest entree, with the exception of Oscar and Sharon.  Sharon ordered a crab and shrimp salad.  Oscar perused the kid's meal and tried to order the kid's quesadilla.

"Unless I miss my guess, you're a hair more than 12 years old," I said.

"So?  It's her birthday," he retorted.

"Right.  And unless it's her 12th birthday?  She's not ordering off the kid's meal, either."

"Fine," Oscar said.  "I'd like the kid's quesadilla.  To go.  For my, uhm, 12-year-old daughter."

I threw my hands up in the air and let him have his way.  Given how small the kid's portion is, I was going to revel in his hunger and thirst.  His small victory over my modest Mexican restaurant paled in comparison to the self-created suffering of shuttling around in a town car and enjoing a modest wine-tasting. 

The meals were consumed quickly, and no more wine was ordered.  Oscar instructed me to bring out their birthday cake, which turned out to be a slice of birthday cake from a fancy bakery.  Yes, that's right.  One large slice for the entire table.  I wish I made this shit up.

Come bill time, and the tab was split among the four couples.  Three of them paid with credit card, and one of the couples paid in cash.

"I see the gratuity is added," Oscar said.  "Any chance we can negotiate something a bit more reasonable?"

"Sorry, the tip isn't up for negotiation," I said. 

"Says you," Oscar challenged me.

The first four friends took the town car shuttle back to the Rosenstein residence.  Oscar, Sharon and the other two friends stayed behind. 

And when Oscar thought I wasn't looking, he returned to the table and tried to pocket the cash that his friends had left as part of the bill.

"May I help you with something?" I asked him as he was caught with his hand in the rugelach jar.

"Oh, I, uh, thought I left my car keys here," he stammered.

"But...I thought you all took a town car?" I said.

"Oh!  Right!  That's why I couldn't find my keys, haha."

"Yeah.  Oh, and would you mind putting the cash back on the table?  Otherwise it's a criminal offense to steal, and I'd really hate to ruin this lovely evening you've created for your wife."

"Haha, sure," he said.  He quickly placed the cash back on the table and ran out. 

And I'm pleased to say that's the last time I anticipate seeing Oscar in my restaurant.  For as others have learned before, far more accommodating options exist for celebrating a birthday than my section.

Especially a birthday party with a shoe-string budget. 

Waiter rant

Hey you, hipster in the wool cap and unwashed flannel?  I don't mind your dour expression and sense of entitlement, but when you sit in my section and treat me as if I'm part of this imaginary group of people who continually suppress you?  Oh no.  That won't fly with me.

First off, let's start with your posture and tone when you address me.  I've merely asked, "What would you like to drink?", not "When are you going to get a job?" or "Did you remember to use deodorant?"  If you don't want to be bothered by my questions and infrequent visits, order a pizza at home so your Avril Lavigne listening party goes uninterrupted.  Believe me, in the Who-Can-Be-More-Hateful Olympics, you won't even make it past training while I take home the gold, silver and bronze.  So put that in your Jack Kerouac-inspired pipe and pretend to smoke it.   

Second, allow me to critique the paradoxical structure of your statement-making attire.  Your faux vintage T-shirt was made three weeks ago by underage children in Taiwan who don't earn in one year what it takes to replenish your used fedora collection at the flea market swap each week.  Glare at my red shirt and filthy apron all you'd like.  At least I'm dressed in an outfit that genuinely expresses how I feel...Dirty, used, and dead inside. 

Third, why don't we review how the restaurant dining system works?  Within a reasonable amount of time (3-5 minutes if I really have to spell this out for you), you'll peruse our menu of rehashed Mexican items.  You'll keep questions to a minimum.  You'll order, eat, pay and tip.  Then you'll LEAVE.  What you won't do is ignore the menu then ask, with great disdain, if I can just "make up a vegetarian soup" for you.  Just like your name absent from the cast lists of all those high school plays for which you auditioned, if you don't see it in print, it's not happening.  Also, when you're finished, you won't be lingering in my section.  This isn't Silverlake.  You're not in a coffee shop.  If you want to discuss all the various problems in the world and your complete apathy in resolving them, I suggest you find a more appropriate venue.  Like the carpool lane of the 405.

Finally, the tip.  I know you aren't compensated with gratuity at the quaint record shop where you earn minimum wage.  But I am.  Not only do I have to take your order, refill your drinks, supply you with chips and salsa to spread all over the table I get to clean later, and split your bill in ways that would give Einstein pause; I have to do this for the six groups around you, as well.  Then I have to tip out the hostess for double-seating me, the bartender for ignoring my drinks, and the bus boy for letting me clean my own tables.  So at the end of the night when you're looking at that "TIP" line and you...

Oh fuck it.  Why would I waste my time lecturing hipsters?  Your mind-boggling self-importance and undefinable belief system would never lead you to read about someone else's suffering.  I'll just continue charging you for items you didn't order and attempting to run you over after my shift while you linger in the parking lot, chain-smoking and bitching about that stuck up privileged server who didn't understand all your vast misery and unchanneled depth.  Go fuck yourselves.