the bitter waiter

The friends and family discount

A girl I barely know* asked if I would "take good care" of her friends who were in town visiting because they insisted on dining at "some place really cheap and really fun."

Now, I hate to complain. 

Now, I don't mean to sound ungrateful. 

Now, it's not my wish to speak ill of a friend of an acquaintance.

Fuck me blind-folded with paper cuts in a shark tank, they were annoying.  And I'm left wondering if it was their intention to be so tedious as to guarantee a place on the blog (which I'm not sure they read, but now I'm sincerely hoping they do) or if they were just born that bitchy.  Either way, they made my eyes roll so far back in my head I could see my conception.

"Tina," who could stand to lose 20 lbs. and about 10 decibels, squealed to me that she was so excited to receive the "V.I.P. treatment." 

Now, I'm not sure exactly what kind of V.I.P. treatment she was expecting based on the recommendation of my barely-an-acquaintance?  But it would be akin to me sending a group of my gay friends to Rick Santorum for a pampering spa weekend.  

Thus, Tina gave me a doe-eyed look and inquired, "So what kind of deal are we getting???"

"Uhm," I began with the least welcoming look since Madonna greeted Lady Gaga backstage at Saturday Night Live.  "I can charge you for house margaritas but will tell the bartender to make them triples with a strong amount of tequila?"

"Oh..." Tina sullenly replied.  "I guess we were thinking free drinks or something a lot better than just a strong drink..."

Bitch I just met you.  You haven't so much as said "Hello, how's your day?" I hardly even know the girl who referred you to me.  You and I didn't go to school together.  You're not a friend of my family.  I've never worked with you.  We've never been drunk together.  The only thing I know about you is that you corset yourself in tight yellow T-shirts from American Apparel, you sound like one of the Chipettes, and you wear your entitlement on your stretched sleeve.  And yet you expect me to roll out the red carpet because you came to one of the most expensive U.S. cities and I should feel so honored that you put me on your budget bullseye for a Groupon experience?  Yeah.  Go diddle yourself.

"I'm sorry," I replied.  "Did [acquaintance] tell you that I'd be providing everything for free? Because there's no way I can do that.  I'm a waiter, not the manager."

"Oh..." Tina sullenly replied.  "Well then maybe we'll just have a quick snack and go somewhere a little friendlier."

"Heh," I said.  "Let me know when you're ready to order."

Accompanying Tina were two college-aged girls and one very bored hipster male, who was either angry at Tina, angry at me, or angry at the Heavens above for making this fanny-pack-sporting band of tourists his lot in life.

I returned to the table with four waters.

"Sigh.  Fine," Tina said.

"Oh you're leaving!?" I said with ecstatic urgency.

"Uhm.  No..." Tina replied.  "We'll just go ahead and order.  I guess my friend thought she was doing us a favor by recommending you, but..."

"Yeah I should thank her for sending you my way," I replied.  "So you're ready to order?"

Tina dismissively and angrily ordered the large steak nachos with extra cheese (duh) and four "cheap" margaritas.  I asked for the I.D. of the teenage hipster creature, as he couldn't have been a flannel shirt size over 18.  Upon his inability to furnish I.D., I said I'd be back with three margaritas. 

Tina said, "Wow, what an asshole" as I walked off.

I returned with three virgin margaritas and the nachos shortly thereafter.

"It tastes like there's no alcohol in this drink?" Tina said.  

"Oh," I said.  "That's just how the cheap ones taste."

"Uhm..." Tina started.  "I thought you were going to at least tell the bartender to make them stronger for us?"

"I was," I replied.  "But when I told him that you called me an 'asshole,' he wasn't as compliant as expected."

"Wow...Do you think I could speak with the manager?" Tina said immediately.

"Sure," I said.  "Let me just tell him that you called me an asshole," I replied and walked off.

Just as I was fetching the manager, who averted my gaze the minute he saw me walking towards him, I caught Tina and her posse hurrying out the front door.  I told the manager that I was harassed and called names, and he told me I'd still have to pay their bill.  I dropped the word "illegal" and found myself minutes later feasting on Tina's untouched steak nachos and drinking a concealed margarita in a kid's cup.  A strong margarita.  A free margarita.  A margarita that I always give to friends and family.

*Sorry.  I warned you that if your friends misbehaved they'd be fodder for my blog.  I hope this doesn't adversely influence the infrequent nature of our minimal interaction at the gym I barely attend.

Fun with pictures!

A most peculiar man

During a recent Sunday brunch shift - a shift notable for the soul-sucking hangover I'd amassed from the night before - I watched in relief as nary a customer came to dine.  For two gloriously quiet hours, I pretended to fold silverware as I napped myself back to normalcy.

Then came the lovely slap on my neck from management alerting me to my new customers.  Customers who, despite all the empty booths, insisted on sitting at a small table in my section.

I cleared myself of drool and tried as hard as I could to look awake.

I set my bloodshot eyes on two giggling men, the elder of whom kept looking at me directly while giggling.  He was a heavy-set, rosy-cheeked man wearing a seizure-inducing patterned shirt.  I couldn't tell if he wanted me to inquire about the source of his laughter or merely find him as amusing as he found himself, but either way, Ol' Stonewall here did not budge. 

"I was just telling him about this concert I did in San Francisco with no power, and how I still managed to perform for thousands with no microphone or instruments," he told me.

"Neat," I replied.  "Anything to drink?"

Victor the Voice continued giggling at this riotous tale as his sidekick, a squirrely little Latino houseboy whom I nicknamed Rosita, feigned giggling to keep in his master's good graces.

"Does your bartender know how to make a Scandinavian Spring?" Victor asked me.

"I doubt it," I replied.  "What's in a Scandinavian Spring?"

"Oh it's the most delightful summer cocktail," Victor beamed.  "It reminds me of the summer I spent doing a show in Provincetown.  I was staying with [some woman I'd never heard of whose name sounded like a flavor of Milano cookies] and we drank them all summer long."

Victor began to giggle again.

"This one night...[Milano Cookies] and I were drinking Scandinavian Springs and forgot that we'd been baking a batch-full of the fish my nephew caught that morning.  All the sudden, the whole place filled with smoke!"

Victor then began to cry from laughing so hard.  Rosita made some sound that was either laughter or a frightened rookery of albatross escaping a monsoon. 

"So..." I interrupted just as Victor was about to regale me with more anecdotes of summers of yore spent imbibing with Milano Cookies on the Cape.  "In lieu of a Scandinavian Spring, what may I bring you to drink?"

Victor ordered two margaritas served martini style and was just about to tell me why he preferred them that way when I ran off mid-sentence. 

I returned to find Victor scrutinizing a tortilla chip and licking it gently the way a detective would to detect poison. 

"Peculiar," he said as I approached.  I ignored his passive aggressive comment and set down the drinks.

"No it's just really odd to me," he continued. 

"What eees it?" Rosita asked.

"This salt just tastes really...peculiar," Victor said.  "Waiter, what kind of salt is this?"

"Yeah WAITER," Rosita added for emphasis.

I shot Rosita a hate-filled look that made him cower with arousal.

"It's table salt," I replied.  "Real standard stuff."

"It has the most peculiar taste," he continued.

"Wha?  Eees it taste like shooo-gar?" Rosita asked.

"No no," Victor waived his hand dismissively.  "It's just saltier than most standard restaurant table salt."

I paused for a brief moment, waiting for an obnoxious T.V. host to step out from behind a booth and tell me I'd been punked.  But no.  This was all real.

My time with Victor and Rosita dragged on for another two hours, during which time neither of them ordered anything.  Victor merely used each and every interaction, utensil, and passage of time to instigate another unsolicited trip down memory lane.

Finally, dinner time.  Quicker than you can say "Scandinavian Spring," I transferred Victor and Rosita to an unsuspecting dinner server. 

I couldn't help but pass them on my way out.

"Excuse me, Waiter?" Victor called out in a voice reminiscient of Charlotte Rae in The Facts of Life.

"Yes?" I stopped.

"You transferred us to another server?" he asked with serious offense.  "But don't you want to stay for your tip?"

I'd rather try to take a nap in the dishwashing machine with a nest of angry bees and John Travolta.

"Sorry," I said.  "I must get home.  I feel the most bizarre sickness coming over me.  Something terribly peculiar."

"Ah, well, I understand that," he started.  "One time, when I was doing a charity concert in Branson, Missouri, I ate the most foul-tasting chicken and my stomach was..."

And with that, I ran off for the last time.

 

For Johnny, on the day of his firing

It's always sad to see a cherished co-worker get the pink slip undeservedly.

However, watching an annoying co-worker get fired - whether deservedly or otherwise - always gives me goose bumps and a grin. 

For years I'd served alongside "Johnny," watching in disdain as he flexed his disproportionate muscles and applied furniture shellac to his stiff coiffure.  He never met a bottle of bargain bin cologne he couldn't empty during a shift, and his gym rat appearance was complemented only by the lazy guttural sounds that comprised his dialogue. 

Unfortunately for Johnny, he was recently busted chugging a beer on the clock.  In the unlocked men's restroom.  In plain sight as the manager walked in and caught him.  To which he said "Uh, this isn't mine." 

Oh, these amateurs and their inability to drink at work.

In honor of Johnny, I present to you - in no certain order - the Top Ten Johnny-isms, meaty morsels of wit and wisdom that sprung from his mouth during our three years together.  Johnny, if you're reading this - which I doubt because it contains syllables - I wasn't joking when I said I'd rather bathe in honey and roll around naked in a field full of chiggers than ever work with you again.  Cheers.

THE TOP TEN JOHNNY-ISMS

10.  "Fat chicks are fun in bed.  Not just 'cause they're desperate, but also 'cause they give lots of compliments."

9.  "Blacks only leave a bad tip if they think you're racist and shit.  Just go up to them and act like you're their friend.  Be like 'What up playa' and blend in."

8.  "I'm totally religious, bro.  Nothing like getting stoned and watching church on TV."

7.  "Armenians get a bad rap for being sleazy.  Hey - some people mistake me for Armenian just because I'm Italian..."

6.  "No offense to gay people, but I can tell they all think I'm hot.  It's cool.  I'd flex for them.  But that's it."

5.  "Did you see that kid with the fucked up haircut!?" (Johhny then learns that the kid is mentally disabled)  "So?  He still had a fucked up haircut!!"

4.  "Ladies, I'm Johnny.  Your entertainment has arrived.  May I bring you all anything to drink?  Or admire?"

3.  "Spain's not in Europe, dude.  That's just dumb.  They speak Spanish in Spain, not English."

2.  "That dude left no tip!  All because I said his wife looked young enough to be his daughter.  I was just trying to be nice.  Fuck!"

1.  "No offense 'cause I know everyone here is an actor, but I feel like I'm actually going to make it.  Things have lined up for me so far.  I got some headshots taken, I looked up acting classes, I got this job right away.  Nah I won't be here long, bro.  You'll see me on T.V. soon."

Read it and weep, celeb bitches...

The Miami New Times - Top Ten Cheapest Celebrity Tippers