the bitter waiter

Surviving your server

Many of my close friends and family members who've been spared from a life of service often ask me, "How can I make sure I don't piss off my waiter and end up on a self-congratulatory, questionably embellished blog about rude customers?"

So simple!  Just follow these steps:

1.  Be polite when your server greets you.

Those delicate first moments of interaction will shape how your server feels about you. 

Reading a text message?  Put it down.  Taking a call?  Don't.  In a bad mood?  Sorry, it's not your waiter's fault you decided to take your bad mood out for chips and queso.

We're not asking you to pull up a chair and rub our feet as you inquire about the minutiae of our day, but a smile, reciprocated eye contact and an "I'm doing well, thanks, how are you?" will set you apart from the others whose drinks we're fucking with because they were rude.  Just kidding, but not at all.

2.  Know who's responsible.

Was the hostess a bitch to you?  That stupid slut, I hate her too.  Did the bartender make you a weak drink while you were waiting to be sat?  Tell me about it, it's like he expects me to get drunk mid-shift with just one shot of vodka in my flask.  Did the kitchen overcook your steak?  Those peons, they always mess up the food I'm secretly taking home to live off of, as well.

I get it.  Other people in my restaurant are just as tedious and incompetent as you are, so of course that kind of reflection will put you in a bad mood.  But let's get our bearings on the blame game, shall we?  I'm not the hostess, I'm not the bartender, and I'm not the cook, so treating me poorly because they messed up will only guarantee you one more enemy, and whereas these people unintentionally pissed you off?  My aim is loaded with all manner of intent. 

 3.  Know your surroundings.

In the case of my place of employment, you've found yourself in a Mexican restaurant.  Not an Italian restaurant, not a sushi restaurant, and not Paleo Diet: The Restaurant.  Nothing about my restaurant's name, menu, or tacky faux Mexican decor is misleading.  If you peruse our menu with a snarl, unsure why everything is in Spanish, and then ask if we have any pasta?  I will personally guarantee that the mentally unstable kitchen hand with gold teeth and 8 or 9 fingers is the one prepping your heavily modified fajita salad.

4.  Allergies are one thing; being a crazy bitch is another.

If you don't like cilantro, that's fine, it won't hurt my feelings.  Cilantro isn't my newborn child or the macaroni art I slaved over in school for your birthday.  Just have the cajones to say "hold the cilantro."  Don't make up some stupid allergy just because your passive aggressive neuroses command that you rationalize every single decision you make. 

5.  Keeps your kids in line.

I don't think I've bemoaned any group of people on this blog more so than untamed children and the parents who enable them. 

NEWS FLASH: You're the ONLY one who thinks your kid is cute; you're the ONLY one who wants to listen to him/her take 10 minutes to decide between our shitty kid's quesadilla or our shitty kid's nacho plate; You're the ONLY one who thinks the sugar packet art is endearing and not grounds for being blindfolded and forced to walk home in traffic.

You had a kid; you didn't cure cancer.  So get the fuck over yourself and stop waiving around the byproduct of your need for attention in front of my face as if it's going to inspire me to admire or not hate you.

6.  When you're done, leave

I'm sure the bimbo you met on Match.com is just creaming to hear more about your fascinating accomplishments as an actor/writer/producer/personal trainer/pet masseuse, but all I see is a sea of customers waiting to sit at your cleared table and hopefully tip me enough to buy the cheapest bottle of vodka Trader Joe's has to offer.

So take your canoodling and your cavorting to a more appropriate venue, like a Starbucks or a knife fight in Compton.  You're done here.

Bitter Waiter Begins (episode three)

In our continued journey down the path of my bitter roots, let's harken back even further than last time.

Today we shall examine the genesis of my bitterness, the pilot episode, if you will, of how I came to be a waiter, why I despise the masses, and how I first enacted revenge upon a table of deserving troglodtye trailer-dwellers.

Travel with me to 2000.  The place?  Columbia, Missouri, a Simon and Garfunkel-esque college town situated equidistant between Kansas City and St. Louis, and equidistant between blush wineries and the highest per capita population of meth manufacturers (SEE ALSO: 2010 Best Picture nominee Winter's Bone).

I was a sophomore at the University of Missouri, THE NATION'S NUMBER ONE JOURNALISM SCHOOL (said accolade was used to bludgeon students over the head with gratitude).  However, during my freshman year I'd tasted the elixir of the the-a-tre in a freshman acting class.  I knew Mom and Dad wouldn't bankroll my inevitable move to L.A., so I started saving my pennies and dimes.

Wearing one of my finest Structure sweaters and a flawlessly cinched pair of Stussy jeans, I sauntered into The Grande Cru, an oddly constructed fine dining restaurant built about 200 yards from state-subsidized college housing and a brand new Texaco station. I got myself a job as a fancy waiter. 

A typical lunch shift usually consisted of me serving a cheap-tipping professor and pretending I was in a Miramax indie film about a young kept boy being forced to serve in the castle of a mean-spirited French aristocrat.  Gwyneth Paltrow co-starred as the village milk lady who helped me escape and find my true calling as the subject of nude portraits.  I won an Oscar, and a Pulitzer, for my performance.

Anyway, so this dump in Columbia was managed by one of the least-content married couples I've ever encountered.  He cooked, she hosted, they scowled.  For reasons I suspect having to do with the fact that I rarely ever lifted a finger to work I was prettier and happier than everyone around me, the wife made sure I was sat with the absolute dregs of Missouri.  I tried in vain to make her warm up to me, usually by spouting insincere compliments about her Chico's of Columbia wardrobe or the "underrated beauty" of her flu-flushed white skin.

One night, right before the Christmas break, she sat me with her sister, brother-in-law, and niece.  The niece was a spoiled, plump little six-year-old who was allowed to eat candy pre-meal and run circles around the wait staff in the middle of a busy shift.  Picture Honey Boo Boo, except more.

When she tripped me as I carried a tray full of drinks, which went all over the bar, I was the one who received the berating as Mommy and Daddy made sure their little pork sausage was okay.

I headed to the table to check on their entrees shortly after they'd arrived.  The wife and company glared daggers at me and silence fell over the table.

"Only stupid people drop trays," the little six-year-old jizz spongue informed me.

Mommy, Daddy, and the wife stifled giggles.  I fought back tears (okay, no I didn't, I checked my reflection on the stainless steel surface of the kitchen prep area) and tended to my other tables. 

Later, Mommy and Daddy left Honey Boo Boo at the table as they stepped outside to smoke, and I cleared the plates.  The daughter kept staring at me with one of those bizarre smiles that expresses more disdain than joy.  I saw a $5 bill on the table that I figured was my tip for a $125 tab (I was correct).  I'd had enough.  I decided to engage.

"Christmas is coming up soon," I said with the aplomb of a Sunday School teacher.

"Duh," she replied.

"I'll bet you're getting a lot of gifts from your Mommy and Daddy!"

"Uhm, NOOOO, gifts come from Santa Claus, DUH!"

"Ohhh sweetie," I said.  "Santa Claus isn't real.  Your Mommy and Daddy buy those gifts at Target, DUH!"

With that, I raced to the kitchen to eat my free employee meal before my pale-faced employer was any the wiser.  Moments later, I was fired for breaking Honey Boo Boo's heart.  I interrupted my boss' tirade with a curt "Oh fuck you." As I walked out and threw my apron in the middle of the dining room floor, I passed Honey Boo Boo, in tears and nestled firmly in her mother's nicotine-reeking arms.   

I stuck my tongue out at her and vowed to never, ever wait tables.

Give thanks

I've occasionally been labeled as nothing more than a crotchety, mean-spirited miscreant by virtue of my vitriolic tongue and warped sense of justice.

So in light of Thanksgiving week, I must beg to differ with the notion that all I do is insult lousy customers and bemoan my own self-appointed job situation.

But no, no bitterness today, my pals.  Instead, today I shall give thanks for all the blessings that abound in my life!!!

- I am thankful for the bus boys.  Bless their hearts.  I know the concept of "hot food" is a tough one.  Thus, when I'm at their mercy to deliver the meals to my tables, I'm naturally the one who incurs the ire of hungry customers when the enchiladas arrive below room temperature.  Try as I might - in English, Spanish, or with an Etch-a-Sketch - to convey the importance of delivering hot food AS SOON as it's ready, my efforts are lost.  So I am thankful to the bus boys for saving me a lot of money when it comes to tip-out.

- I am thankful for the hostesses.  You won't find a more even keel group of gals with whom to work.  Nothing phases these ladies.  Not even when I inform them that they've attempted to seat two different parties at the same table, or something equally moronic.  And when I approach them to complain, they remain calm and above reproach.  For my occasional rants, they have two facial reactions that read, "I somewhat understand what you are saying, but can't remember if I matched the make-up on my neck with my face," and "Rubber baby buggy bumpers."

- I am thankful for the management of my restaurant.    I'm thankful that they're so incompetent and self-important that they don't see me swigging from two different flasks when they unexpectedly enter the dish pit to yell at Hernaldo for leaving spots on the martini glasses.

- I am thankful for my co-workers.  I'm grateful that they're so desperate to make it in Hollywood that they'll believe me when I pawn off my difficult customers by lying and claiming that said customers are big in the casting business (when in truth they're just a family visiting Universal Studios from Cheboygan, MI).

- I am thankful for the bartender.  In order to keep the well of work-time wine running smoothly, I merely need to buy his discretion, which enables me to bypass his nauseating stories of "almost" successes in Tinsletown.  We leave each other alone, we communicate with cash and glances, and we never squeal to the authorities.

- I am thankful to the customers.  Especially the bad ones.  With their entitlement, impatience, self-centerdness, lack of articulation and inability to connect with anything beyond their smart phones, I have immediate access to walking, breathing examples of how my life could always be worse.  Just when I feel bad about being a waiter, or not having quite made it in show biz yet, a table of Armenian teenagers scream for Ginger Ale refills, and I'm immediately filled with gratitude.  They've arrived at this shit stain of a restaurant by choice; I am merely stopping by on my way to greener pastures.

So with these sentiments in mind, I encourage each of you to put aside the pettiness that can color our view of those around us, truly find something for which to give thanks, harness yourself to that, and raise a glass.

Happy Thanksgiving, loyal readers!

The blame game

From the mouths of babes

Despite my surly claims otherwise, I really do love children.  Take this interaction from earlier this week.  Mom was a typical self-important soccer mom, and her son was a lovable yet VERY hyperactive five-year-old.  Their food had just arrived:

BITCHY MOM: Uhm, I said I wanted my dressing ON THE SIDE!
LITTLE BOY: (while crashing his toy car into the booth, not looking up at anyone): NO YOU DIDN'T MOMMY YOU DIDN'T SAY THAT!
BITCHY MOM: (taken aback) Yes I did, sweetie, and you're being very rude.
LITTLE BOY: NO MOMMY YOU'RE TELLING A LIE AND THAT'S RUDE!

Mommy still didn't leave a good tip, but that little boy got extra everything on his kid's sundae. 

We've met before

As a long-term server in my current POE ("place of evil"), I often hear the tired phrase, "You look familiar..."

On one recent, dark, stormy evening, I immediately recognized the face of a former co-worker from a different dining establishment who I haven't seen in seven years.  Jessica.  We only worked together for about three weeks until she was fired for constantly calling in sick & supporting those calls with far-fetched excuses ("I was in a car accident a few years ago and I think the whip lash is still causing headaches.").  

I recall her being clingy, whiny, needy and always borrowing money.  We were like fire and a fireman; she was always seeking my attention, and I was constantly trying to drown her. 

I quietly greeted the table, doing my best to keep my head turned away from hers.  She was seated with three obnoxious gay BFFs and my ears were assaulted with a barrage of words such as "fierce," "ehmygah" and "Honey Boo Boo."

"May I bring you all anything to drink?"

"Just a water for now," Jessica said without looking up from her phone.  "I'll order a drink when the rest of our friends arrive."

I was thrilled to have gone unnoticed.  I tried to scurry off, but...

"Ex-cAH-use?  Me?" one of the minions sang.

"Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeees?" I returned.

"We?  Would...like...drinks," Honey Boo Boo informed me. 

"And what may I get for you?" I inquired.

"We'll split one double margarita for now," he smirked.  "And if you could split that into three different..."

"Nope," I interrupted him, and once again walked off.   

I returned with the sole libation (including three kid's cup straws) and a water for the lady.

"You look familiar," Jessica said, noticing me for the first time.  "Maybe you've waited on me before?"

"Probably," I said.  "Were we still waiting for more people before ordering?"

"Oh," she said indifferently, looking at her minions for affirmation.

"Yeeeeeah...theeeee'yre not comiiiiiiiiiiiiing,"  Tinkerbell, the most high-pitched of my new foes, explained. 

"What?!" Honey Boo Boo inquired.

"Well, Paul and Javier broke up again," Tinkerball explained, "and Alister met a fellow Canadian on Grindr."

"So are we ready to order?" I interrupted in hopes of circumventing a play-by-play of each chum's plans for the evening. 

"The three of us are splitting a cheese quesadilla," Honey Boo Boo said.

I looked to Jessica, who was buried once again in her phone.  I tapped my pen and bit my lower lip, my standard choreography for relaying inconvenience and somewhere to be. 

"Oh I'll just have water for now," she said.  "I'll order a drink when their food arrives."

Right, that's a logical move. 

"Girl WHAT?" Tinkerbell demanded.  "You're not eating?"

"Sorry," she took a huge breath and put down her phone.  "I think I'm about to get fired again, and I'm broke.  I'll just eat at home I guess........"

She all but rolled around in dirt and donned a burlap sack to really land the self-pity on that latter sentence. 

"Oh honey," Honey Boo Boo said.  "I'll spot you."

"Then may I please have my own large quesadilla and my own double margarita?" she said without missing a beat.  Or saying "thank you."  But the smile that followed showed that she thought this irreverant, ungracious declaration was cutesy and charming to everyone else. 

"Thanks BFF, I'll pay you back," she said while suddenly affecting that fake-sick-calling-in-to-work voice that few women pull off successfully.

I returned minutes later with the additional margarita.  Jessica was expounding upon the sob story of her "illegal" treatment from her current employer and why she couldn't ever catch a break.  The minions were eating this up and dabbing her tears.  I set down the drink she'd guilted her friend into buying her. 

"Is that bartender single?" Jessica asked, flipping on a dime from the emoting of her previous pity party.

"I...don't know," I replied.  

"Could we cancel our order with you and switch to the bar so I can flirt with him?" she asked.

"Yes, please," I replied.  I transferred their tab and all but flung their drinks at the bar to expedite my freedom from them.

"I remember, you know," she said.  "How we know each other..."

"Oh?" I asked. 

"Yeah," she said with a flirty little smile.  "Didn't we make out at [some horrible tacky bar on the Sunset Strip that I wouldn't frequent at gun point]?"

"Yes.  Yes," I replied.  "That must be it."

She gave herself a content grin and headed off to the bar to ensnare her latest prey.

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