the bitter waiter: April 2013

Thoughts from last night's shift

1. God that woman has small hands. I hope I don't have to wait on her.
2. Oh I'm the only server on for the next hour? So every table is mine? Oh bliss!
3. How can a woman with such small hands go through so many chips at once?
4. Yes, asshole, there's alcohol in your drink. Not as much as in my blood stream, but still.
5. Oh you're in a hurry? But you ordered your steak well done and sent back your drink three times?
6. Thank God there's a mirror on the wall above this booth. Let's tune out these Armenians and study the reflection. Ooh, wait. That's actually a very sexy face you just made. Do it again. Ok, do it again, but this time, pout the lips just a little bit more. Oh my God, so sexy. I'll take a picture. Ugh, if only I could crop these shitbags out of the picture. Shit. What did they order again??
7. Small tip from small hands.
8. "Oops I did it again. I played with your heart, got lost in the game. Ooh baby, baby..."
9. Oh Billy's running late? Got lost coming back from his audition? So I need to start his tables, do all the work, then transfer them to Billy when he arrives and let him collect the tip for all my efforts? It'll be a snowy, sober day in Hell before that happens.
10. I can't understand what that Armenian woman asked for, so I'll just come back to her table with a Diet Coke, side of lemons, more salsa, and a hair net.
11. Of course I don't mind running to the drug store next door to buy you a pack of cigarettes! By the way, I love your Ed Hardy shirt - it really brings out the leopard print in your hooker's dress!
12. Oh, she's your mother? That's weird!
13. No, Billy, I won't close the restaurant for you. I'm sure your one-line reading for "Pretty Little Liars" was taxing and all, but I have a bottle of gin and a playlist full of The Carpenters waiting impatiently for me at home.
14. I don't understand, old Armenian woman, you want doggos? What the fuck are doggos?
15. Yes, point to the menu, because it's so well-lit in this cavern.
16. Oh, TACOS. You want TACOS.
17. Yes, officer, your meal is free. You know that. I know that. No need to see whose is bigger by reminding me every time you come in.
18. What was that, Sharmeeka? You didn't like your burrito and you don't think you should have to pay for it, even though you ate every bite like a cannibal on a cruise ship?
19. STOP ASKING ME HOW MUCH LONGER FOR YOUR DOGGOS, YOU AWFUL MISSING LINK!
20. When I get home, I am going to black the fuck out.
21. Oh you work in a restaurant too, so you'll be super easy to wait on? Then stop asking me to give you the happy hour price when it's not happy hour, and stop talking.
22. Thank you, officer, but I don't need to know what you'll be doing in the bathroom, only that you'll be leaving when you're done with your "massive dump."
23. Fuck this, I am going to black out here and now...

Posted at 08:53 AM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBack (0)

The tears of a clown

Be careful, my testosterone-laden lady-loving male customers. I, as your server, have at my disposal all manner of ways to make your date a success or a stalemate. Treat me well, and I'll do everything legally in my power to make you look good and ensure she's a sure thing (tampering with a drink notwithstanding). Piss me off, however, and the only thing you'll be going home with is the salsa stain I failed to tell you about and for which I was likely responsible.

As a cautionary tale, meet Luciano, a hot shot Italian lothario. He would have been much more handsome had it not been for his bizzarely manicured facial hair, bouffant pompadour, and the incendiary scent of his cologne, which seemed a blend of fabric softener and old dog farts.

While waiting for his date, he was polite enough, even friendly. But once she arrived, Luciano gradually became more and more of an ass rash, metaphorically whipping it out so that his date and I constantly knew who was in charge.

As for his date, I'd love to tell you that she was a massive bitch with breasts as even as a water balloon and an orphan sock. I wish I could say she looked like she'd slept in her clown make-up and woken up five minutes before her date. How I'd savor the chance to compare her to a drunken French whore.

But alas, she was a sweet, adorable, apple-pie type girl next door. Which only made me that much more compelled to expose Luciano once his true colors started scratching the surface.

"Hi, I'll be with you in just a minute," I said as she sat down, my hands stacked high with about 10 dirty plates.

"No, you'll be with us right now," Luciano said. "The lady would like a drink."

"Oh, it's fine, you can drop those off and come back!" she said.

I dropped off the dishes and returned.

"Splenda margarita, blended, strawberry," Luciano said.

"Okay," I replied. "And for the lady?"

"That IS for the lady," he said. "I'll have a stoli and tonic."

I returned with the drinks.

"That's not what she ordered," Luciano said dismissively.

She and I exchanged puzzled looks.

"I think it is..." she said.

"No baby, we want it in the bigger glass," he said.

"No, I don't need a double," she said.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, this one's great, thanks!"

"Were you two ready to order?" I asked.

"What's the rush, dude?" Luciano inquired. "I think it's really rude to hurry your customers. I'll let you know when we're ready to order." He shoo'd me away with a waive of his hand. I smiled sadly at his date and walked off.

My short fuse had already been reached. I just needed Luciano to be a cock ring one more time, and my plan for vengeance would be set in motion. I knew it wouldn't take much.

And like clockwork, Luciano snapped his fingers five minutes later.

"We've been out of chips and salsa for, like, ever," he said. "What's the deal?"

"Sorry, I'll refill them," I said.

"You're struggling, dude," he informed me.

And with that, the switch was flipped. He underestimated the extent of my acting training, the raw bundle of nerves that dwells inside, soaked with gasoline, just waiting for a match to set them off.

I let the lip quiver. I allowed that beautiful, sole tear to fall from one eye. I looked to the ground, so ashamed of my display of emotion, so dismayed at my vulnerability.

"Ohh...awwwwww," his date said.

"Sorry, I just...I just had to put my cat to sleep this morning, and I couldn't get anyone to cover my shift, so yeah, I am struggling," I said. "I'm so sorry, let me pay for your meal out of my own pocket."

They both sat silently, if not a little awkwardly. For the remainder of their meal, they exchanged very few words. When I set down the bill, Luciano muttered a rehearsed, "Sorry about earlier..." and paid, still only leaving a 10 percent tip.

His date left on her own after offering an insincere "I had a good time..."

Luciano went home alone, hopefully having learned a valuable lesson.

Posted at 10:59 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBack (0)

Flash dance

Poor Donna. A jilted lover who's hard to root for because she's such a grating bitch, she and her gal pals recently strutted into my section for a night of tequila and testosterone-bashing.

Her support sisters, four equally obnoxious single ladies, came preprogrammed with a litany of Sex and the City style cliches to boost Donna's spirits.

"Honey, it's HIS loss!!!"

"Sweetie, you deserve someone who realizes how AMAZING you are!!!"

"Girl, it's not you, it's HIM!!!"

I stood within earshot at the bar, stirring the pitcher of a neighboring racist, redneck table with my index finger. After blackmailing the bartender into giving me a shot of vodka, I greeted the pussycat pep rally.

"Hieeeeee!" I said perkily as to combat any anti-male sentiment, pretending that I was just a sardonic, sassy male-hater or something equally out-of-character.

"We're gonna need your strongest pitcher!" MaryAnnaBeth exclaimed!

"But maybe just, like, the cheap house pitcher!" LaDonna added!

"I want it blended!" Charisse squealed!

"No, on the rocks!" Veronica countered!

"How about half blended and half on the rocks!?" Donna chirped!

How about we really meet halfway and I just run you all over with my car?

The girls decided on a moderately priced pitcher prepared "flash" style (half blended, half on-the-rocks, and if any of you ever orders a pitcher this way I'll plant child porn and meth in your car and call the cops).

"Or are you gonna disappoint us, too, like every other man?" Donna asked me. Upon closer inspection, Donna was a mid-40s New York transplant who was yoga hot, meaning her body was toned but her harsh face could instill gratitude in the blind.

I returned with the flash pitcher. Now, if you're a rational person, the concept of a flash cocktail would be a wee bit contradictory, yes? A drink that is prepared either on the rocks or blended wouldn't logically seem to have a happy medium, right? I mean, to me, blended is blended. Sure, there's 7-Eleven Icee blended, and then there's casual cocktail blended, but they're still void of "rocks."

In general, the rare few who order a pitcher or cocktail "flashed" are always disappointed. There's either not enough blended texture, or a few errant ice cubs tilt the scale too far in the other direction.

Before I could set down the pitcher, Donna groaned.

"I KNEW he wouldn't get it right," she told the others, who all nodded their heads in agreement.

"Were you not LISTENING?" MaryAnnaBeth asked.

"Do you not know what 'flash' means?" LaDonna inquired.

"Is this your first day or something?" Veronica queried.

"Did they not train you?" Veronica wondered.

"I mean, you can leave that here? But we're NOT paying for it," Donna insisted.

I had a theory. I took the pitcher out of sight of the ladies. I took a beat, during which time I downed another shot of vodka, affirmed myself in the mirror, affirmed myself to the bus boy, practiced my ever-changing choreography to the rendition of "Vogue" I plan on performing solo during my entrance at my high school reunion, and re-tossled my hair.

I returned to the table with the same pitcher, unaltered.

"THAT'S much better," Donna told me. "But still, we've now had to wait 20 minutes for a drink, so we're not paying for this pitcher."

This occurred at 5:05. I clocked in at 5:00, greeted them at 5:02, and was drunk by 5:04. Twenty minutes, my perfectly arched foot.

They guzzled that first pitcher, and ordered another with aplomb. The passive shift manager agreed to remove the first flash from their bill, much to my chagrin and in spite of the temper tantrum I threw in front of everyone.

So, fresh from vacation and disturbingly happy to resume my old tricks, I came up with a tried and true form of vigilante justice. I knew just how to avenge myself from these stupid old witches.

They consumed two additional pitchers. Both were prepared perfectly. Both were met with a 10 percent tip.

And both were completely void of any alcohol. Oh, and like the racist, redneck table that preceded them? Both pitchers were stirred by yours truly.

Posted at 08:53 AM | Permalink | Comments (9) | TrackBack (0)