the bitter waiter

When pigs fly

Our patio proudly welcomes your pooches. 

Small to medium-sized dogs are a staple of our patio, and most people abide by the universal etiquette for bringing your pet out in public.

However, earlier this week I had a rather grungy bitch bring in her loser boyfriend, her massive entitlement, and her pet pig.

Because of Los Angeles' lovely Fall weather, our patio was particularly popular that day. 

"We need to be seated right away," Courtney Love informed me.  I made an audible gasp as the stench of her dreadlocks defiled my nostrils.

"Well as you can see," I began with a Vanna White hand flourish, "all the tables on the patio are full."

"Then we'll go inside," she said.

"Not with that pig," I said.

Or your pet, either.

"So, yeah, the hostess inside?  She's the one who seats people, not me," I continued.

Courtney Love huffed and puffed and sent in her stinky boyfriend to check in with the hostess.  To no one's surprise except the happy couple and their porker, the hostess also told them no pigs were allowed in the restaurant (a phrase that only grew more popular as the day progressed).

Minutes later, I returned to the patio with a tray of ice waters.  Courtney Love stood directly in front of me, blocking my path.

"Move," I said.  "Like now."

"Not until you bring a table out here and seat us immediately," she said.

"Yeah I'll get right on that," I said, pushing my way past her.

"Did you just push me?" she bellowed for all to hear. 

"Did you just block my path?" I said, while setting down the waters.

Her idiot boyfriend, who acted as if he'd just sniffed his way through Home Depot's paint department, manned up.

"There some problem?" he asked.  Mind you, he'd been within earshot this entire time and had heard every syllable of my exchange with his bacon-loving bitch.

I grew progressively angrier. 

"If you two wanna cause a scene I'll be happy to call the cops," I said.  "And I think they only allow so many pigs in jail."

That did it.

Her boyfriend grabbed one of the waters I'd brought out and threw it out the patio, onto the street, narrowly missing oncoming traffic, and tried to get up in my space.

Seconds later, my non-sober manager was on the scene, and the customers on the patio confirmed that I was not the problem in this piggish situation.  With that, Courtney, her pet, and her lover were told to leave lest they wanted to incur police action.

Before they were fully out of the patio, one of the tables opened up.  I cleaned it off as I waived a bitchy goodbye to my new best friends. 

My body, my temple

I have no issues with people who decide to eat healthy and take care of themselves.  Be a vegan or someone who only eats space food for all I care.  Knock yourself out with those Pilates and trampoline classes you learned about from that cool girl who works at your favorite kale and smoothie co-op. 

But as with all things, don't dare impose your belief system on me.

Especially when you're delusional enough to believe that a shitty hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant can cater to your macrobiotic menu. 

Meet Renee and Kyle, a A CROSSFIT COUPLE.  They WORK OUT EVERYDAY and have a "cheat day" once a week.

Now, in terms of CrossFit, I have many friends who are big fans, who've seen the results, who apply the teachings appropriately to their lives but not to the point of obsession.  I respect that.

And then there are obnoxious people who do stupid shit like have "Crossfit weddings," because nothing says "We're secure in our love for each other" like making people watch you do burpies and kettlebells in lieu of cake and cocktails.

So Renee and Kyle, drenched in sweat and clothed in LuLuLemon garments that would constrict a piece of stationery, let alone a human body, made it clear that they had just WORKED OUT.

 

"I am soooooo ready for a margarita!!!!!!!" Renee said with endorphin-laced enthusiasm.

"Uhh!!!  We RAN here!!!" Kyle informed me with the abrasive alacrity of a children's theater performer.

"I had to take a Lyft because I forgot at which bar I left my car last night," I said for no reason.

"I wanna do that 'Fresh' margarita," Renee said.  "The one with only fresh lime juice, agave nectar, and silver tequila?"

"Sure," I said.

"Wait," she said.  "You know which one I mean, right?  I can't do ANY mixers or high fructose corn syrup.  You're sure it's the organic one?"

"It's not advertised as 'organic,'" I corrected her with aplomb.  "It is, however, made with natural ingredients."

"Oh, okay," she said.  "We'll take two!"

I returned with the beverages.

"Oh, oh oh..." she said.  "There's salt on these glasses."

Correct, way to identify a noun!  Now, can you tell me what that metallic thing is with the prongs that I want to stab you with?

"Yep," I said.  "They've always come with salt."

"Well," Kyle said, "We don't do salt.  Makes us bloated."

"Ahhh, gotcha," I said.  "Well you came to the right place then - a Mexican restaurant."

I returned with the saltless drinks.  Kyle attempted to order.

"Hey I have a question," he said.

"Great."

"What would you recommend that's not too heavy on dairy, fat, sodium, or red meat?"

"The Urth Cafe," I replied.  They didn't laugh.  "You could do a grilled chicken breast with beans and rice, or grilled veggies?"

"Yeah, we'll take two of those!!!!" Renee said.  "But you're sure they're made with all organic ingredients?"

"Nooo, I'm sure that's not the case at all actually," I said.  "Guys, the healthiest thing here is our bottled water.  I'm not sure how healthy you can eat here."

"Ahhhhhhhh, okay," they said, deflated. 

"We just..." he started, like I gave a shit.  "We're really committed to CrossFit.  Have you heard of it?"

"Uh huh."

"Ever tried it?"

"Nuh uh."

"Do you work out?"

"Uhm obviously."

"You should give it a try sometime," he said. 

"Sure.  I'll be right back with your chicken."

They were disappointed with their entrees and gave me 10 minutes' worth of suggestions for how I - a lone server with no authority in terms of menu decisions - could improve the menu for "all the health nuts who surely want to eat here?!?"

After my shift I went to the gym.  I harnessed my irritability and had a great workout, one that I later rewarded with beer from the bottle and peanut butter from the jar.  I might not have two percent body fact, but I wasn't Kyle or Renee, and that was fit enough for me.

Shut up, Sherika

With some annoying regulars, I eventually become immune to their grating behaviors.  Whenever I deal with Twalla, or Twia, or whatever her unnecessarily distinct, trailer-park-born name is, I no longer feel my blood pressure rise when she asks if I'd like to buy her a drink.  I simply ignore her and walk away.

And then there are those regulars who only become more horrible over time. Like Sherika (I'm not making that up.  If I didn't fear getting fired & becoming Buzzfeed bait I'd post the credit card to prove it.  Sherika, pronounced "Share-ica."  Trust me, her name is truly Sherika.  Fucking Hell.  Sherika).

Sherika is under life's most tempting yet ignorant indulgence; that of self-indulgence.  And by self-indulgence, I mean the viewpoint that everyone else in life thinks you are as interesting as you do.  That people give a flying fuck about your new porch, or your back spasms, or your "just okay" weekend, or your goddamned trip to the San Diego Zoo with your nieces and nephews, I mean OH MY GOD, SHERIKA, NO.  ONE.  GIVES.  A.  SHIT.  I have read judge's gavel catalogues that arouse more interest. 

So Monday, when our entire truck-stop-style menu is THIRTY PERCENT OFF, people scrimp and save to fill up the trailers with a half tank, lick each others' hair to shower, and hurry on in to tooth-tackle those thrifty troughs of terrible.

Sherika and I have met only once, years ago, when I gave her some serious 'tude and she told the indifferent shift manager to either "fire [him] or make sure [he] never serves me when I come in!!!!!"

The manager and I verbally agreed with the latter at the same exact time. 

However, the male member of her party arrived early this time and uknowingly procured the only open booth, which was in my section.  She joined minutes later, saw that there were no other open tables, rolled her eyes, sighed a histrionic sigh of annoyance, and sat down in defeat.

"What may I get you?" I asked flatly, but while exuding some warmth to the thus far innocent male.

"I believe we'll take a pitcher please," he said politely.

"BUT AT THE THIRTY PERCENT PRICE?!?!" she said in a tone more suited to the final moments of Sophie's Choice.

"Nope," I said in a goofy, melodic tone.  "The discount only applies to food."

"That's...not true," she said while folding her arms. 

"EHHHHHHH!!!" I imitated the tone of a game show's incorect answer buzzer.  "True." I said, while pointing with my slightly bended middle finger.  "See this menu?  Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeahright there, it says it right.........there.  See it?"

"Got it," she said.

"No worries," he said.  "We'll pay regular price, it's all good."

"You know what?" I said, looking directly and warmly at him.  "Because you've been so polite...and I can't tell you how rare that is...I'm going to ring in a happy hour pitcher, even though happy hour is technically over now."

He was sincerely grateful.  I smiled at him, he smiled, and then took a look at his phone.  I shot her a "Follow that act, you fat bitch" look and pranced off.

I returned to the table.  Sherika was telling this HALAURIUS story about a mishap with her manicurist, because the lady speaks "Asian."  She kept looking in my direction to see if I was as enthralled as her pool male victim (I was; he hated the fuck out of it, too).  I asked if they were ready to order food.  She ignored me, and he politely declined. 

I returned to the table a few minutes later to refill their chips and salsa.  This time, she was talking about how strong she became after her "first" divorce.  Fake tears in her eyes and all.  And she looked at me to see if I felt as much compassion as he did (I did; he had the fakest smiled plastered to his face and was drinking Jack like it flowed from a fountain - we were both drunk and bored). 

Minutes later, he gave me a slightly urgent "Bill PLEASE" hand gesture.  I complied immediately.  As he all but held my hand to the table while he got out his credit card, she talked about how humble she was, how people praised her humility, and she attributes it to a healthy self worth.  She blinked in my direction to see if I was as impressed as he was (I was; he stopped responding at this point and quickly walked her to her car, left in his, and sped off).

I watched as he drove off into the night as I downed the 3/4 full glass of his Jack.  He would likely keep her from coming back for a long time, and for that --- you, my friend, will forever drink for free whenever you find yourself in my section.