the bitter waiter

The pen is mightier than the sword

Don't take my flask, don't take my pens, don't take my prescriptions.

Those three things alone comprise my sanity during work.  Thus, when I lend a pen to a customer and they keep it beyond a reasonable period of time?  Oh God, do I get testy.

This one group of assholes in business attire were nearing the end of a Very Important Business Lunch.  They'd instructed me to "Keep conversation to a minimum," because, you know, in addition to taking food and drink orders my job also entails asking people how their children are doing.

One of the four, a particularly pimpled, unpleasant corporate plebian, told me he needed a pen.  I parted with one of the two I could find.  The other pens, at some point, had been taken by customers or fellow servers who borrowed without returning. 

The ideal number of pens for a shift is four.  I now had one left. 

Inevitably Pimpled Plebian and his corporate cohorts left without giving me back my pen.  I could have let it go?  Or I could have followed them out to their cars, not so much because I couldn't live without yet another shitty BIC pen, but because, you know, as a matter of principle, so I followed them.

"Excuse me," I yelled while walking in a manner that would have given my high heels a particularly bitchy click clack had I been wearing high heels. 

They all looked at me equally confused.

"We paid?" one of them attempted to confirm.

"And we tipped...18 percent I think?" one of the others said.

"Fifteen percent, actually," I said with a grin.  "But I'm just here to get my pen back."

"I didn't take your pen, I left it at the table," Pimpled Plebian said.

"Nope.  I checked."

He took a look in his coat pocket.  Aha!  How'd that get in there?!

He handed me the pen, but couldn't help himself.  "Couldn't you just buy another pen?" he asked.

"It's the principle," I said.  "And no, I can't just buy new pens everyday.  Not on fifteen percent tips."

Bitch sitch

Don't get me wrong, I am willfully attracted to bitchy women, but only in moderation, AND ONLY WHEN THAT FACET IS CLEVERLY PRESENTED.  Many ladies mistake brash and belittling for bitchy. 

Sigh.  It's so much more. 

For instance, as Shakespeare once wrote, "Brevity is the soul of wit."  A good bitch can deliver a testy, tasty zinger with just a few syllables:

 

Unlike this hideous hillbilly, whose attempts to be a bitch backfired big time:

 

I don't seem to mind those rare occasions on which I wait on the former, but the minutes drag on to decades when I have to serve someone of the latter category.

Well, meet Shirley.

Shirley was a nasty, bottom-feeding piece of trailer trash, clad in a non-ironic denim vest and jeans so acid-stained they could have enabled a Batman villain, whose last level of education likely involved putting on a puppet show of "Charlotte' Web," a woman easier to impregnate than Texas, and a bitch exhibiting stupidity unparalleled.

Having been sat with her two young, obnoxious sons - who looked like they'd been forced to bathe a pig before being able to supper - in my booked section on a busy night, she and I got along fine until her cheese enchiladas arrived.

I stopped by a few minutes later to check on everything.

"Dont'cha have tangy mustard?" she asked.

"No, and, eww what for?" I replied.

"For ma incha-lattas," she said with serious 'tude.  "Was that you judgin' me fer wantin' tangy mustard?"

"Ehm, no," I said.  "Who am I to judge what someone else eats?"

"But-cha did, didn'cha?" she asked, revealing a missing side tooth. 

"No, I really just..."

"Bring over a man'ger," she said with a mouthful of cheese enchiladas and French's classic yellow mustard.

My manager went over and explained that it was never anyone's intention to make her feel judged, blah blah blah, we'd love to comp your meal in this Yelp-fearing society into which we feed, please come back and let us kiss your ass again soon, etc., etc., etc.

I was threatened with some vague notion of a somehow even crappier schedule if I didn't go suck up to the little squirrel-catching descendant of Nell.

I acquiesced and approached Shirley and brood.  Before I could speak, she said:

"Just so you know, I'm not leavin' any tip, and I always tip real good so it's your loss."

"I'm so sorry to hear that," I said.

True to her word, she did not leave a cent, but instead a nasty blend of rice, salsa, beans, cheese and mustard all over the booth. 

I returned home much later that evening.  I knew that, with Shirley, I'd have to make peace with no vindication beyond the fact that, while she is ugly, prematurely aged, done-in, talentless, incapable of complex thought, and eternally a victim of her own self-destructive behavior, I am me.  I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror from the sudsy tub, cheers'd myself with the heavy martini glass, and passed out. 

Oh, KALE no!

Eeeeeeeeeevery January, without fail, I'm greeted by customer after customer who inform me that he/she is following a strict diet in accordance with yet another blindly followed American tradition, the New Year's resolution.

And eeeeeeeevery January, without fail, I look at these people sideways as the smells of melted cheese, butter, flour tortillas, and fried fill-in-the-blank flow through the air.

Juanita, a rather testy regular who could stand to lose a few pounds and a lot of entitlement, decided to take her resolutions and snotty personal assistant to my section.  Juanita is a D-list children's talent agent whose clients have appeared in such prolific projects as "Discount Toys catalogue" and "Regional Del Taco commercial." 

I greeted them with the standard chips/salsa spread.

"Uhm, no," Juanita said with a dismissive wave.  "We'll be eating healthy today," she said condescendingly, as if I were the unattractive one in this equation.

"Don't you have those kale chips?" she asked.

"We don't have those kale anything," I replied. 

Juanita took to her menu fastidiously, relishing the chance to prove me wrong.  Alas, as has been the case every time I've donned my gin-drenched apron, I was right.

"Well I know you did at some point," she said.

Right.  Probably somewhere in between our cheeseburger burrito or our peanut butter and dark chocolate flan. 

"Yeah this place seems like it would have kale," I said.  "Anything to drink?"

"Just.  Water."  she said as if I'd posed this question six times in rapid succession.

"And for you?" I said to the poor assistant.

"JUST.  WATER." Juanita said again.  "Stop trying to 'upsell' or whatever it is you waiters do."

I don't upsell.  I don't give a flying fuck if you order merely a to-go bag and practice taking deep breaths, you abscess from Satan's asshole.

"At the risk of being too salesman-y, are you ready to order your entrees?"

"Nope," she said.

I returned with two waters, and the assistant was gone.

"She went to buy kale for me at Whole Foods," Juanita informed me triumphantly.

"Oh NO I guess you win!" I said sing-songy.  "Shall I wait for her to return or were you ready to..."

"Just a grilled chicken breast for me," Juanita interrupted.  "And she'll have a grilled chicken quesadilla."

I turned to walk away, but

"Oh," she said, "and when she's back with the kale?  I want you to prepare it with my entree."

Yeah?  Well I want Joe Manganiello to draw me a candle-lit bath, massage my feet and ask me about my tough day at work, and even still the odds are more so in my favor than yours, you grotesque old hag.

"Sure," I said, "We can either prepare that in butter on the grill, or in butter on the stove."  

"On the stove with butter," she said, not catching the implied chink in her dietary armor. 

Her assistant returned from the thankless task of fetching kale. 

"I want her to go back into the kitchen with you to instruct the chef on how to prepare it properly," Juanita told me.

"Our 'chef' doesn't allow non-employees back there, so I'm afraid I'm going to have to wing this myself."

She gave me a highly unrealistic list of things to do/not to do with the kale.  Ultimately it was soaked in butter on a stove for about 10 minutes and then delivered to Juanita.

She took a bite.

"No," she said sourly.  "No no no.  This kale is no good."

"Weeeeeeell then you might want to have your assistant take it back to Whole Foods, as we don't handle their returns and exchanges."

Juanita made the inevitable request for the manager, who didn't bother wiping sour cream off his face and clip-on tie before heading her way.  His indifference matched mine, and Juanita left in a huff, paying her bill to the penny with an obnoxious amount of coin.  She left no tip, only her bag of kale.  

She did, however, remember to take her fat ass with her. 

GET. OFF. YOUR. PHONE.

For hundreds of years, people all the world over were able to enjoy restaurants, movies, shopping, and vacations without the constant bombardment of social media activity and the various devices that perpetuate it. 

Now, however, it's all about proving you were somewhere, keeping tabs on the Joneses or, worst of all, showing off. 

By constantly tagging friends and checking in and finding the perfect filter for that boring picture of your French fries, you're broadcasting all of the above without actually enjoying it. 

Moreover, it's RUDE, especially when you're dining in a restaurant.  Not just to your server, but to the company with whom you're dining.  And for WHAT??  So you can see if anyone liked that slutty picture you posted of yourself in the Walgreens pharmacy waiting area?  Here's a hashtag for you: #NoOneGivesAShit.

I understand that some lunch meetings or reunions of friends rely on technology, whether for business points or baby pictures, and those are not the circumstances with which I take issue.

No, if there's one sight that sickens me more than a table of seven Armenians with high chairs and automatic gratuity, it's a table at which all parties are detached and alienating themselves so they can interact with other people on their smart phones.

Enjoy your fucking lunch!  Live in the moment without having to let your friend list of mostly indifferent acquaintances know that you're having a lobster quesadilla!  #YourLifeDoesn'tMakeAnyoneJealous.

Also, when a server addresses you and asks a question pertaining to your meal?  Pull yourself away, for a mere 30 seconds, from Kim K.'s fascinating news feed (She just got a yummy latte!!!!!!!!!) and look at me.  Believe me, I want to interact with you far less than you do me, but at least I can still fake polite and present.  Don't make me hate you even more than I already do.  #You'reNotImportantEnoughToBeThatRude.

Believe me, I understand those moments where social media does, for whatever reason, require your attention.  And those reasons don't even have to be good.  Stalk, bid, snap, like, do whatever makes you happy!  But if that's the priority, why bother coming into public?  Stay at home, order delivery, or do something that allows you to indulge without being rude or oblivious to the people around you.

I'm already one mid-shift Moscow Mule (thank you Whitney) away from walking out.  I can promise you that, in my 2014, I will not play second fiddle to your iPhone when I'm trying to take your order.  No sir, no ma'am.  You will be polite in my section.  #TweetThatBitch.