the bitter waiter

Gay Gardens

I don't mind the rude customers if I find their curt behavior to be part of a larger, rather eccentric personality. 

This one man, a cross between Truman Capote and Jackee Harry (the photo to the right is a rough online rendering of how said hybrid should genetically appear), had me in stitches.

At first, at least.

We'll call him Stephen. 

So Stephen (a testy realtor) and his terrified assistant Haley sat themselves in my section just as our dinner shift was picking up.  He was gay and stylish, and by stereotype a good tipper (he was), so I forgave the self-seating and greeted them.

"I know you all are Mexican," Stephen said while rubbing his temples without looking at me for even a split second, "but is the bartender competent enough to make a good dirty vodka martini?"

"Oh yes," I said, "I can vouch for that as recently as two minutes ago."

Stephen smirked as if his reaction were a kindness and perused the menu.

"Grey Goose," he said with intentionally clear and protracted diction, still without a glance. 

"Haley?" he inquired. 

"Oh, hi," she said.  "I'll have a wine.  Uhm, a white one.  Please."  Those are the only words I heard from Haley, ever. 

I returned with two waters and the beverages.  Stephen was on his phone, yelling at someone about being "dyked over" on the price of a condo.  Haley was awkwardly resting her chin on her right shoulder.

I attempted to walk away but Stephen snapped from his phone call, "Do NOT go anywhere, we're ready to order!" He continued seamlessly speaking to his business associate.  I waited for five seconds, at which point the phone convo was clearly nowhere close to finishing, and I walked off, haughtily of course. 

I returned at my convenience.  Stephen immediately began ordering, still no eye contact towards me, and ordered for Haley as well. 

Later, after their meals had arrived, Stephen flagged me down with animated urgency. 

"You changed the dressing," he said while forking through the offensive plate with disgust. 

"If by 'you' you mean our cook," I countered through rolled eyes (not that he was looking anyhow) "no, neither he nor anyone else has ever changed the dressing for that salad.  It's a balsamic vinaigrette.  Always has been, always will be."

"Mmmm no," he countered while nonchalantly sampling a bit more from his finger.  "I want the old dressing." 

And with that, he slid the bowl towards me. 

Just to be completely certain, I paraded the bowl in question back to the kitchen and asked Raul, Juan, and Cristobal if they'd ever changed the dressing.  Knowing how many times I'd supplied them with free shots or looked the other way when they were getting stoned in the walk-in freezer, I knew they would actually answer my question instead of brushing me off like my needy, non-Spanish-speaking co-workers (no offense guys). 

They swore that, no, no one had ever given a shit enough to think about changing the menu.  The dressing was the same as it had always been.

I returned and stood by my story.

"Send the manager," Stephen said, with gesture. 

My current-in-a-long-line-of-many manager, who I had to fetch from the Banana Republic next door and whose bitchy flamboyance sparkled brighter than anyone else's, listened impatiently to Stephen explain his frustration.  

They came to some weird plot twist when they realized they had a friend in common.  They went from passive aggressive chit chat to hearty laughter.  I even think they exchanged info, which I found super gross, but I also didn't care because they're both unattractive, so I returned to the table shortly thereafter.

"I seem to have been mistaken," Stephen said while handing me a wad of cash. 

Mistake, my ass.  You were ready to douse me in denim and burn me at the stake.  You didn't really give a shit about the dressing, you just needed to be difficult, and now that you've eyed that coked-out, sassy, slender rail of a power bottom to bed this evening, you have to play nice.  Oh I'll take your blood money, bitch, but I won't forget your theatrics. 

"No change," he said, which all said meant a 50% tip. 

And even then, no eye contact whatsoever.

Sometimes we hurt those closest

I found myself in a rather peculiar position recently, and I don't mean "waking up in my car at 5:12 a.m. next to a strange couple in a Yum Yum Donuts parking lot" peculiar.

A restaurant guest, who was being pleasant and warm to me, was being suuuuuch a bitch to her two perfectly lovely assistants. 

Apparently, it was revealed minutes after they were seated, there'd been a miscommunication regarding rescheduling an appointment.   They worked in a nearby casting office.

I was dropping off their waters and Diet Cokes when the boss said, "Do you know how nice it is that I'm even letting you still eat lunch?!?" She wasn't saying that playfully or at all in jest.  She'd switched gears with Satanic agility. 

Assistant 1, a demure and softspoken young girl, tripped over her own words apologizing, offering to have her meal boxed up and take a cab back to the restaurant.

The other assistant said nothing.

The boss, feigning warmth and patting herself on the back through her condescendingly sympathetic tone, said, "No no."

I'd stood there like I was watching an old episode of "Melrose Place," like the really great stuff in the third/fourth seasons when Heather Locklear, Kristin Davis and Courtney Thorne-Smith's characters all cross-hated one another because of Andrew "Do Something" Shue. 

(Except that - these three in my section, bless their hearts - they were not attractive.)

"I think we are all set for now, thank you," Nice Boss told me with a smile.

I wanted to tell the girls that I understood, that I wanted to hate their boss on their behalf, and that if it were up to me she'd be shitting buckets for three straight days with the help from my friends in the kitchen.

But...the lady was directly kind to me.  And I didn't know the entirety of the story regarding the appointment mishap, how often these girls messed up, etc.  So I remained impartial.

I returned to see if they were ready to order.  I'd clearly interrupted an awkward silence.  They each ordered variations of the same salad, and more Diet Cokes.  More caffeine to really soothe the tension, good idea.

Once I'd arrived with the food, the tension had returned, but via a different discussion.  Assistant 2 had apparently made the egregious error of saying she did not care for Sandra Bullock's performance in "Gravity."  Bad Boss was back, using the same bitchy, condescending tone, but this time implying that the assistant had no taste, attacking her for her opinion. 

The first assistant remained silent.

I returned to the server's station, this time definitely siding with the assistants.  Still, what could I do?  The food had been served, all drinks refilled.  She later paid with cash, so I couldn't use the whole "Sorry your card was declined" bit, which she would have likely blamed on the assistants.

But unless those two assistants were just completely hopeless, which neither of them appeared to be, they'd find a way to either get out, or at least get back (i.e., write a mean-spirited blog, etc.).

 

Adios!

When you and your lover are quarreling, teetering on the edge of a dramatic break-up, I assume you do what any other rational, classy couple would do - you take that break-up to a dingy Mexican restaurant for all to see.

Let's dissect the dissolution as it happened before my very eyes.  I'll give you a blow-by-blow of the grueling match. 

In one corner of the ring we have Tito, a 5'6" lothario with the ego of someone at least 4" taller. 

And in the other corner we have Rosie, a 5'7" Latina diva with curly hair so stiffened from shitty product that Russia is using her hairspray to euthanize stray homosexuals in Sochi.

ROUND ONE:

 "May I bring you anything to start?" I asked.

"Jussa new boyfriend..." Rosie said, arms folded, eyes rolling.

"Ha, women," Tito said, as stoned as a fast food employee during break.  "Am I right bro?"

"No comment," I replied.  "To drink?"

"Jussa give me some time, damn!" Rosie snapped.

"I'll take an 'Adios,'" Tito said.

"Oh so you gonna order before the lady?" Rosie said.  "Damn, see?  This is what I mean.  So rude."

Round One goes to Rosie, who packed a TKO by presenting the valid point that Tito should have waited to order his drink, and also by being an intolerable skank.

ROUND TWO:

Rosie's meds must have kicked in, because as soon as I returned with waters, she was sitting next to Tito and licking the inside of his ear.  I wanted to stab out my eyes with her split ends. 

They both ordered two "Adios," a cocktail filled with every abhorrent blue, sugary sweet liquor that no one with sleeves and a lack of gold teeth should ever order.

I soon learned that Rosie had cozied up to Tito because she wanted him to buy her a gold iPhone.

"Pleeeease?" she cooed in baby talk.  "Then we could just move on."

"Nah," Tito said.  "That's yo game.  You get mad, make me feel guilty, then ask me to buy something."

He took a sip of his Adios as Rosie dramatically returned to her side of the booth, arms folded, eyes rolling.

Round Two goes to Tito, who narrowly but smartly avoided Rosie's predictable maneuver of turning shit-talking into shopping.

ROUND THREE

It really hit the fan before anyone had a chance to order food.  I returned with their unsavory beverages, but the mood was beyond libational repair at that point.

They were clearly having the break-up discussion.  Insults were exchanged, feelings were hurt, accusations flew like the dander from her spray-soaked hair.

And yet at no point did either of them tone down the volume or turn off the theatrics.

However, after I circled back, they'd up and left.  They hadn't really ordered anything of substance, and I was thrilled to be rid of them, so I considered it a success.  Which leads me to...

Round Three goes to Bitter Waiter, because even though I thumb my nose at people who drink the Adios, it didn't stop me from downing both of theirs.  Arms folded, eyes rolling.