Despite having amassed many years in part-time jobs in Los Angeles, I never forget the face of someone who's been rude to me.
One of my first jobs entailed working at the front desk of a (now bankrupt) sports club in Beverly Hills. Our posh, flatteringly lit play-pen for the rich included Oscar winners, millionaire athletes, and horny, settlement-loving singles among its celebrated members. Most of the famous people were actually quite nice (except for Mario Lopez and Jessica Simpson).
The rudest members were usually the gold-digging cougars who were 52 going on "Oh it's my 10-year-reunion." Sherry was one such woman. Armed with entitlement and a pair of overdone lips that could strangle air itself, she tried everything from having her membership fees waived because she couldn't find parking to hiding her dog in her gym locker.
This weekend, she and a much older man, a crotchety pile of sticks in his late 70s who I also recalled from the sports club, sat at a spacious booth in my section. Given how far away they were from each other at the booth (and in years), I assumed he was her father.
"How are you two this evening?" I asked as I greeted the table with a smile and a clean slate (ish).
"We're ready to order," she said with aggressive eyebrows raised and a dismissive curl of the puffy lip. Once a basic bitch, always a basic bitch.
"Oh great," I said with a tight smile.
"I'll have a bowl of the pumpkin soup, we'll share a chicken caesar salad, and for my husband I need a mushroom flatbread," she told me slowly as if my hearing were impaired by a head wound.
"Oh great," I said with a tight smile. "And to drink?"
"Two waters and one iced tea," she said.
When the food hit the table, I approached the two of them and asked, "Oh, would you like me to keep the flatbread warm while we wait for your husband?"
She stared at me curiously, then sat open-mouth for a few seconds. With a finger pointed at the old geezer, she said:
"This...him? He is my husband. Okay? The flatbread is for him. Do you understand?"
"Oh I understand" I said. "And my most sincere apologies. I assumed when you alluded to your husband earlier, you were speaking of him in third person because he wasn't here."
She kind of bought my excuse. "Everything is fine," she said dismissively.
After dinner, the old man ordered ice cream and hot fudge. Sherry glared at me in between curt sips of her decaf non-fat macchiato. They argued about him ordering a brandy (which we don't carry) and then paid the bill, leaving a 10% tip.
As they exited, Sherry didn't bother waiting for her husband as he slowly exited the booth. She met him in the lobby, motioning her finger clockwise while saying, "Hurry up."
Oh, LaTonya, how I loved visiting and laughing with you in that basement! I do recall Vin's temper tantrum, and his manager taking offense to us not letting them give themselves a tour.
Posted by: Bitter Waiter | October 30, 2015 at 11:27 AM
They kept me locked in the basement but I recall Jessica would never bring her membership card and you ALWAYS asked for her name when she checked in. #classic
Let's also give an honorable mention to Vin "Don't You Know Who I Am" Diesel who wasnt even a member and demanded entry.
Posted by: LaTonya | October 30, 2015 at 11:23 AM
Ahhh...new environment, new stories, but the same seething sarcasm. I simply LOVE getting to read three fabulous entries after starving for months. I feel your pain, BW...but I LOVE your wit!!!
Posted by: Jet | October 28, 2015 at 03:12 AM
Gawd, 10% is so bullshit!
When I have really awful people I try to picture them naked in bed with each other. It's how I keep a smile on my face throughout their meal. I think my strategy might work for this couple. She has to sleep with this geezer! Naked, and coming for her. I hope this helps.
Posted by: N | October 26, 2015 at 06:22 PM
I love the Jessica Simpson stories!!!
Posted by: Heather | October 26, 2015 at 03:31 PM