the bitter waiter

Some like it hot

When our portal to Hell swings open for lunch at 11 a.m., the usual gaggle of cranky elderly people and socially awkward cinephiles (dining before a matinee) file in, and for what ever reason, people who dine right at 11 am are rarely pleasant and always particular.

Arlene and Ruth, two bland, cold, scowling middle-aged women, cruised past the host stand one morning and sat themselves in one of my booths meant for six people.

"Hello, how are you?" I began.

"I don't like anything on the menu," Arlene told me.

"I'm doing well, thank you for asking!" I said.

"And we have a movie to get to," Ruth added. "I want the sirloin steak, cooked medium rare, and with none of the weird stuff you serve with it, just spinach and steak, spinach and steak only, understand?" Ruth scowled.

"Maybe I should find an adult to supervise so I don't forget?" I said.

"Don't you have anything else?" Arlene whined.

"You mean, additional menu items?"

"...........Yes," she said, exasperated.

"No, surprisingly, what's on our menu is what we have," I replied.

"I guess I'll have the chicken caesar," she said.

"Great, and anything to drink?" I asked.

"Water. Ice. No lemon. A straw," Ruth said.

"Water. No ice. Lemon. Two straws," Arelene said.

Soon after, the food arrived. Ruth waived me down as if I were a first responder at a crash site. 

"I like the color of this steak," she told me.

"I'm so happy," I said.

"But I want it hotter," she said. "I don't want it cooked any more; I just want it heated."

"Weeeeeell, science," I replied. "That's not quite how heat and cooking work. If I have the chef heat up your steak, that will cook it through more, losing the color you love so much."

"Not if he just microwaves it," she said condescendingly.

"First," I smiled, "we don't have a microwave. I've never worked at a restaurant that uses a microwave. Second, even if we did have a microwave, heating up your steak and cooking it more are the same thing. Medium rare is a warm red center. Medium is a hot pink center. That's that."

"So you're telling me no?" she asked.

"I am," I replied.

"Can you send over a manager?"

"I can!"

My manager also explained that we couldn't heat up something without cooking it more. Ruth sent back her sirloin and ordered a chicken caesar.

Ten minutes later or so, the ladies asked for their bill. They calculated their respective amounts to the penny and gave me their credit cards. When I returned, Ruth told me she wanted to take home the "failed" sirloin so her dog could eat it.

"You mean the steak you sent back that I threw away about 10 minutes ago?" I asked.

"Why did you throw it away??" she asked incredulously.

"Why on Earth would I keep it, in case of a food fight??" I asked.

She shook her head, and I walked off. Minutes later they asked me to validate their parking and handed me their signed credit card copy slips, as well. Ten percent tips from both of them.

I returned to the table, smiled, and set down the parking slips that I most certainly did not validate. I pictured them exiting the building, being charged $15 for parking, and I smiled some more. 

A cold day in Hell

Some nights you have to work when you have a massive cold, and on those nights the devil wrings his hands in glee, plotting the slow, snotty demise of your soul.

Because I was sick, naturally the hostess saw fit to triple-seat me, in between shooting her shitty Vine videos.

As for the customers, they were:

1) Two stretch-faced cougar women, "in a hurry" to see a movie
2) A bratty British teenager and her boyfriend, "in a hurry" to see a movie
3) A near-dead elderly couple, "in a hurry" to see a movie

I told parties one and three I'd be with them shortly, knowing they'd take the longest to order, and greeted the Brits. Ella, the Brit brat, batted her eyelashes at me as if I were susceptible to her few charms. 

"Hiiiiiiiiiiieeeee," she said. "We have a movie to get to, so we're kind of in a hurry. Is it okay if we just order tea?"

"Nope," I replied.

"Oh, uhhhh," she stammered. "Well, may we do two chamomile teas and then we'll look over the menu?"

"Okay," I said. "But you have to order food."

I moved down Dante's line of guests to the elderly couple.

"Hello," I said.

"I WANT CHICKEN," the old man announced, handing me back the menu.

"Great, in which form?" I asked. He looked at his wife with a grating, clueless look of helplessness, as if I'd expressed this question by clacking my tongue repeteadly.

"HE WANTS THE COBB SALAD," his wife informed me. "AND I WANT THE COBB SALAD."

"And to drink?" I asked.

"YES," she said, "WE'RE SEEING A MOVIE SO WE'RE IN A HURRY."

And last but not least, the thirsty cougars.

"We're in a hurry to make a movie, and we're ready to order," Barbara told me through her wax candy lips. "Is it going to take long?"

"I have no idea what you're ordering, so it's nearly impossible to tell," I replied.

"What's something quick?" Claudia asked, her poor, painted eyelids never quite staying at the same level.

"Water," I answered.

"How about an appetizer platter?" Barbara asked Claudia.

"We don't have an appetizer platter," I said with offense. "May I bring you something to drink while you look over the menu?"

After much hemming and hawing, they settled on two glasses of sweet wine, a hummus plate, and two cups of tomato bisque.

"But quickly," Barbara reminded me. "We need to be out of here quickly."

"We want the same thing," I assured her.

I checked back on the Brits, who pretended to look at a menu when I approached. I told them they had four more minutes before I brought over the bill.

Shortly thereafter, the elderly woman shouted that she was waiting for the iced teas she never ordered, and the cougars both asked for straws for their wine. Then the Brits needed more honey, the cougars wanted ice cubes, and the elderly man requested a pillow to sit on. I received two new tables, but thank God they were inhabited by normal people with normal restaurant needs.

Ella waived me down. "We couldn't decide on anything, so I guess we'll just tab out," she told me with strained earnestness.

"Whatever," I said as I thrust the bill on the table. They left exact change and no tip.

The elderly couple was the next to leave. I dropped off the bill, and the old man immediately tried to sign it.

And finally, the cougars, who informed me they enjoyed "nothing" about their meal, asked me to box up said offensive feast.

Once all three groups left, I swear I felt my cold back off slightly, out of sympathy. I tallied my tips from the three groups - a collective $12, which I should have spent on NyQuil, but I figured the best cure would be a bottle of Malbec.