Bitter Waiter by the minutes

8:00 am: wake up refreshed from the prior day off, ready to kick my to-do list's ass until my 4:00 dinner shift.

11:30 am: finally get out of bed after giving myself anxiety attacks thinking, "Oh God I only have eight hours until work" / "Oh God I only have seven hours until work" / "Oh God I only have six hours until work."

11:31 am: make a margarita and take a hot bath (repeat until 3:00 pm)

3:00 pm: accept that no one will cover my shift despite my rock-solid excuse for trying to get out of work ("I don't want to"), and rinse off the face mask, the leave-in conditioner, and the smell of tequila.

3:30 pm: While driving on the 405, I fantasize about yet another scenario in which I quit the restaurant, giving serious bitch sass to the chef, and walking out to the applause of my co-workers and guests. I'm even nominated for an Oscar after a witness' clip goes viral.

3:50 pm: arrive at work uncharacteristically early and wait outside with the bus boy and the host. The three of us stare blankly into space, doing anything to avoid speaking to one another.

4:05 pm: I set up the restaurant while singing the entire soundtrack from "The Chipmunk Adventure," with gusto.

5:00 pm: greet my first guests, who tell me how excited they are for happy hour. I'm even more excited to inform them we don't have happy hour.

5:15 pm: The chef, ever in need of a chance to talk about himself, lectures me about buttoning my collar buttons while finding a way to incorporate his recent trip to Mykonos with his boyfriend into his sermon.

6:10 pm: Our wood-burning oven goes haywire, presenting the possibility of the kitchen closing and giving me hope that perhaps my shift will end early.

6:45 pm: Some fucking asshole named Larry fixes the wood-burning oven.

7:10 pm: A real peach sends back her mahi mahi because "It's too mahi mahi-y."

7:15 pm: The same peach sends back her margarita because it's too strong. I crouch into a corner under the bar and drink that margarita with the same urgency as Trump with a hot take Tweet.

 7:45 pm: The chef lectures me on serving dessert menus as soon as the main course plates are cleared (something I already do because I want to get rid of the guests as soon as possible). He presents this speech the roundabout way, leaving plenty of room to name-drop celebrities and mention the trip he took to Mykonos with his boyfriend (he went to Mykonos with his boyfriend). 

8:25 pm: Four bros of vaguely Persian descent order eight vodka and Red Bulls. I inform them we don't serve Red Bull. "Then you go CVS and get Red Bull," one of them explains to me. I cackle the cackle of a feasting witch and walk off.

8:40 pm: The real peach sends back her espresso because "It's too strong."

9:25 pm: As we go off a wait, the host informs me with a nod and only a nod that we're down to closing servers and that I'm done for a night. I sneak into the private events room, take a shot of tequila, and then race home to yet another bubble bath. Good Lord, I've earned it.

Comments

[Tony]

LOLS at how much you can drink and still get away with!!