the bitter waiter

Bitter Waiter by the minutes

4:32 pm: Having not left for work in time to avoid traffic, I call my manager and fabricate a flat tire as an excuse for being late for my 5 pm shift.

4:58 pm: It turns out traffic wasn't so bad. My manager asks how I arrived so quickly after pulling over to change a flat. I lie and say God and time were on my side. 

5:02 pm: In our pre-shift meeting, the chef asks me to describe the salmon. Having made no effort to memorize the new menu, I get about 15 seconds into a brilliant story about Gruber, the fictitious man who caught the salmon, until I'm cut off.

5:11 pm: It's vodka-in-a-kid's-cup time.

5:15 pm: I greet my first table, a seemingly sad man waiting for one more. He apologizes for taking up a table with an incomplete party, and I thank him for doing so.

5:20 pm: A party of six loud Persian princesses occupies the table next to the sad man. They warn me they're celebrating a 21st birthday, and that they'll require a lot of attention. I apologize in advance for the lack of attention they'll receive.

5:30 pm: The Persian party expands to 10, and they take over the empty tables in my section (without asking). I now have only them and the sad man in my section.

5:40 pm: The party asks when the sad man will be leaving because they need the table for even more friends. I inform them he's waiting for one more and that it will be awhile before that table's free. They throw a small fit. Which reminds me...

5:43 pm: It's vodka-in-a-kid's-cup time.

5:57 pm: The seemingly sad man apologizes profusely for holding up my table. I explain the situation with the party next to him and once again thank him for holding down the fort, an idiom that doesn't completely apply or land. He explains he's waiting for a Tinder date. I get the feeling he's been stood up, and it makes me feel feelings. Awww.

6:05 pm: With people filing in and out, the party makes an attempt to order. They try in vain to get me to split the bill, which I refuse with the steely resolve of Faye Dunaway. 

6:10 pm: I return from placing the party's order to find the head party princess asking the seemingly sad man when he'll be leaving. I intervene and tell her she's not allowed to bother other guests.

6:17 pm: The seemingly sad man's date finally arrives, claiming she had a flat tire en route. Yeah right.

6:32 pm: My belief in God is reignited when the party moves to a completely different section to accommodate all their add-on guests. The hostess asks if I'd like to keep the party. I cackle. Which reminds me...

6:35 pm: It's vodka-in-a-kid's-cup time.

6:40 pm: The princess party insists they left a camera in my section. They did not. One of them accuses me of stealing the camera just moments before she realizes it was tucked away in her coat pocket. I cackle.

6:55 pm: The seemingly sad man and his date order. His date is sweet. They're having a good time. I bring all three of us a round of drinks to celebrate.

7:05 pm:  I ask the hostess why my three empty tables haven't been re-seated. In between selfies, she explains to me that there's a large party coming in at 9 pm. I start to explain that she could easily re-seat me with parties of two, but then I realize I'm asking her for customers. I stop, smile, and nod.

7:45 pm: Seemingly sad man is now halfway happy man. He and his date are holding hands from across the table. Awww.

8:15 pm: We're off a wait, and I ask one of the opening servers if he'll stay and close for me. He asks for $20. I begrudgingly agree.

8:20 pm: Out the door, I race to my car and begin the trek home. I stop in my tracks when I notice my car has a flat tire.

8:45 pm: I was kidding about the flat tire! I arrive home, put on my face, and refill my lucky kid's cup.

Waiter rant

Hey you, asshole customer, how about you lower your voice and stop becoming so incensed because your privileged pepper steak is taking a few minutes longer than you'd like? You have a movie to get to? So sorry. I can't even fathom having plans with such gravity. Also, what MENSA member orders a steak medium well, following an appetizer, and then claims to be in a hurry? Whose poor planning is that?

As for your behavior, you realize a restaurant is a place of employment? You realize I'm at work, right? I don't live in this fucking restaurant. I don't take people's order and refill waters at the grocery store on my days off.

On Monday, why don't I come into your law firm/theatrical agency/plastic surgery business (or wherever the fuck it is that you make a lot of money doing work that helps absolutely no one) and throw a fit? Why don't I put on a performance over some insignificant detail and ruin the day of everyone around me? I won't do that, because the world doesn't revolve around me, and because only infants with dribble on their cute little chins get away with acting like you do, and nothing about you or your chins is endearing.

Who raised you to think you're on such a higher plane as to get away with being such a prick? Do you think the world owes you something? It does not. What have you done for the world? Jack shit. You've bellowed your demands and expected everyone to fall in line because...why? Because you're charming. NOPE. Because you're more intelligent? NOPE, your grammar tells me otherwise. Because your money makes you better than people? NOPE - the Kardashians have a lot of money and I'd hardly call them evolved. Because you think you're good looking? NOPE, you're looking at good looking, take notes.

If you think I need this job so badly as to roll out the red carpet, bow down, and then place you on a pedestal when you treat people with no respect, think again. You're at a restaurant. You're here to eat and drink, both biological necessities to which we've added the fringe upgrades of a fancy menu and a staff to do the work for you. You see all those other people around you dining here, all of them also with places to be after dinner? Through some miracle, they've somehow managed to properly allocate their time, grant patience when necessary, communicate their needs and questions politely, and exhibit manners when doing so. And guess what? Those are the people for whom I'll go the extra mile, whether it's a free drink or simply turning in their order to the kitchen before yours.

So instead of pitching a fit, condescending to those who work day jobs, and feeling that your status grants you permission to scream and snap, look at the world around you. No one gives a shit about some inarticulate, entitled narcissist. You mean nothing, and you contribute even less. When you're gone, the perception that you're great will die with you.

And yes, I absolutely lied when I said your first credit card was declined. I just wanted to fuck with you, you miserable sack of self-hating emptiness.

WE JUST WORKED OUT

More so than actually working out, some fitness-minded people in L.A. love to tell everyone they work out. Whether posting 1,000 swole selfies on Instagram or willfully wearing active wear in public, they need everyone to know they're better than you in shape.

Todd and Kinzie sat sweaty in my section, clad in tight Lululemon for lunch. He was your typical white jock with generic-handsome looks and a smile that let you know he was an asshole. She was a frigid bitch, trying unconvincingly to feign warmth with her "hiiiiii"s and her "thaaaaaanks"s.

"Hello, anything to drink?" I asked.

"Hiiiiii," she said. "Water for me. Lemon. No ice. And the lemon in a separate cup, not on the side of the glass. Did you get that?"

"Mmm mmm," I said through raised eyebrows.

"Water, bro," Todd said.

I returned with their waters. Todd made it a point to drink all of his water in one gulp.

"Do you have any bigger glasses, bro, or just a pitcher of water?" he demanded. "We just worked out..."

"You don't say," I replied. "And no, we have one size water glass and not enough pitchers for each table to have one."

"Then I guess you're going to be busy refilling my water all afternoon," he threatened.

"Or will I..." I said. "Were you two ready to order?"

"Got any omelettes?" Todd asked.

"No, sorry, we only serve what's printed on that menu in your hands," I said.

"Uh oh, I see a tip sinking!" he said to giggles from Kinzie.

"Oh no, I had such high hopes!" I said. "I'll give you two some more time to figure out our menu."

"No no, bro, we need to eat right away after our work out," he said. "Just give me a side of four scrambled egg whites."

"Again, not to belabor that pesky menu," I said, "but as it doesn't offer any sort of brunch or breakfast options, we don't have eggs for an omelette, we don't have eggs for scrambling, we don't have..."

"Okay, bro, I get it," he said. "Stay put while I decide."

"While he's looking?" Kinzie said in her condescending tone of stating everything as a question addressed to a small child, "Could I just do, like, the salmon burger, but protein style? Meaning, like, two lettuce wraps instead of a bun? Do you know what I mean?"

"I do!" I said. "Fries, salad, or soup?"

"Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm......salad?"

Todd then proceeded to order, modifying and stripping our gorgeous filet into a weird steak salad.

When their meals arrived, Todd and Kinzie had me take a series of photographs of them flexing and smiling with their food. Once I walked away, Todd then reached for his selfie stick and took another series of photographs. Kinzie photoshopped and edited the photos into a collage for Instagram. A good 10 minutes later, she finally started to eat. And then immediately summoned me.

"Hiiiiiii," she said. "Yeah, this burger is cold. Feel it."

"No thank you," I said. "I think it's cold because you two let it sit for awhile during, you know, the photoshoot?"

"It's not a crime to take photos of our food, bro," Todd said rationally.

"Correct," I said. "But it's not the chef's fault you didn't eat the food right away."

"Bro can we see a manager? Or a different server or a bus boy or someone who's friendlier than you?" he asked.

"That won't be hard," I said.

I summoned our manager from his deep sleep in dry storage. Angered over being requested for something so stupid, he somehow made Todd and Kinzie even less pleased. When I returned to their booth, they were getting up to leave, her fingers furiously clacking away on Yelp.

"Uhm, WHAT'S YOUR NAME?" she said. "For my Yelp review..."

"I'm Kale," I said.

"Kale?!" she said.

"Kale," I said.

And with that, Todd and Kinzie left without paying. I tried to find them on Instagram for some tequila-fueled trolling, but alas, I could not. But once she posts that Yelp review, I'll find her, and I'll have myself one hell of a night commenting on each and every photo (after I work out).