the bitter waiter

The five dumbest questions I was asked this week

1. Are you all sometimes a Chinese restaurant?
2. Can I get a virgin piña colada but with rum?
3. Are there any lunch specials on the dinner menu?
4. Are you a server?
5. Is the chicken fish?

Ten years of torture

I missed a pretty big milestone.

In September of 2017, this blog, this bastion of bitterness, this jaded journal, this drunken diary of disappointment turned 10 years old. Before I wax poetic, thank people, and bitch about some things, let's revisit that very first entry from September 14, 2007:

People frequently ask why my bitterness is so acutely pronounced. I know why, and it's not because I was made fun of on the playground. It has nothing to do with thoughtless ex-lovers. I don't even blame my jaded resentfulness of humanity on my religious upbringing.

No, the culprit of my animosity and ill-will is the accumulation of more than 10 years in the restaurant business. And thanks to a recent study by the U.S. Department of Labor, showing that more than 2,252,000 Americans earn livings as waiters and waitresses, I know I'm not alone.

It's not so much that I'm tired of serving people; It's that I'm tired of serving stupid people...rude people...cheap people...loud people...mean-spirited people...difficult people...condescending people...creepy people...people with bad taste...dishonest people...particular people...people with a massively unjustified sense of entitlement...and people with screaming children.

As a result, I've become a vigilante at work, seeking to right the wrongs of the ignorant while still maintaining my job. You won't read about me spitting in food (save one trip down memory lane that involves pissing on a chicken, but we'll save that for a blogging session when Mr. Grey Goose is a guest author) or getting into a fist fight.

No, the only thing I'll be serving here is tenacious wit with a side of sarcasm and some cutting remarks for dessert.

Be careful, this plate is hot.
--
Well, it would appear not much has changed in terms of tone or temperament. I still haven't told the chicken story, and I'll get to that some day. But first, let's celebrate!

Above all, I want to thank you, my faithful and frustrated readers. While writing the blog itself was therapeutic after a shitty shift, hearing from people who related to my struggles made me feel less alone and just a little itty bitty teeny weensy less pissy. I've enjoyed reading your comments and e-mails, meeting you, hearing your own war stories, and occasionally making your load less rough while spewing my vitriol.

I also want to thank the difficult celebrities who gave this blog a boost in readership (featured in my notorious, multi-part, most-viewed post about the best/worst celebrities to serve; the comments from angry readers alone are delicious ). Jessica Simpson, Christina Aguilera, Teri Hatcher - you were an absolute nightmare to deal with, and I'm thankful your bad behavior blessed me with even more readers.

What have I learned in ten years? Well, despite my unfiltered fuck-yous to entitled assholes, I have learned to let go of how other people act. I'm sure as shit not going to dampen the "bitter" in Bitter Waiter when I write about these people, but in my own real life, I've accepted what I can control, what I can't, when to let someone spin their wheels being difficult, and, yeah, when to seek vengeance.

I've also learned that so few of us L-O-V-E our jobs, and finding a healthy way to vent that frustration makes the tedium between clocking in and clocking out far more bearable (What I'm saying is that every one of you should start a blog titled "Bitter ______").

What qualities in people still drive me crazy after a decade? Here's a list, in no certain order:
1) Not saying "please" or "thank you"
2) Expecting me to wait around while someone takes a phone call
3) Large parties of which few people order food
4) Sitting at a table long after the bill's been paid, especially while we're on a wait
5) Threatening me with asking for the manager. Come at me. Ask for her. I don't give a good goddamn fuuuuuuck.
6) People who modify their food orders beyond a reasonable point
7) Not-celebrities who act like celebrities
8) Celebrities who act like celebrities

Once again, thank you all for joining me on this journaling journey. I'll be back next week, pissed off, properly tipsy, and ready to unleash holy Hell on the worst of the worst.

People frequently ask why my bitterness is so acutely pronounced. I know why, and it's not because I was made fun of on the playground. It has nothing to do with thoughtless ex-lovers. I don't even blame my jaded resentfulness of humanity on my religious upbringing.

No, the culprit of my animosity and ill-will is the accumulation of more than 10 years in the restaurant business. And thanks to a recent study by the U.S. Department of Labor, showing that more than 2,252,000 Americans earn livings as waiters and waitresses, I know I'm not alone.

It's not so much that I'm tired of serving people; It's that I'm tired of serving stupid people...rude people...cheap people...loud people...mean-spirited people...difficult people...condescending people...creepy people...people with bad taste...dishonest people...particular people...people with a massively unjustified sense of entitlement...and people with screaming children.

As a result, I've become a vigilante at work, seeking to right the wrongs of the ignorant while still maintaining my job. You won't read about me spitting in food (save one trip down memory lane that involves pissing on a chicken, but we'll save that for a blogging session when Mr. Grey Goose is a guest author) or getting into a fist fight.

No, the only thing I'll be serving here is tenacious wit with a side of sarcasm and some cutting remarks for dessert.

Be careful, this plate is hot.
--
Well, it would appear not much has changed in terms of tone or temperament. I still haven't told the chicken story, and I'll get to that some day. But first, let's celebrate!

Above all, I want to thank you, my faithful and frustrated readers. While writing the blog itself was therapeutic after a shitty shift, hearing from people who related to my struggles made me feel less alone and just a little itty bitty teeny weensy less pissy. I've enjoyed reading your comments and e-mails, meeting you, hearing your own war stories, and occasionally making your load less rough while spewing my vitriol.

I also want to thank the difficult celebrities who gave this blog a boost in readership (featured in my notorious, multi-part, most-viewed post about the best/worst celebrities to serve; the comments from angry readers alone are delicious ). Jessica Simpson, Christina Aguilera, Teri Hatcher - you were an absolute nightmare to deal with, and I'm thankful your bad behavior blessed me with even more readers.

What have I learned in ten years? Well, despite my unfiltered fuck-yous to entitled assholes, I have learned to let go of how other people act. I'm sure as shit not going to dampen the "bitter" in Bitter Waiter when I write about these people, but in my own real life, I've accepted what I can control, what I can't, when to let someone spin their wheels being difficult, and, yeah, when to seek vengeance.

I've also learned that so few of us L-O-V-E our jobs, and finding a healthy way to vent that frustration makes the tedium between clocking in and clocking out far more bearable (What I'm saying is that every one of you should start a blog titled "Bitter ______").

What qualities in people still drive me crazy after a decade? Here's a list, in no certain order:
1) Not saying "please" or "thank you"
2) Expecting me to wait around while someone takes a phone call
3) Large parties of which few people order food
4) Sitting at a table long after the bill's been paid, especially while we're on a wait
5) Threatening me with asking for the manager. Come at me. Ask for her. I don't give a good goddamn fuuuuuuck.
6) People who modify their food orders beyond a reasonable point
7) Not-celebrities who act like celebrities
8) Celebrities who act like celebrities

Once again, thank you all for joining me on this journaling journey. I'll be back next week, pissed off, properly tipsy, and ready to unleash holy Hell on the worst of the worst.

COFFEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!

For a restaurant, my place of employment serves surprisingly good coffee and the like. I rarely touch the stuff because I find it too sobering, but I can appreciate the quality, and our guests regularly praise its taste and strength (I often receive the same compliment).

However, our java wasn't up to snuff for Linda, one of four people in my section for a stuffy business meeting.

I began with the pleasantries. "Hello, how is everyone..."

"Hi I'm just here for coffee!" Linda interrupted, already quite caffeinated.

Her cohorts requested water and cobb salads. Linda indulged in a cup of regular joe with half 2% milk, half cream, and ample packets of sweetener. "Make sure it's not decaf!" she said. "That's the one in the orange carafe!"

No shit? To think, in all my years of restauranting, I thought the orange was for orange juice!

Before the salads arrived, Linda and company examined documents, took notes, and had a bona fide business meeting over zoning or maps or planning or some shit. In the midst of this, I could tell Linda wanted to tell me something about the coffee without interrupting the meeting. I played dumb, always my most convincing performance, and just smiled.

Finally, Linda reached her breaking point when I returned to refill waters.

"I'm so sorry to interrupt!!" she said with the urgency of someone who's been holding her breath for two minutes. Her co-workers exchanged wtf looks. She held up the cup of coffee, expecting me to surmise her issue from gestures and props. I put on my "what do you want face" and waited for words.

"I'm 1,000 percent sure this is decaf!" she said. I explained that we only brew decaf upon request and that there was no way hers was decaf (I left out that I'd added a splash to my morning whiskey-in-a-kid's cup and knew it was regular).

"Well, regardless, it's not very strong!" she said.

I returned minutes later with a do-over (i.e., another fucking cup of regular coffee). This time, Linda got to doctoring her coffee, leaving a trail of crumpled sugar packets and milk spots amidst the meeting documents. I observed some serious side-eye from one of her colleagues.

When I delivered the salads, Linda used the pause to complain about the caffeine.

"I'm so sorry to do this again!" she announced. The caffeine she'd consumed on her journey to the perfect java began to show. "This coffee is just not strong enough!! Could I try a latte with almond milk instead!!!"

Many minutes and a whiskey/coffee refill later, I returned with round three. Linda's three companions were trying to power through business while eating, but Linda was now beyond the point of being polite.

"I DON'T THINK THIS IS ALMOND MILK!!!!" she told everyone in West Los Angeles. "Can you make another one and watch to make sure it's made with almond milk!!!!!"

As opposed to the last one I made while blind-folded?

"I'm sure it's almond milk," one of her co-workers chimed in. "We have a lot more to cover, could we please just get through this?" She begrudgingly agreed and downed the very-much-almond-milk latte.

Later, I watched three people walk normally and one hyper Linda hop out of the restaurant. I was so turned off by coffee that I stopped adding it to my now-afternoon whiskey.

Buy the pretty lady a drink

I'm rarely more aware of how horrible humans are than when I'm waiting on a group of men looking for ladies. Being in the cross hairs of a human meat market sends me refilling my vodka-in-a-kid's-cup quicker than any party of unsupervised teenagers. It's exhausting, it's chauvinistic, it's demeaning, and it's at times vaguely homophobic.

Brad and his three bros sat in my section one night, asking me every time I returned to their table if I was sure we didn't offer happy hour. "We need cheap drinks to attract cheap ladies," one of them chuckled. I couldn't have had a cuntier look on my face.

About an hour into Brad's tequila and testosterone party, a lovely lady named Mandy sat in my section, seated unfortunately across the aisle from the hounds of unhappy hour. She was joined minutes later by her adorkable date, Jake. They were polite, sweet, and the kind of cute new couple that makes you smile instead of vomit.

Brad also noticed Mandy, but for different qualities.

"Will you send a shot of Patron over to those nice tits?" he asked.

 "She and her tits are on a date with, you know, the guy at the table?" I pointed out.

"I didn't ask," Brad replied.

I allowed some time to pass then cautiously approached Mandy and Jake. I explained the sitch, leaving out the objectification.

Mandy took a discreet gander at Brad and bros and laughed. "Even if I weren't on a date, just, no," she said. "Why don't you have the shot?" she told me. (Spoiler alert, I already did).

When I reluctantly returned to Brad's table, he asked about Mandy's reaction to his romantic gesture.

"She's on a date," I said again. "So she's not interested."

"With him?" he countered. "But he looks gay!" 

"Yes, well, whether or not he's gay, she's with him, so I'd move on," I suggested. "Another Long Island Iced Tea?"

"I don't need my server lecturing me on my game, bro," Brad told me. "You've been kind of a dick since we got here. Where's your manager?"

The manager that night, a no-holds-barred badass bitch who's marched and me too'd and given zero fucks about harming the fragile male ego, eagerly talked to Brad after I brought her up to speed. She explained to him that my job as a server was not to do his flirting for him, especially towards a girl who's clearly 1) on a date and 2) not interested. Needless to say, Brad was even less pleased with her and quickly asked for the bill. You won't be surprised to learn he left no tip. 

After Brad left, Mandy and Jake inquired about the commotion. I told them the nuts and bolts (so to speak).

"Let me guess," she said. "No tip?"

I neither confirmed nor denied, but she accurately surmised the answer. Later, in addition to the 20% tip Jake left on their tab, he also left a $20 bill.

Not all men suck. But for those who harass and disrespect women and belittle servers all in the name of conquest, I'm not having it. Come at me with your gross drink orders and your shitty tips and your moronic come-on lines and your inadequate dicks and your curious homophobia. Your "power" over me begins and ends with your tip, and I'm quite certain your tip possesses little to no power in general.