the bitter waiter

The five dumbest questions I was asked last week

1. Hi I'm an influencer, if I tag your restaurant in a post, what can I get for free?
2. What kind of meat comes on the vegetable tacos?
3. When does Katie come on?? (from someone thinking our restaurant was a live-music venue despite our lack of mic, stage, speakers, or space)
4. Is the kids' meal good for kids?
5. I'll try the black bean stew, but could you possibly pick out the black beans?

Have we met?

Across three states and almost two decades of waiting tables, I've mastered the art of pretending not to recognize an acquaintance/someone I don't like when they're sat in my section. It's an admittedly awkward gamble. The first time I was called out for it was when I was serving back in Oklahoma right after college. I'd been sat with some asshole alum from my snobby private school's snobby rival private school, along with his parents.

There I was, standing two feet away from someone with whom I'd grown up, both of us engaging minimally and politely with no mention of our shared past. Until right after the food arrived.

"Chase?" he asked.

"Mmm?" I responded in a higher register than intended.

"You know it's me, Patrick?"

Fake warmth washed over my face and I stupidly said, "Oh! Hi! Yes, sorry, when I'm in server mode I rarely look at people." We all chuckled at such an inane response, all of us laughing at me, not with me.

The second time my faux amnesia was revealed was yesterday evening. Years ago, I worked as a writer's assistant on a show you never saw. Our line producer, a horrible witch of a woman we'll call Marilyn, tried to fire everyone, including me. No one liked her. She was dreadful at her job. She possessed no people skills. Her bad breath smelled like she'd eaten straight from a soiled diaper. She was fired during my time on the show, and I'm fairly certain she saw me flip her off when she was escorted from her office, her beast breath lingering long after her exit.

Last night, Marilyn and a few executive-looking people were sat in my section for an early dinner. I tried to give the table to another server. I begged, pleaded, whined, bitched, and threatened to blackmail, all to no avail. I was stuck.

Hoping this encounter would go as briefly and smoothly as possible, I put on my lobotomy face and quietly announced my presence by taking drink orders.

"What's your name?" asked Lydia, the outspoken ringleader. I introduced myself, mutually avoiding gazes with Marilyn. I soon surmised two key facts: 1) She didn't want to play catch up any more than I did, and, more importantly, 2) she was the lowest on the totem pole among her dinner companions. This was clearly a business dinner, and Marilyn took breakneck notes on her Mac while Lydia gave orders and opinions.

Things proceeded peacefully as drinks and meals were delivered and consumed without incident. However, I'd accidentally rang in a glass of wine for a different table on Lydia and company's bill. When the bill came, Marilyn fastidiously checked it, waiving me down and making direct eye contact with me for the first time.

"Why is there a glass of merlot on our bill?" she asked in that familiar twat tone. "Can we see a manager?"

Before I could respond, Lydia intervened. "Just take it off the bill," she said. "There's no need for a manger. Thank you."

Lydia's grace only partially cooled my jets. If Marilyn wanted to play "Let's see who can humiliate," I was more than game.

Along with a free dessert, I brought the corrected bill. "I'm so sorry for the inconvenience," I said through a cherubic grin, "so please enjoy this apple tart on the house. Oh, and Marilyn, I didn't recognize you earlier! I'm so glad you found another gig after things didn't work out with you on our show! I hope this goes much better for you. Good to see you!"

And off I strolled, erasing the reintroduction to her bad breath and bitchy habits with a victory vodka.

Syoop

Ahhh, fall, the most elusive of the seasons in Los Angeles; and yet each year, many Angelenos do their best to pretend we have autumn in a city of ceaseless summer. 

Meet Meeeegan, a vocal frying, box-blonde clad in multiple layers and doused in an inescapable, sickly sweet candy perfume scent. After she unwrapped herself from her scarves and sweaters (89 degrees outside, mind you), she and her comparatively normal friends sat in my booth. When asked if she was hot, she replied, "No way, I'm literally making fall happen!"

She responded aggressively to my greeting, widening her eyes and smiling at me like the witch who wanted to eat Hansel and Gretel. "Like, what are your 'syoops' today??"

"Our soups?" I replied. "Well we have three. We have tomato basil..."

"OOOH DO YOU HAVE TORTILLA??" she interrupted.

"We have tomato basil," I continued, "chicken noodle, and vegan chili."

"OOOH VEGAN CHILI," she repeated blankly.

Before ordering entrees, Meeeegan had many questions about our tea selection. She didn't believe me when I said we didn't carry chai tea or pumpkin spice, so I had to pretend to go look in the back before she finally decided on peppermint. She was putting on quite the production in terms of fooling herself into fall.

Her friends ordered standard lunch fare. Meeeegan selected a bowl of the vegan chili and "a big side of your yummy homemade bread." We've never, ever made homemade bread, another request for which Meeeegan made me double check with the kitchen.

The entrees arrived, and Meeeegan summoned me over.

"I literally never complain about anything or send things back," she informed me like everyone else who routinely complains and sends things back, "but this 'syoop' is kind of, I don't know, it's not really that flavorful. Like, I wanted it to taste like fall, d'you knowwhat I meeeean?"

"Did you want to try one of the other soups?" I asked. 

"Yah, maybe the chicken noodle? Is it yummers?" she asked

"So yummers," I replied. 

Alas, the chicken noodle soup didn't satisfy her fall desires, either. "It's a little too chicken-y, d'you knowwhat I meeeean?" she said/asked. 

"I don't," I replied. "How about the tomato basil?"

"Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm," she deliberated. "Does it taste a lot like tomato?"

No it tastes like coconut cream, you dumb basic bitch.  

"You know what, it does?" I replied. 

"Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm," she deliberated. "I'm actually not that hungry? Maybe I'll just do a yummy coffee drink. Can you all make flavored lattes??"

And with that, I ran through the large window, onto the street, and into oncoming traffic. My soul left fall-less Los Angeles and I'm writing this from the great beyond, a world where no one tries to fake their way to fall. 

By the minutes

5:05 pm: I clock-in and find the reservations are light. It should be an easy shift.

5:16 pm: I'm seated with two ancient people who remain convinced they're in a Chinese restaurant, even though I've told them twice that the Chinese restaurant is next door.

5:20 pm: I go to the bar for my first drink order, a gin with a splash of tonic. I drink it swiftly. 

5:33 pm: After more than fifteen minutes of deliberating, the ancient couple decides to go next door to the "other" Chinese restaurant. 

5:44 pm: Shanna and Janna come in, order their drinks from the bar, and seat themselves in my empty section. I'm hard-pressed to tell them they can't sit there, what with no customers and all, but I'll find a way.

5:58 pm: Bob, a business man from Northern California, sits in my section. He's friendly, easy to wait on, and he keeps the drinks coming. Which reminds me...

6:03 pm: I go to the bar for another round of gin and tonics, one for me, and one for me for later. 

6:08 pm: Shanna and Janna ask me to bring them another round from the bar, which would garner me no money. I tell them I can't because I'm swamped, pointing to my customers (Bob).

6:20 pm: Even though the restaurant is mostly empty and a few servers have zero guests, the host takes a break from staring blankly into space and gives me two four-tops at the same time. The lone positive byproduct? Shanna and Janna are relegated to the bar, and I appear too happy imparting this news.

6:25 pm: Both of my new four-tops claim to be in a huge hurry, so I apply the breaks. I consume my back-up gin and tonic and procure another one. 

7:00 pm: Despite having claimed to be in a hurry, both of my four-tops pitch tents and camp out looooooong after their bills are paid. 

7:14 pm: An exceptionally rude woman flags me down. "This burger's not at all like you described!!!!!!" she wails. "That's probably because I didn't describe it," I say with as much cunt as I can muster. "I'm not your server." And then I skip off to find more gin. 

7:45 pm: I get pissed when throngs of people arrive at the same time, putting us on a brief wait. I say a quick prayer that the power will go out, or that the wood-burning stove will catch fire. Instead, I'm sat with three tables at once, all of whom tell me they're in a hurry. I move like a tortoise. 

7:55 pm: A mere five minutes after placing her order for a well-done steak, one of the many people in a hurry asks where her food is. "If I were a betting man, I'd say the kitchen," I reply.

8:15 pm: All of the food for all of my tables goes out all at once, and thanks to the chef and the food runner, it's all wrong. "How did this happen??" asks the moronic frat boy food runner, who's looking at his phone while he asks, just as he was looking at his phone while running the food. 

8:45 pm: We're off a wait and dying down. Of the three parties in a hurry, only one makes haste after paying their bill. The other two parties camp out, and I transfer them to a newer server. We often play this fun game where he quizzes me on the menu, and I tell him to go fuck himself. 

8:50 pm: I fake my way through my sidework, lie about the number of roll-ups of silverware I've done, box up a 1/2 chicken that was made in error, and forge the signature of the head server who's supposed to sign me out. Was it an honest day's work? No. But I take my earnings and head home proudly. For yet another week, I'll be able to afford shoes, weed, and gin.