the bitter waiter

The five dumbest questions I was asked while working on Thanksgiving

1. Oh you're open today? (after parking, walking through the open door, and being sat at my table and given menus by the hostess)

2. Are you excited to be working on Thanksgiving?

3. Do you all ever offer, like, daycare?

4. I don't see a buffet anywhere in the restaurant but do you have a Thanksgiving buffet?

5. Would you join us as we say grace?

The magic word

Despite the appearance of loathing every single request from a guest, I'm actually quite accommodating when met with good manners and gratitude. When those are absent, however, there's no barring the bitch within.

I recently served one of the ubiquitous cunty westside new moms and her dickhead husband. They brought their average-looking baby and its assortment of toys, binkies, sippy cups, cloth diapers, and, of course, its nanny. 

"Hello, how are you doing today?" I asked.

"Uhm, we need this filled with hot water, and immediately," the mom (Drewlyn) ordered while handing me a sippy cup that I did not immediately take. "But not too hot, it's for the baby."

Oh no shit? I thought it was the nanny's early Christmas gift. 

"What beers do you have?" asshole dad (Thad) yelled just as I started to walk off.

"I believe they're all listed on the menu," I said.

"Do you have Stone IPA?" he asked.

"Yes," I replied.

"Do you have..." he started as I strolled away. 

I returned with the hot water. Thad, with all his mental prowess, asked indignantly, "Where's the beer?"

"Which one?" I replied.

"Didn't I order one?"

"Nope."

"Oh," he said, basking in his own stupidity. "Bring me the Stone IPA."

Their habit of not saying "please" or "thank you" continued grating on my limited nerves. Only the nanny, when even permitted to speak, bothered with pleasantries and pleases. We went through another couple rounds of stupid questions and baby-related needs. After the Herculean task of taking their orders, I hid in the back and took a swig from my own lil' sippy cup filled with gin. 

The food arrived as ordered. 

"You didn't bring any bread," Drewlyn said in a tone of voice more appropriate for if I'd just licked her gross face. 

"You didn't order any bread," I said. "It's available on request only."

"Then bring bread," she said.

"Please..." I replied, a snapback that was heard by no one. I returned with the bread. No one said anything. Except me. I said, "You're welcome."

"Excuse me?" Drewlyn asked in a tone of voice more appropriate for if I'd just asked how ugly is the baby on a scale of 1-10.

"Oh, sorry, I thought you said 'Thank you,' so I said 'You're welcome,'" I responded in as insincere a tone as the gin could muster. 

The monsters eventually left, leaving behind a table that looked like four possum families had ransacked a grocery store. On the tip portion of their credit card receipt, Drewlyn wrote "THANK YOU" in all caps. No tip. Just the two words she and her lughead of a spouse should have been using all along. My only revenge? They left behind baby's sippy cup, which I sent sailing into the dumpster out back. 

I'm not a bitch, you're a bitch!

Sometimes an individual's bad behavior is so insane and so entertaining that I forget to be bitter.

Ursula, a crazy, pilled-out, Botox'd-up, entitled westside wasp with Madonna arms, sat down in my section in a huff. I greeted her promptly, only to be met with, "Why would you tell me you won't seat an incomplete party? I come here all the fucking time."

"Wait...," I wanted to clarify. "You're not talking about me, right? I'm not the hostess."

"Oh," she said, "I wasn't paying attention. But yeah, the hostess told me she wouldn't seat me."

"So, how did you arrive at my table then?" I asked.

"I flew here, what the hell do you think!?" she said.

"You sat yourself?" I asked, trying to be annoying.

"YES, and I'd like a glass of your house rosé," she said.

"Mmmmm," I purred.

I asked the hostess about Ursula, and she confirmed that, after a string of obscenities, Ursula grabbed a menu and sat herself in my section, refusing to wait for her three dining companions. Because we weren't on a wait yet, I didn't have to ask Ursula to move, so I let her stay, partly intrigued, mostly ready to be a huge bitch myself.

I returned with the rosé.

"When are you expecting the rest of your party?" I asked. 

"Whenever they get here," she replied. 

"Great," I said. "I'll see you when they arrive."

"But I'm ready to order now."

"You're not going to wait for the rest of your party to order?" 

"No I'm hungry, and I'm in a restaurant, so I'm going to eat, is that okay? Jesus..."

"You can do whatever you want," I replied with heightened sass. "I just assumed you'd wait for the rest of your party like most people. But fine, what do you want?"

"I haven't looked at the menu," she said.

"You literally just told me you were ready to order," I said, cranking up the sass-meter.

"I AM ready to order, I just don't know what I WANT YET, OKAY??"

"Yeah, you need a minute," I said, and then began to saunter off.

"HEY!" she screamed. 

I turned around, as did half the restaurant. I didn't return to the booth, but I stared her down.

"You will wait here while I look over the menu!" she bellowed.

"Nope, nuh uh," I replied. "I sure won't."

By this point, our new, over-eager manager couldn't help but hear the impending commotion. A good little girl scout, she brought her sunny disposition to the storm. I went to the bar to start my side work, which means I took two shots of tequila (I designated this as side work myself).

After a couple of minutes, the girl scout's chipper cheer lost the fight with the c(u-n-t) witch. 

"I'M NOT A BITCH, YOU'RE A BITCH!" Ursula screamed as she got up from the table, making her grand exit from the restaurant.

"Ma'am that's not at all what I said," our flummoxed fearless leader said, "but don't you come back here!"

Ursula raised both middle fingers in the air, something I've only seen once before, and left a wave of commotion in her wake. I gulped down the rosé she didn't touch and carried on my merry way, continuously chuckling throughout the night as I proclaimed to anyone who would listen, "I'M NOT A BITCH, YOU'RE A BITCH!"

Give thanks!

Once in a blue moon, someone missing the point of this blog tells me I'd be better off posting about the positive aspects of waiting tables, and that my negative tone will only keep me in an eternal hamster wheel of bitterness. So today, in this first post of November, I'll rattle off a list of the things in the restaurant biz for which I am grateful.

1. I am grateful for vodka.

2. I am grateful for people who ignore me when I ask "How are you doing today?" and instead tell me what they'd like to drink. Brevity is the soul of wit!

3. I am grateful for gin.

4. I am grateful for westside mommies who show me how precious life is. "My kid has a peanut allergy, so I'll sue you if his food is prepared anywhere near peanuts" and "LITTLE DAXTON NEEDS MORE ALMOND MILK IN HIS SIPPY, DO YOU UNDERSTAND" (communicated in sign language by a mother who is not hearing-impaired) are statements that have helped me see that my existence is merely to serve and protect rich little children. So much gratitude, my heart could burst.

5. I am grateful for whiskey.

6. I am grateful for people who've never worked in a restaurant who still kindly give me sage advice on how to do my job. At least once a shift, a brave white man will say, "Go see if our food is ready" (mere minutes after ordering) or "Are you sure this merlot?" I appreciate these efforts, because otherwise I am just a dumb lil baby who's drowning in the complexities of serving food and drink.

7. I am grateful for tequila. Oh God am I grateful for tequila.

8. I am grateful for chefs who use many words and speak slowly to explain their beautiful works of art and why I should worship them. So many people lack the confidence to think that the world revolves around them, and I want to give a special shout-out to the many, many, many chefs for whom I've worked for letting me know just how great you think you are! Not all heroes feed the poor; some heroes feed the rich. Be as blessed as you have blessed me.

9. I am grateful for rosé, pinot noir, sauvignon blanc, red zinfandel, chardonnay, and malbec.

10. I am thankful for people who keep me focused on the rewards of my career beyond just the money. I specifically mean those people who tip less than 20 percent. Thank you for leaving the booth in an irreparable state and allowing me to use your $2 tip to wipe the table. Thank you for drinking too much and throwing up in my booth and promising you'll tip double next time to make up for not tipping at all tonight. Thank you for saying I'm "not a typical gay" and then continuing that kindness with a 10 percent tip. How would I stay humble without you beacons of light, you saviors of servers?