the bitter waiter

A side of stupid

When stupid people are nice, I can overlook their incompetence. When stupid people are rude, I cannot.

I waited on a family of four a few days ago (they all blur together - the families and the days). They beat me to my 5pm arrival time, and the host, in all his well-concealed wisdom, sat them in my section 15 minutes before I clocked in. I greeted them, and they were justifiably annoyed. They's also country, a reminder of my Oklahoma days and a rarity in Los Angeles.

"I'm so sorry," I said genuinely when they let me know how long they'd been waiting. "Our host is high" (and he wasn't the only one).

"We just wanna make sure we don't miss the window for Kids Eat Free," mama told me.

"Kids eat who?" I replied. "We don't have a 'Kids Eat Free' special."

"Yeah....you do," Papa said in a disciplinary tone.

I turned my head and studied him like Michael Myers examines his next victim.

"I promise we don't," I replied real uppity.

"Is this not [a loose variation of the name of the restaurant]?" he asked.

"It's [the correct name of the restaurant]," I clarified.

"The place with the sundae bar?" Mama inquired.

"Strike two," I responded.

"Sounds like false advertising," Papa concluded.

"Sounds like you went to the wrong restaurant," I replied real uppity.

"Well we'll see if there's anything we like on the menu," he said dismissively. "I'll let you know."

"Fingers crossed," I smiled, and off I skipped.

After I made them wait much longer than they made we wait, I walked by and gave an intentional "Oh I forgot all about you!" look. "Y'all ready?" I asked.

They ordered two portions of pasta and one order of fried chicken, with four Cokes to wash down their feast. Minutes before their food was ready, I noticed the booth was absent. Cleared, cleaned, and reset with silverware for the next guest.

"What the fuck is going on with table 34?" I demanded from the host, interrupting FaceTime with his boyfriend of three minutes.

"Ohhhh," he said, slowly, struggling to thread the words together. "Yeah, something about finding out the right restaurant? They left."

"Oh really?" I said with fake shock. "Here I thought they were waiting in the break room to surprise me. Were you going to tell me?? They didn't pay for their food!"

"Ohhhh," he said like a hypnotized mute. "Yeah...

I marched to the manager's office and interrupted her cat meme time. I let her know that this dine and dash was absolutely not coming out of my pocket. She agreed but ignored my suggestion that she write up/fire/castrate the host.

Minutes later, in the empty break room, I feasted on fried chicken, fantasizing about what I'd create at a sundae bar.

Best served cold

I never, ever forget the faces of those who cross me.

Many years ago, before I was enslaved to the service industry, I worked at the front desk of an obnoxious, hoity toity sports club in Beverly Hills. One of the Pilates instructors, Audrey, was a real bitch. She was also a dumb bitch. She'd forget to schedule appointments or invoice her clients, and she'd always blame the front desk (fun fact, I threw my first ever - of many - work-place hissy fits complaining about her to management). She was rude, entitled, and confrontational. She'd eat other people's food in the break room, expect the front desk to let her friends in for free, and never, ever say "please" or "thank you." This won't surprise you, but I made zero effort to hide my contempt for her, which she always returned with a smug smile. 

Cut to many years later, this past weekend to be exact. Audrey and a rich man she was not dating for his youth sneaked past our 30-minute wait and sat themselves in my section. We locked eyes, and in Kill Bill fashion, I heard this tune while seeing red:  



Before I could tell them to G.T.F.O., her ancient meal ticket handed me a $50 bill, so I changed my perspective from one of annoyance to opportunity. The fact that she didn't seem to recognize me played to my advantage.

"Hi I'm...Sean, I'll be your server tonight," I said. "May I bring..."

"We're in a hurry," Audrey interrupted.  

"Anyway, as I was trying to say, may I bring you anything to drink?" I asked with a condescending wince.

She gave me that same smug smile from so many moons ago, and they both settled on two glasses of wine. I returned a minute later with the wine, set down the glasses, but Audrey and her geriatric gentleman were too busy taking a selfie to notice. "You're welcome!" I sang, and I walked off. A minute later, Audrey waived me down. 

"Yes?" my raised eyebrows said.

"We're still waiting for our wine?" she said with some 'tude while smacking some classy gum. "What's the hold up?"

As theatrically as I could, I slid the already-there wine glasses a few more inches in front of her. "Shall I bring them closer?"

"Oh," she said unfazed. "Well we're ready to order."

He (barely) ordered a cheeseburger, and she modified a flatbread to death. 

"...and remember," she said before I could walk off, "I want no arugula on the flatbread."

"No arugula," I repeated. 

The flatbread in question, the grilled shrimp and spinach flatbread, didn't come with arugula. I knew Audrey meant "no spinach." But I am a stickler for detail, so no arugula it was!

Cut to din din time, and I was once again summoned to Audrey's table of twatiness. 

"I said no spinach," she said in an 11 on a 1-10 scale of bitchiness.

"You said no arugula," I replied in a 12 on a 1-10 scale of bitchiness. 

"Well you should have known I meant no spinach, you dick!" she said. 

"Aww, shall I have them remake it for you?" I purred, cool as a cucumber as I could see her blood boiling.

"Yes and you can send over the manager."

I instructed the chef to remake the flatbread, and then I summoned my years of dramatic training. With just enough evidence of tears in my eyes, I told our newest part-time manager - a bat-shit lady with an inappropriate crush on all gay men - that Audrey called me a dick. I also low-key mentioned the flatbread fuck-up. I watched as my outspoken admirer visited Audrey's table. After an animated but inaudible exchange between the two, my manager informed me that she'd refused to take the flatbread off the bill and warned Audrey that if she insulted the staff ever again, she'd be asked to leave. 

A different server dealt with Audrey for the duration of her meal. But I didn't waste any opportunity to pass by her table, grinning ear to ear, settling on my deliciously manufactured victory. Small? Yes. Satisfactory? Hell yes.  

Half-empty

While I realize my posts aren't typically beacons of positivity, one of my ironic pet peeves is incessant negativity; more specifically, people who love to complain. I've got news for the downtrodden who love to broadcast your struggles to anyone who will listen: no one gives a shit. Everyone's carrying around a big bag of burdens unique unto themselves. You're trying to win an award for most stoic and put-upon? Spend a day in hunger-stricken Sub-Saharan Africa and then cry me a river, you tedious, negative narcissist.

A few days ago, Katrina dined in my section. She was hungry mostly for sympathy for her many woes, and I was fresh out of fucks. She was accompanied by two co-workers, both of whom seemed to merely tolerate Katrina instead of enjoy her company. She sat down mid-complaint, droning on and on about filing or something. She looked to me as if I could give a good goddamn fuck about filing. 

"So I stayed an hour after work last night and it still didn't get done!" she bellowed.

"Hello," I said, "may I bring you anything to drink?"

"No one else has to file as much as I do," she continued. "No one else has the same work load as me."

Bitch you ARE my work load. Push pause on the pity party and stop wasting my time. 

"I'd like an iced tea," her co-worker said, desperate to change the topic.

"A water for me, please," said the other entrapped diner. 

"I want an iced tea," Katrina started, "but I've been sleeping so poorly from the caffeine, I should probably stick with water. And I'm sure I won't be getting any catch-up sleep tonight, because [her boss] will once again make me stay late to file. And my poor cats will be all alone until..."

"I'll be right back with your drinks," I interjected, and ran the fuck away.

I returned with the beverages, and Katrina was still singing woe is me. I interrupted once again to ask if they were ready to order, her co-workers shooting me discreet "HELP US" glances. 

While the co-workers ordered quickly, Katrina hemmed and hawed over the menu. "Is the food good here?" she asked. "I'm not always easy to please," she explained.

"Mmm I can tell," I responded. "I never really know how to answer that question. So, yes, the food is good here."

Displeased with my answer, Katrina went on to regale us with a story about her most recent disappointing dining experience and how upset she was that the service staff didn't bend over backwards to rectify her dissatisfaction. Wanting to project my annoyance, I looked at my watch, fussed over my hair, and mouthed "I'll be right there, one sec," to a non-existent table. Katrina finally settled on a chicken caesar salad, which (SPOILER ALERT) she hated. But even before the food arrived, we had a problem. 

"This water is too cold," Katrina said before I could run away and hide. "But I don't want tap water. Can you take the filtered water and put it in the microwave?"

My nostrils flared. "We don't have a microwave," I said indignantly. Cut to 10 minutes later, and Katrina settled on a cup of hot water with a side of ice cubs. 

As expected, she hated her salad. "It's too salad-y and certain lettuces exacerbate my small intestinal bacterial overgrowth. I'll be feeling bad from this all day. Great."

THEN WHY DID YOU ORDER A SALAD, YOU RHODES SCHOLAR??

Katrina was just about to ask me if the chef would custom-make something, until her co-worker politely interjected. "I don't think we'll have time. We have to get back to work. Could you maybe get something at the commissary or order Postmates?"

Katrina looked at us as if we'd just Sophie's Choiced her into giving up a kid. With the weight of the world on her shoulders, a dejected Katrina left without lunch, complaining about it all the way out of the restaurant. Hopefully our inability to please her will result in her never, ever darkening my section again. 

Unhappy New Year!

I tried bribery. I tried blackmail. I tried calling in a bomb threat.

And yet nothing worked. I was fucked, stuck working a New Year's Eve shift, a shift I'd managed to avoid for almost two decades through three different cities while working in this soul-crushing business. But thanks to Idiot Tim, our dumb, stuttering hunchback of a general manager who creates the schedule, there I was, ringing in the new year with a bunch of human trash.

How did my shift go? Go fuck yourself, that's how it went. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I shouldn't take out my lingering frustrations on you, dear reader. But between the entitled teenagers and Idiot Tim and the incompetent hostess and the throngs of drunken little frat fuckers, I'm still reeling from a night of raw, fresh Hell.

To start, I forgot my flask at home. To rub salt in the wound, Idiot Tim was helping to "expedite drinks," standing at the bar all night. His assistance involved placing garnishes and straws in cocktails and yelling out which table they went to. Thanks, Idiot Tim, but we have drink tickets with table numbers and hands with opposable thumbs, so your ornamental efforts are only getting in the way. I worked (most of) the shift stone cold sober and it was the toughest thing I've ever had to do. Ever.

My first table was a group of socially stunted teenagers whose faces only registered varying degrees of annoyance. I made even less effort than usual to play nice, so when my second unsuccessful attempt to take a drink order resulted in a series of "What's he doing over here?" looks and drawn out "Uhmmmms," I snapped, "You know I'm coming over here to take your drink order because it's my job, not because it's fun, right?" Still nothing. Long story short, the 12 future MENSA members sat around for 45 minutes and didn't order anything. Because they realized, after 45 minutes, that they were at the wrong restaurant. "Wow, you all must be very bright," I said when they informed me of their mistake.

As for the hostess, it was both feast and famine. She'd either seat all five of my tables at the same time? Or act is if my section were invisible as the rest of the restaurant filled up. I stormed over there during a "feast" seating and demanded, "Is there some reason you keep seating all five of my tables at the same time when there are plenty of other sections open?" She took a look up from her phone, stared blankly into space, and just said "Right? Totally. I know."

Finally, as the hour of 2019 drew nearer, a bunch of pledges from Sigma Alpha Go Fuck Yourself sat themselves in my section. Their scents were a stew of b.o., nicotine, and weed. I made as dramatic a gesture as I could, covering my nose with my shirt, whenever I had to approach them. One genius kept ordering shots of Goldschlager, and every time he'd order the shots, I reminded him that we don't carry Goldschlager, because we're not in Switzerland, and it's not 2002. The only plus to dealing with the members of Delta Chi Shove Your Head Up Your Own Ass was that no one was keeping track of the alcohol on the tab, so mama finally got her jollies in the form of two shots of whiskey. Though not my preferred spirit, I would have downed rubbing alcohol at this point.

At 12:01, as guests were still celebrating the turn of a calendar page, Idiot Tim did the one thing I respected. He turned on the lights, not even bothering with last call, and told everyone to leave. I returned home, reunited myself with my flask, and promised myself that 2019 would be the year I leave the restaurant industry (my resolution every year since 1999).