the bitter waiter

The write stuff

As a writer, I understand the need to escape the trappings of home and draft your brilliant screenplay at a coffee shop or bar (mostly a bar).

Lugging your laptop to a booth at a restaurant, however? That seems a little extra. But that didn't stop Peter, a condescending and inconsiderate wannabe storyteller who turned one of my biggest booths meant for six into a cluttered creative station for one, and in the thick of a dinner rush.

"I'll need few interruptions," Peter responded when I first approached his table and asked "How are you doing today?" Peter brought a MacBook, its power chord, an iPad, an external hard drive, a notepad and pen, and Boise noise-cancelling headphones, and spread them aaaaaaall over the table.

"Ahhh, few interruptions, my specialty," I replied. And off I skipped, hearing Peter protest, "But I do want to order a drink!" as I found my way to the hostess stand.

"Hiiiiii," I said to the idiotic, ornamental hostess. "Yeah, any particular reason you sat one person at a table for six?"

"Ohhhhhhh," she said, not looking up from her phone as she finished finding the perfect Instagram filter. "He asked to sit there?"

I couldn't argue with that sound reasoning, so I set about providing Peter with as few interruptions as possible. I checked all my other tables, ordered and ate a side of fries, refilled my kid's cup (it was a Monday, so I had four margaritas), checked my hair, filled my Amazon cart with age-defying beauty products, stretched in the private party room, and watched half an episode of "Russian Doll."

Finally Peter flagged me down. He ordered a water and a side salad. That's it. To understand my annoyance, consider the income potential of a six-top table. Six people with an average order of two starters, six entrees, about 12 cocktails, and a dessert would bring the bill to roughly $275, not including tip or tax. In contrast, a water and a side salad bring the bill to exactly $6.46, not including tip or tax. I decided it was time to send Peter packing.

"You're going to have to move to a smaller table," I said. "This table is meant for six."

"But I need the electrical outlet under the table for my laptop," he replied.

"Uh oh, oh no, so sorry," I said. "But this is a place of business, not a work station."

"The hostess told me I could sit here," he said.

"The hostess once told our manager she needed off on February 30th," I replied.

"FINE," Peter yelled. "My laptop is charged anyway. But after you move me, do NOT interrupt me again, I'm trying to work!"

Which is why you chose a loud, busy restaurant to write your shitty script, no doubt about a frustrated, downtrodden straight white man?

I moved Peter to our smallest two-top, located conveniently close to the bathroom and the noisy dish pit. Midway through picking at his salad and pecking at his laptop, Peter took a phone call and got up from his table, leaving the contents of his portable office unguarded as he stepped outside.

He returned a good 20 minutes later, glanced at the table, and became irate.

"SOMEONE TOOK MY PHONE CHARGER!!!!" he bellowed like an Agatha Christie character discovering a dead body in a hotel murder mystery.

"I never saw your phone charger," I said.

He went on a real bender, asking everyone at the neighboring tables if they witnessed the hypothetical theft. Finally, our meek manager told him he'd have to sit down and stop bothering the guests. He remained red until he finally found the phone charger, buried deep inside his laptop bag. Minutes later, he paid (a 15 percent tip), and quickly exited. Perhaps because he finished his grand opus? Or maybe he witnessed his own foolish behavior and went home to work on revising his own story.

Either way, I hope I never have to fucking deal with him again. The End.

Lights, camera, asshole

In Los Angeles, even the most boujee of businesses will take the money to turn their shop/restaurant into a filming location. Even my current hell hole made a nice chunk of change by allowing an episode of "Curb Your Enthusiasm" to be filmed during business hours.

But because L.A. is a city of dreamers on a dime, budgetarily restricted filmmakers find creative ways to use actual locations without having to pay. It's a finable offense, and rarely successful, but try telling that to a community college film student with a passion project and an iPhone. 

Earlier this week, a few film geeks plopped down in my section. Though they lacked the mounds of equipment that normally identify a film crew, their collective body odor and niche jargon clued me into their craft. I could also tell that two among them were actors, all dolled-up, made-up, and ready for the camera. 

"Yeah, we'll be shooting some scenes for a project during our, uh, meal," the socially awkward director told me. He looked about 24 and had the social charms of someone ten years younger than that . 

"I don't see a camera?" I inquired.

"We're using my iPhone," the director said. 

"Do you have permission from management?" I asked. 

"Uhhhhh," he stammered. "It's literally just two lines while someone's on a date."

"Wow, sounds like Citizen Kane," I replied. "Still, you need to check with management."

To my surprise, our manager agreed to let them shoot, but only because they promised her they'd spend at least $100 during an otherwise slow lunch shift. She also wanted one of the film geeks to rewind her tape, if you catch my drift. 

I eventually returned to the table, where the director greeted me with a smug smile.

"We'll need food," he told me, handing me a stack of menus. 

"Good thing you're in a restaurant," I said. "What would you like?" 

The director turned his phone towards his actors, who both ordered entrees and wine, but "in character."

"We're going to film you dropping off the food," the director informed me.

"Actually you're not," I replied. 

The "two line" promise was just a lie. For the next hour, the cast and crew repeatedly filmed the ordering and delivery of the entrees. They'd ask the people at the tables next to them to keep it down, and not politely. Finally, I told our horny manager that she'd have to make different schtooping arrangements, as the cinematic scholars were starting to piss off other guests, not to mention their already testy server. 

Reluctantly, she told them it was time to wrap production on "Shitty Student Film" and call it a day. The two entrees the actors kept pretending to eat, as well as the two glasses of wine, brought their total to a whopping $48, not quite the $100 tab promised. They paid $48 in cash exactly. No tip.

The director accidentally left his earbuds, which I proceeded to smash in the back with a meat tenderizer after I downed the two glasses of wine.