The bitch and the brunch

A few Sundays ago, I worked a shift that begets from customers one nagging question over and over and over again: "Where's your brunch menu??"

Thank. God. We. Don't. Serve. Brunch. Our owners want none of that and, more importantly, neither do I. So imagine the disappointment of four basic Orange County new-money no-class bitches, with their bargain botox and huge sunglasses, when they learned we don't do brunch. It was already a boozy shift (for every single guest and, more importantly, for me) when in walked four uptight, Laguna Niguel-ish mean girls, with a clear ringleader. Let's call them Charity, Liberty, Justice, and their ring leader, Alyson. 

"You don't have brunch," Alyson told me with 'tude.

"You're correct!" I smiled with wide, cunty eyes. 

"Well do you have at least have a happy hour?" she inquired with a flared nostril. 

"Oh I have many happy hours; any hour I'm not working here," I said. Charity laughed, and she incurred a punitive glare from Alyson. 

"You should have both brunch and happy hour," she informed me.

"Cool, anything to drink?" I said with a smile to Charity. 

"I guess you don't have bottomless mimosas, either?" Alyson said, staring at me as if I were the suspect of an Amber Alert.

"Yes! You guessed correctly! We don't!" I said. 

The girls shared a bottle of rosé and ordered several small plates, including the barbecue chicken flatbread. After complaining about the temperature of the rosé, the hostess, the bartender, me, the silverware, the temperature of the restaurant, the lack of stalls in the women's restroom, Mahershala Ali, her gardener, her stylist, her "Mexican" (?), and her boob job, Alyson tasted the barbecue chicken and complained about that, too.

"It tastes too chicken-y, do you know what I mean?" she said with squinted, glaring eyes.

"Wow do you mind if I write that down? That would be a great way to describe it to other customers," I said. 

While she informed me that she didn't appreciate my sarcasm, and threatened me with the privileged person's punishment - a bad Yelp review - I noticed two prescription vials peeking from her purse. I couldn't tell you what they were, but they were brought to brunch (even though thank fucking God we don't serve brunch). 

I returned with another barbecue chicken flatbread, which Alyson never touched. She didn't take one bite. We remade it, and no one touched it. Alyson, by this point, was babbling incoherently, definitely drunk and possibly on pills. She kept laughing at no one knows what, which I surmised from her friends' confused, concerned looks. Shortly thereafter, after leaving most of the food untouched, the girls requested the bill. Alyson insisted her friends pay, claiming they owed her, a comment that puzzled them just as much as it did me. And thank God they paid, because they tipped well. I helped them help her outside to an Uber.

"Thank God you're a girl," Liberty said to the driver, "because she is such a fucking mess right now."

The girls left soon right after that, seemingly in much better moods, because they no longer had to deal with that wretched bitch. And, more importantly, neither did I.

Comments

[Amber G]

POST AGAIN ALREADY!!! It's been over a month. Us fans are jonesing

: ) (kisses...)

[Elisabeth Moore]

I started reading your blog somewhere in 2016, but never posted any comments to it. I wanted to tell you I am such a fan and encourage your writing. You might not realize that you reach more people than you know. I work at a Ruby Tuesday's in Niceville, FL and it seems that customers are the same everywhere. Your stories make me laugh. Thank you for venting.

[anne marie in philly]

entitled self-important cunts. they deserve a slow death.