I understand grandiose expectations of Los Angeles compared to it sometimes underwhelming actuality. While paradises like Beverly Hills and Malibu live up to their lofty legends, large swaths of the city are sterile, aesthetically devastating, overpriced parking lots.
That said, there's a world of difference between being disappointed in a city and expecting it to function by your expectations. No wonder the French hate so many Americans; enough of us visit Paris then refuse to speak French, expect their McDonald's to be our McDonald's, and shake our fists in fury when Paris isn't just as depicted in Las Vegas.
I waited on a family of four who crawled to Los Angeles from their landfill in rural Missouri. They were ill-mannered, entitled, smelled like lake sweat, and they did NOT approve of Los Angeles (more specifically, Hollywood). In an effort to save a buck, Darl, Darlene, and their two frumpy children, Dotty and Dumpy, were staying at a dirt cheap motel in west Los Angeles near my restaurant. I didn't even know there was an inn of such low caliber nearby, but then again, I only know the bars and liquor stores I can stumble to sometimes after work (and always before).
Fortunately my tank was properly filled with gin before Darl and kin arrived. They tried to be seated ten minutes before the restaurant opened and were livid we wouldn't accommodate them. "You got waiters, you got cooks, you got a kitchen, you got food," Darl explained to our space cadet hostess, who lives on a different vibration than everyone else. "Why can't you seat us now, we're hungry?" he inquired.
The hostess smiled as if she hadn't heard him. "Hi, we open at five!" she replied.
Darl and family soon sat in their own filth at my largest booth, normally meant for six people. I made the fatal mistake of asking how they were doing.
"Is everything [in Los Angeles] over-priced?" Darl snarled.
"Compared to some cities, sure," I said through a measured snarl of my own. "Anyway, to drink?"
"Are refills at least free?" Darlene asked in an equally put-out tone. She fanned herself with her menu in a vain attempt to prevent her bargain bin make-up from escaping by sliding down her face.
"At least." I replied.
Through grunts, groans, and burps, the feral four finally ordered. Once the entrees arrived, they used their hands, elbows, and fingers to force that food down those gullets. Only after consuming everything down to the bone and gristle did Darl voice his complaints about the meager portion sizes. "Everything's bigger in Missouri," he exclaimed through bites of ribs.
"Ain't that the truth," I replied.
They paid in dirty, sweaty cash that had been held hostage dangerously close to Darl's ass canal. I counted my tip (about 12 percent), took my paltry earnings and traded in those Darl-drenched dollars for some liquid magic to erase both their memory and their smell. If Missouri is the "show me" state, it's shown enough.
Thank you! I really appreciate you telling these stories because us as servers don't really get a chance to shed off the shit we deal with. The little stupid nuances of other peoples shitty life. Don't get me wrong, I do love what I do but it's taxing. I've been serving for 15+ and have seen a lot, dealt with a lot. My advise is be happy you don't go though life caring about what ruins these weird peoples day.
Posted by: Josh | August 09, 2019 at 11:37 AM
donald dump supporters, no doubt. sorry you had to deal with them.
Posted by: anne marie | August 03, 2019 at 03:18 AM