Having spent many years as a career server, I now wait tables in between less humiliating jobs in Hollywood. And those swaths of time outside of food service provide a much needed thawing towards humanity. While executives, actors, producers, and writers come with their own unique brand of high maintenance, dealing with egos and entitlement is rarely as frustrating as it is in restaurants.
When I return to waiting tables, there's a brief honeymoon period in which I'm almost excited to be back. I'm not sitting at a desk, I'm not tempted by the snacks in a writer's room, the cash is immediate and plentiful, and I can be drunk(er) on the clock.
But all it takes to crash the honeymoon is a return to form from one of the customers, an immediate reminder of how self-important, ill-mannered, and fucking stupid people can be when it comes to the simple task of serving them a meal.
The party came to a halt a few nights ago when I had to wait on Glen and Doris, two miserable old fossils who frequent the restaurant. They come in all the time, everyone hates them, and they've yet to decipher that ire through the sheer force of their narcissism. They're dour, they talk about themselves constantly, they send everything back, and they expect things for free.
I approached them in my final moments of enjoying being back, possessing the warmth of a teenage Taco Bell employee forced to be polite.
"Hello, what may I bring you to drink?" I asked.
"Ugh," Doris sighed. "No offense, but are you new?"
"Nope, I've worked here on and off for a few years, I've waited on you two many times," I said with a deliberate lack of enthusiasm.
"Oh, uh, okay," she replied. "I'd like a chardonnay, with two..."
"...ice cubes," I interrupted, "and a splash of soda water, not too much soda water, in fact could I bring out the soda water on the side and let you do it yourself, correct?"
"Yeah," she said.
"So, tell us what you've been up to," Glen said. Sure, at first glance it seems he's inquiring about me, but no. Like a keen double dutch jump roper, he's going to watch my words in wait for his chance to enter the center of the conversation, making it all about him. So I cut him off at the pass.
"Family stuff," I lied.
"Sure sure," he said. "That reminds me of what she and I have been dealing with. Our son just left his **successful** law practice to go and...."
I know he kept talking, but I couldn't tell you about what. During my recent stint away from the restaurant, I'd learned the art of meditating and taking deep breaths, tuning out the noise and static. I counted about 10 almost audible inhales and exhales until he finished blabbering about how great his Bernie bro son was.
After a round of drinks, they ordered their unnecessarily complicated meal, modifying the once savory Ahi tuna filet until it was just a well-cooked ghost of itself. Before the food came out, they complained about the temperature in the restaurant, the speed of the ceiling fans, the single mother discreetly feeding her baby at the booth next to them, the music station, the volume of the music, and the shape of our ice cubes.
"Hey, Chance, do you know about how much longer on that tuna?" Glen inquired while I was mid-sentence at my other table.
Yeah about 15 more minutes, asshole...five minutes to cook, ten minutes for me to scream horrible words into my flask.
The fish came out. And then it was sent back (cooked too thoroughly), then back to them again, then sent back again (not cooked enough), until finally our impatient chef lost his shit and discussed their fish issues with them, convincing them to order the chicken instead.
Glen and Doris hemmed and hawed over the dessert menu, taking up one of my prime booths for an additional 20 minutes during a wait, opting for the bill instead. They paid, they lingered even more, and they tipped 15 percent (no matter what anyone ever tells you, it's not deemed a good tip, sorry cheapskates).
Thus, I refueled my flask, filled my lungs with recreational plant, and returned home, determined to find my next gig in Hollywood sooner rather than later.
I tell you, I don't know how you do it my dear. I would love to have drinks with you and talk about how rude and entitled assholes think they are.
Posted by: Mistress Borghese | February 09, 2020 at 12:01 PM
HNY; missed you! people are fucked up stoopid!
Posted by: anne marie in philly | February 05, 2020 at 03:09 PM