the bitter waiter

The off switch

In Los Angeles especially, some people are always "on." They're hyper, they're lying in wait to make a joke, and they desperately need attention. You're never really engaging with them as much as you are merely their audience.

Meet Meredith, an obnoxious personal trainer slash credit-less actress. She was clad in athletic wear and bouncing in her booth. I dreaded greeting her, knowing she'd attempt to lure me into her frenetic orbit. Her poor dining companion was her training client. As I approached, Meredith was enthralled in recounting some uninteresting anecdote about someone getting the schedule wrong at the gym, and she found it as funny as Lucy's Vitameatavegmain commercial. My face reflected my lack of interest.

"Hello," I interrupted.

"AHHHHH I was just telling her about my cray cray day!" she proclaimed.

"Anything to drink?" I asked.

With startling intensity, she leaned into her companion and joked, "What if we got HAMMERED after that workout? Like, what if we each ordered a bottle of wine? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!" She then threw her head back and cackled maniacally like someone getting their first taste of meth.

"I'll have a water please?" her companion said meekly.

"FINE, I'll have a water, too," Meredith said. "But is it reverse osmosis?"

"Pardon?" I asked with unmuted annoyance.

"Is your water filtered to reverse osmosis?" she inquired theatrically.

"Yes," I lied.

Using a condescending valley girl accent, she began explaining the benefits of reverse osmosis. I walked off and returned many minutes later with waters. Sensing my lack of interest, she tried to get personal.

"You look familiar," she accused.

"I doubt that," I replied. "Ready to order?"

"Have you trained at [name of her gym]?" she asked.

"I have not."

"Are you SURE?!"

"Yes," I said. "Any menu questions?"

"How do I know you??" Meredith persisted.

"Couldn't tell you."

"Yeah may I please have the steak sandwich?" her companion asked.

"Really?" Meredith pivoted. "Red meat?" Her ridicule continued until her client ordered a boring salad made even more boring by substituting the dressing and anything remotely tasty. Meredith also ordered a terrible salad, which could have been made at home with a bag of spinach, carrot shreds, and olive oil. But why settle for convenience and cost effectiveness when you can enjoy that green feast for $18 a pop?

The food arrived and fed Meredith's stage presence. Imitating another training client's bad form, she stood up in the middle of the aisle and made a flailing spectacle of herself, causing everyone to dodge her as they carried full trays and palpable contempt. She left me her business card, which I promptly tossed out with the gin-filled kid's cup I'd used to medicate my time with her.

Before she left, she hounded me to follow her on Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, SnapChat, and even Spotify. I claimed to be on a social media fast. I have no need to be someone else's audience when, like everyone else out here, I see myself as the main attraction.

Rich Dick

Many things make many horrible people feel entitled, but few are as powerful as money.

A few nights ago, I waited on Dick and his by-the-hour girlfriend Shasha. Not wanting to understate his wealth and predilections for the finest, he made a show of demanding a bigger booth, larger menus (because restaurants print menus in a variety of font sizes), an adjustment to the temperature, and a change in music. I'd never seen Dick or Shasha before, but my cowardly little manager was familiar. She acquiesced to every snap of Dick's fingers, ultimately driving my anger to a place it's never been in all my restaurant years.

Our featured entree was a serving of three beef tenderloin medallions. They're quite popular, and by the time Dick and Shasha arrived, we had one serving remaining.

In stark contrast to Dick and Shasha, two polite, no-fuss women were at the table next to them, also in my section. One of the ladies ordered the last tenderloin, minutes before Dick made up his mind to order the same thing. Minutes later, when I told him we were out, he interrupted me and pointed to the woman in the neighboring booth.

"I heard her, she ordered one," he said in an accusatory tone. 

"Yes," I said, "she ordered the last one."

Though she was mid-sentence, Dick leaned over and interrupted his neighbor. No "Excuse me," no "Hi," no "Sorry to interrupt." 

Just "I'll buy your dinner if you order something besides the tenderloin."

Annoyed that he'd interrupted her, she declined his offer with a chill and continued her conversation. This did not please Dick. 

"Really?" he continued.

"Yeah, really," she said.

"No offense, but a steak that nice will be wasted on you," he said. "Unbelievable..."

"Oh fuck off," she said calmly, then paid him no more mind. 

"Anyway what can I get for you?" I said with a smile.

"I can tell you think this is funny," he said. 

"I really don't," I replied. "I'd just like to do my job and take your order."

"Send over the manager," he commanded.

"Please," I replied.

"Excuse me?" he said.

"Send over the manager...please," I said. 

With that, Dick stood up and found the manager himself. Shasha and I enjoyed a few quiet moments before the manager asked me for a word. Apparently, he told her I was "harassing" them. And despite my side of the story, despite the neighbor speaking up in my defense, despite all the clear signs that this asshole was an asshole, the manager sucked his ego dry, letting him know just how much we appreciate his business and that a new server would be brought in to make sure his was the experience he deserved.

She also pleaded with the chef to miraculously make one more tenderloin entree, which he did only when she stroked his ego, too.

I was thrilled to be rid of Dick. When I dropped off the bill to the neighbors, he called to me, "Hey, I'd like to talk to you." I walked right past and stared right through him. Later, while the manager was sulking at the bar, wondering why everyone hates her, I helped myself in the kitchen. I helped myself in bar storage. I fed my belly and my rage, and I didn't care if I got caught. 

People who act like Dick will never learn a lesson because people like my manager will always nourish their entitlement.

Well fuck that. I'll just counteract that by being an even bigger bitch.