the bitter waiter

Give thanks!

Once in a blue moon, someone missing the point of this blog tells me I'd be better off posting about the positive aspects of waiting tables, and that my negative tone will only keep me in an eternal hamster wheel of bitterness. So today, in this first post of November, I'll rattle off a list of the things in the restaurant biz for which I am grateful.

1. I am grateful for vodka.

2. I am grateful for people who ignore me when I ask "How are you doing today?" and instead tell me what they'd like to drink. Brevity is the soul of wit!

3. I am grateful for gin.

4. I am grateful for westside mommies who show me how precious life is. "My kid has a peanut allergy, so I'll sue you if his food is prepared anywhere near peanuts" and "LITTLE DAXTON NEEDS MORE ALMOND MILK IN HIS SIPPY, DO YOU UNDERSTAND" (communicated in sign language by a mother who is not hearing-impaired) are statements that have helped me see that my existence is merely to serve and protect rich little children. So much gratitude, my heart could burst.

5. I am grateful for whiskey.

6. I am grateful for people who've never worked in a restaurant who still kindly give me sage advice on how to do my job. At least once a shift, a brave white man will say, "Go see if our food is ready" (mere minutes after ordering) or "Are you sure this merlot?" I appreciate these efforts, because otherwise I am just a dumb lil baby who's drowning in the complexities of serving food and drink.

7. I am grateful for tequila. Oh God am I grateful for tequila.

8. I am grateful for chefs who use many words and speak slowly to explain their beautiful works of art and why I should worship them. So many people lack the confidence to think that the world revolves around them, and I want to give a special shout-out to the many, many, many chefs for whom I've worked for letting me know just how great you think you are! Not all heroes feed the poor; some heroes feed the rich. Be as blessed as you have blessed me.

9. I am grateful for rosé, pinot noir, sauvignon blanc, red zinfandel, chardonnay, and malbec.

10. I am thankful for people who keep me focused on the rewards of my career beyond just the money. I specifically mean those people who tip less than 20 percent. Thank you for leaving the booth in an irreparable state and allowing me to use your $2 tip to wipe the table. Thank you for drinking too much and throwing up in my booth and promising you'll tip double next time to make up for not tipping at all tonight. Thank you for saying I'm "not a typical gay" and then continuing that kindness with a 10 percent tip. How would I stay humble without you beacons of light, you saviors of servers?

The five dumbest questions I was asked last week

1. Hi I'm an influencer, if I tag your restaurant in a post, what can I get for free?
2. What kind of meat comes on the vegetable tacos?
3. When does Katie come on?? (from someone thinking our restaurant was a live-music venue despite our lack of mic, stage, speakers, or space)
4. Is the kids' meal good for kids?
5. I'll try the black bean stew, but could you possibly pick out the black beans?

Have we met?

Across three states and almost two decades of waiting tables, I've mastered the art of pretending not to recognize an acquaintance/someone I don't like when they're sat in my section. It's an admittedly awkward gamble. The first time I was called out for it was when I was serving back in Oklahoma right after college. I'd been sat with some asshole alum from my snobby private school's snobby rival private school, along with his parents.

There I was, standing two feet away from someone with whom I'd grown up, both of us engaging minimally and politely with no mention of our shared past. Until right after the food arrived.

"Chase?" he asked.

"Mmm?" I responded in a higher register than intended.

"You know it's me, Patrick?"

Fake warmth washed over my face and I stupidly said, "Oh! Hi! Yes, sorry, when I'm in server mode I rarely look at people." We all chuckled at such an inane response, all of us laughing at me, not with me.

The second time my faux amnesia was revealed was yesterday evening. Years ago, I worked as a writer's assistant on a show you never saw. Our line producer, a horrible witch of a woman we'll call Marilyn, tried to fire everyone, including me. No one liked her. She was dreadful at her job. She possessed no people skills. Her bad breath smelled like she'd eaten straight from a soiled diaper. She was fired during my time on the show, and I'm fairly certain she saw me flip her off when she was escorted from her office, her beast breath lingering long after her exit.

Last night, Marilyn and a few executive-looking people were sat in my section for an early dinner. I tried to give the table to another server. I begged, pleaded, whined, bitched, and threatened to blackmail, all to no avail. I was stuck.

Hoping this encounter would go as briefly and smoothly as possible, I put on my lobotomy face and quietly announced my presence by taking drink orders.

"What's your name?" asked Lydia, the outspoken ringleader. I introduced myself, mutually avoiding gazes with Marilyn. I soon surmised two key facts: 1) She didn't want to play catch up any more than I did, and, more importantly, 2) she was the lowest on the totem pole among her dinner companions. This was clearly a business dinner, and Marilyn took breakneck notes on her Mac while Lydia gave orders and opinions.

Things proceeded peacefully as drinks and meals were delivered and consumed without incident. However, I'd accidentally rang in a glass of wine for a different table on Lydia and company's bill. When the bill came, Marilyn fastidiously checked it, waiving me down and making direct eye contact with me for the first time.

"Why is there a glass of merlot on our bill?" she asked in that familiar twat tone. "Can we see a manager?"

Before I could respond, Lydia intervened. "Just take it off the bill," she said. "There's no need for a manger. Thank you."

Lydia's grace only partially cooled my jets. If Marilyn wanted to play "Let's see who can humiliate," I was more than game.

Along with a free dessert, I brought the corrected bill. "I'm so sorry for the inconvenience," I said through a cherubic grin, "so please enjoy this apple tart on the house. Oh, and Marilyn, I didn't recognize you earlier! I'm so glad you found another gig after things didn't work out with you on our show! I hope this goes much better for you. Good to see you!"

And off I strolled, erasing the reintroduction to her bad breath and bitchy habits with a victory vodka.

Syoop

Ahhh, fall, the most elusive of the seasons in Los Angeles; and yet each year, many Angelenos do their best to pretend we have autumn in a city of ceaseless summer. 

Meet Meeeegan, a vocal frying, box-blonde clad in multiple layers and doused in an inescapable, sickly sweet candy perfume scent. After she unwrapped herself from her scarves and sweaters (89 degrees outside, mind you), she and her comparatively normal friends sat in my booth. When asked if she was hot, she replied, "No way, I'm literally making fall happen!"

She responded aggressively to my greeting, widening her eyes and smiling at me like the witch who wanted to eat Hansel and Gretel. "Like, what are your 'syoops' today??"

"Our soups?" I replied. "Well we have three. We have tomato basil..."

"OOOH DO YOU HAVE TORTILLA??" she interrupted.

"We have tomato basil," I continued, "chicken noodle, and vegan chili."

"OOOH VEGAN CHILI," she repeated blankly.

Before ordering entrees, Meeeegan had many questions about our tea selection. She didn't believe me when I said we didn't carry chai tea or pumpkin spice, so I had to pretend to go look in the back before she finally decided on peppermint. She was putting on quite the production in terms of fooling herself into fall.

Her friends ordered standard lunch fare. Meeeegan selected a bowl of the vegan chili and "a big side of your yummy homemade bread." We've never, ever made homemade bread, another request for which Meeeegan made me double check with the kitchen.

The entrees arrived, and Meeeegan summoned me over.

"I literally never complain about anything or send things back," she informed me like everyone else who routinely complains and sends things back, "but this 'syoop' is kind of, I don't know, it's not really that flavorful. Like, I wanted it to taste like fall, d'you knowwhat I meeeean?"

"Did you want to try one of the other soups?" I asked. 

"Yah, maybe the chicken noodle? Is it yummers?" she asked

"So yummers," I replied. 

Alas, the chicken noodle soup didn't satisfy her fall desires, either. "It's a little too chicken-y, d'you knowwhat I meeeean?" she said/asked. 

"I don't," I replied. "How about the tomato basil?"

"Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm," she deliberated. "Does it taste a lot like tomato?"

No it tastes like coconut cream, you dumb basic bitch.  

"You know what, it does?" I replied. 

"Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm," she deliberated. "I'm actually not that hungry? Maybe I'll just do a yummy coffee drink. Can you all make flavored lattes??"

And with that, I ran through the large window, onto the street, and into oncoming traffic. My soul left fall-less Los Angeles and I'm writing this from the great beyond, a world where no one tries to fake their way to fall. 

By the minutes

5:05 pm: I clock-in and find the reservations are light. It should be an easy shift.

5:16 pm: I'm seated with two ancient people who remain convinced they're in a Chinese restaurant, even though I've told them twice that the Chinese restaurant is next door.

5:20 pm: I go to the bar for my first drink order, a gin with a splash of tonic. I drink it swiftly. 

5:33 pm: After more than fifteen minutes of deliberating, the ancient couple decides to go next door to the "other" Chinese restaurant. 

5:44 pm: Shanna and Janna come in, order their drinks from the bar, and seat themselves in my empty section. I'm hard-pressed to tell them they can't sit there, what with no customers and all, but I'll find a way.

5:58 pm: Bob, a business man from Northern California, sits in my section. He's friendly, easy to wait on, and he keeps the drinks coming. Which reminds me...

6:03 pm: I go to the bar for another round of gin and tonics, one for me, and one for me for later. 

6:08 pm: Shanna and Janna ask me to bring them another round from the bar, which would garner me no money. I tell them I can't because I'm swamped, pointing to my customers (Bob).

6:20 pm: Even though the restaurant is mostly empty and a few servers have zero guests, the host takes a break from staring blankly into space and gives me two four-tops at the same time. The lone positive byproduct? Shanna and Janna are relegated to the bar, and I appear too happy imparting this news.

6:25 pm: Both of my new four-tops claim to be in a huge hurry, so I apply the breaks. I consume my back-up gin and tonic and procure another one. 

7:00 pm: Despite having claimed to be in a hurry, both of my four-tops pitch tents and camp out looooooong after their bills are paid. 

7:14 pm: An exceptionally rude woman flags me down. "This burger's not at all like you described!!!!!!" she wails. "That's probably because I didn't describe it," I say with as much cunt as I can muster. "I'm not your server." And then I skip off to find more gin. 

7:45 pm: I get pissed when throngs of people arrive at the same time, putting us on a brief wait. I say a quick prayer that the power will go out, or that the wood-burning stove will catch fire. Instead, I'm sat with three tables at once, all of whom tell me they're in a hurry. I move like a tortoise. 

7:55 pm: A mere five minutes after placing her order for a well-done steak, one of the many people in a hurry asks where her food is. "If I were a betting man, I'd say the kitchen," I reply.

8:15 pm: All of the food for all of my tables goes out all at once, and thanks to the chef and the food runner, it's all wrong. "How did this happen??" asks the moronic frat boy food runner, who's looking at his phone while he asks, just as he was looking at his phone while running the food. 

8:45 pm: We're off a wait and dying down. Of the three parties in a hurry, only one makes haste after paying their bill. The other two parties camp out, and I transfer them to a newer server. We often play this fun game where he quizzes me on the menu, and I tell him to go fuck himself. 

8:50 pm: I fake my way through my sidework, lie about the number of roll-ups of silverware I've done, box up a 1/2 chicken that was made in error, and forge the signature of the head server who's supposed to sign me out. Was it an honest day's work? No. But I take my earnings and head home proudly. For yet another week, I'll be able to afford shoes, weed, and gin.  

Help, it's Yelp!

I've heard horror stories about Yelp extortion in restaurants. Entitled customers threaten servers and managers with negative Yelp reviews so they can get a free drink/have a meal comped/feel they have some sort of power in their otherwise unimpressive and insignificant shit lives. I'd never encountered someone threatening me with a negative Yelp review (God knows I am already named in several)...until this past weekend.

Meet Alllysinn and her faux rich family from some deep red part of Orange County. I learned all about why they were up in L.A. for the weekend, because I didn't ask, and Alllysinn only talks about herself (something about a friend's baby shower for little Daxton or Cathcart or Jaiymysn or what ever future little monster she was celebrating). Alllysinn and her dead-inside husband looked like a specific type of Orange County money: bargain cosmetic surgery, the hottest clothes from 2008, and constant snarls of disdain that masked their transparent and massive insecurities.

"Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeee," she said in that fake, cunty voice that almost-rich women save for people who actually work. "There are literally bread crumbs all over this table," she said with arms raised in disgust, as if a live anaconda were currently crawling on the table top. I grabbed a towel and swatted away the token crumb.

"Anything to drink?" I asked.

"We'll take the bottomless mimosas!" she said. I could tell she was already just a little drunk, but so was I, so glass houses.

"Sorry, we don't offer bottomless mimosas."

"Yes you do."

"No we don't."

"We come here all the time..."

"From Orange County?"

"I know you used to have bottomless mimosas."

"I've worked here from the beginning. We've never had bottomless mimosas. Anything to drink?"

"Uhm we'll need a minute then, and you can go away, waiter" she said dismissively and pointedly.

You've read my blog before. You know what happens when someone tells me to go away. It's one of the few orders I follow very well. Soooooooo. I checked on my other tables, gossiped with the hostess about our crazy chef (and Alllysinn), helped myself to a little lemonade and a lot of vodka, cringed at Madonna's Instagram, checked my complexion in the surprisingly flattering bathroom light, gossiped with the crazy chef about our hostess (and Alllysinn), and refilled my kid's-cup-cocktail.

And finally, 10 minutes later, I returned to Alllysinn's table.

"Where have you been?" she demanded.

"At work," I said.

"Well we've been ready to order literally forever!!!"

"Great! What may I get you?"

"You know, most professionals would apologize after keeping a customer waiting..."

"I'm so sorry that you feel you're owed an apology. Now, what delicious entrees may I bring you?"

She then went off on a long rant about her expectations of service, how she wasn't rich until she married but before that she wasn't afraid to work hard in a tanning salon, how she'll only accept "five star" service, how rich she is and how well she tips when she's pleased, how she's tempted to never dine here again (fingers fucking crossed), and that my options are to either furnish the manager, or she "literally" leaves a Yelp review mentioning me by name (I told her it was Jame - "James" but with no s).

Unmoved, I said, "I'll see if the manager's free. If not, you go ahead and Yelp."

Our passive, terrified manager coddled Alllysinn and comped one round of mimosas off their bill. He gave me a written warning, which is a terrifying thought only if I ever want to apply for another restaurant job, and honestly I'd rather work in a meat processing plant than ever do this again.

I handed off Alllysinn and company to an idiot new bro server who found her fake tits and pig-fat-injected face attractive. Alllysinn kept trying to flag me down after I'd handed off her table, but I was having none of that. Finally, as I was talking to a different table, she approached me and loudly, drunkenly interrupted.

"I'm leaving you the WORST Yelp review anyone has ever left, you fucking prick," she bellowed.

"Go away," the customer at my table said to Alllysinn.

UPDATE: Three days later, and I have yet to see Alllysinn's daming indictment on Yelp. I'm looking forward to it, though. Jame sounds like a real piece of work.

Training day

Based solely on my seniority and despite my willful hatred of waiting tables, I'm often asked to train new servers. Sometimes this makes the shift function more smoothly, especially when the trainee is over-eager and seeking my approval (in vain). All my drinks are refilled, all my food is run, and all my mistakes are blamed on the newbie.

Other times, however, the trainee is a boil on my ass, usually due to incompetence, ego, or laziness. With Shane, it was all three. Toxically macho, entitled, and not quite handsome enough to be so cocky, Shane rubbed me the wrong way the minute I met him.

As I was about to introduce myself, he interrupted me with a sigh and asked, "What time's this shift done?"

"When our section's empty," I said, switching my tone from passably friendly to pointedly curt.

Shane was now at the end of his training week, meaning this was his night to take one table by himself. He'd still follow and assist me when not dealing with his trial two-top. Unsolicited, Shane let me know that he wasn't working here "to make friends or meet women," but instead to "make money" (unlike the rest of us who are just here to practice our empathy on entitled strangers).

Eventually Shane's lone two-top was seated. While he greeted them, our MENSA-level hostess sat me with three four-tops while the rest of the restaurant remained empty. Once Shane took his table's drink order, he stood in the doorway between the dining area and the kitchen. Arms folded, glare forward, not a single fuck given. He looked like Dylan McKay protesting Donna Martin's right to graduate. Once I caught up with my new tables, I raced towards him and asked if he'd take four waters to one of my parties.

"That's not my table," he said.

I stopped in my tracks. "No," I said, "It's our table, and if I ask you to take a round of waters to the women's restroom, you need to do so."

"Whatever," he said, begrudgingly breaking his bad boy pose to fetch my waters.

Before I had a chance to grab a cocktail (for myself), Shane's one two-top flagged me down like shipwreck survivors.

"Every single thing on my plate is wrong," the guest said. "Wrong bun, wrong kind of patty, wrong kind of sauce, wrong side. Jesus, the only thing he got right was the plate."

I laughed, making sure Shane could see me getting on well with his table. I apologized on his behalf and assured the guest I would correct her order. I walked the blundered burger back to the kitchen, breezing past arms-folded Shane and ignoring him when he asked "What happened?".

"Everything on this plate is wrong," I told the chef, quickly assigning blame.

"That's impossible," Shane said. "She was on her phone the whole time I took her order, how would she know what she got?" It was hard to argue with that kind of wisdom.

"Of course," I said, "it couldn't possibly be your fault."

The chef, who's perturbed merely by eye contact, didn't waste time informing our general manager of Shane's mistake and his attempt to pass the buck. The G.M. asked me if I shared the chef's low assessment of Shane, which I eagerly supported. Minutes later, I saw Shane and the G.M. sitting at a table. Firing time. Shane rose shortly and walked out. Arm raised and middle finger in the air, Shane trudged slowly out of my life for good, looking kind of like this:

Et tu, Brute?

Deep down in the hottest levels of Hell, there's a special place reserved for fellow or former servers who don't tip well. Before I begin, let me clarify two points:
1) This is assuming the former/fellow server receives service that merits a good tip.
2) By "tip well," I mean at least 20%; more if the server receives any sort of hook-up or freebie.

Enter Mitch, a deceptively nice California dude bro with obnoxiously good hair, and his lovely girlfriend. Relaxed, warm, and polite, once he told me he was a fellow server, I knew this experience would be a cake walk.

"Where do you work?" I asked.

"This new place in Santa Monica," he replied, quickly changing the subject to, "I need to forget that place and start my day off. Let's do a bottle of rosé!"

I presented the rosé, which was impressively consumed to completion within 10 minutes, all before ordering entrees. Once Mitch and his girlfriend decided on food, he asked if there was a server discount or "friends and family" freebie that I might be able to apply to their tab. "You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours," he said a little too eagerly. While the bluntness of the request perturbed me mildly, I was happy to return to the table with four shots of tequila - two for them to share, two for me to share.

The food arrived, and the two of them devoured their dinners. Drunk Mitch became a little too friendly, not so much in homoerotic undertone, but in the spectacle of displaying his questionably genuine warmth.

"Hey brother," he said with a hand reached awkwardly to my shoulder, "I know I ate those amazing mashed potatoes in record time, but I still think the portion was a little small. Do you think you could hook it up with some extra, no charge?"

With that, my face went from Punky Brewster to Bette Davis. Without a word, I went back to the kitchen and piled a heaping amount of mashed potatoes onto a side plate, then strolled back out and set them on the table.

"Wow, brother, that's a lot of pota...." Mitch said while I was still strolling. I ignored them as long as I could, until Mitch flagged me down. All of the plates were stacked neatly in a pile, the table free of crumbs. I could tell Mitch wanted me to give him a gold star.

"We made sure to not make a mess," he said beaming like a puppy that knew not to shit indoors.

"Thank you!!!!!" I said. "Would you two care for dessert?"

"I think we're pretty full," Mitch told me. "Unless there's another free drink back there somewhere?"

I smiled. "Of course there is!" I returned two seconds later with two large waters.

Mitch laughed, then asked once again about getting something for free.

"Sorry," I said vaguely. Mitch said "No need to apologize, brother!", as if I'd been remotely genuine.

"We really appreciate everything," he said while placing his credit card on the bill. "Really awesome service, and the food was amazing. Thanks for the shots, too. What's your name? We'll request your section next time!!!"

Shortly thereafter, they left. I rushed over to check my tip. 12 percent, written above an all-caps "THANK YOU!!!!"

I don't know if Mitch actually works in the service industry, or if he just said that assuming it would afford him some freebies. But I promise you, if he is a server in Santa Monica, I will find him. I will sit in his section for hours. I will need my water refilled at a breakneck pace. I will demand no end of free this and free that. I will send everything back. I will tip for shit. All with a smile. And long after I've promised that, "You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours."

Restaurant Robin Hood

His name was Henry, and he was a real weirdo; not one of those people who leans a little kooky for the sake of attention, but someone who can't help being a little cuckoo. He was mid-50s, nondescript, and unassumingly plain looking in inexpensive business casual from some brandless bargain mart.

I approached his party of one with my trusty standard greeting. "Hello, how are..."

"DO YOU PROVIDE WATER?" he interrupted in a shout.

"YES I DO," I matched.

"Then that's all I need from you at the moment," he responded with a dismissive wave of the hand, lighting my bitch spark in a nanosecond.

After taking my time with his water, I eventually returned to Henry.

"I'm ready to order," he informed me.

I took out my pen and pad and awaited.

"Hello? Are you ready?" he asked.

"Yup," I replied.

"I couldn't tell because you didn't respond when I said I'm ready to order," he said.

"You didn't ask a question," I responded. "So I took out my pad and pen. Guess what for?"

He chuckled. "I can see you're going to put me through my paces. I like that," he said.

"I'm so glad. What to eat?" I replied.

He ordered a very complicated, extra well-done cheeseburger with pretty much everything substituted, and all of those substitutions on the side. I didn't have the energy to sass back or help simplify his order because I wanted him out of my section.

Not five minutes after I turned in Henry's order, he summoned me.

"Any idea where my food is?" he asked.

"I would assume the kitchen," I responded as I walked off.

Ten minutes later, his burger arrived. He devoured it in a few bites, then immediately got up and headed towards the door. I handed the dirty glass back to the customer who'd just handed it to me and chased after Henry.

"Excuse me?" I called once I caught him in the parking lot. He turned around slowly.

"Oh, I was looking for the restroom," he told me.

"Yeah, it's actually inside the restaurant," I told him.

"Of course!" he said, heading back to his booth.

I told the hostess, manager, and my neighboring server - all of them impressively incompetent - to keep an eye on Henry, as I suspected him of trying to dine and dash. I made a quick trip to the dish pit in back, and when I returned, wouldn't you know Henry had successfully escaped? I confronted each of the three morons and asked if they saw him leave. They gave me varying degrees of shoulder-shrugging and oblivious gestures, like when Mike Brady asked the kids of The Brady Bunch which one of them broke mom's favorite vase and they all denied it.

I sulked back over to Henry's table, glad that my restaurant doesn't make servers pay for walk-outs but sad that I'd let him escape, and sad that he didn't order a cocktail I could finish.

Then I noticed a $10 bill tucked under the salt and pepper shakers. Even though he dined and dashed, Henry left me a 25% tip, which makes him a better diner than most people in my section, even though he's a crook (albeit a noble one).

Fie on Goodness

 

Many years ago, I worked at a restaurant in the Midwest, one that offered a senior discount. You'd have thought we were Best Buy on Black Friday based on the crowd that came for this deal.

One day, a rather fancy solo diner sat in my section. I couldn't quite tell if he fit the bill for our 65-and-over discount, and we were told to ask in cases of uncertainty.

"Hello, sir, are you a senior?" I asked.

"Why yes! Yes I am!" he beamed. I was taken aback by his reaction, but hey, I applauded the man for basking in the feat of having lived a long life.

We was a delight to wait on, so much so that I stayed sober for (most of) that shift.

Eventually it came time for the bill. He paid, and then gave me an expectant look.

"Would you like me to sing something?" he asked.

"I'm sorry?" I responded.

"I figured you recognize me from some of the local theatre I've done? That's why you asked if I'm a singer?"

I didn't want to crush his spirits, so I corrected my response and enjoyed a long, mostly on-key sampling of "Camelot."