the bitter waiter

Unhappy New Year!

I tried bribery. I tried blackmail. I tried calling in a bomb threat.

And yet nothing worked. I was fucked, stuck working a New Year's Eve shift, a shift I'd managed to avoid for almost two decades through three different cities while working in this soul-crushing business. But thanks to Idiot Tim, our dumb, stuttering hunchback of a general manager who creates the schedule, there I was, ringing in the new year with a bunch of human trash.

How did my shift go? Go fuck yourself, that's how it went. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I shouldn't take out my lingering frustrations on you, dear reader. But between the entitled teenagers and Idiot Tim and the incompetent hostess and the throngs of drunken little frat fuckers, I'm still reeling from a night of raw, fresh Hell.

To start, I forgot my flask at home. To rub salt in the wound, Idiot Tim was helping to "expedite drinks," standing at the bar all night. His assistance involved placing garnishes and straws in cocktails and yelling out which table they went to. Thanks, Idiot Tim, but we have drink tickets with table numbers and hands with opposable thumbs, so your ornamental efforts are only getting in the way. I worked (most of) the shift stone cold sober and it was the toughest thing I've ever had to do. Ever.

My first table was a group of socially stunted teenagers whose faces only registered varying degrees of annoyance. I made even less effort than usual to play nice, so when my second unsuccessful attempt to take a drink order resulted in a series of "What's he doing over here?" looks and drawn out "Uhmmmms," I snapped, "You know I'm coming over here to take your drink order because it's my job, not because it's fun, right?" Still nothing. Long story short, the 12 future MENSA members sat around for 45 minutes and didn't order anything. Because they realized, after 45 minutes, that they were at the wrong restaurant. "Wow, you all must be very bright," I said when they informed me of their mistake.

As for the hostess, it was both feast and famine. She'd either seat all five of my tables at the same time? Or act is if my section were invisible as the rest of the restaurant filled up. I stormed over there during a "feast" seating and demanded, "Is there some reason you keep seating all five of my tables at the same time when there are plenty of other sections open?" She took a look up from her phone, stared blankly into space, and just said "Right? Totally. I know."

Finally, as the hour of 2019 drew nearer, a bunch of pledges from Sigma Alpha Go Fuck Yourself sat themselves in my section. Their scents were a stew of b.o., nicotine, and weed. I made as dramatic a gesture as I could, covering my nose with my shirt, whenever I had to approach them. One genius kept ordering shots of Goldschlager, and every time he'd order the shots, I reminded him that we don't carry Goldschlager, because we're not in Switzerland, and it's not 2002. The only plus to dealing with the members of Delta Chi Shove Your Head Up Your Own Ass was that no one was keeping track of the alcohol on the tab, so mama finally got her jollies in the form of two shots of whiskey. Though not my preferred spirit, I would have downed rubbing alcohol at this point.

At 12:01, as guests were still celebrating the turn of a calendar page, Idiot Tim did the one thing I respected. He turned on the lights, not even bothering with last call, and told everyone to leave. I returned home, reunited myself with my flask, and promised myself that 2019 would be the year I leave the restaurant industry (my resolution every year since 1999).

From a customer's perspective: MCKENZZY

(MCKENZZY'S INNER MONOLOGUE)

Oh my God, I'm so glad we're out of the office, and I'm so glad I invited myself to dinner and drinks. Now, uninterrupted by work, I can continue telling literally everyone about my crazy drama (the B-R-E-A-K  U-P with Kyle). When Devin, Jamie, Kristin, Breckenridge, Megan, and...Pool? Pao? (the I think he's Asian guy from, I feel like...marketing?)  hear about my text fight, they're going to freak. I have a way of really demanding people's attention when I talk about how dramatic my life is, like...do you know what I mean?

Wait, is the booth next to us bigger? I want the bigger booth even though we have plenty of room. I am going to throw a fit if they don't let us move to the bigger booth. Oh so they're totally cool with it. Damn. I really wanted to be confrontational, because I love attention.

Geez, this waiter seems uptight. But goddamn, he's REALLY good-looking. He's totally gay, and I'd say 29 at most. Anyways he's going to LOVE me. Gay men LOVE listening to me.

Hmm, what do I want to drink? I'm going to embellish running my fingers through my hair while I take a slow, precious look at the drink menu. I want something kind of different that's, like, not what everyone else is getting, something creative and outside the box, like...do you know what I mean? Oh the Moscow Mule is only $8 I'm getting that.

I should take whatever Jamie says next and find a way to make it about me so I can tell everyone about my latest drama with Kyle. Now's my chance so last night I drank two bottles of rosé after work (we work at a network, where we assist execs who do super important stuff for, like, digital something). Anyways Kyle's been super distant lately and I don't know why because I don't give him enough room to be distant, do you know what I mean? So finally he responded to my texts with just like, "Hey, sorry, been busy," and I...fucking...WENT? off. For three hours, until he finally responded by blocking my number.

Ugh, no, I'm NOT ready to order yet, bitchy waiter. Why isn't he drawn to me like literally every other gay man? I think his breath smells like gin? Let's see, what do I want for lunch? I think I'll order the grilled teriyaki skirt steak and modify it until it's a side salad.

Kristin looks cute. I'm threatened by that.

Megan ordered something expensive. If anyone says we're just going to split the check equally, I will probably go off, I love arguing.

I should let the server know the ginger beer in the Moscow Mule isn't that gingery. Why is everyone else having a better time than me?

This salad is bland. It tastes really salad-y, like, do you know what I mean? Why isn't the waiter more apologetic when I tell him this salad ruined my day? What do I want instead, hmmm, let's see. Something comparable. I'll just have the chicken nachos with literally everything on the side, including the melted cheese.

Why is Devin in such a hurry to get the bill??? I've been too busy finally talking about me to have time to eat. And Megan you can go fuck your own ass, I am not splitting this bill seven ways when everyone else's food cost 2 in some cases 3 more dollars than mine. The waiter doesn't mind, it's his job to deal with bill math. I'm going to see if he can split my portion between two different credit cards.  

You're all tipping 20 percent?? Yeah, because I'M the only one he was rude to. Story of my life. Anything bad that's ever happened to you or someone you know? I'll bet a million dollars something worse has happened to me. Crap, I didn't finish my story about Kyle. Tomorrow I'll just go from office to office and fill everyone in one-on-one. It'll take, like, awhile. But it's so much better to tell such a painful story in person when you can connect, like...do you know what I mean?

The five dumbest questions I was asked while working on Thanksgiving

1. Oh you're open today? (after parking, walking through the open door, and being sat at my table and given menus by the hostess)

2. Are you excited to be working on Thanksgiving?

3. Do you all ever offer, like, daycare?

4. I don't see a buffet anywhere in the restaurant but do you have a Thanksgiving buffet?

5. Would you join us as we say grace?

The magic word

Despite the appearance of loathing every single request from a guest, I'm actually quite accommodating when met with good manners and gratitude. When those are absent, however, there's no barring the bitch within.

I recently served one of the ubiquitous cunty westside new moms and her dickhead husband. They brought their average-looking baby and its assortment of toys, binkies, sippy cups, cloth diapers, and, of course, its nanny. 

"Hello, how are you doing today?" I asked.

"Uhm, we need this filled with hot water, and immediately," the mom (Drewlyn) ordered while handing me a sippy cup that I did not immediately take. "But not too hot, it's for the baby."

Oh no shit? I thought it was the nanny's early Christmas gift. 

"What beers do you have?" asshole dad (Thad) yelled just as I started to walk off.

"I believe they're all listed on the menu," I said.

"Do you have Stone IPA?" he asked.

"Yes," I replied.

"Do you have..." he started as I strolled away. 

I returned with the hot water. Thad, with all his mental prowess, asked indignantly, "Where's the beer?"

"Which one?" I replied.

"Didn't I order one?"

"Nope."

"Oh," he said, basking in his own stupidity. "Bring me the Stone IPA."

Their habit of not saying "please" or "thank you" continued grating on my limited nerves. Only the nanny, when even permitted to speak, bothered with pleasantries and pleases. We went through another couple rounds of stupid questions and baby-related needs. After the Herculean task of taking their orders, I hid in the back and took a swig from my own lil' sippy cup filled with gin. 

The food arrived as ordered. 

"You didn't bring any bread," Drewlyn said in a tone of voice more appropriate for if I'd just licked her gross face. 

"You didn't order any bread," I said. "It's available on request only."

"Then bring bread," she said.

"Please..." I replied, a snapback that was heard by no one. I returned with the bread. No one said anything. Except me. I said, "You're welcome."

"Excuse me?" Drewlyn asked in a tone of voice more appropriate for if I'd just asked how ugly is the baby on a scale of 1-10.

"Oh, sorry, I thought you said 'Thank you,' so I said 'You're welcome,'" I responded in as insincere a tone as the gin could muster. 

The monsters eventually left, leaving behind a table that looked like four possum families had ransacked a grocery store. On the tip portion of their credit card receipt, Drewlyn wrote "THANK YOU" in all caps. No tip. Just the two words she and her lughead of a spouse should have been using all along. My only revenge? They left behind baby's sippy cup, which I sent sailing into the dumpster out back. 

I'm not a bitch, you're a bitch!

Sometimes an individual's bad behavior is so insane and so entertaining that I forget to be bitter.

Ursula, a crazy, pilled-out, Botox'd-up, entitled westside wasp with Madonna arms, sat down in my section in a huff. I greeted her promptly, only to be met with, "Why would you tell me you won't seat an incomplete party? I come here all the fucking time."

"Wait...," I wanted to clarify. "You're not talking about me, right? I'm not the hostess."

"Oh," she said, "I wasn't paying attention. But yeah, the hostess told me she wouldn't seat me."

"So, how did you arrive at my table then?" I asked.

"I flew here, what the hell do you think!?" she said.

"You sat yourself?" I asked, trying to be annoying.

"YES, and I'd like a glass of your house rosé," she said.

"Mmmmm," I purred.

I asked the hostess about Ursula, and she confirmed that, after a string of obscenities, Ursula grabbed a menu and sat herself in my section, refusing to wait for her three dining companions. Because we weren't on a wait yet, I didn't have to ask Ursula to move, so I let her stay, partly intrigued, mostly ready to be a huge bitch myself.

I returned with the rosé.

"When are you expecting the rest of your party?" I asked. 

"Whenever they get here," she replied. 

"Great," I said. "I'll see you when they arrive."

"But I'm ready to order now."

"You're not going to wait for the rest of your party to order?" 

"No I'm hungry, and I'm in a restaurant, so I'm going to eat, is that okay? Jesus..."

"You can do whatever you want," I replied with heightened sass. "I just assumed you'd wait for the rest of your party like most people. But fine, what do you want?"

"I haven't looked at the menu," she said.

"You literally just told me you were ready to order," I said, cranking up the sass-meter.

"I AM ready to order, I just don't know what I WANT YET, OKAY??"

"Yeah, you need a minute," I said, and then began to saunter off.

"HEY!" she screamed. 

I turned around, as did half the restaurant. I didn't return to the booth, but I stared her down.

"You will wait here while I look over the menu!" she bellowed.

"Nope, nuh uh," I replied. "I sure won't."

By this point, our new, over-eager manager couldn't help but hear the impending commotion. A good little girl scout, she brought her sunny disposition to the storm. I went to the bar to start my side work, which means I took two shots of tequila (I designated this as side work myself).

After a couple of minutes, the girl scout's chipper cheer lost the fight with the c(u-n-t) witch. 

"I'M NOT A BITCH, YOU'RE A BITCH!" Ursula screamed as she got up from the table, making her grand exit from the restaurant.

"Ma'am that's not at all what I said," our flummoxed fearless leader said, "but don't you come back here!"

Ursula raised both middle fingers in the air, something I've only seen once before, and left a wave of commotion in her wake. I gulped down the rosé she didn't touch and carried on my merry way, continuously chuckling throughout the night as I proclaimed to anyone who would listen, "I'M NOT A BITCH, YOU'RE A BITCH!"

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.