the bitter waiter

The write stuff

As a writer, I understand the need to escape the trappings of home and draft your brilliant screenplay at a coffee shop or bar (mostly a bar).

Lugging your laptop to a booth at a restaurant, however? That seems a little extra. But that didn't stop Peter, a condescending and inconsiderate wannabe storyteller who turned one of my biggest booths meant for six into a cluttered creative station for one, and in the thick of a dinner rush.

"I'll need few interruptions," Peter responded when I first approached his table and asked "How are you doing today?" Peter brought a MacBook, its power chord, an iPad, an external hard drive, a notepad and pen, and Boise noise-cancelling headphones, and spread them aaaaaaall over the table.

"Ahhh, few interruptions, my specialty," I replied. And off I skipped, hearing Peter protest, "But I do want to order a drink!" as I found my way to the hostess stand.

"Hiiiiii," I said to the idiotic, ornamental hostess. "Yeah, any particular reason you sat one person at a table for six?"

"Ohhhhhhh," she said, not looking up from her phone as she finished finding the perfect Instagram filter. "He asked to sit there?"

I couldn't argue with that sound reasoning, so I set about providing Peter with as few interruptions as possible. I checked all my other tables, ordered and ate a side of fries, refilled my kid's cup (it was a Monday, so I had four margaritas), checked my hair, filled my Amazon cart with age-defying beauty products, stretched in the private party room, and watched half an episode of "Russian Doll."

Finally Peter flagged me down. He ordered a water and a side salad. That's it. To understand my annoyance, consider the income potential of a six-top table. Six people with an average order of two starters, six entrees, about 12 cocktails, and a dessert would bring the bill to roughly $275, not including tip or tax. In contrast, a water and a side salad bring the bill to exactly $6.46, not including tip or tax. I decided it was time to send Peter packing.

"You're going to have to move to a smaller table," I said. "This table is meant for six."

"But I need the electrical outlet under the table for my laptop," he replied.

"Uh oh, oh no, so sorry," I said. "But this is a place of business, not a work station."

"The hostess told me I could sit here," he said.

"The hostess once told our manager she needed off on February 30th," I replied.

"FINE," Peter yelled. "My laptop is charged anyway. But after you move me, do NOT interrupt me again, I'm trying to work!"

Which is why you chose a loud, busy restaurant to write your shitty script, no doubt about a frustrated, downtrodden straight white man?

I moved Peter to our smallest two-top, located conveniently close to the bathroom and the noisy dish pit. Midway through picking at his salad and pecking at his laptop, Peter took a phone call and got up from his table, leaving the contents of his portable office unguarded as he stepped outside.

He returned a good 20 minutes later, glanced at the table, and became irate.

"SOMEONE TOOK MY PHONE CHARGER!!!!" he bellowed like an Agatha Christie character discovering a dead body in a hotel murder mystery.

"I never saw your phone charger," I said.

He went on a real bender, asking everyone at the neighboring tables if they witnessed the hypothetical theft. Finally, our meek manager told him he'd have to sit down and stop bothering the guests. He remained red until he finally found the phone charger, buried deep inside his laptop bag. Minutes later, he paid (a 15 percent tip), and quickly exited. Perhaps because he finished his grand opus? Or maybe he witnessed his own foolish behavior and went home to work on revising his own story.

Either way, I hope I never have to fucking deal with him again. The End.

Lights, camera, asshole

In Los Angeles, even the most boujee of businesses will take the money to turn their shop/restaurant into a filming location. Even my current hell hole made a nice chunk of change by allowing an episode of "Curb Your Enthusiasm" to be filmed during business hours.

But because L.A. is a city of dreamers on a dime, budgetarily restricted filmmakers find creative ways to use actual locations without having to pay. It's a finable offense, and rarely successful, but try telling that to a community college film student with a passion project and an iPhone. 

Earlier this week, a few film geeks plopped down in my section. Though they lacked the mounds of equipment that normally identify a film crew, their collective body odor and niche jargon clued me into their craft. I could also tell that two among them were actors, all dolled-up, made-up, and ready for the camera. 

"Yeah, we'll be shooting some scenes for a project during our, uh, meal," the socially awkward director told me. He looked about 24 and had the social charms of someone ten years younger than that . 

"I don't see a camera?" I inquired.

"We're using my iPhone," the director said. 

"Do you have permission from management?" I asked. 

"Uhhhhh," he stammered. "It's literally just two lines while someone's on a date."

"Wow, sounds like Citizen Kane," I replied. "Still, you need to check with management."

To my surprise, our manager agreed to let them shoot, but only because they promised her they'd spend at least $100 during an otherwise slow lunch shift. She also wanted one of the film geeks to rewind her tape, if you catch my drift. 

I eventually returned to the table, where the director greeted me with a smug smile.

"We'll need food," he told me, handing me a stack of menus. 

"Good thing you're in a restaurant," I said. "What would you like?" 

The director turned his phone towards his actors, who both ordered entrees and wine, but "in character."

"We're going to film you dropping off the food," the director informed me.

"Actually you're not," I replied. 

The "two line" promise was just a lie. For the next hour, the cast and crew repeatedly filmed the ordering and delivery of the entrees. They'd ask the people at the tables next to them to keep it down, and not politely. Finally, I told our horny manager that she'd have to make different schtooping arrangements, as the cinematic scholars were starting to piss off other guests, not to mention their already testy server. 

Reluctantly, she told them it was time to wrap production on "Shitty Student Film" and call it a day. The two entrees the actors kept pretending to eat, as well as the two glasses of wine, brought their total to a whopping $48, not quite the $100 tab promised. They paid $48 in cash exactly. No tip.

The director accidentally left his earbuds, which I proceeded to smash in the back with a meat tenderizer after I downed the two glasses of wine.

A side of stupid

When stupid people are nice, I can overlook their incompetence. When stupid people are rude, I cannot.

I waited on a family of four a few days ago (they all blur together - the families and the days). They beat me to my 5pm arrival time, and the host, in all his well-concealed wisdom, sat them in my section 15 minutes before I clocked in. I greeted them, and they were justifiably annoyed. They's also country, a reminder of my Oklahoma days and a rarity in Los Angeles.

"I'm so sorry," I said genuinely when they let me know how long they'd been waiting. "Our host is high" (and he wasn't the only one).

"We just wanna make sure we don't miss the window for Kids Eat Free," mama told me.

"Kids eat who?" I replied. "We don't have a 'Kids Eat Free' special."

"Yeah....you do," Papa said in a disciplinary tone.

I turned my head and studied him like Michael Myers examines his next victim.

"I promise we don't," I replied real uppity.

"Is this not [a loose variation of the name of the restaurant]?" he asked.

"It's [the correct name of the restaurant]," I clarified.

"The place with the sundae bar?" Mama inquired.

"Strike two," I responded.

"Sounds like false advertising," Papa concluded.

"Sounds like you went to the wrong restaurant," I replied real uppity.

"Well we'll see if there's anything we like on the menu," he said dismissively. "I'll let you know."

"Fingers crossed," I smiled, and off I skipped.

After I made them wait much longer than they made we wait, I walked by and gave an intentional "Oh I forgot all about you!" look. "Y'all ready?" I asked.

They ordered two portions of pasta and one order of fried chicken, with four Cokes to wash down their feast. Minutes before their food was ready, I noticed the booth was absent. Cleared, cleaned, and reset with silverware for the next guest.

"What the fuck is going on with table 34?" I demanded from the host, interrupting FaceTime with his boyfriend of three minutes.

"Ohhhh," he said, slowly, struggling to thread the words together. "Yeah, something about finding out the right restaurant? They left."

"Oh really?" I said with fake shock. "Here I thought they were waiting in the break room to surprise me. Were you going to tell me?? They didn't pay for their food!"

"Ohhhh," he said like a hypnotized mute. "Yeah...

I marched to the manager's office and interrupted her cat meme time. I let her know that this dine and dash was absolutely not coming out of my pocket. She agreed but ignored my suggestion that she write up/fire/castrate the host.

Minutes later, in the empty break room, I feasted on fried chicken, fantasizing about what I'd create at a sundae bar.

Best served cold

I never, ever forget the faces of those who cross me.

Many years ago, before I was enslaved to the service industry, I worked at the front desk of an obnoxious, hoity toity sports club in Beverly Hills. One of the Pilates instructors, Audrey, was a real bitch. She was also a dumb bitch. She'd forget to schedule appointments or invoice her clients, and she'd always blame the front desk (fun fact, I threw my first ever - of many - work-place hissy fits complaining about her to management). She was rude, entitled, and confrontational. She'd eat other people's food in the break room, expect the front desk to let her friends in for free, and never, ever say "please" or "thank you." This won't surprise you, but I made zero effort to hide my contempt for her, which she always returned with a smug smile. 

Cut to many years later, this past weekend to be exact. Audrey and a rich man she was not dating for his youth sneaked past our 30-minute wait and sat themselves in my section. We locked eyes, and in Kill Bill fashion, I heard this tune while seeing red:  



Before I could tell them to G.T.F.O., her ancient meal ticket handed me a $50 bill, so I changed my perspective from one of annoyance to opportunity. The fact that she didn't seem to recognize me played to my advantage.

"Hi I'm...Sean, I'll be your server tonight," I said. "May I bring..."

"We're in a hurry," Audrey interrupted.  

"Anyway, as I was trying to say, may I bring you anything to drink?" I asked with a condescending wince.

She gave me that same smug smile from so many moons ago, and they both settled on two glasses of wine. I returned a minute later with the wine, set down the glasses, but Audrey and her geriatric gentleman were too busy taking a selfie to notice. "You're welcome!" I sang, and I walked off. A minute later, Audrey waived me down. 

"Yes?" my raised eyebrows said.

"We're still waiting for our wine?" she said with some 'tude while smacking some classy gum. "What's the hold up?"

As theatrically as I could, I slid the already-there wine glasses a few more inches in front of her. "Shall I bring them closer?"

"Oh," she said unfazed. "Well we're ready to order."

He (barely) ordered a cheeseburger, and she modified a flatbread to death. 

"...and remember," she said before I could walk off, "I want no arugula on the flatbread."

"No arugula," I repeated. 

The flatbread in question, the grilled shrimp and spinach flatbread, didn't come with arugula. I knew Audrey meant "no spinach." But I am a stickler for detail, so no arugula it was!

Cut to din din time, and I was once again summoned to Audrey's table of twatiness. 

"I said no spinach," she said in an 11 on a 1-10 scale of bitchiness.

"You said no arugula," I replied in a 12 on a 1-10 scale of bitchiness. 

"Well you should have known I meant no spinach, you dick!" she said. 

"Aww, shall I have them remake it for you?" I purred, cool as a cucumber as I could see her blood boiling.

"Yes and you can send over the manager."

I instructed the chef to remake the flatbread, and then I summoned my years of dramatic training. With just enough evidence of tears in my eyes, I told our newest part-time manager - a bat-shit lady with an inappropriate crush on all gay men - that Audrey called me a dick. I also low-key mentioned the flatbread fuck-up. I watched as my outspoken admirer visited Audrey's table. After an animated but inaudible exchange between the two, my manager informed me that she'd refused to take the flatbread off the bill and warned Audrey that if she insulted the staff ever again, she'd be asked to leave. 

A different server dealt with Audrey for the duration of her meal. But I didn't waste any opportunity to pass by her table, grinning ear to ear, settling on my deliciously manufactured victory. Small? Yes. Satisfactory? Hell yes.  

Half-empty

While I realize my posts aren't typically beacons of positivity, one of my ironic pet peeves is incessant negativity; more specifically, people who love to complain. I've got news for the downtrodden who love to broadcast your struggles to anyone who will listen: no one gives a shit. Everyone's carrying around a big bag of burdens unique unto themselves. You're trying to win an award for most stoic and put-upon? Spend a day in hunger-stricken Sub-Saharan Africa and then cry me a river, you tedious, negative narcissist.

A few days ago, Katrina dined in my section. She was hungry mostly for sympathy for her many woes, and I was fresh out of fucks. She was accompanied by two co-workers, both of whom seemed to merely tolerate Katrina instead of enjoy her company. She sat down mid-complaint, droning on and on about filing or something. She looked to me as if I could give a good goddamn fuck about filing. 

"So I stayed an hour after work last night and it still didn't get done!" she bellowed.

"Hello," I said, "may I bring you anything to drink?"

"No one else has to file as much as I do," she continued. "No one else has the same work load as me."

Bitch you ARE my work load. Push pause on the pity party and stop wasting my time. 

"I'd like an iced tea," her co-worker said, desperate to change the topic.

"A water for me, please," said the other entrapped diner. 

"I want an iced tea," Katrina started, "but I've been sleeping so poorly from the caffeine, I should probably stick with water. And I'm sure I won't be getting any catch-up sleep tonight, because [her boss] will once again make me stay late to file. And my poor cats will be all alone until..."

"I'll be right back with your drinks," I interjected, and ran the fuck away.

I returned with the beverages, and Katrina was still singing woe is me. I interrupted once again to ask if they were ready to order, her co-workers shooting me discreet "HELP US" glances. 

While the co-workers ordered quickly, Katrina hemmed and hawed over the menu. "Is the food good here?" she asked. "I'm not always easy to please," she explained.

"Mmm I can tell," I responded. "I never really know how to answer that question. So, yes, the food is good here."

Displeased with my answer, Katrina went on to regale us with a story about her most recent disappointing dining experience and how upset she was that the service staff didn't bend over backwards to rectify her dissatisfaction. Wanting to project my annoyance, I looked at my watch, fussed over my hair, and mouthed "I'll be right there, one sec," to a non-existent table. Katrina finally settled on a chicken caesar salad, which (SPOILER ALERT) she hated. But even before the food arrived, we had a problem. 

"This water is too cold," Katrina said before I could run away and hide. "But I don't want tap water. Can you take the filtered water and put it in the microwave?"

My nostrils flared. "We don't have a microwave," I said indignantly. Cut to 10 minutes later, and Katrina settled on a cup of hot water with a side of ice cubs. 

As expected, she hated her salad. "It's too salad-y and certain lettuces exacerbate my small intestinal bacterial overgrowth. I'll be feeling bad from this all day. Great."

THEN WHY DID YOU ORDER A SALAD, YOU RHODES SCHOLAR??

Katrina was just about to ask me if the chef would custom-make something, until her co-worker politely interjected. "I don't think we'll have time. We have to get back to work. Could you maybe get something at the commissary or order Postmates?"

Katrina looked at us as if we'd just Sophie's Choiced her into giving up a kid. With the weight of the world on her shoulders, a dejected Katrina left without lunch, complaining about it all the way out of the restaurant. Hopefully our inability to please her will result in her never, ever darkening my section again. 

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!"