the bitter waiter

Howard's revenge

I've worked at many restaurants, and, with one lone exception, you'd have a knife at my throat before I'd willingly darken the doorstep of any of them again.

Not so for Howard, a vengeful former co-worker who'd been fired on the spot for handling his alcohol poorly and tossing his cookies all over a customer's lap during a shift. Pish. Amateur. I've literally drowned my organs in gin and still been able to handle eight parties at once. Anyway.

During his brief stay, Howard and I got on perfectly fine. He stayed out of my way, did his job, and never bothered me. Thus, when he returned to dine about a month after being terminated, he entered my section drunk and greeted me warmly with an unnecessary bear hug.

He brought along an assortment of hot slutty girls, designed no doubt to impress a service staff composed entirely of straight women and a token gay guy. After ordering some gross fru fru martinis, Howard gave me a shit-eating grin and asked, "Aren't you curious what I'm doing here?"

"I'm gonna go out on a limb and guess that you're here to dine and drink?" I replied.

"Hahaha, this guy," Howard said. "You know I was fired, right?"

"Yes, I was there that night," I said.

"Oh right," he said. "I was fired and I came here to be a dick to [the manager]."

Now, I dislike restaurant authority figures as much as the next hateful server, but it wasn't her fault that Howard threw up on someone. I declined to point this out, instead faking mirth and telling him I'd be back with "...drinks for everyone, including me!" We all laughed together, my tone and body language implying I was on their side, even though I pranced on over to my manager and immediately told her what's up.

"Thanks for letting me know," she said, and then just continued pretending to watch one of the bar TVs, the static-saturated one that wasn't even working.

Howard kept sending back food and drinks in an effort to get the manager's attention, but each time she sent me in her stead instead to let him know we'd take the allegedly imperfect item off the bill. Finally, I told Howard he'd never have an audience with the lady of the house, and that his vendetta was starting to take up my precious, precious time. 

After he paid (a 30% tip, so cheers to your blood lust, pal), Howard drunkenly walked to the back of the kitchen and knocked on the door of the manager's office, insisting she see him. She didn't let him in, mostly because she was on the opposite side of the restaurant at the host stand. Our kitchen manager and some of the cooks escorted Howard out of the kitchen and out of the restaurant.

Before they left, one of his female friends couldn't quite handle her multiple martinis, and she puked all over my booth. As always, I remained the only functioning drunk in the restaurant.

Taking the hint

Once upon a time, when my self-esteem was lower, I said "yes" to every date, usually to my own detriment and displeasure. One guy (let's call him John, because that's his real name) remains my answer and cautionary tale whenever I'm asked to describe my worst date. He was rude, awkward, negative, and confrontational (you know....like me at work, except not awkward). Despite being a complete asshole during dinner, afterwards he insisted he come back to my apartment for some boom boom, and I curtly and distinctly said "Fuuuuuuuck no."

After the date, he tried following up repeatedly by text message. He reached out on MySpace (yes, it was that long ago), Facebook, Twitter, and voicemail. I didn't mince words conveying my lack of interest the two times I responded. And yet he persisted for almost a year after the date.

Cut to many, many years later (last night). My section was unexpectedly full for a slow Monday. John entered the lobby, along with a textbook-definition-of-average-looking date. They were about to be seated in someone else's section, until he spotted me. He told the hostess he wanted to wait until my section was available. He waived at me. I gave him one of my many "Who the fuck are you?" looks and pranced off.

Although they could have been seated immediately, John and his average date waited almost 30 minutes to sit in a booth in my section. The date looked a little annoyed, but he also stared blankly into space as if seeing a ceiling for the first time.

"How've you been??????" John nearly shouted when he sat down.

"I'm so sorry, do I know you?" asked in a disingenuous effort to manage his expectations for our limited interaction.

"I'm John? We DATED..."

I stared at him for a second with a look that did not suggest warmth.

"I thiiiiiiink we might have gone on one date, a long time ago," I said. "What may I bring you to drink?"

"Are you still doing that little blog about waiting tables?"

"No. Our features tonight are a lamb shank, housemade spaghetti, and..."

He smiled and wrapped his arm around his average date. "I think we'll need a minute to look at drinks. I know what happens when I get this one drunk," he giggled. His average date smiled a dim smile at no one in particular. I performed an exaggerated yawn and pranced off.

John and his average date ordered two cheaper entrees and split them, along with two glasses of house wine. Just as John was ordering a second round, hinting at the lackluster lukewarmth that awaited the average date in the sheets, my manager gave me the hand signal that meant I was cut for the night. As John was mid-sentence, I pranced off, had the manager transfer John to the closing server, and started my sidework. John summoned me back.

"Were you going to tell me you're done for the night??"

"Not really," I replied. "Josh will be right with you. Have a great night."

"But I didn't say you could leave," he said.

"Yeah, it's not really up to you?" I replied.

"But don't you want my...tip?" he asked.

"I do not want your tip," I replied. And with that, I pranced my final prance, out the door and hopefully never to lock eyes on John again. But, should he come back, I'll be ready.

The bitch and the brunch

A few Sundays ago, I worked a shift that begets from customers one nagging question over and over and over again: "Where's your brunch menu??"

Thank. God. We. Don't. Serve. Brunch. Our owners want none of that and, more importantly, neither do I. So imagine the disappointment of four basic Orange County new-money no-class bitches, with their bargain botox and huge sunglasses, when they learned we don't do brunch. It was already a boozy shift (for every single guest and, more importantly, for me) when in walked four uptight, Laguna Niguel-ish mean girls, with a clear ringleader. Let's call them Charity, Liberty, Justice, and their ring leader, Alyson. 

"You don't have brunch," Alyson told me with 'tude.

"You're correct!" I smiled with wide, cunty eyes. 

"Well do you have at least have a happy hour?" she inquired with a flared nostril. 

"Oh I have many happy hours; any hour I'm not working here," I said. Charity laughed, and she incurred a punitive glare from Alyson. 

"You should have both brunch and happy hour," she informed me.

"Cool, anything to drink?" I said with a smile to Charity. 

"I guess you don't have bottomless mimosas, either?" Alyson said, staring at me as if I were the suspect of an Amber Alert.

"Yes! You guessed correctly! We don't!" I said. 

The girls shared a bottle of rosé and ordered several small plates, including the barbecue chicken flatbread. After complaining about the temperature of the rosé, the hostess, the bartender, me, the silverware, the temperature of the restaurant, the lack of stalls in the women's restroom, Mahershala Ali, her gardener, her stylist, her "Mexican" (?), and her boob job, Alyson tasted the barbecue chicken and complained about that, too.

"It tastes too chicken-y, do you know what I mean?" she said with squinted, glaring eyes.

"Wow do you mind if I write that down? That would be a great way to describe it to other customers," I said. 

While she informed me that she didn't appreciate my sarcasm, and threatened me with the privileged person's punishment - a bad Yelp review - I noticed two prescription vials peeking from her purse. I couldn't tell you what they were, but they were brought to brunch (even though thank fucking God we don't serve brunch). 

I returned with another barbecue chicken flatbread, which Alyson never touched. She didn't take one bite. We remade it, and no one touched it. Alyson, by this point, was babbling incoherently, definitely drunk and possibly on pills. She kept laughing at no one knows what, which I surmised from her friends' confused, concerned looks. Shortly thereafter, after leaving most of the food untouched, the girls requested the bill. Alyson insisted her friends pay, claiming they owed her, a comment that puzzled them just as much as it did me. And thank God they paid, because they tipped well. I helped them help her outside to an Uber.

"Thank God you're a girl," Liberty said to the driver, "because she is such a fucking mess right now."

The girls left soon right after that, seemingly in much better moods, because they no longer had to deal with that wretched bitch. And, more importantly, neither did I.

From a customer's perspective: CHAD

(CHAD'S INNER MONOLOGUE)

The world doesn't wake up until I wake up. Only what I experience matters and only what I say counts. Everyone either wants me or wants to be me. No one ever tells me no, and I get everything I want. I'm good-looking, rich, white, and straight. I am Chad. You're welcome. 

Before work, I like to use a lot of water showering in my Calcutta gold marble honed tile shower with an oversized rainfall shower head. I work up a thick lather using only CREED Aventus Hair & Body Wash (SRP $100.00). After my non-fat no-foam slow-roasted fair-trade triple-shot shade-grown blonde latte with sugar-free vanilla almond milk, I defecate then cleanse my under carriage with my golden bidet, thinking about how awesome I am.

I am a lawyer, and therefore extremely important. I make it a point to never remember anyone's name as a sign of their insignificance. Today will be an easy day at work. My partner and I (no homo - my law partner; I am not gay, not that there's anything wrong with it, gay sex is gross, but I respect their right to do it, and I love the attention gay men lavish upon me, everyone thinks I'm great) -- anyway sometimes I ramble because I have so many interesting things to say about myself -- my law partner and I are taking our assistants out to lunch for...a birthday? Promotion? Termination of an unwanted pregnancy? I don't remember, I'm Chad after all. 

I offer to drive everyone to lunch so I can show off my 2017 Porsche 911 Turbo S Cabriolet (SRP $200,000). My (law) partner (no homo), who I pretend to like but really he's a dorky little dickwad, only has the 2016 Porsche 911 Turbo S Cabriolet, so it's important I drive to prove for like the umpteenth time that I am superior. 

The hostess definitely wants to fuck. She seats us at a table that's perfectly fine, but in an effort to flirt with her, I smile brightly as I complain about the table and question her competence (women love difficult, mixed-signal-sending men). She moves us to the table I suggest and mumbles something under her breath (probably "let's fuck").

I start telling a hilarious story about this loser who died in my fraternity from a hazing accident, it was so funny, he was sobbing for his parents while throwing up blood. Anyway the server tries to say hi and take drink orders but I'm still slaying, so he can stand there and wait. Oh wait, it's time for my non-FDA approved fat-burning pill (SRP $175/monthly supply). I'd better put my story on hold. "Hey guy I need a water?" I inform the gay waiter, adding a thumbs up so he knows I'm chill. I know I'm not good at reading the emotions of others because no one else matters, but I think he just glared at me? He probably wants to fuck and is just pissed I'm obviously straight.

Before I can even finish my god damn story, one of the two girls starts talking, I can't tell you which of them is my assistant and which one is my (law) partner's (no homo). I can't tell you their names, either. Anyway her weird, inappropriately sad story about the death of her parents means it's cocktail time. "Hey guy, bottle of red, Malbec, four glasses," In case the waiter is really stupid, I'm going to keep flashing the number four with my hand, which will also successfully show off my Royal Oak Offshore 18-carat white gold diamond pave automatic watch from Audemars Piguet (SRP $1,546,130.00).

The conversation's back to something something miscarriage with girl 2. Goddamn we hired some sad girls to work for us. What is this, Mad Men? Man I wish it were the 60s still, how cool. Anyway I'm just going to look like I'm really super listening, but I'm going to let my mind roam. 

Wait. Was I supposed to go with a buddy to a funeral? This sounds vaguely familiar. I'd check my phone, but that would be rude. 

Okay, both of these girls definitely wants to fuck. Wait...would it be "both of these girls definitely want to fuck"? No, it would be wants, because that sounds right and I'm always right.

Sometimes my head is just empty and there are no thoughts going through it at all, like right now. 

I farted. I hope everyone thinks it was my (law) partner (no homo). I'm thirsty.  

"Hey guy another bottle of wine? And we're ready." Now that he's standing here to take my order, I'm going to open my menu and see what they have. Everyone can wait while I make up my mind. Oh, their salmon and spinach entree adheres to my 17 dietary restrictions, so I'll just have that. If I don't like it, I can eat all of it, and then send it back for something else. 

Woof. I'm starting to feel drunk. Third lunch this week. I'd better get some more water. Oh here comes gay waiter. He's in the middle of talking to his other table, but who the fuck are they in comparison to me, so I'm going to bellow "HEY! HEY!" to let him know my needs are more important than theirs. Whoa, he's definitely glaring at me. Yeah he definitely wants to fuck.

Time (hiccup) for the bill (burp). I guess my (law) partner (no homo) isn't going to pick up the tab. That's fine, because now I can show off my American Express Centurion (aka the Black Card; initiation fee $7,500; annual membership fee $2,500). The server's a dude so I'm not going to tip as much as if he were a chick. 

Now it's time to drunk drive everyone back to the office. I'm a great driver, sober or drunk. Everything I do is great. I can do no wrong. Nothing bad ever happens to me, and if it does, I refuse it. I am Chad. Worship me. You're welcome. 

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).