the bitter waiter

"It's my party, and I'll [be an unbearable bitch] if I want to."

I rarely suffer headaches during a shift (mostly because I keep my flask overflowing for such situations), but a recent table of seven sassy sisters celebrating a birthday nearly drove me to an aneurysm.

I knew they'd be trouble when it took them 10 minutes to find a "suitable" table.

"Uhm, this table is too small," I heard one say to the hostess.

"Yeah, uhm, and that one needs to be cleaned," I heard another say to her friend.

Finally they were sat in my section.  I downed the remnants of my flask like a hooker about to sleep with George Hamilton and greeted my customers.

"How is everyone doing this evening?" I said, mildly buzzed.

"Hiiii there!" chirped the ringleader.  "I'm LaKeesha, and it's my birthday, so we need to feel extra special tonight!" 

And like that, my buzz died.

"Ok," I said.

"First of all, we'd like a pitcher of margaritas," she said.  "Happy hour margaritas."

I braced myself for the umpteenth rendition of "Sorry, Happy Hour Isn't Available In My Section" and said:
"Sorry, happy hour isn't available in my section."

"Oh," LaKeesha said.  "But it's my birthday and that's what I want. So..."

Oh really?  So birthdays are a big deal, huh?  Let's suppose for a minute it were my birthday and I walked into your place of employment...let's say the DMV...and I said, "LaKeesha, it's my birthday.  And I want you to make ME feel special," Would you behave any differently towards me?  No.  So if being fussed over is important to you on this day like every other day, I suggest hiring a clown for your next party.

"Sorry.  Not an option.  What would you all like to drink instead?"

"Uhmmm," LaSheeka's friend (we'll call her "Latte") said.  "You need to go tell a manager it's her birthday and get a Happy Hour pitcher."

"Can't wait," I said.

I told our lovably and equally indifferent manager about the request.  I watched from afar in euphoric bliss as he reiterated what I had just said. 

I went back to the table.

"Drinks?"

"We're ready to order," Latte said, very displeased.  

I collected the seven food orders and turned them into the kitchen.  To retaliate against our no-happy-hour ruling, five of the seven did not order cocktails.  

The food arrived.  Minutes later, I was summoned to the table.  And for the first time in my restaurant "career," each and every entree was sent back to the kitchen because not one of the ladies liked her entree.

"Too salty."

"This ground beef is ground too small."

"I thought there'd be more fried shrimp than this."

Just as I thought my head would spin 360 degrees, an additional EIGHTH person joined the party!  This meant "automatic gratuity," which is currently one of the sexiest things someone can say to me.

Before my mouth could form a full grin I had the manager add the tip.  I couldn't wait for this to upset my guests.

Latte informed me, again, that it was LaKeesha's birthday.  

"So what do you do for birthdays?" she asked.

(Anyone who knows me knows I've given the following response before.  And I didn't hesitate to use it again.)

"I usually get drunk and embarrass myself in public," I said.  "What do YOU do for birthdays?""

Latte was not amused.  She told me to bring out a festive (free) dessert, candles, and sing "Happy Birthday."

"That last part won't happen," I said.  "We don't sing here."

"Dang you all don't do ANYTHING special on birthdays, huh?" she said.

"On the contrary!" I said.  "We bring out the finest free dessert you'll ever eat."

I delivered the cheaply mad sundae.  And the bill.  And that's where our story takes a turn for the worse.

Latte took the helm and meticulously scrutinized the bill.  She asked the hostess for three menus so that she and the rest of the payment committee could ensure they'd been fairly charged.

Nearly 30 minutes later...

Latte approached me at the computer.  My fellow servers were bracing themselves for a showdown.  Fortunately I'd just popped a Xanax so all was calm, all was bright.

"Yeah, we have a lot of problems with this bill," Latte said.

"Namely?"

"First of all, we were still charged for some of the entrees we didn't like."

"Oh?  Let's take a look."

Latte and I studied the bill.  I pointed to this:

"You see underneath the entrees, where it says "Comp Food" and then has a negative price?" That means we took those items off your bill," I said.

"Then why is it even still on the bill?" Latte asked.

"Because those items were still made and for inventory purposes we need to keep track.  Don't worry, it doesn't affect you in any way."

"Ok," she said suspiciously, as if I'd just pulled a Machiavellian fast one on her.  She reported back to the group and they continued their study of the bill.  Latte approached me again.

"We didn't order an iced tea or a banana split" she said.  "I think you brought out the wrong bill."

 

"Correct," I said.  "No one ordered an iced tea.  But your friend ordered a Long Island Iced Tea, and your other friend ordered two splits of champagne."

Latte once again retreated to her dining guests and reported.  Second later, she was back for more.

"My friend ordered soup with her entree.  It's only supposed to be $2.25 to add on a cup."

"Yes, exactly," I said.  "It's only $2.25 to add on a cup of soup.  A bowl, however, is $4.70.  Your friend ordered a bowl." 

Latte left and once again returned.

"Don't you all give some sort of Birthday Discount?"

"Yes, we do," I said.  And reminded her of:

 

And before Latte could sit down again, she pointed at

and said, "Really?  Do we have to pay this?"

Of course not!  In fact, let's reverse that charge and I'll pay you a "Privilege Fee." After all, it's not everyday I get to wait on the Birthday Princess and her demanding band of bitches!

Defeated, Latte returned to her friends.  She, LaKeesha and company then turned on one another as they discussed who should pay what.  LaKeesha didn't hesitate to throw in, "It's my birthday so I'm not paying a thing!"

Nearly 10 minutes later, they finally left, $5.00 short of what they actually owed.  Tempted as I was to chase them to their cars/bus stops, I couldn't bear the thought of exacerbating an already splitting headache.  I might have had the last laugh in terms of not submitting to their birthday demands, but more than any opponent I've faced in my service days, they left a mark.  

My head throbs just reliving it.

Unhappy Hour

In an effort to capitalize on and exacerbate my disdain for humanity, the owners recently expanded our Happy Hour to appeal to every bargain shopper, bad tipper and spandex lover within a 30-mile radius.

Before I proceed, know that:

1) Happy Hour is from 4-7.

2) Happy Hour is only available in a specific part of the restaurant, which fortunately is never in my section.

Last week I waited on a group of four prototypical Caucasian corporate tools (two loud-mouthed males, two bimbo secretaries).  We got off on the wrong foot when Alpha male 1 approached me -- as I was in mid-sentence with another table -- and boarishly interrupted to inform me that he needed a pitcher of margaritas.

Without shifting focus from my current table, I said, "Have a seat and I'll be there when I'm ready to take your order."

As if I'd just spoken Yiddish, he stood there like a Republican at a tolerance museum, unable to understand the concept.

"And we need four glasses" he said.

I took care of the current table then approached the corporate wasps.

"Yes?"

"Pitcher?"

"Rocks or blended?"

No one seemed prepared for this curveball, so bimbo 1 took the helm.

"Uhm.  We want them slushy."

"Blended?"

"Slushy."

"Blended."

"Slushy?"

Before I continue, know that:

1) This took place at approximately 2:30 pm.  Happy Hour is from 4-7.

2) This took place in my section.  My section was not inclusive of Happy Hour prices.

I delivered the pitcher, and the four were relatively low maintenance from that point on.  They ordered another pitcher (at about 3:30) and asked for the bill around 4:15 or so.

After a quick perusal of the bill, Alpha male 1 summoned me.

"Hey, guy, you charged us full price for the pitchers."

"I'm known to do that, yes."

"Uhhhhh, HELLO, happy hour?"

"Mm hmm."

"We need this check adjusted.  I'm not paying full price."

"First of all, you're not in the bar area.  Happy Hour isn't available here."

(Blank looks from all)

"And second, you ordered your two pitchers before Happy Hour even starts."

(Blank.  A collective canvas of idiocy.)

"Ok, let me see if I can explain this simply.  Happy Hour starts at 4.  You ordered your drinks BEFORE 4, right?  Happy Hour isn't retroactive."

(Crickets)

"Happy Hour...isn't where you are.  You are here.  Happy Hour...is over there.  Right?"

(...)

Before I could bust out my Etch-a-Sketch to paint a picture of this abstract concept, Alpha male addressed me as if I'd messed up the quarterly report or the TPS evaluations.

"Yeah, guy, we're gonna need to see a manager.  You should have given us happy hour prices."

"Oh?  And why is that?"

"HEY!  WE COME IN HERE ABOUT THREE TIMES A WEEK, BUDDY.  WE'RE HERE MORE THAN YOU ARE!"

"Unfortunately I'm here about five times a week, so I shamefully win that trophy, and even if this were a who's-here-more-often-contest, first prize isn't half off your drinks."

"Do you have a manager?"

"Yeah, I think so.  Let me find him so he repeat what I just said."

I found my manager.  He stood his ground and refused to comp their drinks.

Alpha male 1 approached me with four credit cards (naturally, because why would either of the men offer to buy their employees drinks?) and informed me, with great pleasure, that he'd be hanging onto the bill so he could have it adjusted by one of the owners.

"Congrats.  I'll be back with your cards," I said.

I delivered the four receipts (with one pen) and walked away.  I heard one of the men mutter something about "stick up his ass" and the four howled with laughter at this polysyllabic bon mot.

They headed to the bar to continue drinking (at Happy Hour prices) and were about to order another pitcher.  However, the manager and I agreed that anything more than two pitchers among four people within less than two hours would be over the legal blood alcohol limit.

I informed the bartender, in front of my corporate friends, that they were cut off.

"They're technically over the limit," I announced.  "Ask this gentleman.  He has the receipt to prove it."

The Idiot Diet

I offer my most insincere apologies for my unexpected hiatus.  Therefore, I won't waste a minute in pursuing my vigilante efforts of unmasking imbeciles & offenders of the service industry.

Today's special guest star? People who claim to be on a strict diet, yet eat at a fatty Mexican restaurant.  

Though our delusional owners claim that our menu offers "healthy, low-fat" Mexican cuisine, one look at some of our menu options would lead you to believe differently.  

For instance, our "Queso Fundido" is a large plate of four different mixed cheeses, melted together, and meant to be consumed with salty chips and flour tortillas.

Now that just screams diet to me.  Your "after" picture is right around the corner...

Or better yet, feel comfortable stepping on the scale after wolfing down our "Pollo Gariando," a diseased-looking chicken breast smothered with four different cheeses, served with mashed potatoes and vegetables soaked in more butter than Paris Hilton at a Friday night gang bang.

And yet it happens every night.  Hundreds flock to our restaurant under the impression that they can lose weight and still eat greasy, cheesy Mexican bar food.

One of the most notable people to perpetuate this myth is my favorite F-list celebrity Jessica Simpson.  Years ago, she and her monosyllabic jock de jour would frequent the place and (in an effort to make a "no carb" margarita), she would order:

1) lime juice

2) ice

3) two shots of Patron Silver tequila

4) three packets of splenda

This concoction, which she would make at her table with the grace of a three-year-old at a lemonade stand, later found a place on our menu as "The Jessica Simpson Margarita," boasting "NO carbs" and "NO sugar."

Given the ease with which people believe this blatant lie, I might as well start telling customers that our black beans, if planted into the ground, can create a beanstalk so tall you can climb up to a giant's house and have him chase you around magic unicorn fields.

Just because diets have evolved into a nauseating trend, certain facts still remain.  Cheese will ALWAYS be fattening!  Items such as lime juice and tequila DO contain carbs and sugar!  Or better yet...you will not magically lose weight just because an ill-informed restaurant owner promises you that his food is "health-conscious!"

Last night I waited on two barges who informed me that 2009 was their year to diet (while it looked more to me like 2009 was their year to use each other as furniture).  

They ordered a *pitcher* of Jessica Simpson margaritas (enough to constitute your recommended calorie intake for 1.5 days, no lie), split a chicken caesar salad (with fatty rotisserie chicken instead of grilled chicken), and for their entree, they split a plate of STEAK NACHOS (but without sour scream to avoid those unwanted fat rolls come beached-whale season).

I've heard people say that "the best way to diet is to not diet at all."  Based on my experiences with the overweight and delusional, I'd say that's the most popular diet of all.

Run for the border, bitch

If there's one thing I know at the restaurant, it's the menu.  Not because I care or because I find the food the least bit appetizing, but because the more I know about the menu, the more attitude I can give customers when they question me.

"I thought these enchy-ladas came with sour cream..."

"Doesn't say that in the menu."

"Where's my side salad?  This sandwich is supposed to come with a side salad?"

"Doesn't say that in the menu."

"Why don't you ever smile?"

"Doesn't say that in the menu."

A few nights ago I waited on a loud, middle-aged Jewish woman and her timid husband.  I anticipated trouble when, after I said, "Hello, how are you this evening?" she replied with a peremptory "Carne asada."

"Don't you even want to look at the menu?" her husband asked.  

"Carne.  Asada."

"How would you like that cooked," I asked.

"No red."

"Medium well?  Well done?"

"No.  Red."

I took her diminutive hubby's order and turned the requests into the kitchen.

When the food arrived, the beef-eating bitch flagged me down with the utmost urgency, casting her hands in the air as if disspelling a demon in a tabernacle.

"This.............isn't carne asada.  I ordered CARNE ASADA!"

I stared blankly at her plate, which included a 14 oz ribeye, cooked well done, covered with a red chile sauce.  It was textbook carne asada in all its greasy glory.

"What did you have in mind for 'carne asada?'" I asked.

"UHHMMMM...CARNE ASADA?"

"Helpful.  Care to elaborate?"

"CARNE ASADA!  Strips of steak!  It says that in your menu!"

Considering that Bubeleh didn't even open her menu, I said:

"That's odd, because I could have sworn the menu says that our carne asada is prepared as a traditional ribeye, not served in strips.  Would you like the fajitas instead?"

"FAJITAS!"

I took her declaration as a yes and returned minutes later with the very traditional steak fajitas.

"THIS ISN'T CARNE ASADA EITHER!"

"Correct!  I thought we agreed on the fajitas."

"Listen, honey, I don't want to make your job anymore DIFFICULT than it apparently is, but when I say carne asada...I mean....strips of ribeye....topped with a red sauce...and served on a plate with beans and rice.  Do you understand what I mean by CARNE ASADA?"

I paused.

"Ohhh, yes!  Now I see the problem.  You're used to the TACO BELL version of carne asada.  We don't really have any drive-thru friendly food here."

The poor husband stifled a chuckle, much to the chagrin of his Hassidic honey.

Naturally, a manager was involved, both to school her in the ways of our kitchen and to reprimand me for insulting the clientele.  I offered my most sincere apologies.

The husband paid and left a generous tip.  It doesn't happen often, but sometimes people in the restaurant enjoy a little bitter waiter in person.  Especially when fighting the lethal triumvirate of rudeness, stupidity and obesity.  

  

Losing battles but winning the war

If you really want to let my demon out of his cage, speak to me with the slightest bit of condescension.  I assure you that nothing you are presenting to me necessitates that grating tone, which I myself save for small children or fat people.

The other night I waited on a group of three church lady chubs, each one sold separately with a large wooden stick up her ass.  Nothing was satisfactory for these ladies, save the passion fruit iced tea, which they sucked down like a Van Nuys porn star working for food stamps.  I always knew when to refill the drinks thanks the theatrical hand gestures that not even the laziest mime would use to indicate thirst.  

After what seemed like hours of swapping stories of yard sales, great-great-grandchildren and Oprah highlights, the ladies were finally ready to order.

"I'd like the fajita salad.  NO walk-a-mol-ay."

I normally don't need to write down such remedial modifications.  Nevertheless...

"You should probably write that down so you don't forget." 

"What a stupid bitch," I wrote on my pad.

"It's recorded," I said.

I took the other two orders.  Before I could run for my life, lady number one bellowed:

"Remember!  No walk-a-mol-ay!"

I pointed to my pad of paper to assure her that I remembered the important details.  

Ten minutes later, the food came out exactly as ordered.

Lady # 3, whom I'd affectionately nicknamed "Hagatha," decided the three cheese enchy-ladas she'd ordered weren't enough to satisfy the hunger goblins that dwelled inside her belly.

"That walk-a-mol-ay she didn't want."

"Yes?" I inquired, as if her sentence fragment made a lick of sense.

"I'd like that on the side for my enchy-ladas."

"Of course you would."

I returned to the kitchen, where my request for a side of guacamole was met with death stares from the near-revolution Mexican staff.  I thanked them for their smiles and expediency and returned to the witches den.

"THAT'S ALL THE WALK-A-MOL-AY YOU'VE GOT?" shrieked Hagatha.

"No.  We have a restaurant full of guacamole.  But that's the standard size for a side of it."

"Well, I need a lot more than that.  I have three enchy-ladas!!!"

I charged her for an appetizer portion of guacamole.  When it finally came time for the check, the ladies whipped out their penny jars and eye-glasses, ready to quibble with me over the slightest discrepancy.  

And like a giant red flag on an obstacle course at fat camp, the walk-a-mol-ay appetizer stood out and signaled the coven to prepare for attack.  Lady #1 straightened out her mumu and summoned me.  

"She.  DID NOT.  order.  a walk-a-mol-ay APPETIZER!

"I brought out a typical side of guacamole and she said that wasn't enough," I replied calmly.  "The appetizer portion is double the standard size, and she said she needed 'a lot.'"

"We're not paying for this."

"But she ate the entire appetizer portion of guacamole.  It seems like it was an appropriate size."

"Bring over your manager."

"Gladly."

Once my manager finished his bong hits in the back walk-in freezer, he greeted the witches with an appropriate lack of clarity and a sufficient amount of indifference. 

Bored, I stood next to him to hear what they would say.

"Our waiter charged us for something we didn't order."

The manager took a few minutes to process this and replied: 

"But....you ate...........all of it."

"But we didn't order it."

"............Oh."

My manager acquiesced to their demands and took the $4 appetizer off their check.  As I dropped off the modified check, the ladies beamed with a kind of pride people usually reserve for winning a tennis match or curing cancer.  I let them have this simple victory.  They paid in cash and I didn't even bother to count the tip.  

Every now and then, I must remember that I can't win every battle as a server.  I must remember that...and the fact that some lonely, overweight people will never know the thrill of being found physically attractive or claiming victories more significant than not paying for a side of walk-a-mol-ay.    

Unhappy Hour

Last night I had the misfortune of waiting on a "self-seater," a customer who walks straight past the host stand and seats him or herself without regard for the restaurant staff.

Our place clearly has a hostess who stands at the very front of the restaurant in front of the front door.  There is no sign saying "Please seat yourselves" (thought I often wish there were a sign instructing people to do other four-letter verbs to themselves).  Nevertheless, we deal with self-seaters on a frequent nightly basis.   

This particular gentleman (term used loosely) looked like an extra from a Color Me Badd video, what with his freshly frosted blond hair, tucked-in tropical T-shirt and high-waist jeans.  The ensemble was accentuated with a long brown leather belt (tied in a knot at the end, natch) and cheap white Keds.  

Because he sat himself, neither the hostess nor I was about to greet him, clean off the table or offer him menus.  I stood directly in his eyeline, responding to text messages, pretending to laugh at the other server's stupid jokes and making sure the day's tan was even in the nearby mirror.  

When I simply couldn't convey any more indifference, I approached his table.  Before I could rattle off one of a million insincere greetings, he said:

"This table is dirty." 

"You're right!  That's because you sat yourself at a dirty table.  The hostess normally greets people...here and at pretty much every other restaurant in the world.  Drink?"

"I'll take a happy hour margarita."

"Sorry, happy hour is only available at the bar."

"Then I'll order it from the bar."

"Then you'll sit at the bar."

(Just so you know -- happy hour is $1 off house margaritas.  One dollar.  House margaritas.)

Eventually his lady friend joined him and ordered a dirty martini.  After three rounds and 30 minutes, I checked to see if they were ready to order their meals.  He said:

"We're just having drinks.  Couldn't you tell?"

"No, I couldn't.  I guess the presence of menus and silverware on your table threw me for a loop.  And these tables are reserved for dining, so if we go on a wait, you'll have to move to the bar."

"But we come here all the time."

"Me too.  Tables are for dining only.  Thanks."

With that, Color Me Badd asked for the check.  Fortunately his lady insisted on treating him, and treated me to a 10% tip.  They informed me, with great attitude, that they'd be sitting at the bar from now on.  I said the first word that came to my mind.

"Promise?"

It's never what -- but whom -- you know

Years ago, in an effort to encourage customer loyalty, the owners of my miserable restaurant created the "I Know the Owner" card (or....the "IKO" card, as it's affectionately called by the dozens of loud-mouths who waive it in the air like a stray ball from a Cubs game). 

Nothing makes the bile build in my stomach like serving an IKO card holder. The card makes the following provisions for its lucky owners: 

1) Immediately move to the front of the wait list regardless of the wait time for the other angry customers 

2) Receive a free dessert if the check averages out to more than $20-per-fat-ass 

3) Remind your server as often as you want that you know the owner and therefore expect the best service possible at a low-end Mexican restaurant where the staff is practically panting for a bloody revolution against the customers.  

The other night I had the pleasure of serving not one but two respective groups of IKO card-holders. The first was Bud, an awkward high school teacher who only dines at the restaurant when a discount and modest tip are involved. Bud is usually joined by his bizarre wife, who can go from civil to Sybil in a matter of seconds. 

They split an appetizer and two cocktails, meaning their check was several dollars short of the necessary $20/person to receive a free dessert. 

Bud and "Sybil" did not ask for a free dessert. They demanded a free dessert. 

"Don't you think, as often as we come here, that they should give us a free dessert regardless?" 

Riiiiiiiiiiiight, because the sale of one appetizer and two cheap drinks is what's keeping the restaurant afloat Bud. 

"Sorry, I don't make the rules. Wish I could help. Here's your check." 

Bud and Sybil one-up'd my triumphant display of indifference by calling over one of the owners. They were granted their free dessert and marked their territory by leaving me an even lower tip than usual. 

Thirty minutes later I was treated to a triumvirate of meatheads, one of whom held the sacred IKO card. I observed as they approached the host stand and asked about the wait. The poor hostess, new to the job and still polite, had never heard of the IKO card. The lead meathead deftly explained, in a mix of monosyllabic words and grunts, that he was to be sat stat. 

Naturally, their path lead to my section. Our exchange began with the usual joke that IKO-card-holders regale in telling:

"Hey bud, I Know The Owner, so you'd better be nice to me! Just kidding." 

My glare must have put the kibosh on his sense of entitlement, because I didn't hear about the card again. 

Until... 

He ordered his steak with "a little bit of RED in it." Not pink. Not brown. Red. That, to me -- a seasoned server with a knack for getting things right the first time for the sole reason of avoiding the customers -- spells medium rare/medium. 

Thus his steak arrived, "with a little bit of red in it," and our VIP customer was not happy.  

"There's not enough red," he said. 

"You asked for a little red. Did you want it rare?" 

"No. I wanted it the way I ordered it." 

So I had the kitchen cook up a bloody ribeye. 

"Now there's too much red." 

"Would you like something else? There isn't a lot of wiggle room between the two shades of red I've brought to the table." 

"You know...since I have this card, why don't you send one of the owners over and see if they can't fix this?" 

"(Sigh) Gladly." 

Minutes later, our owner brought out a different ribeye with the exact amount of red as the first steak I delivered to the table. 

"See, now that's a little bit of red," he said with the glib satisfaction of a 4th grader who just solved his first Encyclopedia Brown mystery. 

You can imagine the smile that crossed my face when I realized that his ribeye actually was the first one I delivered to the table. Even owners have a sense of humor.

Pulling out all the stops

I'm always amused when someone waltzes into my cheap Mexican restaurant and announces that someone in the group is celebrating a birthday.

Like. I. Care.

This call to give a shit is always accompanied by a tacky store-bought birthday cake, dollar store decorations, and the expectation that I'll be bowing down to every birthday whim like some sort of medieval jester.

Recently, a family of four escorted their senile grandmother into my section to celebrate what must have been her 500th birthday.

Not only is the restaurant dimly lit; The sound system notoriously and almost offensively blares B-grade 80's pop confections and disco music. Not that any of this mattered to Grandma. In addition to being partially blind and mercifully deaf, I doubt she had any idea where she was.

Nevertheless, alpha male dad was prepared to make this the greatest night for Grandma since The Andrews Sisters performed a televised tribute to the boys at Pearl Harbor.

Poor Grandma was clad in a cheap birthday hat with a chin strap that kept missing her chin and aiming for her mouth. When I asked her what she'd like to drink, I unintentionally scared the shit out of her. Dad insisted that "Mimi" would like a Chardonnay.

Mimi's two fat grandsons sat on either side of her, scarfing chips like they'd survived internment, while Mom and Dad downed margaritas across the table. Dad would occasionally check in with Mimi, insisting she was having the time of her life beneath her comatose facade.

I watched in horror (and, yes, sympathy) as the food arrived. Mom and Dad continued their drunken exchange while the young chubs shouted around Mimi and shared the latest fart jokes. By the time Dad demanded I present Mimi with their unsightly grocery store pastry, Mom wisely suggested that they take the celebration elsewhere.

As they left, I whispered "Happy Birthday" to Grandma. She gave me the same look I give tables when they ask me an insanely stupid question and said, "Thank God for wine." I said a silent prayer that she would outlive all her immediate kin and put the whopping 12% tip from Dad in my pocket.

(The grandson in me wanted to help Mimi escape and take her somewhere peaceful where we could watch Humphrey Bogart movies and enjoy the silence. Should my children, grandkids, nieces or nephew ever try to put on such theatrics for my 100th birthday in a place so obviously geared toward a younger, drunker, poorer crowd, I'll leave them nothing in my will but a collection of cassette singles)

WARNING: not for the politically correct

By now you should all know that Monday is a trying night to work, what with the trashy masses turning out in droves for 30% off all food.

What amazes me most about the Monday night crowd is their shameless, unabashed sense of entitlement. These are the people who count their pennies and couldn't possibly afford to dine in public unless offered the promise of a bargain. I know if *I* had to take advantage of this meager discount, I'd do so with great humility. After all, being a regular on Monday night screams, "It's either this or the soup kitchen," not "How many wishes do I have left, oh enslaved genie of mine?"

And yet the Monday night crowd is the most demanding of all. From counting ice cubes in an iced tea to demanding a basket of chips and salsa for everyone at the table, they have no shame. Thus, I am unmasking the most rank Monday night offenders.

THE HUNGRY JEWISH FAMILY

This family of four frequently tries in vain to recapture the miracle of Jesus turning one fish into many by splitting one fajita entree and hoping it will suffice. Inevitably, they will balk at the "meager" portions and demand extra sides, chicken, tortillas, etc. and demand to not be charged. Like clockwork, the check comes to $13.76 and they left $15 to cover the check and tip.

THE BLACK BITCHES

Apparently they know what to expect from me. Before I could even set down the basket of chips and salsa, the sassiest one said, "Oh HELL no, I remember him from last time. Tell the host we want to move."

I can't imagine WHY she didn't think we'd get along. I fondly recall our previous night together, during which Sassy got her bitch on when I told her she couldn't sample each of the fruit flavors used in the fruit margaritas. My comment went something along the lines of "This isn't Baskin Robbins, and I don't give samples."

With one fierce wave of her heavily adorned hand (featuring pastel press-on nails), I was dismissed. Whew.

THE FAT FUCKERS

This rude, obese couple go to town when it's discount night. Tubby hubby and wife each start with a plate of nachos and one crab and shrimp quesadilla. She feasts on cheese enchiladas and he all but gulps the grease off the rotisserie chicken dinner. I've never felt better about my body.

THE HILLBILLY BUSINESSMEN

The ring leader, a hair-implanted, pug-nosed, acne-stricken, Napoleon-complexed redneck from the bowels of Virginia, immediately drinks to excess and lets his laughter bellow throughout the building with a mouth full of braised beef and idiocy. He calls his server "guy" and engages in my personal favorite game, "I know more about the menu and the tequila list than you do."

(Unless I am married to Madonna or appear like I give a rat's ass about the essence of Patron, don't give me homoerotic nicknames or challenge my knowledge. I will always win)

The hillbillies make it a point to find the single ugliest woman in the bar, get her drunk, and dampen her face at the table. Class, to them, was simply something they ditched in favor of shooting stray cats.

THE PERFUME-LADEN PERSIAN POSSE

Without fail, two members of the group show up at 9 and request a table for 10. An hour later, the rest of the party arrives, armed and drenched in an arsenal of equally strong, conflicting knock-off colognes and perfumes that could raise the dead.

They generally share one appetizer, the ordering of which takes a good half hour as 1) I try to translate and 2) they draw straws to see which of the group will actually get to eat the token starter.

Gratuity is never an issue because it's always included, but on a check totaling $16 (maybe $20 on a good night), we're not exactly talking rent money.

Condescending soccer mom and her merry band of menstruating bitches

Last week I had the pleasure of waiting on five young Jewish mothers and their five ugly, almost androgynous children.  These little demons had been cursed with names like "Marlena" and "Parker," as if Aaron Spelling had bequeathed to them a B-grade night-time soap before his death.

Before I could posit the completely insincere query of "HI HOW IS EVERYONE DOING TODAY?!", I was met with the mission statement of the head mama.  She highlighted each word as if I'd expressed a need for her to communicate via sign language.

"We're in a...HURRY.  We need...FIVE...kid's milks....with lids......
...
...
...
...and S-T-R-A-W-S."

With the aid of a translator and some illustrations, I was eventually able to digest and grasp this complex notion presented to me, a lame peasant who makes a living fetching food and beverage for the richest Jews in all the land.

I returned with the milks, only to be asked, "You're sure these are all MILKS, right?"

"Well, I didn't milk the cow myself, but the label did say 'MILK' on the container."

No one at the table laughed.  Instead, I could sense horns slowly emerging after gestating in a venomous pool of estrogen and hatred.  They could smell my waspy man chemicals and, therefore, I needed to be put in my place.

Their vengeance came in the form of an order than would have made Rain Man's head explode.

Before I could dart off and drink liquid detergent, head mama said, "And we'll need forks and napkins for our food."

Friends and casual readers, I can't elaborate enough on the gravity of this revelation.  Never before has a woman so succinctly and accurately expressed her needs.  Forks and napkins!  It seems so abstract, but when presented by a Jewish soccer mom, I grasp the meaning behind the beautiful prose. 

The food arrived.  Apparently one of the kid's meals came with rice instead of fries as requested (sometimes soccer moms communicate in such a poetic, haunting manner of speech that "fries" becomes "rice," and "I need more water" becomes "Enter my love cocoon, virile waiter stud.")

"Uhm...She wanted french fries.  This is rice."

God damn if Jew #2 hasn't won a Pullitzer for her grasp of concepts both interpretive and obvious.   I retreated quickly to my journal to scribble "This is rice" and returned to the table to address her concerns and assure her of our budding relationship.

I then fetched the glorious fried potatoes that would no doubt nurture her man-daughter and pave the way for bad skin come Bat Mitzvah time.

The "hurry" that these women and their budding yodelers were allegedly in manifested itself in the form of a long coffee-and-gossip session following the feast.  Nasty snack foods stored in Zip-loc bags created a moat around the table.  Children burped and ran around while the 'steins and 'felds gabbed and applied make-up.  Needless to say, no one was in a hurry.

Enter me, mindful of the damsel's initial expression that time was of the essence.

"I know you are all in a huge hurry, so here's your check.  I'll be standing by in case you need to leave quickly."

The women utilized everything from a protractor to an abacus to dissect and analyze the parchment that presented their charges.   

"Sybil, didn't little Herman have the orange juice?  You owe an extra $1.25."

"Oh wait, my darlings Esther and Elijah split a kid's meal, so we owe $4.67 less than everyone else."

And then, almost in unison, "Oh wait, gratuity is included.  Hmm, 18 percent."

I bid adieu to my new friends as they ventured off to explore the world through their self-focused lense.  Though my goodbye wasn't met with so much as a friendly glance, I understood the non-verbal meaning behind their (lack of) communication.  Parting is difficult after quickly establishing such a symbiotic bond. 

I can only hope that the God of Abraham will grant them a quick and safe return to me.