Friday, July 31, 2009
Buffets are an evil thing. I worked at a place once that had an all-you-can-eat buffet for lunch. It was really popular because people are basically pigs and want anything they can stuff in their mouths if it is included in the price. I won't say the name of the place, but let's just say it was the Marriott in downtown Brooklyn. Anyhoo, the price was $19.95 and it included everything that was available that day; typically two soups, three or four salads, two entrees, two sides, a carving station, fruit and desserts and breads o' plenty. And people really took the all you can eat thing for serious. Is it really neccessary to take four rolls when you know you will maybe eat two? And why take five desserts when you really just want a bite of each one? Kids were the worst. Let me rephrase: FAT kids were the worst. I'd see so many porky piglets all jazzed up on Coca Cola waddle their fatt asses up to the dessert bar and pretty much drool on every piece of cheesecake before they decided which one they wanted to inhale. I once watched this woman pile her plate full of rolls and then she put them in her purse. She thought she was being all sneaky and shit, but I saw her. And then her husband called me over a few minutes later and asked if I wouldn't mind bringing him a piece of bread. I told him to ask his wife because I just saw her put a baker's dozen in her handbag. Yeah, I really said that, but then I just smiled and laughed and touched his shoulder and then they just thought I was damn charming. Dumb fucks. I ignored his request. Another time someone asked me what was included to drink on the Sunday brunch buffet. Anything basically. So he then proceeded to try to have one of every thing he could thing of just because it was included. A mimosa, a screwdriver, a champagne, a coffee, a Coke, a tea, you name it. This man was insane. By the time he got to dessert he asked if he could have a glass of milk. I gave him a pint glass of half and half. He drank it. All of it. Because it was included and it was all you can eat.
If you ever go to a buffet, take it easy. It's all you can eat, not all you can carry home. And don't be asking for a "to go" box. Who thinks it's okay to take a doggie bag up to the buffet and get your dinner for that night? My standard answer for that was "you can take as much as you want with you but it has to be inside your stomach when you leave." Smile. Laugh. Touch on the shoulder. Here is your check
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
I hate waiting on celebrities. I have not had to do it very often because famous people don't usually come into the places that I have slung hash. Generally, they like to go to places that are not chains, franchises and/or crappy and I usually work at places that are chains, franchises and/or crappy. If a famous person comes into a place I work, then I instantly question their judgement and credibility. Once when I worked in Times Square (afore mentioned tourist trap, hypothetically Houlihan's) a soap opera actor came into my station. It was the old guy who played Palmer Cortlandt on All My Children. I think he's still on it. Anyhoo, he sat in my station with this really hot Latin guy that was about 100 years his junior. Palmer looked like he just came off the set of the soap because he was wearing a freaking ascot around his neck. The young guy was all flirty with him and and then Palmer paid for their lunch on his credit card. I ain't judging or anything, but can you say "sugar daddy"? He was really nice though and it was fine. A few months ago Ivanka Trump came into my restaurant. Obviously, she was slumming or she wanted to see how poor people live because she came in to have an $8.99 omlette. I didn't wait on her. My friend did thouigh and said she was alright, but only left a 15% tip. C'mon! Bitch, we know you have hundred dollars bills flying out of your ass and you're only going to leave four bucks? Spread the wealth.
Another person I know said she had the Grandma from Everybody Loves Raymondd come in to her place once. She seems like such a sweet old lady. Doris Roberts her name is. Apparently, she's a dried out cunt lip. This colleague told me she ordered a two-minute egg. And sent it back five times. Five times! After the first time, don't you think the chef (fry cook) would actually time it to make sure it was really two minutes. And then a third time? And fourth time? And a fifth? Get real, lady. You ain't the Queen of England. Maybe the egg just didn't taste right to her because her taste buds are fossils. Or maybe she secretly hated eggs because her last ovary fell out of her cooch back in the Roaring 20's. Whatever the reason, it's no excuse.
If I ever see a celebrity in my station, I don't want 'em. I have ignored Connie Chung and I will ignore you too. Famous people are just people who lucked out. If they sit in my station I will treat them just like the stroller mom or the old homless lady who pays with coins: like crap.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
This story happened years and years ago, but it's a goody. I was working in this tourist trap in Times Square in New York City where food was way overpriced but tourists came anyway because it was familiar. Let's just say it was hypothetically called Houlihan's. On 49th and Seventh Ave. It was the lunch rush and in my station were three secretary bitches who were happy to have someone to boss around for a change. They ordered their usual salads with everything on the side but extra everything and lemons for the waters and separate checks and anything else that screams "we are bitches." It was a busy Wednesday where everyone in the restaurant had tickets to see Cats or Phantom of the Opera or anything else that screams "we are tourists." After a while the three secretary bitches called me over and asked me if their food was ready. I gave my standard reply: "I guess not because if it was ready it would be here." Dumb bitches. They didn't like my attitude. Hmmm, can't imagine why. Their food came and they complained about a variety of things. I don't recall what exactly but it was probably the usual things like, the bread is not warm enough and the Diet Coke is flat and no one wants to sleep with me because I am big fat snort pig. I threw their check down and went on with ignoring other tables. They left money to pay for the check on the table and when I saw it I knew what to expect. Exact change, no tip. But then I saw my tip. One penny in the bottom of a glass of water. I fished it out and scoured the room looking for the whores. They were already gone, so I ran downstairs out to 49th Street and looked both ways. I had to decide whether to go left or right. I decided to the right and ran down the street, penny in hand. About halfway to Sixth Avenue I saw them. After knocking a couple of tourists out of the way, I went to head secretary bitch and tapped her on the shoulder. "You forgot something at your table," I said. "Oh, I did? What?" "This," I said and I flicked the penny at her and suddenly it was in slow motion. I watched it twirl through the air as her face recoiled in terror. The penny hit her right tit and bounced to the sidewalk. I turned around and walked back to the restaurant giddy with pride. She was right behind me.
When I got back in, I headed to the bathroom to hide out because I knew I was about to be in big trouble. Someone found me and said that my manager needed to see me right away. I slid into her office ready to be berated. My manager shut the door and turned around to look at me. She had a huge smile on her face. She told me that even though the bitches were in fact bitches and deserved it, what I did was wrong and she was going to have to suspend me for three days so that all of my co-workers knew that throwing pennies at customers was not acceptable behavior for our fine dining establishment. Houlihan's. On 49th and Seventh. Hypothetically.
My response to being suspended for three days? "Cool. Can I cash out now because I gots myself a three day weekend ahead of me."
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Tuesday, July 21, 2009
I hate when people ask me what to order for themselves. Can't they tell by the blank expression on my face that I don't give a shit that they are in my station, let alone what they put into their pie hole? It's one thing if they ask me which is better, the french toast or the pancakes. Those are two similar items and maybe I do have a preference. I will tell them the french toast is better. It is also $1.75 more than the pancakes and if they order french toast I don't have to bring butter to the table like I do with pancakes. What I can't stand is what this lady did to me a few weeks ago. She looks up at me with these wannabe puppy-dog eyes and pouts her lips and says in a baby voice, "I don't know what to get." "Then I will be back later," I say. I scoot off because I don't want to stand there while she juggles every possibility on the menu. When I finally meander back to her table she asks all baby voiced, "which one do I want? The frittata or the french toast?" Okay, these are two completely different items. And don't forget, I don't care. Especially since they are the same price. I tell her to go with the french toast because if she orders the frittata then I have to ask her what kind of dressing and toast she wants with. "Oh, but I kinda want the frittata." Then get the frittata. "But the french toast sounds so good." So get the french toast. "Oh...I dunno...(in a fucking baby voice)." Get both so you can stuff one in your face and the other up your vag, I don't care.
What have we learned from this post? We know that customers are the only ones who should be deciding what they will order. The waiter doesn't care and if he says he does, he is lying. Or has ulterior motives. Make a decision. Order it. Eat it. Pay for it. Leave a tip. Get out.
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In the restaurant world, there is something known as a camper. This is someone who stays at their table way too long and then keeps new customers from sitting there instead and effectively decreasing my turnover/tips. I hate campers. They suck. There is one that comes into the restaurant and we call him Coach. He comes in every brunch and wears those short polyester gym shorts that are of a primary color. Bright blue of red. He wears a tight fitting tee, a baseball cap and comes armed with his earphones and the New York Times. No one ever wants to serve his ass because he sits at a four top, orders one thing, drinks about a dozen cups of coffee for an hour and a half and then leaves $2.00. He does not get it. If four people sat there and each ordered an entree and a mimosa and then left and then four more people came in and did the same thing, I could make ten or fifteen times what he leaves for a tip. God, I hate him. We changed or menu about a hundred years ago too and every fucking time he asks if we still have oatmeal. No, we do not have the oatmeal anymore. Pull the fucking earphones off your head and listen to me, meathead.
Campers suck. If you are ever in a crowded restaurant and you are finished eating and have paid your check, then leave. Go to a bench in the park or Barnes and Nobel or a bar or better yet HOME if you want to sit and chat with your friends. I am done serving you and will not refill your water or coffee. I will not make eye contact. I will shoot daggers at you and curse you and your unborn ugly children. Get out of my station. Roll up your sleeping bag, put out your fire, break down your pup tent, and get your camping ass out of my restaurant.
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Monday, July 20, 2009
So it's been a while since I have blogged. Get over it. Here it is. I have had the good fortune to not wait tables for four weeks and surprisingly my attitude in life has been much much better. Fear not. Within two weeks, I will again be slinging hash and filled with the hatred and loathing that one can only get by taking food orders from assholes. Contrary to popular belief, there are other things in life than waiting tables and that is what I have been doing instead. On the first day that I did not have to bring french toast to bitchy ladies and their ugly children, I decided that I wanted to go have brunch and see what it feels like from the other side of the menu. So on a Sunday morning, I rolled out of bed and dragged my ass to some place that served overpriced eggs and mimosas. I had brunch served to me. The waitress ignored me, took too long to bring my drink, the omelette was too soft, the hash browns were not crispy, she never checked back, she forgot to bring the check and then she hurried me out of the booth because other people were waiting for a table. What a cunt. I now know what it is like to be served by me. Mere days will pass before I am back to waiting tables and Bitchy Waiter will again rear his ugly head.