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Monday, August 31, 2009

What Not to Wear



Uniforms are a pain in my ass. For most of my illustrious food service career, I have had to wear one. I suppose I don't mind, because it makes it easy to decide what to wear each day. Hmmm, this stained black polo or that stained black polo? These ripped up khakis or the khakis with the hole in the back pocket? What really irks me is when the restaurant decides what you have to wear, but they don't provide it. They will give you a list of approved stores to buy your pants from; The Gap or Old Navy usually. Or they will say to get some (totally lame ass) Dockers or (stiff as board) Dickies workpants. They will tell you which style to get and how much they will cost but what they won't do is pay for it. I don't get that. I feel like if they are going to decide what I have to wear, then they should dole out some dollars for that shit. I don't wear khakis in my real life so why do I want to pay for them to wear to work? And who the fuck wears Dickies anywhere except at a job where you are required to wear them? Seriously, they are horrible And the shirts? They are always the same thing. A black or white polo or a blue oxford. And they never pay for that either. Sometimes they will give you a t-shirt or something to wear and they will give you the first one for free. Wow. Thanks. But if you want two or three so you don't have to wash a load of fucking clothes after every shift, you gotta pay for it. Or what is even shittier is when they do provide the uniform but they take it out of your paycheck. Excuse me? You're gonna give me two ugly ass shirts and two pairs of pants that don't fit and it will come out of my paycheck for the next zillion weeks because they are overpriced and I only make $3.00 an hour? Fuck you.

Then I got a job where I could wear whatever I wanted. "Oh how it will make my day so much better to wear my own clothes," I thought. That lasted about a day. You quickly realize you don't want to wear your good clothes to work because they just get covered in honey mustard, coffee and shame. The Dickies may suck, but if you spill anything on them it doesn't matter. I don't know what those bitches are made of, but nothing sticks to them. Food and liquid just bounces right off like the fabric is Teflon. So even though my last job allowed me to wear my own clothes, within a few weeks that too had become a uniform: one pair of jeans (stained, ripped at the bottom) and three different t-shirts that I didn't care how much honey mustard or coffee got on. As for the shame part? Whatever. I have been serving food for so long the shame has permanently attached itself to my epidermis.

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Sunday, August 30, 2009

The Other Side of the Menu


So I went to breakfast today at a restaurant and sat at a table and had someone wait on me. I would normally be doing the serving today, but my asswipe boss closed down the restaurant I worked at with only three days notice and now this Bitchy Waiter doesn't have a job. I am just Bitchy right now. And mad. And bitter. And unemployed. Anyhoo. As I was a customer today, I looked around at what the waitress had to deal with and I felt her pain.

I saw the old couple who sat at one table to order and then a few minutes later got up to change tables. As she shoved the table out of her way she barked out, "we're changing tables, but we'll have the same order." Really, lady? Do you think the waitress is as dumb as you are fat? I am certain that she assumes that you still want your eggs cooked the same way even though you are sitting at a different table now. Or does the lady think that if you sit at one table you have to eat oatmeal and at another table you have to eat cream of wheat? What a dumb bitch.

I saw the man next to me eat his meal and then when the waitress thought he was ready to go he ordered another bagel. That, sir, is annoying. She wants you out of her station when you are done, not stick around for 20 minuter longer for you to nibble on a bagel as you and your annoying girlfriend discuss the merits of the PC/Mac Guy commercials. Seriously, they discussed this for about an eternity. "How did they get the parts? How often do they shoot a commercial? Did you know that one guy really works for Microsoft?" I wanted to stick a fork in her throat to get her to shut up about it. When the bagel came out, he sent it back because it wasn't toasted enough. But he didn't say it nicely. Oh no. He did not realize there are two ways to ask for something. Nice: "Hi, I'm sorry, but would it be possible for this to be toasted a bit more, please?" His way: (with eye roll) "Uh, this needs to be toasted. It's warm but it's not toasted." Then the whole time it was being toasted to his liking, he was craning his neck around trying to see when it was coming back. And sighing. What a douche.

I ate my waffle and enjoyed my time on the other side of the menu. I left her a 28% tip.

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Friday, August 28, 2009

NEW DOMAIN NAME


Bitchy Waiter is now THE Bitchy Waiter. That's right. I am it. THE one. And even easier to find now at www.thebitchywaiter.com (shout out to Chris, holla!)

So if you have me linked on your blog role, or your favorites make sure you notice the URL change.

The Bitchy Waiter thanks you.

Thursday, August 27, 2009

Waiter, There's Something in My Food


We have all found something in food that should not be there haven't we? If we find a hair in our salad at home, we simply remove it and go on eating, assuming that the hair is our own and not from one of the people at the grocery store who stocked the produce. However, when someone finds a hair in their food at the restaurant there is absolutely no way that it can be anyone else's hair except the waiter. And they freak out. I mean, it's a hair. Get over it. Some people act like it's a poison that is going to burn their throat if it gets anywhere near them. But a hair? That's nothin'.

I worked at a place once where the kitchen was full of douchebag cooks who got a kick out of making the servers miserable. Theoretically, it was Bennigan's in Houston, Texas on Shepherd at Highway 59, but it really could be any restaurant in the world because nine times out of ten, the kitchen is full of douchebag cooks. Anyhoo, one of my tables had ordered the delicious and freshly thawed Brownie Bottom Sundae Death by Chocolate Creamy Fudge Pie or whatever the fuck they called it. My table called me over because they had found something in their dessert that was neither chocolate nor brownie. Even I was surprised at what was before my eyes. I guess the dessert "chef" was pissed at me for having a more fulfilling life than him and he was seeking vengeance. Under the ice cream and covered in fudge, there was a fish tail that had been cut off from the deep fried crispy catfish. A fucking fish tail poking out of the gooey chocolate goodness. There was no way to deny it. It was not a hair that I could suggest was one of their own or a bug that only proves that out produce is "unbelievably fresh." It was a fucking raw fish tail in their dessert. I stifled laughter because even though I was mad that this asshat cook was fucking with my tip, it was pretty funny. The table was all upset about it and blah blah bah, but you just tell them that the next dessert is free or you give them a coupon to buy one plate of nachos and get another one for half-price, and they get over it real quick.

I never acknowledged it to the cook because I didn't want to give him the satisfaction. I saw him staring at me trying to gauge my reaction, but I gave him nothing. Well nothing except a glob of mayonnaise under the door handle of his car, but other than that, nothing.

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

You Say Potato I Say Potato


Why do people go all nuts and balls over sweet potato fries? Sure, they may be a bit better for you than the lowly russet or Yukon gold, but they still get sliced up and dropped into a bubbling vat of oil and saturated fat and then fried fried fried. But when people find out that they can have sweet potato fries as an option it suddenly justifies the sixteen ounce hamburger they are having that is covered with melted cheese and the milkshake to wash it all down. Mothers always choose the sweet potato fries for their kids even though we all know that a kid wants a real french fry and not some orange looking french fry wanna be. Unless it's a Cheeto, then that would be perfectly okay.

I guess the sweet potato is loaded with antioxidants. They help slow the aging process of the skin and organs and lower the chance of cancer and all kinds of other healthy shit. But blueberries are full of antioxidants too and no one is going to think it's okay to fry a bunch of blueberries and call it a health food. Hold the phone. Hold. The. Phone. I think I may have just created my next endeavor. I will open a health food restaurant and only serve foods that are high in antioxidants. And I will fry them all. Fried pinto beans, fried artichokes, fried prunes, fried strawberries and fried pecans. All in the name of health food! And when some physically fitness minded bitch comes in and says to me that a plate of fried prunes is not a health food, I will point out to her that the prune is full of antioxidants. And if she doesn't like my idea of health food then she can roll up her yoga mat and stuff it up her well toned vag.

The next time you have the option of sweet potato fries or real fries, do yourself a favor. Just get the real ones. That's what you want and you know it. If you really feel the need to be healthy order a fucking salad.


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Tuesday, August 25, 2009

My Friend, Liquor


Many times people ask me how I get through my day at work if I obviously find so little enjoyment in it. True, there is very little to enjoy while waiting tables but I do look forward to walking out of the Hell Hole with a wad of cash in my pocket. Cash does wonders for my attitude. So does alcohol. Yes, it helps a lot. Luckily I work at a place where it is relatively easy to slip in a few cocktails in between ignoring customers, short changing people and grazing in the kitchen. I think I shall write about how I got through last Thursday night.

The beginning of my shift: I started with a lovely cocktail that was made especially for me by the bartender. It had Hpnotiq and Stoli Vanilla vodka straight up. What is Hpnotiq, you may ask? I stole this from the website: Hynotiq is an exquisite blend of premium vodka, natural tropical fruit juices and a hint of Cognac which combine to produce its signature frosted blue. It's also fucking delicious and makes it much easier to deal with that bitch on table 201 who wants a veggie burger but only if it's going to be "a really good one."

The middle of my shift: I went up to my dear friend the margarita machine. I said to it, "How you doin'?" I kissed it, told it that I loved it and fondled the lever until it rewarded me with a tall glass of frosty tequila love. I then added a shot of Watermelon Pucker and some fresh squeezed watermelon juice. I swallowed.

The end of my shift: I had made it through the night without telling anyone to fuck off and I deserved compensation for that. Therefore, I asked the bartender to hook me up and she made me a Lemon Shot. Don't know what was in it but it was good. Real good. Sweet and tart at the same time, just like me, and the perfect foil to my bad attitude.


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Monday, August 24, 2009

Annoying Customer of the Day


My patience was thin the other day at work. Maybe because it was my last day at that restaurant before it went 86'ed and I was filled with anger that I was given only three days notice before I was to be unemployed. Or maybe it was just the usual anger and bitterness I always have while slinging hash. Anyhoo. Table 506. On the patio despite 90+ degree temperatures and 1000% humidity. Lady asks me if we have hot chocolate. Hot chocolate? Is she freaking kidding me? I looked at her like she had a tail growing out of her ass (which she very well may have had, because she was quite obviously a snort pig). I told her yes we did even though I hate making it. Then she asked if it was the same hot chocolate that we used to have when we were the other restaurant. Again I looked at her like she had a tail growing out of her fat ass and said, "Excuse me?" She went on to tell me that we used to be known for our hot chocolate before we became this restaurant. I had to explain to the stupid bitch that that was then and this is now. That restaurant closed and now this one opened so we are two different places. She didn't really get it. Dumb, I suppose. And unattractive. She finally ordered a hot chocolate with extra whipped cream which we don't have. We have mascarpone. So she asked for that in her hot chocolate again proving what a dumb cow she was. If you don't know what it is, it is NOT whipped cream. It is sort of like Italian cream cheese. Not really for hot chocolate, but for this bitch I gave it to her. It sunk to the bottom. And I didn't care.

Then she told me she wanted toast, buttered. I told her that the toast comes out with the butter on the side so people can decide how much to put on for themselves. "Oh, can you ask them to butter it for me?" I looked at her hands to confirm that she was not deformed or limbless and told her I will ask them to but they will probably forget out of habit. "Well, it's not too much to ask for them to butter my toast is it? I just hate buttering toast." She said it like buttering toast was a fate worse than death. Like it was right up there with doing her laundry, peeling off wallpaper or trying to reach around her enormous girth to wipe her own ass. How terrible it is to have to butter your toast! I think it came to her buttered. I never asked. I also never asked how the hot chocolate was with the pile of cream cheese sitting at the bottom of the mug. I was moments away from being unemployed and her issues were the least of my worries. She will probably be back there three weeks from now when the restaurant is a new one and she will still be asking for shit off a menu that does not exist.


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Thursday, August 20, 2009

Whole Grain Goodness



O' those tasty toasted crunchy whole grain oats that we know and love as Cherrios. Not only are they delicious, tasty and heart healthy, they are a big fat pain in my little skinny ass. Parents feed these things to kids like they are vitamins. I see parents with zip lock baggies stuffed full of the wholesome whole grain goodness that they let their kids eat and play with. What they don't ever do though is pick these little shits up off the goddamn floor when they leave. Something about all that soluble fiber makes for a big mess when I step on them because the kids think it is more fun to throw them to the floor than stuff them in their mouths. Yes, I realize that one serving is 50% of your daily recommended allowance of folic acid, 25% of your magnesium and that it only has 1 gram of sugar and no artificial flavors or colors. But Jesus, I have to sweep that crap up off the floor. Hundreds of Cheerios a week go into the dust bin because these fucking parents think it's cute to give a handful of the cereal to their kids to occupy themselves with.

How can this problem be solved? First off, parents should not bring kids into my station. Period. If they do, I would like for them to strap a feedbag onto the child's face so that all food that does not make it into the mouth would remain in said feedbag. Ideally the children should only be fed things that do not crumble or fall apart. Something like ice would be perfect. If they need more nutrition than they would receive from ice, then I would suggest freezing chicken stock into ice cubes and feeding them that. If that is not satisfactory to the parent or child, they could be fed a grape. One solitary grape that the parent is responsible for placing directly into the mouth. Anything is better than the crumbly bitches I know as Cheerios. Perhaps the most obvious solution to this Cheerio dilemma that I face would be birth control. Put a lid on it.


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Tuesday, August 18, 2009

Just Pay the Damn Check


You know, I don't give a shit who pays for the fucking check. It does not matter to me (or any other waiter) who paid last, who owes whom, who's turn it is to treat, who's birthday it is or who makes more money. We just want you to pay the damn check and get out so we can start talking about you. Nothing is more irritating than listening to two old ladies argue over who will pay for the two soups that weren't hot enough and the two hot teas that weren't Lipton. Just split it or give me two credit cards and shut up.

It happens all the time. Someone asks for the check and then the other person has to say "Oh no, you don't! I'm paying." "No I'm paying'" "No I am..." and so on and so forth. Or what really cracks my shit up is when one person says they are going to the bathroom and then sneaks over to me in the sidestand to interrupt my mimosa drinking to slip me a credit card. And then ten minutes later the other person does the same thing because they both want to be the big shot and be the one who pays. I always ask who is going to tip better. I have seen people get seriously upset about the whole stupid thing. A few years ago two men were both grabbing for the check to pay for it and prove who had the biggest penis when they got too into it. They were grabbing and pushing and eventually tilted the table and knocked over a few glasses that fell and shattered. Now who do you think had to clean that shit up? I just grabbed the check and said "DECIDE!" Now when two people argue about it I have a system. The first credit card that touches my hand is the one who pays. No exceptions whatsoever. A man once gave me his card and then the lady was saying "No, wait I have to pay because it's his birthday. Wait wait! Take my credit card." She continued whining as I swiped his card and made the man pay for his own birthday dinner. When I came back to the table I told them my rule as she shot me a look of hatred. I shot it right back to her and as I handed the check to the man, I smiled and said "happy birthday."

Saturday, August 15, 2009

Soapy Water? No, it Isn't


I hate to repeat my myself. I hate to repeat myself. But I hate dogs on the patio of my restaurant. But I hate dogs on the patio of my restaurant. Today I had a dog owner on the patio who blatantly ignored the New York City law of having no dogs on the patio of a restaurant. It is an eating place, after all. However, this is the same lady who ignored the big sign telling her to not seat herself on the patio so she obviously does not appreciate rules and regulations. She was fat. Or maybe pregnant. Not sure. She had her dog with her who she at first carried like a baby. What a sad sad loser lady. She grunted out that she wanted some orange juice. Seriously, as she said it, it sounded like she was taking a dump and was really trying to squeeze out some business. I obeyed and ran away to get it for her fearing that she was in fact defecating right there at table 504. Her husband eventually showed up and I was amazed that a woman like this had found a partner to spend her life with. Apparently, her husband was retarded, blind, deaf and stupid. Then she asked me for some water for her dog. I was in a good mood and didn't mind doing it at all. I went in, opened a package of "to-go" containers, filled one with water from the tap, placed it by the illegal canine and went on with my business. One minute later, she flags me down. I thought maybe her water broke or she was having a muscle spasm. "This water is soapy!" I looked at it and saw some bubbles. "No, it isn't. It's just water from the tap making bubbles against the plastic." "No," she burped, "it's soapy." "No, it is not soapy," say I. "I just pulled this container out of the box and its never been near soap. I just put tap water in it." Bitch didn't believe me. "Never mind. I am not giving my dog soapy water. I will just give him some of mine." No sweat off my back, bitch. I didn't really want to get it in the first place. So what did she do? She emptied the bowl that holds jelly packets and threw them on the table. And then poured her water into it and put it on the sidewalk. Does she really think that the jelly bowl that has been there for days and has peoples hands constantly in it is cleaner than the never before used container I had given her? That jelly bowl is so full of dirt, germs and typhoid that I don't even like to touch it. Drink away, doggie, drink away.

By letting her bring the dog, then someone else brought two more and then someone brought a Golden Retriever. Gorgeous dog and all that but way too big to be out there. Once I saw it shake and I could see hair flying all over the place. I know for certain that some of it floated onto table 502's plate of food, but I ignored it. I think they were done anyway. Oh yeah, and plus I didn't give a poop.


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Stroller Bitches From Hell


Yes, another posting about the Upper East Side women and their massive strollers and even more massive whore-like attitudes. And this time, I have photographic evidence of these mythical creatures who seek me out to torture me with too many questions and far too many special dietary needs. I have taken the time to block the faces of these Cunty McCunt Cunts in order to protect their identity.

They rolled in the other day and sat at the patio right under the sign that says PLEASE SEE HOSTESS INSIDE RESTAURANT BEFORE SEATING. They of course did not do that, because their heads were too far up their own asses to be able to see the sign. Although I saw them sit down, I waited until one came inside to ask for a menu before I acknowledged their presence. One lady had a double stroller while the other lady had a single stroller. They both, however, had bitch face. As you can see from the photo, the strollers took up a ridiculous amount of space. The lady with the double had so much crap inside the stroller I cannot even be certain that there were actual babies inside it. All I could see were about fifty blankets, a dozen pillows, a ton of stuffed animals and occasionally I would hear a muffled cry. I can't be sure what the cry was about but I was pretty sure it was saying that she hated her mother and couldn't wait to learn to talk so she could tell her so. They barricaded themselves behind the table making it impossible for me to get within two feet of the table. So every time I needed to serve them, I just handed shit to them They looked irritated about that and it made me happy. I just handed them the waters (which I never refilled) and then handed them their salads (which had plenty of substitutions and things on the side). I never cleared the table because I honestly couldn't get to it. Do you see the size of those fucking strollers? Is that really necessary? These children don't live in the strollers do they? Please tell me that I am not looking at their bedrooms that they just added wheels to.

They never said thank you or looked at me. I went out to them two times to see if they were ready to pay but the check just sat in the lap of Bitch Face #1. Later I looked out to the patio and she was holding the check up in the air with her back to me and having no idea if I was anywhere near her. She just held the presenter up in the air as if to say, "I am ready for you to take care of my needs now. I am Queen of all Stroller Moms and also my vagina smells bad." When they finally left, their table was a wreck. They left four jars of baby food and a pile of baby wipes that were covered in something that better have been mashed peas and not something else that baby wipes commonly wipe. As they rolled away, I cursed them under my breath and felt sorry for the babies who will no doubt grow up to be just as annoying as their mothers. Someone should rescue those babies. And teach them how to walk because those strollers are fucking ridiculous.


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Tuesday, August 11, 2009

I hate desserts!!


The Murphy's Law of food service is that the last table of the day is the one that will keep you there the longest. It never fails. It's like the last table that is sat in your station is destined to make you stay at work longer than you want to. Okay, really the first table sat keeps me there longer than I want to because I don't want to be there at all in the first place.

I was working a ten hour shift recently. Don't even get me started on the whole working for ten hours straight thing. My lazy ass can barely handle four hours so it was like this endless day of customers continuously asking me for things. "Can I get water? Can I get coffee? Can I get eggs? I need this I need that. Me me me!" What about my needs?? I wanted to pull my freaking hair out but I didn't because it looked really really good that day. I had tried a new product that morning and it made my hair all bouncy and shit. I digress. I was scheduled to leave at 9:00 PM which wouldn't have been so bad if I hadn't started at 10:30 AM. Seriously, I felt like Abraham Lincoln should come in at any minute with a proclamation or something. My last table was nice enough. It looked like I was going to leave earlier than expected because it had slowed down. Then it happened. As I was presenting them with their check at a mere 8:00 PM and salivating over the possibility of leaving an hour early, they asked to see the dreaded dessert menu. After 9 1/2 hours, well over one hundred people, and close to $1700 in sales, I get to sell my first dessert. Oh boy. I shot her a look from hell as I waited for the next request. "Oh and can we get some coffee?" All day no one had felt the need to have dessert and judging by the hips on this lady she didn't need it either. But she ordered it. I waited about a thousand hours for the kitchen to make the damn thing and rushed it over to her along with the check. Which sat there. And sat there. And sat there. Meanwhile, I sat at the bar feeling my patience grow thinner than the hamburger patties we sell. She didn't eat that dessert. She made love to it in slow motion. She fondled each spoonful with her tongue and then would slowly sip her coffee as I sat near by watching my Golden Years rapidly approaching. By the time she was done I fully expected my first social security check to be waiting for me.

She finally paid her check and said thank you. She left me a nice tip. I was so eager to get out of there, I beat her out of the door. She was still sitting there as I walked past her booth's window. I waved. She looked at her empty coffee cup. It stayed empty unless she helped herself to a refill. I was done for the day.


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Monday, August 10, 2009

No Dogs Allowed


Pets do not belong inside restaurants. They just don't. Now if your pet was a roach, rat, mouse, ant or spider, then it would fit right in to most of the restaurants that I have worked in. However, if your pet is a dog, dog, dog, dog or dog, then do not bring it to the restaurant with you. They are not welcome there. Besides that, it's kinda fucking illegal. People in New York City think they can bring their dogs with them anywhere they go and when people sit on the patio (AKA sidewalk) of my restaurant they see no problem with parking the pooch right beside them. We gave up a long time ago telling them it's against the law because if they get a ticket, who cares? But c'mon. Today I had three dogs on the patio at the same time. Their stupid ass owners tie them to the chair and then make me step over them every time I have to walk through my station. Now I love dogs. Just as much as I love babies. And you know how much I love babies... But I don't want to take time out from ignoring my tables so that I can go get a bowl of water for some bitch's bitch. I don't want to get my leg bit off if I accidentally step on the dog's tail and I really don't want to watch someone feed their dog.

Table 500. A two-top. I walk out to the patio and see that they have dumped the jelly packets out of the bowl that was on the table and now that bowl is on the sidewalk filled with eggs and bacon. And a fucking dog is eating out of it. Is that right? Hell no, that ain't right. I gots no problem with people feeding their dog off a plate. They can let their dog drink water out of a vase from the Ming Dynasty for all I care, but not at a restaurant. People don't want to see that and wonder how many other dogs have eaten off the plate that now holds their over-cooked Eggs Benedict. I gave the lady a look that said, "Really? Are you fucking kidding me? Are you fucking kidding me?" She looked back at me with a sheepish smile and said, "He was hungry." Cut to me giving a eye roll that almost threw my eye socket out of whack. The lady knew it was wrong. Even the dog gave me a look. The look said, "I know my owner is a dumb ho and just so you know, she ain't gonna tip you."


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Friday, August 7, 2009

Mr. Nice Guy


I have heard from some that the last post went too far. Soggy biscuit, anyone? Anyhoo, I have decided to go a different direction with this posting. Just this once.

Yesterday at the restaurant I was in a really good mood. Maybe it had something to do with that caprihina I had during lunch, but all seemed right with being a waiter. I was okay serving food despite the crazy ladies, the stroller moms and the women who complained that their food was taking too long even though it only took eight minutes for it to get to their table (Yeah, we have computers, so we know how long it takes. Don't tell us it took thirty minutes, because we will look at the computer and tell you that you are wrong.) Even though the teenagers left me $1.25 on a $48.75 check, for some reason food service seemed okay. At the end of the day, my last table came in. It was a two-top. After they paid their check they called me over to the table. I figured they wanted to tell me that the nachos didn't have enough cheese or the Coke was flat. They told me:
We moved to New York City a few years ago and we wanted to to tell you that you are the first waiter we have ever had that didn't seem like he hated to be at his job. You are friendly, happy and we can just tell you are a nice person. We just wanted to say thank you for that and we appreciate your service.

I know. Crazy. It's sweeter than the imitation maple syrup we serve with the pancakes. I told them that I had just had six weeks off and to come back in two weeks so they could see the real me.


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Thursday, August 6, 2009

Soggy Biscuit


When we opened the restaurant today, nobody cared. We sat there for thirty minutes before someone peeked inside to see if we were open. The first table was a pair of ladies. I think they were sisters. Maybe friends. Whatever the relationship, they were crazy. When the first lady came in the sister was behind her screaming "You're sick! You're sick!" Great. This is going to be fun. The crazy sister started yelling at the crazier sister to be quiet. Then Crazier said she was going to sit on the patio if Crazy was going to sit inside. Crazy told her to just sit down and so Crazier did as she was told. I was so not in the mood. They took forever to sit down and to open the menu. Crazy brought her own coffee so I knew she didn't need anything to drink. Finally, she told me what she wanted. "I want that one egg on the little..whadaya call it... the little uh...thingy..." "Biscuit?" I ask. ""Yes. Biscuit!" "Yeah, we don't have those anymore since we changed the menu about five months ago and we have never had them on a weekday." Crazy was so confused then. Crazier wasn't eating. Water was all she needed. I left Crazy to stew in her addled confusion. She finally ordered two scrambled eggs and rye toast. But then she called me over later to bring her another glass of water because her sister had touched it. Whatever, Crazy. Crazier touched your glass and your crazy ass can't handle it? That's because you're Crazy. I think she was still upset that she wasn't eating a biscuit.

When she left she had a big discussion with me about how Madonna supposedly moving into the neighborhood and that maybe she would come to the restaurant some day. Uh huh. Madonna is really going to Vogue her Material World ass into my station to have a seven dollar plate of eggs. Crazier had already meandered out of the restaurant mumbling to herself. I looked at the check presenter and she left me a dollar which was really no big deal, because she only spent seven bucks. She got on my nerves but I sorta felt bad for her being saddled with the Crazier sister and all. I suddenly wished we had biscuits to give to her. A nice big soggy biscuit. If you don't know the definition of a soggy biscuit, click the link. Beware. It ain't nice. At all. You have been warned. soggy biscuit definition.

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

Welcome to Baby Land


I have been back to my restaurant for two shifts after a six week hiatus. Turns out nothing has changed. As I came up out of the subway to go to work, I saw the same homeless guy with the same cardboard sign saying he had the same disease he had the last time I saw him. I was immersed in depression. Not for him. Me. All of a sudden it was blatantly clear that things were the going to be the same at the restaurant as they were six weeks ago when I left.

Today at lunch, I was reminded yet again how horrible Upper East Side mothers are. Seriously, do they take a class at the Learning Annex on how to be so fucking annoying? Table one: three moms, three babies, three enormous strollers. And as usual, they barricaded themselves in making it impossible for me to serve them anything. They even acknowledged it saying "oh, we're making it really difficult for you, aren't we?" but did they move the strollers? Of course not. That would be considerate and also make sense and Upper East Side mothers don't do those things.

Table two: two women, two babies, two gigantic strollers. I knew these ladies would be a pill when one of them asked me if the Chopped Salad was chopped. No, the Chopped Salad is a sandwich. Bitch, please. Then they sent the Diet Coke back because it tasted funny, even though nobody else in the place felt that way about it. I think their taste buds were off from having their heads too far up their asses. And of course they needed lemons for the water. And when I told one we didn't have a baby changing station, you'd think I just farted on her. Bitch, please, I fart as I walk by you, not on you.

Table three: two ladies, one baby, one stroller that was bigger than a mid-town studio. This mom was flabbergasted when I told her we didn't have American cheese for her brat to chew on. "Really? No American cheese?" "Really," say I. "Well, don't you think that's weird?" she asks. I told her that I personally don't like American cheese so it made me very happy that we didn't have it. That shut her up and she ordered mozzarella. Her food came out and she was upset that her veggie burger came with fries (read the menu) and needed me to take them off the plate. And then she sent back her brat's broccoli because it wasn't soft enough. She prefaced it with a "I hate to be a pain in the neck, but..." Bitch, please. If you hate doing it don't do it. I hate having my eyes poked out with toothpicks so I just don't do it. Take a lesson. The baby threw it's rattle on the ground after banging it on the table for about a hundred hours. When I served their food, I kicked it under the booth so maybe they would forget about it and then I could throw it away when they left. They saw me though. "Oops, I didn't see that there." I didn't get it for them though. I made the fat grandma get it. Who cares?

It's so nice to be back at work. God how I missed it. I need a drink.


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Monday, August 3, 2009

Hostess with the Mostess


We all know what a restaurant hostess is, don't we? A hostess is the girl at a restaurant who will greet a customer and then take them to their table and hand them a menu. They are there for a reason. For some who work at the restaurant, the hostess serves other purposes. Sometimes they are fun to pick on, yell at, take out your hostility on and in some cases they are good for oral sex in the parking lot after closing. Or maybe that was just this one hostess I knew who may or may not have worked at the Bennigan's on FM 1960 in Humble, Texas during the early 90's. (Shout out to Carol. Holla!) I digress. They are there for a reason. They know which server gets the next table to insure proper rotation of customers for each waiter. They also know to not put someone in a station if that server is too busy to properly accommodate the needs of the guest. Or whatever.

Nevertheless, customers will continually ignore the hostess and plop their fat asses wherever the fuck they want to. They all want to sit by the window or the booth or away from the kitchen or the bathroom. Someday, I want to design a fucking restaurant where every table is a booth next to a goddamn window. It makes me nuts when people seat themselves. If the table is dirty, don't sit there. It's dirty because someone didn't have time to clean it so why do you think we will suddenly have time to clean just because you slid your pot belly ass all up in there? It certainly does not make me hurry. I will usually ignore them completely until they flag me down to complain that their table is dirty. I always say some bullshit like "Oh I didn't realize you were a new table. I thought these were your dishes and you were getting ready to leave. I am so sorry. Did the hostess seat you here at a dirty table? That's it for her. I am going to tell the manager on her. They need to fire her."

And don't even get me started on people who seat themselves on the patio right under the big sign that says "see hostess inside before seating." Idiots. All of them. Please utilize the skills of the restaurant hostess. And no, I am not referring to the oral sex skills that she will be demonstrating on the manager after two shots of a lemon drop and a free order of nachos.


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Sunday, August 2, 2009

Time to be a waiter again


After six weeks of not being a waiter, the time is drawing near for me to don my apron, slap on a fake smile, put some pens in my pocket and get back to the wonderful world of food service. It has been a glorious six weeks. Let me mention some of things I have not done lately. Never once have I considered if a ketchup bottle needed refilling. I did not slice lemons, limes or any other bar fruit unless it was for a cocktail that I myself would be drinking. Okay, well actually that was probably about the same amount of slicing. This bitchy waiter drinks. A lot. I have not dragged a high chair over to any women who then complained that the straps were broken and therefore unsafe for their precious bundle of joy. (We keep the straps broken to discourage people from returning with their precious bundles of joy.) I have not memorized any lunch specials to spout off to my tables. Strike that. I have not memorized lunch specials for years. Lunch specials are a waste of my time. The menu has plenty of options. I have not wiped down a table, set up a patio, filled a salt shaker, made a decaf skim latte with extra foam for an old lady who will send it back because it's not how she wants it and I have not had to tip out a bus boy who doesn't do shit.

Oh, how I have loved my six weeks of being a non-waiter. A single tear falls from my bloodshot eye as I realize that in two days I am the slave of food service once again. Bitchy waiter lives on.