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Sunday, January 31, 2010

How To Call a Waiter


Wanna know how to get the attention of your server? There are a lot of ways to do it and I want to make sure that people know the right way as opposed to snapping your fingers across the room. Granted, some servers pay little or no attention when they're on the floor (guilty as charged) and maybe a snap is the only thing that will work. I find that a simple knowing look to your server is all it takes. A look that says, "Hey there, man. I know you're busy as hell and you have a crappy job and all, but if you get a chance could you please maybe pop by my table and refill my water? If you can't it's cool. I understand. Just thought I'd ask. Thanks anyway." That kind of look is all it would take for me to fill up their water. Sadly, most people don't have the muscle adaptivity to complete such a complex facial expression and instead belch out the words, "water" as they point to their empty glass repeatedly.

Another way that people will try to get their waiter's attention is by reaching out their hands to actually touch them. That is so not cool. I do not want to be touched by someone I don't know unless of course we are in a situation where that type of behavior is expected and appreciated. At a bar or spouse-swap party? Yes. At work? No. If I am at another table taking an order and I feel someone tapping me on the shoulder only to turn around to see the dickwad from table 102 standing there and asking for another piece of bread, I will not be happy. No touching.

Yelling my name is also unacceptable but very rarely happens to me because of one simple reason: I don't tell people my name. All that happens when you do that is they use your name over and over again. It gives customers a false sense of camaraderie and the misleading idea that I care and that I want them to use my name. I don't care. Or want them to use my name. And unless they are going to introduce themselves with a "Hi, my name is Bitty McBitchBitch and I will be dining in your section today," I will not be telling them my name.

Let us review. If you are in need of your server and want his attention, just give him a look. If you can't successfully interpret the look I wrote about before, then just try this instead. Look at your server. When he catches your eye, smile a bit, thrust your chin forward a bit and raise your eyebrows. Try that right now. And do it again. You see how easy it is? With this simple exercise, you will guarantee a full glass of water every time you need it. Congratulations.
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Saturday, January 30, 2010

Manners Matter!


I get a lot of comments and flack from people who question my bitchy ways and ask me why I keep this job if it's so fucking miserable and demeaning. Most of these comments probably come from people who have never had to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous food service and maybe they don't understand my point of view. Waiting tables is like wearing a pair of golden handcuffs. My friend Annie was describing her non food service job and I totally related to it. Sometimes you find yourself in a situation or job that is not ideal, but the benefits outweigh the negatives. In the restaurant world, the benefits are the quick cash in a short period of time, the complete flexibility and the opportunity to wear khakis and Pay Less slid resistant shoes everyday of your life. Serving food is not the easiest job in the world but it sure isn't the hardest either. Am I handcuffed to my waiter jobs? Maybe. But they're made of gold so it's not that bad. So I continue to wait tables and then come to this blog and bitch about it and complain about all the annoying people and then when I am done, I feel better. It's like therapy, this blog. It keeps me sane(er). And every once in a while, I show up to work and The Bitchy Waiter slacks off a bit and the 4% of Friendly Waiter gets to pokes his timid ass head out and say hello. This rare event happened a few nights ago and the customer left a comment card regarding my service. I quote:
Excellent, friendly service. Very polite. Manners matter!

Did you just now hear the fucking angels singing Hallelujah? Did you feel the temperature in the room change a bit as the bolt of electrical excitement shot right through you? The birds are singing and the rainbows have shot their wads in the sky because someone took the time to write a comment card about how great a waiter I am. I must stop typing now because tears are falling into the keyboard at an alarming rate.
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Friday, January 29, 2010

Waiter, There's a Spot on My Glass


Have you ever had a table ask for a mug of hot water and then when you bring it to them, they use it to sterilize their forks and knives because they think they aren't clean enough? Usually, it's an old lady who does this and then she makes her brow-beaten husband do it too. It's like they think we don't have a highly skilled and well-paid dishwasher in the kitchen making sure each and every plate, glass and utensil is sparkling clean. All dishwashers I have ever worked with take immense pride in their job and want to ensure cleanliness for all. I should know, because it was my first job in the food service industry. Just kidding. Dishwashers don't give a shit. How many times have you seen a fork that had a dried piece of whatever the fuck on it and rather than going to find a new one, you just scrape it off and give it to a table? Or what about when you see a wine glass with lipstick on it? The right thing to do is get the lipstick off with a napkin and then run it through the dishwasher again but plenty of times, I feel that the napkin wipe is good enough. I'm not saying that it's right, I'm just saying that it happens. Whenever I eat in a restaurant I work in, I use the to-go utensils. The ones that come in the little plastic bag with a napkin, salt and pepper are the only ones that I know are clean enough for me. Picture the knife that is being used to spread butter across that delicious hot roll. That knife is the same one that I wedged under table 23 yesterday to keep it from wobbling. Or that spoon being used to eat smooth creamy vanilla ice cream? Yeah, I used that spoon a few days ago to cram down the sink and unclog the drain. Or what about the salad bowl? Yep, that was under the same sink last week catching the drip from the drain that I unclogged with the spoon.

One place I worked (crappy ass VYNL, 78th and Second) often had a problem with the dishwasher. The machine, I mean and not the highly trained man who ran the machine. It would not work and the poor guy would have to do it by hand. Or maybe the hot water was out so it was going through the machine but only using cold water. One day when I got to work, my co-worker told me to make sure to use plastic forks and to-go containers when I ate that day. I always did anyway, but asked him why. "No soap." Uh huh, we were fucking running the dishwasher without soap. Think about that the next time you're licking your plate clean. Bon fucking appetite.
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Wednesday, January 27, 2010

Pizza Delivery Guy Meets a Meat Lover


So someone sent me this news article a while back and it really got my panties in a twist. As if I ever wear panties. Apparently, a Pizza Hut delivery driver was stiffed and when he said something less than kind about it, the customer punched him in the face. You can read the whole article
here but I need to respond. Now I hate getting stiffed. We all do. According to the article, the driver really wasn't that rude about it; he just didn't say thank you or have a good night or any of that other crap that nobody really wants to say or hear anyway. If you want my humble opinion, the customer was just a dick. The man was ordering a Meat Lovers Pizza. Need I say more? Who the fuck eats that shit? Pepperoni, Italian sausage, ham, bacon and beef. Is that really necessary? The man was obviously a neanderthal to begin with. I guess the hero of our story (the driver of course) said something back to the miserable shrew of a wife after she told him he should be more polite. And then the idiot caveman customer probably got his testosterone all flared up and he had to go protect his woman. I can just picture these two lovebirds. I looked up the nutritional value of the Meat Lovers Pizza and each slice is 16 grams of fat. If they ate the whole thing, (and you know they did) they would each be getting 100% of their fat allowance and 168% of their sodium. I imagine that they were both really large and retaining a lot of water.

The driver drove back to Pizza Hut with a bloody face and then they called the police and Meat Lover was arrested. Wouldn't it be great if every person who stiffed us wound up in jail? If I was the Pizza Hut guy, I would be suing the pants off this asshole and get the biggest tip he's ever had. He could get a few thousand dollars and maybe this man's possessions too. But then again he may be stuck with this asshole's crap. I imagine it would be a trailer full of ugly furniture from Wal-Mart, paintings of dogs playing poker, pants in a size 48 and a lifetime supply of Pepcid AC. But at least Meat Lover spent some quality time in jail and while he was there I hope he got another taste of meat to love. Like Big Bubba's fat "pepperoni" shoved up his bunghole. Now that would be justice.
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Tuesday, January 26, 2010

Behold: It Is Monica


Toll the bells and alert the news media, because the first true bitch of 2010 has made her presence known. Climb the highest mountaintop and cry out her name because servers across the land should know the name of this most monumental of bitches: Monica.

At the club where I work, all of my customers are the audience for the performer's show. If the performer is popular, then they have a good audience, I get more people to give amazing service to and therefore put more dollars into my pocket. If a show isn't sold out, then there are various ways to get a cheaper ticket One of them is a program that basically sells leftover tickets. Well, a woman named Monica came in last week with a reservation using this leftover ticket thingymabob. When someone has that reservation, we know they paid very little for the ticket and I for one look down on them in great disdain. That may be wrong, but I do. Anyhoo. Monica had not brought in her receipt that she should have printed from the Internets so technically, she shouldn't be allowed to see the show. She was all bellowing that her printer at work was acting up and she didn't have any ink or she was PMS'ing, blah, blah, blah. Some shit like that. Maybe she didn't say the part of about PMS'ing. Well, the show had already started by the time she got there so I was now also looking down on her for being tardy and having no respect for the concept of time. Keep in mind, I was not dealing with her at this point. She was at the host stand explaining this and then she spilled over to the manager. What she couldn't believe was that we didn't remember her from her previous visits, also with the Ticket Leftover receipt. Really lady? You think we can remember every single person that ever comes into the place? On Sundays I serve three shows with each show having anywhere from 20 to 90 people in it. On a busy day, we may seat over 300 people in one day. But this lady wanted to be remembered. She was just that special.

We eventually sat her for the show because even though we didn't recall her (sad, puffy, too-round) face, we figured she was telling the truth. This was after about five minutes of her foaming at the mouth and bleeding from her ears, and guess what. Monica has made sure that we will always remember her from now on. I feel like I'm a fucking I Dream of Jeannie because we just made her freakin' wish come true. I guess she is okay with being remembered that way. Next time, we see her this will be the conversation:

SERVER 1: Oh look who's comin' in. That crazy psycho bitch from Ticket Leftovers.
SERVER 2: Oh, yeah that bitch was crazy. She looks fatter.
SERVER 1: She totally does.
SERVER 1: What was her name again?
SERVER 1: Uh, Monica?
SERVER 2: Yeah, Monica. The bitch.
BOTH: Hi, Monica.
MONICA: Oh, hi! You remember me!
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Monday, January 25, 2010

Beware of Flying Shrimp


Okay, okay, I promise this is my last post about what I ate while in Texas, but whenever I eat out at a restaurant, I seem to notice everything and then I have to fucking taking notes about it and turn it into a blog posting. On one of the nights that I was in my parent's small south Texas town, they wanted to take the whole family out to dinner. I so rarely go back to that town that when I do make it home, it's like a huge deal. I drop kicked my citizenship there as soon as I was out of high school and never looked back.

So my parents took the whole kit and caboodle gang out to dinner making us a party of eleven. Since it would all be on one check, I didn't get the heebie jeebies about it and decided to just enjoy the ride. We went to this place called Tokyo Grill. It's one of those Benihana kinda places where you sit around the grill and the chef does tricks and throws skrimps at your mouth and shit. I went in with a bit of hesitancy but I must admit it was really fun. The two Cosmos may or may not have helped with that. When we first got there, it was colder than Ann Coulter's tit but once they fired up the grill it was much better. Our waitress was a real authentic Asian person right down to the kimono she was wearing and the chopsticks she had in her hair. This place was the real deal. I ordered some grilled skrimps and chicken thing and was happy that it came with a salad. Salad and veggies seem in short supply in Texas so I was ready to eat some leafy greens. I had my choice of two authentically delicious Japanese dressings: ginger and ranch. Ranch? What the fuck? Seriously, a Texan can't go for five minutes without putting ranch dressing on something. (Full disclosure: I love it on pizza.) The restaurant probably opened with only the ginger dressing but after about two days, the townspeople showed up with fire and pitchforks demanding ranch fucking dressing. The salad came out and I can only assume it was the same salad that all Japanese have with their meals. Iceberg lettuce. This is is when I ordered Cosmo number two.

By this time, our chef came out and started cooking the food. He did all the neat-o tricks like making the rice into the shape of Mickey Mouse and then making it into a volcano that spewed steam. He made eggs spin around and acted like he was going to drop it on my Grandma. At one point he made the pieces of chicken breast run around the grill as if the chicken was still alive and running from the heat. My vegetarian niece did not find that amusing at all. I, on the other hand, was very amused that she was not amused. Then came the moment I was waiting for. He was going to start throwing skrimps all up in our direction so we could catch them in our mouths. Suffice it to say that I caught all three of mine because I have plenty of experience getting things into my mouth. My mom, however, failed miserably at the task and three skrimps fell to the ground for some sad bus boy to pick up. Luckily no one was injured by the flying skrimps. I read in the the New York Times of a family that was suing Benihana's because a chef threw a skrimp, the man jerked his head to avoid it, hurt himself, weeks later had surgery and then got some infection and died ten months later. And they tried to blame the skrimp? Sad story, but about the family of the skrimp? How horrifying for them to see their one and only skrimp child oiled and grilled and then thrown across a room into the waiting mouth a hungry human. What an awful way to die.

Anyhoo, the whole Tokyo Grill thing was fun. I had some good family time, some good food and best of all I got to watch as three skrimps hit my mother right in the face as she struggled to get them into her mouth. Priceless.

And the only reason I say skrimps is because it makes me laugh when other people say it.
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Tokyo Grill & Sushi Bar on Urbanspoon

Friday, January 22, 2010

Eat More Chicken


My obligatory vacation (A.K.A obli-cation) is still on my mind and since all I did while there was eat out, why not write some more about it? Living in New York City, I very rarely go to fast food places. All of them here seem filthy and disgusting and there are just too many homeless people hanging out in there. I mean, how can I enjoy my number two combo at McDonald's when I'm sitting across from a lady in a trash bag taking a nap? And who can forget that Taco Bell/KFC on Waverly Place that was infested with rats over night? But once my ass gets off a plane in Texas I sniff out the nearest fast-food joint and eat that bitch up. And if it's a place that isn't in New York, even better.

My first fast-food visit was the wonder that is known as Chick-fil-A. I was driving south on Highway 59 not twenty minutes after leaving George Bush (I still-can't-believe-they-fucking-named-it-that) Intercontinental Airport when I spied my fave chicken sandwich of all time. I took the first exit, did a u-turn, wiped the drool from my lip and went in. They were so friendly. So very very friendly that it struck me like a pile of bricks upside my head. A nice lady greeted me and asked me if we wanted a free cup of coffee since it was so cold out. I was definitely not in New York City anymore. I ordered my chicken sandwich with the dry white bun and the pickles on it. I went to get my napkins and straw and find a table when I realized that a Chick-fil-A employee was following me around with my order on a tray. She placed it at the table that I chose and when I was done eating someone else came and cleared my table. These Chick-fil-A bitches were giving way better service than I ever do. It was heaven. I had it again a few days later at a mall and when I sat down with my food in the food court, one of them Chik-fil-A'ers came up and gave me some Purell to clean my hands. So classy. Those two visits were probably my favorite fast food experiences while on oblication. It was way better than the ill-advised trip to Jack in the Box in Wharton, Texas. The place was full of small town folks who looked at me as a real city slicker. I'm pretty sure that the girl who rang up my order was the same girl who is in that movie Precious. I got the spicy chicken sandwich. Compared to my Chick-fil-A, it tasted like ass. But it was still fast-food so it was alright.
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Olive Garden Italian Restaurant on Urbanspoon

Thursday, January 21, 2010

The Sin is Heavy on My Soul


Forgive me father, for I have sinned. It's been about a million fucking years since my last confession, but while I was in Texas I did something I am completely ashamed of. The guilt has been eating away at me like a fat lady eats an order of eggs benedict. The shame has completely consumed me so that I can barely function. Last night at work, I found it difficult to maintain focus and give my customers the attention they so rightly deserved. My mind kept wandering to a dreadful night eight days ago when I did what I swore I would never ever do. Something that makes me shudder with revulsion. I ate at The Olive Garden.

It was my last night with my parents and I wanted to take them out to dinner. They live in a small town and when you want to eat someplace nice, the options are limited. There, they think The Olive Garden is fancy. Real fancy. When people go there they do it without any hint of irony at all. So that's where we went. I must admit that I was looking forward to that never-ending bread stick/salad bowl thingy even though someone once told me that each bread stick was 310 calories. Our server was a young girl who was obviously new to the world of food service. Someone at our table asked her which wine she thought was better. I was pretty sure that all of the wines at The olive Garden would be equally mediocre but she had an answer. Her answer sounded like it was in the form of a question. "Uh...I dunno? You'll have to ask someone else because I'm not old enough to taste the wine yet?" Then she giggled. Okay, listen, new waitress. You never say you don't know; you just make shit up. You can always say. "Well, the chardonnay is much more popular than the pinot grigio" or some other vague ass answer like that. The table ordered three different glasses of wine so when she showed up she was holding three glasses in one hand and had three bottles of wine cradled in her arm and up against her chest. She squatted down to get them to the table and then gave a big sigh of relief. "Whew! I made it and I'm the captain of dropping things." And then she giggled. Ay ay, captain, just shut the fuck up and take my order.

I had a chicken parmigiana and I inhaled three breadsticks (930 calories...), had some salad and two glasses of wine. I enjoyed the food. It sorta remonded me of the chick parm you used to be able to get at Burger King and I loved that shit. It was 9:15 and we suddenly realized we were the only ones left in the restaurant. It being a Tuesday night in small town Texas, people headed home early I suppose. Maybe they had to get up early on Wednesday and till the farm or clean out the chicken coops. We asked if they were closed, but they informed us that they were open until 10:00 and there was no need to hurry. A few minutes later, Giggles the waitress came to our table and said, "So, I'm gonna go 'head and go home now? So...uhh..." We took that as our cue to pay the check. We left her a 22% tip which in that town was enough for her to go buy a two bedroom one bath house. I enjoyed my meal at The Olive Garden. When I was there, I really did feel like family. That may have been in part due to the fact that I was eating with my parents who are actually family, but regardless, it was nice.

I hope you can forgive me for eating at The Olive Garden. I hope Jesus can forgive me but most of all I hope I can forgive myself. I shall say 100 Hail Marys and clean the lids of twenty ketchup bottles in hopes that I can be resolved of this most monsterous of sins.
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Olive Garden Italian Restaurant on Urbanspoon
Olive Garden Italian Restaurant on Urbanspoon

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Deep in the Heart of Texas


My vacation is over and I am back home safely ensconced in my tomb of comfort in New York City. I spent the last eleven days in Texas where the rivers flow with cream gravy, the air is filled with the aroma of "fried" and margaritas come from the tap. I hesitantly call it a "vacation" since it was really a necessary trip to go visit family. Henceforth, it shall be called "oblication." While there, I became part of that group of people who I hate waiting on. Many times, I found myself at a restaurant as part of a large party, with separate checks and children under the age of six. I cringe just remembering the look on many a server's face over the last week and a half as we came into a restaurant.

One night we were a party of nine. As soon as we sat down, my seven year old nephew opened a packet of crackers and poured ketchup on them to create the most disgusting sandwich I have ever seen. I declined his offer for a bite of it. I also spied him pouring salt and pepper onto the table and making designs with it. I then saw him standing on the chair and also running around the restaurant a few times. At one point, he opened up the squirt ketchup bottle and sucked some of it out. Yeah. These are the children that I hate in my station and suddenly I am related to one of them and sitting next to him. A big loud holla out to Amanda who was our server. The girl kicked ass and was never phased by anything. At the end of the night I went to tell her thank you and also to plug The Bitchy Waiter. She told me that one of the other servers told her that a kid at one of her tables was licking the ketchup bottle. "Yeah, that was my nephew. Sorry." She shrugged her shoulders and said, "No big deal. I'll throw it out after you leave."

When we left the restaurant, I turned back to look at the table and saw a pile of Saltines on the floor. I grimaced and weakly yelled out, "Thanks, Amanda." It was official. I was the person I hate.
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Monday, January 18, 2010

The New York Times is Always Right?



When this list of things that a server should never do came out in the New York Times, it generated a lot of comments. You know I had to put my bitchy ass two cents in and write about it. And seriously, my vacation is almost over and I will have to start writing again instead of just cut and pasting..

To Do Or Not To Do, That is the Question


An article in the New York Times was brought to my attention and I feel that it needs to be responded to. (Holla, Bonnie!) It is titled "100 Things Restaurant Staffers Should Never Do" and it is part one of a list of bullshit notions that some asshole restaurant owner came up with. I am a big fan of The Grey Lady, baby, but this list has gots to go. The writer of the list is some man named Bruce (lame name) who is opening a seafood restaurant. I get that he wants his staff to do all these things and that is fine. But I don't work for you, Bruce. This list is something that should be taped to the bulletin board in the kitchen of your restaurant. Don't put it in the newspaper and think that all servers will start obeying your commands just because it got published in the Times. The list is only 50 items long right now with part two coming out later. Let me respond to some of them.

1. Do not let anyone enter the restaurant without a warm greeting. I agree. Easy to do, no sweat off my back. Fine.

3. Never refuse to seat three guests because a fourth has not yet arrived. Bullshit. Incomplete parties fuck with my seating rotation, my order taking and the kitchen. If people can't be there on time, then they should not make a fucking reservation. End of story.

8. Do not interrupt a conversation. For any reason. Especially not to recite specials. Wait for the right moment. Seriously? What if the right moment never comes? Some people are so fucking full of hot air and gas that they never shut the fuck up so that I can do my job. Uh uh. You say "sorry to interrupt, but can I take you order, you gassy bellowing bucket of lard?"

12. Do not touch the rim of a water glass. Or any other glass.
Duh.

13. Handle wine glasses by their stems and silverware by the handles.
No shit, Sherlock.

20. Never refuse to substitute one vegetable for another. What about the rule on the menu that says "no substitutions"? It's a pain in the ass. Eat the fucking collard greens.

23. If someone likes a wine, steam the label off the bottle and give it to the guest with the bill. It has the year, the vintner, the importer, etc. Come on!! Who the fuck has time to steam a label off a bottle? Is this guy fucking kidding me? I don't even have time to spit in their food sometimes and he thinks I am going to do that? And where does he suggest I find a steamer? The cappuccino machine I guess? Get over it. Tell them the name of the wine and let them fucking write it down. How hard is it to remember Knotts Berry Farm, anyway?

32. Never touch a customer. No excuses. Do not do it. Do not brush them, move them, wipe them or dust them. I am firm believer in the gentle touch on the shoulder or elbow when you thank a guest for coming in. It increases your tip. It just does. It's not like I am grabbing a boob or something. And if they are in my way because they are wandering around the restaurant, I will push their ass out my way if I need to.

37. Do not drink alcohol on the job, even if invited by the guests. “Not when I’m on duty” will suffice.
Oh please. How the hell am I supposed to get through my shift?

38.Do not call a guy a “dude.”

39. Do not call a woman “lady.”
I agree. Douchebag and Cunt are far more appropriate.

43. Never mention what your favorite dessert is. It’s irrelevant. So I guess just be the fucking robot waiter and say that everything is perfect and delicious even though some things suck and some things don't. I find that customers appreciate an honest opinion.

50. Do not turn on the charm when it’s tip time. Be consistent throughout. I am consistent. Consistently bitchy.

Thanks, Bruce for your wonderful insight. It sounds like your restaurant is such a joy to work in. Surely the next 50 ideas will be just as inspiring.

Here is the complete list by The King of All Douchebags, Bruce.


Sunday, January 17, 2010

Lost and Found


This list could go on and on and on. Over the years I have been amazed at what people will leave behind when they are done eating at a restaurant. How come no one ever leaves a fucking iPhone or mp3 player? It's always a just a crappy pair of reading glasses or an old ratty pack of cigarettes.

Things to NOT Leave at Your Table


I am moved to write because today some lady threw her baby into a mega-stroller and rolled it into my station. The baby looked like it was a few weeks old and I don't know why the fuck anyone would drag their weeks old baby to eat at my place, but she did. Actually I should say her nanny did. Mother just talked on the phone and took cell phone pictures of it. Maybe she was Grandmother. Bitch looked old. First thing: "Can you turn down the music? The baby is asleep." Whatever. Point of story is when they left. I went to clear the table and there was a tiny diaper rolled into a ball that was sitting with the dirty dishes and used napkins. Like I won't notice a fucking dirty diaper. So I have decided to make a list of things to not leave at your table:

  • diapers
  • snot rags
  • babies
  • trash from other restaurants
  • hair pieces
  • magazines that I don't want to read like Time or Ladies Home Journal
  • crappy cell phones
  • your bad attitude
  • odor
  • junk mail
  • your phone number (ugly people only)
  • apple cores, banana peels or sunflower seeds
  • used gum
  • gum of any kind
  • dirty diapers

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Saturday, January 16, 2010

Bite Me


By now, you may now be sick of reading this shit that you can just read in the archives anyway, but my ass is still in the South dealing with driving a car and eating all things fried. But it's always fun to read about teeth, is it not?

LOST: teeth!

Brunch was busy and full of the usual suspects of women and men who had way too many children. Just way too many. I seriously want to chip in and buy some of them a box of condoms. One table in particular had about four or five kids at it. They all wanted to order things we don't have and they complained too much. When they finally rolled out, we realized they had left a retainer on the table. I am not talking like "a partial fee paid in advance for professional services" kind of retainer (thanks, investorwords.com), I am talking about those ugly ass contraptions that go into a mouth to keep you from getting buck teeth and shit. That kind of retainer is what was on the table. Uh huh. Gross. I know. One of the bus boys brought it to me and I was like "I don't want that shit, throw it away!" Apparently though orthodontics are not cheap so it was determined that it would be saved for when they came back in to find it. I put it into a to-go container. Moments later the Grandma drags her bag of bones in yelping about it. I told her that yes, we had it and I went to get it for her. I handed her the box and she says "I better make sure its the right retainer." I looked at her in the one eye that was not clouded over with a cataract convention and said, "I assure you it is the only retainer that was left on table 101 all day long. It is yours." She still looked.

Reminds me of a time a few years ago that this man came back into the restaurant I was working at and asked me if I had found his gold teef. "Teef?" I asked. "Yeah, I took out my gold teefs and left them on the table and now they's gone." Apparently, some people wear removable gold teeth and leave them wrapped up in a napkin and then get really upset when said napkin with said gold teeth gets thrown away. He was not happy. Said he was gonna sue. Easy for him to say.
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Friday, January 15, 2010

Bennigan's, Bend Again


Since this was originally posted, I have learned that this particular Bennigan's has closed down. Pity, because it was such a joyous and inspirational company to work for... My ass, is still on vacation (at my parent's house listening to screaming nieces and nephews and dying for a frozen margarita) so you get to read it again.

15 Minutes or It's Free!


There are lots of ways that servers can feel demeaned whilst slinging hash. Most of the time these feelings are thrust upon us by the wonderful people who sit in our station, but on occasion it comes from the restaurant itself. Bennigan's in Houston, Texas on FM 1960:

Someone at the top of the food chain, Mr. Bennigan I presume, came up with a wonderful plan to let people order food and then give it to them for free if it wasn't on their table within fifteen minutes. "15 Minutes or it's Free!" they called this promotion. Mr. Bennigan stayed up late one night and thought long and hard to come up with that name. The man is an utter genius, I tell you. This was a lunch promo and it sucked. Maybe they still do it, I dunno. If they do, I feel for the poor bastards who still work for that crap. But hey, then they have a job which is more than I can say so kudos to them for finding a restaurant that manged to stay open for business.

For each table in your station, you had to wear a stopwatch around your neck. So you potentially had nine of these things swinging around as well as all the "flair" crap you were supposed to wear; suspenders, stickers, buttons, whistles, butt plugs and flags. After the table ordered you had to re-read what they wanted and once they approved the order you took a stopwatch from your neck, placed it on the table, and started it. Then you ran like holy hell with fire under your ass to make sure this shit came out on time so it didn't come out of your tips. If anyone else was on the computer, you'd knock their ass down to get to it first. And people thought they would be all cute by ordering very well done steaks and burgers or anything else they thought would take a long time. No one ever ordered a side salad because that would be too easy. Plus it was Texas and people there don't really understand the concept of salad. Unless it's fried.

There was a routine you had to deal with when one of these orders came up. You had to alert the kitchen so they knew it took priority. And you had to give them updates. So every five minutes you had to run to the kitchen and give them a time for each order and then when it was three minutes before FREE FOOD happened, you had to "red flag" it or some shit. It was a real pain in the ass because all you did for lunch was run around to tables and check their fucking clocks and freak out. If you failed to give all the updates to the kitchen then it was not their fault if it went over time. It was the server's fault. And we had to pay for it. That sucked. If you did manage to give all the alerts and it was still late, then the restaurant would pay for it. I never had to pay for it. I made sure I gave every fucking alert because if it was late and I had done my part, I didn't give a rat's cheap ass who paid as long as it wasn't me. I ignored tables if I had to in order to keep track of the clocks. I remember one time, I was seconds away. I had a huge tray of food practically running to get to the table before the timer went off. I pretty much threw the plates at them but it made it on time. The customers were so pissed when that happened. They actually rooted for us to drop a tray or for the computer to jam or whatever else it took for them to not have to pay for their $6.00 burgers.

God I hated that place. I always felt like if they needed food that fast, they should have eaten at Taco Bell or brown bagged it. Just don't make me pretend to be a fucking race horse.
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Thursday, January 14, 2010

I Heart Marcia Brady


I had to re-post this one because it combined two of my favorite things of all time: the Brady Bunch and Paula Deen getting hit in the face.

Oh, My Nose


Y'all, I only have one more Thanksgiving post and then I promise I am finished. Thanksgiving was four days ago and by now we are all sick of turkey sandwiches, turkey pot pie, turkey and eggs, turkey soup and any other way you tried to eat that tired leftover fucking bird. But I think I found a new Thanksgiving tradition that I shall look forward to each and every year. From the cornucopia of traditions we find marshmallows on sweet potatoes and cranberry sauce slices that came out of a can, but I proudly suggest this new rite that we shall do the fourth Thursday of November from now on: throw a big fucking ham into Paula Deen's face. You have probably already seen the video and loved it like I have. You are probably also wondering what the hell this has to do with the Bitchy waiter. Well, honestly, not much. Other than there was food involved. And they were serving it. I guess, Paula was at a food shelter dolling out about a million pounds of meat that she was donating. They were having some kind of ham tossing party when one rogue (Sarah Palin) ham went AWOL up against Paula Deen's nose. Luckily for Paula, her face was covered in butter and grease from the Lard and Sausage biscuits she had inhaled for breakfast and the ham gently slid right off of her face. I'm surprised she didn't just catch that ham in her mouth and eat it like my dog does when I throw him a piece of Boar's Head. Thankfully, Paula was not seriously injured. She put a raw steak on her nose to maintain the swelling but she accidentally ate the steak and then whipped up a batch of peanut butter, butter and bacon bars. She laughed the incident off as pigs across America high-fived one another. The rogue (Sarah Palin) ham has not been seen since the encounter and it is assumed that it went into hiding and is shopping around a book deal.

My Brady Bunch obsession peeks out yet again as the whole pig in the face is completely reminiscent of the time Marcia Brady was hit in the nose with a football (also known as a "pigskin"). Marcia and Paula should totally get together and discuss what it feels like to have the shit knocked out of them by a piece of meat. Thanksgiving is officially over for me.

click here to see Paula Deen get hit in the face

click here to see Marcia Brady get hit in the face
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Wednesday, January 13, 2010

Beware: Cougar Ahead

Yes, I am still on vacation so you get to read this post about this lady who used to hit on me at VYNL. (You know VYNL? The restaurant that has the owner who is a total asswipe douchebag. His name is John. He sucks.)

Sexy Cougar Lady

We all know what a "cougar" is. The sexy older women who chases after the younger stud man and calls him her "cub". I don't get it, but whatever. This lady comes into the restaurant every Wednesday. Late fifties about. Wears her long peroxided hair down and her pencil skirt in about a size 10 while she is actually a size 14. She sits on a stool and puts her right elbow on the bar, rests her chin on the top of her right wrist while tilting her head a bit to the left and smiling with her right lip higher than the left. Can you picture it? Re-read that last sentence and act it out. Got it? She says' "Hello there. The usual please." I get her Bombay Saphire martini, very dry, slice of lemon, Tabassco sauce and a glass of water with a lot of ice.

One day she tells me the entire plotline of a Lifetime Original Movie. The song that was playing at the restaurant was that groovy Hawaiian version of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" and it reminded her of the movie because it took place in Hawaii. She tells me, while still in that original position as described above, "Well, it's about an older woman who meets a younger man..." She paused a second, tilted her head down and then raised her eyes back up to look at me without moving her head. Do that now, act it out so you van really picture her. She says, "I guess you could call her a cougar" and then tilts her head back and smiles as she brushes her right hand through her hair.

Bitch thinks she's a cougar.

She ain't.
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Tuesday, January 12, 2010

Where It All Began

I had to re-post about my very first job in a restaurant. It's where this wonderful attitude all began. I am thinking about writing a book about all the jobs I have ever had and if I go through with it, this would be chapter one.

In The Beginning There Was Chicken Fried Steak

I look upon myself on occasion and question where did I gain this stellar attitude towards my service job. How did it all begin that I imbibed such a healthy outlook for working in a restaurant? I flash back to the mid-80's. Madonna is on the radio, Cabbage Patch dolls are all the rage and this girl at school wears a pair of red jelly shoes every day. I was 16 years old and I have my first job ever. I applied for a social security card and started work in a small bum fuck town of South Texas. For $3.35 an hour, I was a dishwasher at one of the premier dining establishments in all the land. The finest place to enjoy a high quality steak that was cooked to perfection and served to you with a smile. Okay, not really it was Sirloin Stockade on Navarro Street in Victoria, Texas. You knew it was fancy because it had a salad bar. With three dressings.

I took the job because two of my best friends worked there as waitresses. They made all the money while I toiled in the back emptying grease traps, taking out garbage and mopping bathrooms. But I was in the food and beverage industry and knew I had found my home. A tear comes to my eye when I realize that this is where it all started. I did not deal with customers very often except when someone spilled something and they told me to go out into the dining room to clean it up. Within my first week, I knew that the job was a piece of crap. But all that money!! Fifteen hours a week at $3.35 was bringing me about 35 bucks week after taxes and I was rich! Rich I tell you! I was on the road to financial prosperity.

One night, someone wanted chicken fried steak without gravy. Well they must have been a foreigner or retarded because everyone knows that you eat chicken fried steak with gravy on it. You just do. Well it went out to the table with gravy on it and I guess therein lies the problem. They gave it back to the waitress who gave it back to the kitchen who then gave it to me, the dishwasher. "Wash this off," my manager told me. "They don't want gravy." "Uh, what? Wash the meat?" I asked. "Yeah, rinse off the gravy, they don't want it." I thought they were playing a joke on the new kid. I laughed nervously, not sure what to do. My manager rolled his eyes and took the spray nozzle from my hands. It was one of those big silver kind that hang from a spring. He held the chicken fried steak with his other hand and sprayed the gravy off of it and then threw the soaking wet piece of meat back onto the plate. I stared at him in disbelief as he walked back towards the line. He tossed the meat into the fryer for a few minutes and then pulled it out, put it on a fresh plate, handed it back to the waitress who took it back to the table. Without the gravy, just as the customer wanted it.

I learned that night that we in the food service industry have a responsibility to make our customers happy. Whether it be giving them a simple smile, making sure they have the perfect ambiance or even just washing off their meat to get the gravy off of it, we are there to please. I thank you, Sirloin Stockade manager. Thank you for teaching me how to be the perfect bitchy waiter. God bless you.

P.S. I quit three weeks later because according to my diary, it was "interfering with my social life."
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Monday, January 11, 2010

Romance, Romance


When this was originally posted, a lot of people didn't like it. It was just me trying to be creative and shit and make it like a romance novel. I dunno, I liked it and since these are my favorites, it gets re-posted because my ass is still on vacation.

The Passion in Her Touch

It was a dark and stormy night on Sunday. The north wind was blowing and the temperature had dropped to a chilly 45 degrees. I made my way into the club buffering the wind with my hooded sweatshirt. I punched in and got ready for a three-show night. "It's gonna be a tough night, " I said to no one in particular as I wiped down tables and prepared the candles. The first show was a jazz singer who was ready to wail and blow the roof off the joint. Her audience was light but enthusiastic. I took the drink orders before the show started and rang them in ready to serve my guests and give them a night that was perfectly enjoyable from all angles. (No, that is not where the story deviates to fiction.) There was a broad at table 28 who was also a trumpet player for the show. She only had to perform in two numbers so she was sitting with her husband having a glass of Cabernet waiting for her time to get on stage. About halfway through the show, I stepped into the room to begin clearing empty glasses and make room for the second rounds. As I approached table 28 for the lady's wine glass, she was facing the stage and couldn't see that I was standing behind her and trying to clear her table. Surreptitiously, I reached my arm around her to pick up the glass when her hand reached out to grab mine. Apparently she thought my hand was the hand of her husband. She held it for a brief second as she continued to watch the stage. Pulling my hand away, I glanced at the husband who smiled at me seeing what was happening and knowing that his wife thought my hand was his.

A spark ignited between his wife and my cold cold heart. I reached back out to touch her hand again and I felt the warmth of our passion flow from my fingertips to the innermost recesses of my soul and thaw out my heart that had been longing for this feeling for oh so many years. She turned her head to look at her husband and realized that it was not his hand she was caressing, but mine. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment but then a smile came across her face making her lips a fuller deeper red than I have ever seen on any woman before or since. She pulled her hand away and muttered, "Excuse me. I must go to the ladies room." Racing towards the back of the room with her long dark hair billowing behind her, I heard a sob escape from her throat that I recognized as regret filled with longing. I cleared her wine glass, cleared my throat and avoided eye contact with the husband.

Two minutes later, I gently opened the door to the ladies room and saw her leaning against the counter with her head hanging over the sink. Her eyes looked up at me with confusion and desire. "It's okay," I said. "I feel the same way as you do." She pulled me towards her and planted her full moist lips on my mine as she ran her fingers through my hair. My hand wrapped around her waist and found a home in the waistband of her mom jeans. Kissing wildly, our tongues discovering each other, I was taken away to a place where drink orders no longer mattered and I was attracted to middle aged women trumpet players. Her hand moved from my hair to the nape of my neck, to the small of my back and finally to my ass where she grabbed and held on for dear life. When our lips parted, I looked into her eyes and a single tear fell from the left pool of blue.

"My husband is..." Her words trailed off.

"I don't care about your husband," I said. "I am in love with you. Ever since your hand accidentally touched mine four minutes ago, nothing else in the world matters to me anymore. You are all I care about." I glanced at the mirror behind her and saw the reflection of her husband staring back at me with a a dark and steely gaze. I turned around to defend my love of his trumpet-playing, mom jeans-wearing, middle aged wife. He rushed towards me, hand outreached, and I prepared to feel his fingers throttled around my neck. Instead, he brushed the hair out of my eyes with his left thumb and put his right hand on the nape of my neck, the same place his wife's had been moments earlier. He pulled me to him and kissed me with all the conviction he had. I struggled to get away and finally gave in to his power. His wife came to the front of me and they both made love to my face with their mouths savoring every inch of me.

Two minutes later, they were gone. I was alone in the women's bathroom wondering what had just happened. I splashed cold water on my face, straightened my apron and went back to the bar. I carried out the second drinks and my night went on as usual, but I was forever changed.
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Sunday, January 10, 2010

Waiter, There's a Rat in My Soup


When I wrote this post back in the olden days of The Bitchy Waiter (like six months ago), Susan Sarandon and Tim Robbins were still together. And now, not so much. Sadness.

Rodents Rule the Roost


I have worked in a couple of restaurants that had their fair share of the Mickey Mouses. And the Ricky Rats. Every place has roaches, that is so no big deal. The rodents can be a big turn off to the customers though. Don't get me wrong, I am no fan of them either. When a customer feels a mouse run across their feet I can pretty much kiss my tip good bye. Rats are even worse because those bitches ain't scared of people. They will crawl up on the table and taste a fried cheese app and then send it back if it's not hot enough. One place I worked at had a real big problem with the rats. It is a restaurant that shall remain nameless, but I will say that it was on a pier next to a huge fish market. Let's just hypothetically say it is called Pizzeria Uno at the South Street Seaport in New York City. Damn, that place had some rats. I swear to God they were so bold that they had the right of way if you saw one coming towards you. We used to throw forks at them to get them to go away. The worst is when a customer would call us over to tell us they think they saw a mouse. Then we have to act all surprised like we have never heard of such a thing at our fine establishment. Meanwhile a manager is banging some pots on the floor hoping that the fucking thing would go back to it's nest under Table 27. Then the customer would always want a discount which ain't gonna happen. If we gave a discount to every person who saw a rat at that place, word would have gotten out that everyone eats free at the hypothetically called Pizzeria Uno at South Street Seaport. That place was full of laughs. I saw Susan Sarandon and Tim Robbins eat there with their kids once. Everyone was all excited and I just wanted to ask her for my seven bucks back for Lorenzo's Oil. And another time a Muslim family ordered the Pizza Skins and then freaked the hell out after they finished and realized they had eaten bacon. That was some funny shit. Hey, is it our fault they didn't read the menu? I got over that place real quick. Between the ridiculously late hours, the tourist tippers and the nightly Rat Parade, I quit after about two months. I left 30 minutes into my shift. Another waiter saw me leaving and asked how I was getting to go home so early. "Easy," I said. "I punched out."
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Saturday, January 9, 2010

Hippo Farts


It's always nice to re-post about passing gas. Passing gas once is fun, and doing it twice is even better.

What Is That Smell??!


Have you ever been in a restaurant enjoying the company of good friends and savoring the taste of food that was made just for you when you are suddenly overcome with a rancid odor? An odor that surely came from the depths of hell where the devil lives in a palace of rotten boiled eggs, cabbage and asparagus. If it seemed to come out of nowhere and then fade away just as quickly, there is a very good chance that your server just farted at your table. Every server has done it but few will admit to it. I freely admit that I will fart at any table that gets on my nerves. So basically what I am saying is that I fart at every table I serve. All of them. I had about 40 tables today so I farted at least 80 times because I always do it at least twice for each check. Some may call it passive aggressive while others will call it immature but really it's just a basic human function when a reflex expels intestinal gas through the anus so get the fuck over it. If a table is being a supreme asshole than waiters will do what is known as a "Hippopotamus Fart". This is when all the servers at one time manage to get near the asshole's table and let one at the same time and then walk away. So the next time you smell that familiar funkity funk, don't blame it on the gruyere cheese that came on your Croque Madame. Blame it on yourself, because you probably pissed off your waiter and were paid back with a good old-fashioned Hippopotamus Fart.
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Friday, January 8, 2010

Leaving on a Jet Plane


Seeing that I am taking a vacation for a eleven days and may or may not have time to write, I have decided to post some of my favorite postings of the past. Sure, I could have taken a poll to find out which ones were the favorites of readers, but that would take way too much fucking effort and we have well established that not only am I bitchy, I am quite lazy as well. And keep in mind that when I say "vacation" I mean going to see family which is a far cry from lounging on the beach with a Pina Colada in my hand.

Revenge is Sweet and Sticky

Perhaps you have noticed in previous posts that I hate children in my restaurant. This applies to anyone under the age of 18 and pretty much anyone over the age of 18 as well. Recently I had a table of five girls who were all about 15 years old and were hopped up on hormones and the Jonas Brothers. They crammed into my prime real estate booth and started yapping away about who has the prettiest hair and who had a crush on who and who would get their boobies first. I know they will not order much and then they will not tip and they will keep real customers from sitting there instead. One table that was right beside them asked to be moved because they couldn't tolerate the overwhelming stench of annoying that was coming from the prepubescent bitches at Table 204. One of the little darlings announced that SHE was ready to order as I breezed by. I snapped back that I would not be taking an order until all of them were ready to order. Finally, they reached their decision. I heard one girl say she had ten dollars to spend so I was not expecting much. The order: five waters, two orders of wings, a quesadilla and an order of fries. Wow. How would the kitchen ever be able to accommodate such a vast array of food? When their food was ready, I threw it onto the table along with the check. Done with them. On to real customers. They eventually handed me their money and told me they did not need change. The bill was $24.57 and they gave me $25.00. What would I ever do with that forty-three cent tip? Three of the girls left while two stayed to go to the ladies room to put on more lip gloss and brush their hair. They left their things at the table. I started to clear it and noticed a cute little lipstick on the table. I pushed it under a plate so maybe they would not see it and then just leave it so I could feel okay about throwing it away. I eyed the cell phone and decided that was too mean even for me. Their bags were strewn all over the seats and on the floor. A light bulb went off. I ran to get some honey from the kitchen and headed back to the table to continue clearing it. I kneeled down to pick up some discarded french fries and at the same time slightly lifted the backpack off the ground. I poured the honey all over the floor. I gently placed the backpack back onto the floor. And the honey. People really should be more careful about placing their things on the floor of a restaurant because you never know what might get on them. I went along clearing the table as the girls came from the bathroom. "Bye bye," I said. "And thanks!" Five minutes later I came out of the kitchen and they were gone, sticky backpack and all. They did leave one thing behind though: a cute little lipstick that was hidden behind the one plate left on the table. Into the trash it went. I felt better.
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Wednesday, January 6, 2010

The Last Bad Tip of 2009


I wanted to write about my last crappy tip of 2009 so that I can finally put that horrid awful year to rest. A few days before Christmas, I went to work filled with the spirit of the holidays. At least I am pretty sure it was the spirit of the holidays but it may have actually been the vodka gimlet I had before work. Anyhoo. The show I was working ended up being much busier than anticipated because people were apparently too fucking busy to pick up a phone and make a goddamn reservation. On the books we had about 40 people but by the time the show started we were up to 94. That is a lot of fucking people for two servers to deal with. Remember, we have to take their orders and get them two drinks all within the course of a 70 minute show. Bitches, it's hard. We opened the room early so we could get a head start on orders. I approached a table of two people who were waiting for four of their friends. Of course they wanted to wait for them to get there before they ordered even though I was right there with pen and pad in hand ready to bring them their drinks. They wanted water as they waited and also an order of the hummus. Great. Water. I have 47 people to get cocktails for before the show starts and these asses want water and they want it now. Fine. I got the water and put the order in for the hummus knowing full well I had no time to prepare the food until the show started. Every time I walked by the table the man gave me this look. Palms upward, shoulders shrugging, chin thrust forward, brow furrowed. If you recreate those four actions simultaneously, you will know exactly what he was saying with his body language. He was saying, "uh, excuse me, but where is my hummus?" My body language was saying "I am ignoring you." The friends finally show up and he still can't decide what he wants to drink. The show is starting in five minutes and it would be very helpful if he could just pull his head out of his ass and ask for a Stella or vodka tonic. He says to me, "I am still waiting on the hummus" but he said the word "still" like it had three fucking syllables. I responded with "I know." He ordered a beer but wasn't sure what he wanted for his second required drink. He would tell me later when I would have to climb over three chairs and whisper in his ear while the singer was performing two feet away from him. Yeah, that's much better.

I eventually got his fucking hummus to him and his second beer came out right at the end of the show because he had waited so long to order and finish the first one. The bill for the six people was $173.43. He gave me $177.00. This asshole tipped me three mother fucking dollars and fifty-seven crappy ass bitch cents. I am sure he was basing his tip on the fact that I made him wait for his food until the show started and that his second beer came out late. Never mind that the other five people in the party had no issues whatsoever, he had to wait for his hummus and therefore felt it was okay to tip me 2%. I swallowed my frustration and shot him the evil eye. Mentally, I twisted his nutsack and moved on. I was not going to let this douche ruin my holiday spirit. Or my vodka gimlet buzz.

Moving on to 2010...
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Tuesday, January 5, 2010

Hello, Deli


As I reminisce about the good ol' days when I served in a restaurant rather than a bar/nightclub/theater/etc I begin to miss a certain thing that doesn't happen when you work in a place without a kitchen. I miss shift meal. You know shift meal? It's that cozy time before work starts when you share a plate of food with your co-workers and strategize on on how to make the day ahead even better than the day before. Or maybe you would just sit there and read the paper, whatever. When I worked the lunch shift at my previous restaurant (the evil and hated VYNL on the Upper East Side), each day the kitchen would prepare us a lovely meal to start our day off right. I mean it is the most important meal of the day. My favorite was when they would make something that was actually for breakfast, like a big plate of scrambled eggs and bacon or maybe they'd make you an omelette. Sometimes they would miss the mark though. Keep in mind, even though the servers wanted breakfast it was 11:00 and the cooks had been there since 8:00 and they ate their breakfast four hours ago or something. So sometimes, I would drag my sleepy ass out of bed, throw it on the 6 train and pray to God they would make me a biscuit when I got there. But no, every once in a while, they would throw me a curve ball and make us steak fajitas or beef stew. Once they made us a plate of fucking shrimp quesadillas. Love me some quesadilla, but not with shrimp and peppers when all I want is a goddamn scrambled egg. I'd bitch and moan about it and then shut the fuck up and eat my fried chicken sandwich for my breakfast.

When I worked at The Marriott, we had a cafeteria. I worked the late breakfast shift and would get there and have to look at oxtail fucking soup or curry goat as I daydreamed of a waffle. By 11:00AM it was already lunchtime for everyone else. And seriously. Ox and goat was a staple in that cafeteria. It was like a fucking barnyard breakfast freakin' buffet up in there.

Houlihan's on 49th and Seventh never made us a shift meal. You had to order off a certain menu and then you'd get it half price or some shit. And it was crap like chicken fingers and french onion soup. My favorite shift meal was from the deli downstairs. An egg and cheese on a roll for a $1.25. And then some stolen orange juice from the bar. Once at the deli, I ran into Carol Channing. I said hello to her and she said hello back and that day my egg and cheese on a roll tasted extra special. And now that I think about it, my shift meals have gone steadily downhill since then. Thanks, Carol Channing. You really made shift meals suck.
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Monday, January 4, 2010

Don't Be a Hater


I have noticed something lately about some of the comments that people leave. Surprisingly, some people seem to think that I complain a lot. They think that all I do is sit at home and type on this blog and bitch and whine about my job; that my only source of satisfaction is spewing out this hate and filth about the lousy people that I serve. They may be right. In fact, they are completely right. Maybe they failed to notice what the name of this blog is? What I don't understand is why they keep coming back to the blog to read my latest posting and then write another comment about how much they dislike the blog. It is called The Bitchy Waiter. The name of it alone should alert someone if it is something they want to read or not. Take for instance our dear friend "Bambi." (The name has been changed to protect the bitchiness.) She has posted a few comments making one believe that she doesn't enjoy The Bitchy Waiter. What is confusing to me then is why she even bothered to come back after the first read. Perhaps it is the fact that this blog is like a fine wine that gets better as it ages. Or maybe it's like a big bag of crack that is completely addictive. Or is it similar to a train wreck where you know you shouldn't want to look but you do anyway because it's so fucking intriguing? Regardless, I welcome all readers. I hope that even the ones who find it too rude or offensive or poorly written (fact, that) will understand that for me it's just a real kick in the pants to write. And if they don't like it, then they can go fuck themselves. And I mean that in the nicest way possible. Would you like fries or cole slaw?

Sunday, January 3, 2010

A Day of Rest


So I have learned one of the downfalls of working in a performance space as opposed to a restaurant. On a slow day at a restaurant, you may get fewer tables and get cut early and make less money than you had hoped. In a performance room when you serve cocktails, if no one schedules a show that night, you just lose your shift. Yeah, just lose it. I get it. What singer wants to have show on January 3 when everyone blew their wads over New Year's weekend? Nobody, that's who. So usually there are three shows on Sunday and today there are no shows. No. Shows. No customers. No tips in my pocket. I swear to God, I looked in my wallet the other day and a moth fucking looked back at me and said "get the fuck outta my house, bitch." So I have the day off. And I think I shall spend it cruising craigslist and looking for a new job to supplement my income. Isn't it time I had a job that sucked really bad just so I can have lots and lots to blog about? Maybe a job at IHOP would provide me with plenty of fodder for this site. Or a couple of shifts at The Olive Garden even.

Funny story about The Olive Garden. I was with friends a few days ago (yeah, I have a couple of them) and we wanted to go have a cocktail. It was about two fucking degrees outside so the closest place was The Olive Garden on Sixth Avenue and 22nd Street. We thought it would be funny to go to the bar and have a drink there all the while making fun of the fact that we were in a fucking Olive Garden. We went to the door and it was locked. There was a security guard inside and she came up to the door and and pursed her lips, tilted her head and wagged her finger at us and then mouthed the word "closed" and walked away laughing. Oh no she din't. Bitch, we were only going into the lame ass Olive Garden to make fun of it and all the losers who were in there. I was pretty sure I didn't like The Olive Garden and now I know for certain. The Olive Garden sucks ass. (But I would totally work there just to write a blog about the crappiness of it.)

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