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Wednesday, June 30, 2010

Take a Penny/Leave a Penny

I have written about this topic before but it bears repeating. How many freaking tip jars do I have to look at every day? I live off of my tips. My paycheck is virtually non-existent. Usually, my check is for a few measly dollars and that's it. My last paycheck was for a whopping $13 and I was all excited about that. I cashed that bitch and went and blew it all in one fell swoop. One pomegranate martini. There have even been times when my paycheck was for a negative amount. So when I see some kid standing next to a cash register with a tip jar next to him, I wanna lose it on his ass. "Hey, is your paycheck negative? Hey are you paying taxes on those tips? I don't think so." I usually will throw a few coins in their jar as a gesture. Usually.

I went to get a frozen yogurt a few days ago and saw the infamous tip jar. Now this place was a self-serve pay by the ounce frozen yogurt place. I picked up the cone, I walked to the machine, I figured out how to get a chocolate/vanilla twist, I added my own sprinkles, then I placed it on the scale and all this kid did was say "$2.25, please." Wait, I give you three bucks and then I am supposed to drop the 75 cents in your jar for your tip? Nope. Sorry. I need those quarters for my laundry, kid.

The next day I was at a pizza counter with a friend. Her total was $7.03 and all she had was a ten dollar bill. The goober at the cash register asked if she had three pennies. "Oh, no I don't have any change," she said. "Hey can I just take it out of this?" and she reached into his tip jar and pulled out three cents. He said, "uh...I guess so." After we left, I told her how surprised I was that she did that. I mean, that was pretty bold; some may even say bitchy. She had no idea she had stolen tips. "What? I thought that was a take a penny/leave a penny thing. All that was in it was fucking pennies. Who fucking cares?"

I was fine with it. Cash register operators do not get tips. Waiters get tips. Period.

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Tuesday, June 29, 2010

Boring Blog

Going back a few posts ago that I wrote about comments I have decided to take the advice of someone who suggested that I "grow up, have a family and write about something that matters." Even though I feel that the Internet does not need another blog post about the everyday life of a family, I thought I would give it a try. Therefore, I give to you, the most mundane blog post in the history of The Bitchy Waiter.

Frazzled But Happy Stay-at-Home Mom writes:

Oh my stars, you won't believe the day I had today, dear blog readers. First off, I awoke to the smell of coffee. That's right! My husband got up before me and made coffee and it's not even Mother's Day! (But our anniversary is coming up if a certain someone is reading this. Hee hee! LOL!) I went into the kitchen and saw my darling hubby drinking his coffee and reading the newspaper over the sink. He told me he couldn't sleep and that's why he had already gotten up and made coffee. Oh well, I thought it was for me. But he's still the bestest husband in the whole world. LOL!!. He went off to work and I set about my day.

I went to wake up Suzy Lou and she looked so cute in her Strawberry Shortcake sheets that I didn't have the heart to wake her up. She was wrapped up like a mummy and I almost laughed so hard that it would have woken her up. Lucky for me, she sleeps like a log so she didn't hear me. LOL! I took a picture of her so I will be posting it as soon as I get a chance. I went to wake up her brother Billy Boo. The little angel had thrown his Thomas the Tank blanket off the bed and he wasn't covered up at all. My goodness, I hope he wasn't cold last night. (Reminder to self: set the alarm for the middle of the night to make sure he is still covered up.) He woke up and rubbed his little eyes and asked me if he could have pancakes. And guess what! I couldn't resist! So even though today was bacon and egg day, I made him pancakes. A mother's work is never done, LOL. I still made Suzy Lou her scrambled egg whites and crispy bacon so my morning routine was a little off. It really threw me in a tizzy to be so off schedule but sometimes we moms just have to let the kids know how special they are and be wild and crazy. It's these special memories that make being a stay-at-home mom such a blessing. Praise God and all his blessings, Amen. LOL!!

The kids had a play date today and their friends Peter, Paul and Mary came over. Their mom Jenny is a doll and we love that our kids enjoy each other so much. Plus when Jenny comes over we will split a glass of White Zinfandel so we moms have our own "play date" too. Shhh! Don't tell my husband that I was drinking on the job. He might fire me!! LOL! Just kidding. He would never fire me for that. As long as I have dinner on the table when he gets home from work, he is happy. Besides, I know he reads this anyway. (Hi honey! I wuv you!)

After the play date was over, I put the kids down for a nap. I read them a story first and Billy Boo did the cutest thing. He wanted to read the story to me!! Can you believe it? So he took the book and "read" to me. It was darling! I videotaped the whole thing and I will be posting it soon so you can see for yourself how precious it was. And Suzy Lou played along and pretended that he was reading too. She is such a good big sister, isn't she?? Hugs to her. I LOVE MY KIDS!!

I spent the rest of the day doing my usual routine. Laundry, dusting, sewing, gardening, and then I capped it off with churning some homemade butter. That class I took at the Learning Annex on turn of the century homemaking is really paying off! My husband will be so pleased when he gets home and sees that yummy butter on the table! Maybe tonight we will finish off that White Zinfandel and have our own romantic evening. (hee hee!) After the dishes are washed and the kids are in bed of course.

And there you have my day, dear bloggers. I have the best life in the world. The most perfect family!! And I love that I can blog about something that really matters.

love,

The Frazzled but Happy Stay-at-Home Mom

And The Bitchy Waiter just threw up in his mouth a little bit...



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Sunday, June 27, 2010

I Kinda Heart Cracker Barrel

Since my post about fat waitress stirred up so much controversy the other day, I thought I should write about a perfectly wonderful waitress I had recently and try to even things out. And not only was she a little darling, she was also skinny. There, I said it. I went to The Cracker Barrel because I felt like my arteries were running entirely too smoothly and I wanted to clog them up a bit. I understand that The Cracker Barrel has a less than stellar attitude towards the gays, but when it comes between equal rights and biscuits and gravy, my true southern nature shines through and I must throw the gays under the bus. Two orders of biscuits with extra gravy please.

My waitress was named Candice and she had worked there for two years. I know this because servers have their names embroidered on their aprons and then they get a star embroidered for every year they have been there. I once had a waitress there who had seven stars. She was like the brigadier general of Cracker Barrel. Candice was sweet, attentive and professional, god bless her little pea-pickin', gay-hatin' heart. I really have to give it up to those servers at The Cracker because looking around the dining room, I saw what most of their customers were like: rude, hungry, cheap tippers who have a brood of children hanging off their teets. Seriously, one lady had four kids all under the age of five and she looked like she couldn't have been over 25 years old. I hate to say it, but there was some major poor white trash going on up in there. (And I can say that because I spent a few years of my life living in a trailer in Texas, and I ain't talkin' a double wide, either. I speak of PWT, because I know of PWT.)

People go to The Cracker Barrel ready to chow down. I watched one lady instruct her server to remove everything from the table except the salt and pepper shakers. He cleared the bowl of creamers, the table tents, the oil lamp, the hot sauce and the little game where you move the golf tees around. I couldn't hear what she was saying but thanks to my ability to read lips, I was able to tell what she said: "Honey, you best be making plenty of room for mines food 'cause mama's about to go to town." Moments later it was clear why she needed the space. Between her and her husband they must have ordered enough food for a small village. They were serious about eating. And not so serious about tipping. When they left, there were two empty plates, one half-filled glass of sweet tea, a few crumbs and two dollars.

But Candice kicked ass. She filled my water before it was half empty, brought me lemon wedges even though I didn't ask for them, and remembered my extra gravy. You know. For the biscuits? She did consistent check backs and cleared the table the moment I had crammed the last bit of pancake in my mouth. And yes, I had biscuits and pancakes. And eggs. And sausage. And cheesy hashbrowns. I told you when people show up to The Cracker Barrel, they mean business. And I am including myself in that group. And I graciously include myself in the group of poor white trash. Humble beginnings, my friends, humble beginnings.

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Saturday, June 26, 2010

I Hate Kids, Part 378

Okay, so I am not waiting tables because I am busy being a full time actor and shit, but I have spent a lot of time eating at restaurants and sitting on the other side of the menu. I took myself to breakfast this morning because I couldn't bear to start my day with another bowl of Cheerios and banana with a yogurt chaser. I found a quaint little diner that was going to satisfy my craving for eggs and toast. Yes, I could make these myself, but I wanted them to be cooked by someone else and then served by a waiter. All was well. I placed my order and sat in anticipation. And then it happened. A couple came in with their two adorable little girls and when I say "adorable," I mean "bratty spoiled crybabies who couldn't shut the fuck up."

The younger of the girls was named Megan and I know that because I heard her name about hundred and fifty fucking times within a ten minute period. She wanted bacon and french fries for breakfast and her parents drew the line on that request. However, they told her if she would eat eggs for breakfast then they would take her to get a cupcake afterwards. Seriously? "No" to the french fries but yes to the cupcake? What the fuck point is that? I say if you're on vacation let her have french fries for breakfast and then ask her to eat some fruit too. The dad was full of empty threats. As a non-parent (praise be to Jesus that my seed has not been sowed), it seems clear that threatening something with no intention to follow through on the threat means nothing to the child. When Megan wouldn't sit in the chair, the dad told her that they were going to end the vacation and go back home right then. Now we know that is not going to happen. And so did the girl. She was probably thinking, "Oh Daddy, I know you already put down a non-refundable deposit on our room and have already requested these days off from work so shut the hell up." And then a few minutes later when Megan threw her sunglasses on the floor and wouldn't pick them up, he told her if she didn't pick them up, he was going to throw them away. And what did Megan think? "Oh, Daddy, you aren't going tot throw away these perfectly good sunglasses away after you just spent $10 on them. That would be silly, you dumb fuck of a daddy." And when he threatened to make her sit on the corner, she actually said, "Oh, what corner?" He was clearly setting his daughter up for a future in prostitution.

Eventually he began treating the girl like a dog by yelling commands at her. "Megan, sit. Megan, stay." Megan did none of these things. My dog is better behaved than this little girl. At one point, I looked over at the father and he had his head in his hands. The look in his eyes was one of sadness and desperation. It was as if he couldn't believe that he only gets one vacation a year and here he was stuck on his vacation with his family. I almost felt sorry for him for a second. And then my omlette showed up. As I took my first bite of home fries I heard the father pleading one more thing from his daughter. "Megan, get your mouth off the chair."

Kids. I hate 'em.


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Friday, June 25, 2010

Fat Waitress

I went out the other night in what was meant to be three or four of us of us at a bar and it quickly turned into eight people who wanted food so "could we find a restaurant instead?" I was not in the mood to go to a restaurant but majority ruled so I sucked it up and went along with the group. We ended up at a sports bar that added salt to my my wound instead of my margarita. Wait, I wanted to go to the piano bar across the street with five dollar frozen drinks and now we are dragging my ass to a freaking sports bar? Come on.

We showed up at a place that was an hour from closing and there were about three people in it. We were those people who showed up when you ready to get the fuck out and we ask for two tables to be pushed together. And then someone in the group uttered those words that make my skin crawl and my face sweat: "can we have separate checks?" I was mortified. But I guess the waitress was used to this request because she didn't bat an eyelash and said it would be no problem. Out of the eight of us, two people ordered fries. Why did we need to scour the area for a restaurant so two out of eight people could order fries? Why didn't they just pop their ass into a McDonald's on the way to a bar? Grrr.



We ordered our drinks and it took fucking forever to get them. I have a lot of patience for servers as you know, but when it is clear that we are your only table and it takes you more than ten minutes to get drinks, I get grumpy. The waitress was really fat. Like The Biggest Loser fat. Like the kind of fat that made her legs cave in resulting in a serious case of the knock-knees. I guess the kneecaps were so tired of supporting 400 pounds of Criscoand carbs that they finally had to lean against each other for support. I looked around to see where Corpulent Connie was with my mother fucking margarita when I saw her huffing and puffing to put chairs on top of tables. As our drinks sat on the bar. Bitch, do your sidework after I get my drink. She finally waddled over with our cocktails and gave one person a frozen rita when they had asked for a rocks one. She said, "oh, I suck." No one contradicted her. "I guess I'll just have to drink this one," she burped. Uh huh. We all know that trick. I invented that trick: tell the bartender you rang in the wrong drink so you can pour it into a coffee cup to drink as you do your paperwork.



She brought our check over forgetting that someone had ordered a dessert. He mentioned the missing caramel whatever-the-fuck and she said, "oh, did you still want that?" He ordered it didn't he? My own theory is that she rang it in, ate it, and then had it voided off the check saying that he changed his mind. Another tired trick that I invented.



I had one drink for $7.00. I gave her a ten which was about a 40% tip. She sucked and all, but we were in there late at night and I know what that's like. She deserved that $3.00 tip. Plus, I happen to know that the local grocery store is having a sale on Lean Cuisine frozen dinners for $3.79 each and I thought it was good start towards the diet she needed to go on.


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Wednesday, June 23, 2010

It's The Day of the Show, Y'all

Believe it or not, I have other talents that do not involve taking food orders and carrying trays. I am currently in a play and tonight is opening night. So instead of slinging hash and rolling my eyes at ho bags who want slices of lemon, tonight I will be on a stage singing and dancing for my paycheck. Shocking though it may be, I will not be waiting tables for a few weeks. Rest assured that I can continue bitching about my job even when I am not actually at the job. Yes, I am that good at bitching. Now you know why a couple of days have passed without writing. I am in a quaint little beach town in Delaware with lots of restaurants and therefore lots of waiters and therefore plenty for me to observe and write about. But for now, I am off to the theater. (Imagine that being said by a grand old dame of acting and it's pronounced the-a-tah.)

love,
The Bitchy Waiter

p.s. I would tell you what show I am in, but then Anonymous might show up and pelt my ass with rotten eggs.

p.p.s. Bonus points to anyone who can name the movie that this title is quoted from.

Sunday, June 20, 2010

Happy Father's Day


Today is Father's Day so I am taking the day off from writing to sit on the couch and drink beer while watching a game. I'm not really sure what season it is, but I will find a game to watch. And I will smoke a cigar. I will bar b-q and then go watch a boxing match all the while scratching my balls. I will be enjoying the company of my kids who each made me a homemade card that I will read once and then put away somewhere to save forever so no one will know that I am an old sentimental softie. At the end of the day I will fall asleep on the couch with my hand down my pants. Happy Father's Day.

In the meantime, you can read this old tired summer repeat:


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, June 19, 2010

Free Corned Beef Hash

We all know that restaurant managers have one thing on their minds and it’s the bottom line. Oh, wait and internet porn while sitting in the office (shout out to Enrique). So two things. But the main thing is making money for the restaurant which is why they are always on our asses about selling more desserts and top shelf liquor instead of that cheap ass McCormick shit that I drink. As previously noted, I don’t really care about that shit because I know that plenty of people are going to leave me a five dollar tip whether their bill is $25 or $30. But managers are always trying to figure out a way to make us sell more shit and one way that they do it is tempt us with a prize. Anyone else familiar with this drill?

Manager: Alright, listen up. Our special of the day is corned beef hash and I want to get rid of all of it. Whichever server can sell the most corned beef hash will get a free corned beef hash. Ya hear that? A free corn beef hash. Now let’s get out there and let's sell some corned beef hash!

Seriously? I need so much more incentive than free corned beef hash. Or a free dessert. Sometimes the prize is some promotional t-shirt that a liquor company gave the restaurant. Wow, I was wondering where in the hell I could ever find a Captain Morgan Rum t-shirt, thanks. Now if they offered a free cocktail, then maybe but usually I have one of those anyway in a paper cup next to the cappuccino machine. If the prize was a bottle of tequila, then I might be inclined to try a little harder. But if they really want to encourage me to sell extra food there are a few things they could do that would light a fire under my ass. How about whoever sells the most corned beef hash gets a paid day off? Or no sidework? Or a free pass the next time you call some bitch a bitch? How about a crisp twenty dollar bill? I will do pretty much anything for twenty bucks. I’m not proud of some of the things I have done for twenty dollars, but by God, money is money. Or maybe if I sell the most corned beef hash they can promise me that I will never have to sell corned beef hash again. That is some nasty shit. I think I don’t like it because it has such a dumb name. Who wants beef that’s been corned and then chopped into hash? What the fuck is “corned” anyway? (And in the background Carol Channing says from a bathroom stall, “When did I have corned… beef hash?”)

So what have we learned about incentives for selling contests? We have learned that the best way to encourage servers to do what managers want is for managers to put out some cold hard cash in our hands. Keep your food and drinks and corned beef cash. Take that free Patron Tequila wine opener and shove it where the agave plant don’t shine. If you want me to sell the most of something, I want money.

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Friday, June 18, 2010

Never Gonna Get It

My first job as a waiter was at Bennigan’s in Houston, Texas. After taking their ridiculous amount of tests and quizzes, I was finally given my flare and suspenders and let loose in the world of food service. I had at last moved up the restaurant hierarchy and was a step up from bus boy. I was a waiter. It’s funny, but I can remember the day that I was hired as a waiter and I felt like I had really made it. A hundred years later, not so much. Anyhoo. I learned a lot at that first job. One waitress in particular really showed me the ropes and I looked up to her immensely. She was my trainer, my mentor, my idol, and my dear friend. I don’t remember what the bitch’s name was. But I think I owe a lot of my stellar attitude to her. For the sake of convenience, let us refer to her as Ann B. Davis. (You know I loves me some Brady Bunch, right?) I knew that I was going to adopt her attitude within hours of meeting her. Let me pass on some pearls of her wisdom:

One day when her table needed some more coffee, I let her know. I saw her pour a cup of decaf and start towards the table. I stopped her to inform her that they wanted regular coffee and not decaf. Her response? “Oh no, everyone in my station gets decaf all the time. I don’t need a bunch of hyper people in my station. “Brilliant, no?

Another time an old lady slipped on a knife that we had left on the floor. The lady fell pretty hard and I am pretty sure some bone fragments from her hip hit some people at table 203. As I rushed over to see if I could help her, Ann B. Davis came up to me with her face showing concern. The old lady was from her station and I was genuinely impressed that Ann was so worried about her guest. “Oh my God, I wonder if I can get her anything,” she said. “Coffee? Tea? A splint?” What a bitch. God I loved Ann B. Davis. Or whatever her freakin’ name was.

My favorite memory of this amazing server happened towards the end of my tenure at Bennigan’s. At the end of her shift after she had punched out, Ann was sitting at a table enjoying her shift meal. A table nearby who didn’t know that Ann was off duty asked her if she could please go get her some more Ranch dressing. I heard the whole thing and was surprised that Ann got up and walked towards the kitchen knowing that she wasn’t on the clock. “Are you really gonna get that for her.” “Please,” she laughed. And then she proceeded to sing that song by En Vogue, as she walked into the kitchen and out the back door. “Never gonna get it, never gonna get it. Never gonna get it, never gonna get it. Never gonna get it, never gonna get it. Never get it. Whoa whoa whoa whoa.”

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Thursday, June 17, 2010

The Power of Upselling

I have never been a fan of suggestive selling because quite honestly I don’t care if someone orders coffee or not. I know, I know, suggestive selling is supposed to up the checks and therefore increase my tip, but for some reason I can’t get into it. I am equally apathetic about up-selling. For those of you unfamiliar with these waiter tactics, let me explain:



Customer: Can I get some more water and the check, please?

Waiter: Of course, would you like bottled water or just plain tap? And can I get you a cup of coffee and dessert first?

Customer: Well, I guess coffee would be nice…

Waiter: Okay, great. One coffee. And can I put some Bailey’s in it for you and also bring you a piece of our delicious and decadent brownie bottom death by chocolate hot fudge brownie pie ala mode as well?

Customer: Oh, no dessert thank you. Just the coffee.

Waiter: Well, we also have a lighter dessert of mango and papaya sorbet with fresh seasonal berries. And can I bring you an aperitif possibly? Or maybe some brandy?

Customer: Just coffee.

Waiter: May I suggest another chicken parmagiana then? Or a bottle of wine? Or maybe you would like to start your dinner over again. Would you like soup or salad?

Customer: Just bring me the fucking check.

I hate when waiters do that to me, so I don’t do it to my tables. I feel like if they want dessert they will ask me for it. They don’t need me to suggest it. And if someone asks for water, I will assume they meant tap water. If I order water and the waiter brings me some overpriced bullshit bottle of natural spring water, I will not be pleased. I like tap. I am cheap. The two go hand in hand. Or what about those places that sticks a dessert menu in your hand without even asking you if you want one? Or when they roll out a dessert cart to entice you with a tray of goodies that have been covered in varnish and shellac?

So do I suggestively sell? Nope. Unless there is a manager breathing over my shoulder, and then maybe I will ask if they want coffee. But ordinarily, no way. Most of the time, I just want them out of my station and if I suggest a hot tea they might say yes and then I’ll have to go fucking make it.


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Wednesday, June 16, 2010

Everybody Into The Pool

Does anyone pool their tips? I've done it at a couple of a restaurants and it can be a really great thing or a really awful thing. Of course it all depends on who you work with. When I worked at The Marriott, we would pool tips on Mother’s Day because it was the easiest thing to do. That was The Holy Grail of busy days and we would be sold out from the second the door was open until we closed. People would claw and scratch their way inside to get a piece of that $38.95 buffet. God that was an easy job. Why did I ever leave it? When we would pool, it meant that one person had to be in charge of all the money at the end of the day and that person was none other than yours truly. Contrary to my surly attitude, I am completely trustworthy and very often I would have over $8000 in my pocket by the end of the day. I was the one who decided how much we would tip out the bar, food runners and bussers and then divide the rest amongst the servers. Equal parts tip for equal parts work. Theoretically, anyway.

There is always someone who wants to take advantage of the pooling situation. You know the type. When it’s time for the ice bins to be refilled, you look around and that one lazy ass bitch has gone to the bathroom again. Or at ketchup cleaning time suddenly two or three people went to have a cigarette break. But when it comes time to pass out the tips, those are the first ones who have their greedy sweaty palms out ready for their piece of the pie. The only piece of pie I want to give those people is a piece of the moldy ass apple pie that was on special last week. It pisses me off. I worked with this one girl once who never wanted to do shit. Even though she had worked there for a year, she would come in every day and ask the same pathetic question: what do you want me to do? Bitch, wipe some tables, roll some silverware, fill the sugar caddies or change your tampon. The same fucking things we do every goddamn day. And then when it came time to put our tips in the jar to be divided, she always wanted to know how much everyone was putting in. And if you mentioned that you got stiffed, she was the one who had to be like, “oh great. Why should I lose a portion of the tip just because you got stiffed? Waa Waa Waa, poor me. That’s not fair.” But then if she got a really big tip she had to make sure we all knew that she was making extra money for everyone. She was a real pill. Personally I think she was just bitter because she had a big ass and a smushed in face and never got cast in anything even though she went to an audition every day before work.

Pooling tips is not easy. You have to trust your co-workers and share responsibility. Everyone must work as a team because there is no "I" in team, you know. There are, however, two of them in Bitchy Waiter and if I spy with my little eye someone who is pocketing a portion of our tips, I will poke that person in the eye with an ice pick and I will not feel bad about it.



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Tuesday, June 15, 2010

A Comment on Comments

There have been so many comments lately and as much as I want to respond to each and every one I simply do not have the time. My social calendar is completely full and my time is extremely valuable. For instance, just moments ago I ate an entire box of mac and cheese and that takes time people. And skill. However, I thought that it would be fun to pull a few of the most interesting comments and respond to them here in an open forum. Behold:


Anonymous said in regards to this post:

You sound like the typical drug useing, I hate my daddy, I'm gonna do a better job if I get pregnant accidentally after work at the party, I am a waitress that's smarter than the world, maybe I can scam drinks off this table by not ringing up the drinks waitress. Grow up, have a family, and post something worth reading. You need a monkey leash.

May I respond, Anonymous? First off, I can't take any comment seriously if you can't spell words correctly. And you do not know how to spell "using" which is a real issue for me. You're dumb. And please note that I used "you're" and not "your" because it is correct. And why do you think I want to get pregnant after work? For one thing, I don't have a uterus which is another big issue. I am a man. Bitchy WAITER not Bitchy WAITRESS. You're dumb. And the whole grow up and have a family and post something worth reading thing? I have no desire to spread my seed and bring a child into my life. The thought of it makes me sick. The only thing that would make me feel sicker would be another boring ass blog about someones supposedly adorable baby. And as for the monkey leash, well you may be right.

Floyd said in regards to this post:

Honestly, I am 19 years old and I think you are way out of line. First off, dont give the old and tired excuse: "Oh, I might lose my job if I serve alcohol to minors." Our government is run by a bunch of controlling pricks that work for special interest groups. You should do what is right and if a minor wants alcohol is no big fucking deal to serve them. Grow up and stop following the law like a zombie.

Oh Floyd. Dear, sweet, naive, dumb-as-a-brick Floyd. Do you really think that "I might lose my job" is a tired excuse? You know what I think is tired? Obnoxious 19 year old boys who think they know the answers to every world problem. You're probably the same kid who sits next to me on the R train with his iPod playing way too loud. And you take up two seats because you spread your legs so wide since you think your balls are so impressive that you couldn't possibly keep your legs close together. Pull your pants up, pull your head out of your ass and leave the blog.

And finally, to all the people who suggest that I quit bitching about my job and find a new one: shut up. Get over it. It's what I do. I bitch. If I was a doctor, I would have a blog called The Bitchy Doctor. Or The Bitchy Teacher, The Bitchy Prostitute, The Bitchy Nurse, The Bitchy Priest, The Bitchy Architect, or the Bitchy Homeless Man. I will always and forever be bitchy. I'm good at it and Oprah told me to find what I am good at and do it. In the holy name of Oprah, I shall be The Bitchy Waiter.



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Monday, June 14, 2010

Your Bitchy Waiter Astrology

Aries March 21-April 19: Today is the day you have been waiting for. You may or may not finally achieve what you have been working towards your whole life. Look for a man in a dark coat to guide you to the next step and when you see him, make sure you pass on the secret phrase so he knows that you are the one he has been looking for too. Secret phrase: how would you like your burger cooked?

Taurus April 20-May 20: Grab the bull by the horns, Taurus and just say no to bullshit. With the stars in alignment today, you may find yourself with some extra cash in your pocket. But don't spend it too quickly because the universe may have other ideas. At the end of the day, you might end up printing a sales report and have to take a lot of that cash and give it to a manager who is sitting in his office and doing "paperwork" when really he is in there looking at Internet porn.

Gemini May 21-June 21: With only a few more days left in Gemini, now is the time to make things count. If you have considered a change in direction, go for it. Once the moon moves out of Uranus you'll have a lot more room up there for better and more exciting things.

Cancer June 22-July 22: Your love life is about to change so get ready! After a long drought of loneliness and desperation, a homeless person is going to show up in your life and make you realize that love can be found anywhere. Even in a stinky toothless man who lives under a bridge. (If you are a male Cancer, then you are going to turn gay for this homeless man. It's in the stars.)

Leo July 23-August 22: Leo, your pride will take a beating today when someone is going to ask you to do something you would rather not do. Suck it up though because after all is said and done, you will be the bigger person for following through on it. Just scrape that gum from under the tables and await your karmic reward.

Virgo August 23-September 22: We all know how you are Virgo. You want everything in its place and done your way. Well get over it, because the planets say you need to pull the stick out of your ass and get over yourself.

Libra September 23-October 23: A new job opportunity is on the horizon if you know how to play your cards right. A man in a feathered hat and leopard skin pants will show you to your corner and introduce you to your new job prospects. Take it easy your first day though, Libra. You want to enjoy the start of your new career as a whore.

Scorpio October 24-November 21: The gentle sting of reality will nip at your heels today as you realize that the job you took a few years ago "until something better comes along" is what you will still be doing ten years from now. Take a breather and take a bong hit. It's the only way to satisfy such crushing disappointment.

Sagittarius November 22-December 21: Your likable demeanor will be challenged as people constantly push your buttons. Push back. Hard. If someone rubs you the wrong way today feel free to spit in their food or ruin the metallic strip on the back of their credit card.

Capricorn December 22-January 19: Buy a lottery ticket today. You are not going to win, but you need something to hope for since everything else about your day is kinda crappy.

Aquarius January 20-February 18: A co-worker will reveal some interesting information to you today that can help you in the long run. Keep that info to yourself for a while until you know exactly how to use it to get what you want. Not necessarily blackmail, but kinda sorta.

Pisces February 19-March 20: An old friend will reappear in your life today. It's someone who was there for some of the most important moments of your life. This old friend will not recognize you and walk right past you. Don't be too sad though. This old friend never really liked you that much anyway. They thought you were a bit of a whiner.


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Sunday, June 13, 2010

It's Up to You, New York, New York Times


Okay, okay, this is a repeat post because I am so busy. If you must know, I am in a play and open in a week so my time has been a bit pinched as of late. I would tell you where the show is so maybe I could have five or six people in the audience, but then I would run the risk of Anonymous showing up and throwing a rotten egg at me during the curtain call. In the meantime, please enjoy this sorry ass summer repeat:


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.


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Saturday, June 12, 2010

Does Anyone Still Wear A Hat? While Waitressing?

Summer is upon us and the humidity level is creeping higher and higher. Here on the East Coast, the weather is a crazy thing to me. Having lived here for 16 years I am still not used to the fact that in the winter it can be 5° and then in the summer it can be 95°. What the hell kind of place is this? And I don't care what people say about it not being the heat but the humidity. If it's 95° it's fucking hot no matter what the humidity level is. The reason I'm so flumfluxxed about the temperature is because I have to wear a uniform to work and that uniform is black pants and a long sleeve black button up shirt. You try wearing that and walking into the depths of holy hell that we call the subway and try to stay fresh for more than three minutes. It's impossible. When I get off the train and get to work, it's not pretty sometimes. Sure, I could carry my uniform to work in a garment bag, but really? A garment bag that carries a stain covered pair of pants and a faded dress shirt? Not worth it. Or I could fold it and carry it in a bag, but really? And then get to work and have to wear a stain covered pair of pants and a faded dress shirt that is also wrinkled? A true dilemma. So what do I do? I wear it and and turn into a big hot sweaty mess and then serve my guests looking like a tired dried up French whore who just gave a blow job in a sauna.

At my last job, I could wear whatever I wanted which was a good thing for about two weeks. And then I realized I was getting all my real clothes stained with coffee and grease and I started longing for a uniform again. I don't know who came up with the universal uniform for restaurant folks to be khakis, but that's what it is most of the time. Pizzeria Uno, Bennigan's, Houlihan's and Black Eyed Pea were all khakis. I have spent about 13 years of my life being forced to wear Dockers and Gap pants.

My big issue with a uniform is when the restaurant requires you to wear a certain article of clothing but they make us pay for it. That pisses my shit off. If I have to wear that ugly ass burgundy shirt, Mr. Houlihan's, I don't want to pay for it. Same thing with you, Mr. Black Eyed Pea. I have to buy the green shirt with the stupid ass embroidered logo? Or sometimes they will give you one shirt but if you want another it comes out of your paycheck. Fuck that. I will take the one free shirt and wear that bitch every day until it has so much food on it that it walk itself into the restaurant and start picking up shifts.

If I have to wear a uniform, I want to wear one that has some personality. I want a little hat and an cute frilly apron and a name tag. I want a big starched white collar and white sneakers. I want bright red lipstick and a beehive. Basically, I wanna be Flo from the television show Alice. I have written about her before and I have even been her for Halloween. Now that's a uniform.

And does anyone get what the post title is referring to? Does anyone still wear...a hat?

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Friday, June 11, 2010

Slip Sliding Away

So I tempted fate a few days ago by writing about dropping trays. Thankfully, I made it through my next shift with my trays as steady as ever so I thought I would take another gamble and write about something else that can plague a server: falling on your ass. It's happened to most of us and if it hasn't happened to you yet, it will. It's inevitable. I've written about when customers fall but who really cares when they fall? As long as they didn't hurt their wallet or break their credit card, I'm good. But when it happens to one of our own, it's a true tragedy.

The last time I fell was when I worked at VYNL. Part of the kitchen and all of the storage was downstairs so it was ripe for accidents. Plus the stairs were made of metal, always greasy and they were so steep that we may as well have called them a ladder. Going down them once to fetch some ice, I slipped and ended up in the basement flat on my ass and in a pile of nasty stagnate water that no one wanted to fucking clean up. I guess since it was only stagnate water in the food prep area, everyone thought "meh, it's cool." It hurt though. And I have a skinny little bony ass without much padding. But worse than the physical pain was the humiliation of ending up on the floor in front of all the cooks. Most of them didn't speak English, but laughter is universal. They laughed at me in Spanish and I was mucho embarrassed.

The thing about falling at a restaurant is that when you fall, it's always onto the nasty ass floor that was slippery with salad dressing or fajita juice or whatever the fuck. And whatever made you slip is what you end up sitting in. And when you do fall you're usually in a hurry which contributed to the fall in the first place so you never have time to go clean up. You just pop right back up and carry on all the while having a big glob of 1000 Island dressing smeared all over your ass. Now don't misunderstand me. There is a time and place to have 1000 Island dressing smeared all over your ass but that time and place is not while you're at work.

Of course falling can be avoided. If you take yourself over to Payless, you can buy some skid-resistant shoes for $24.99 and they really help. Spending $24.99 on something crappy for a crappy job is not fun, but let me say this. Not falling at work is a good thing too. And not having 1000 Island dressing smeared all over your ass while at work is an even better thing. Save that for your private time.

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Thursday, June 10, 2010

When I Was There, Was I Really Family?

This is a post from a while back, but I have a very busy day ahead of me and my lazy ass doesn't have time to write new shit. Understandable? Or totally lame? You decide.

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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Wednesday, June 9, 2010

Uno, Dos, Trays

All waiters occasionally drop a tray, but after years and years of practice it happens less and less often. Throughout my near upon two decades of experience (I started waiting tables at the age of two) I have gotten to where having a tray at the end of my arm is as natural as having a margarita at the end of it. I can maneuver my way through a crowd with a tray of glasses held over my head with grace and elegance. A few weeks ago I dropped my pen onto the floor and just bent down to pick it up while holding a tray of martinis. I didn't think anything about it but the lady at the table acted like I should go join Cirque du Soleil or something. When I worked at the Marriott, I entered this thing called "Marriott Olympics" and had to run through an obstacle course while holding a tray with glasses of water. Didn't spill a drop. I didn't win though because this lady named Nancy had been waiting tables since the invention of food and she had more experience than me. That bitch won a free night at a hotel and some luggage for that shit. I'm not bitter though. Much.

Some servers can do that really cool spinning trick with their trays and I have never been able to master it. I was never able to spin a basketball on my finger either so I'm pretty sure I have some kind of finger tip deficiency problem. I work with a guy now who's really good at it and every time he does it I get all jealous and have to leave the room. Some people aspire to write the next great American novel or find a cure for cancer. I just wanna fucking learn how to spin a goddamn tray on my finger. Damn this finger tip deficiency of mine!

I don't remember the last time I dropped a tray but of course since I just typed that, the next time will be tonight. About a hundred years ago I was a food runner at a Mexican restaurant in Denver called Juanita's. I worked there for about nine months and never once dropped a tray. And those trays were huge-like five and six platters worth of food. On my last night of employment there, I mentioned to someone that I had never dropped a tray. I jinxed myself. At the end of the shift, after I had punched out I went to say goodbye to the kitchen because I was moving the next week. The food runner who was still on was all of a sudden weeded so I said I would take the last tray out as I left. My swan song, you might say. Of course I dropped it. Fajitas, enchiladas, rice and beans all over the place. Seriously? My last tray is the one I dropped as I am doing them a favor? I cleaned that shit up and got the hell out of Juanita's.

When I worked at Houlians's, we played a game sometimes that involved dropping a tray on purpose. The point of the game was to drop a tray on purpose. All you would do was pick up a tray and then drop the tray on purpose. It's fun to break stuff. Ah, Houlihan's...good times.

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Tuesday, June 8, 2010

Dear Lady at Table 32,







Here is a brief list of all things I wanted to say to Table 32 a few days ago:


  • Do you really need to be reseated that many times in order to find the perfect seat?
  • It's tacky to tip the host and then still complain about where you're sat.
  • The drink has Blue Curacao in it, so yes it is actually going to be blue.
  • The Real Housewives of New Jersey asked me to tell you to give them their accent back.
  • That blouse looks like it came from the $5 and under bin at Chico's.
  • Black is not slimming.
  • You have on way too many sequins. The only person wearing that many sequins should be on an episode of "Toddlers and Tiaras" or be named Liza Minnelli.
  • You don't need to call me over to hand me an empty glass. I will get it when I have a free hand.
  • I see that your reservation was for two but you are alone now. You don't have to tell me that you decided to take yourself out tonight. It's obvious that your husband bailed on you and is at home relishing the two hours of solitude and trying to recall what it's like to not have his ears bleed from the sound of your voice.
  • Your hair is scaring me. And scarring me. For life. Frosted is not pretty.
  • You don't need to call me over to hand me another empty glass. I will get it when I have a free hand.
  • Do you really need more napkins or are you just trying to think of something to ask for every time I walk by you?
  • Seriously bitch, stop calling me over to take empty shit from your fucking table.
  • Using the phrase "it's a delight" does not make you sophisticated. It makes me think you heard it on that episode of "The Three Stooges" when they were plumbers at that fancy party and that one snobby rich lady said it.
  • Using the phrase "it's a delight" more than six or seven times makes me think you are supremely dumb and a trifle desperate.
  • Yes, I can get you an order of hummus and chips.
  • Yes, I can get you more chips.
  • I see you waving me down again. Let me guess. Your plate is empty and you want me to take it. Stop it.
  • The people next to you are sick of hearing you talk. They don't know you and don't want to be your friend.
  • Yes, I will get your check for you. You don't have to ask me for that. It's on my list of things to give to you along with a dirty look and a fist up your puss.
  • Yes, we take American Express. Your American Express card does not impress me. It's a green one.
  • You looked stupid when you took a picture of the performer after her show and told her she was "a delight." Enough with that phrase already.
  • I hate you. You annoy me. Don't come back.
Things I actually said to Table 32 a few days ago:

  • Can I take your order?
  • Yes, ma'am.
  • Good bye.

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Monday, June 7, 2010

The Patio is a Pain in the Ass

This is a re-post of something I wrote last summer, but it being summer, its time has come again.

Let me tell you about waiting tables on a patio: it sucks. My restaurant has a patio in the summer and people knock themselves over to get one of those crappy little two-tops next to a busy Manhattan street. It's not relaxing out there, that's for sure. Sirens, buses, homeless people watching you eat french toast? Why bother? But people love it. But what really annoys the fuck out of me is when someone complains that it's too hot or too windy. Oh okay, let me stop the wind for you, lady.

Someone today waited twenty minutes for a table on the patio/dirty sidewalk. After they rearranged the tables to suit their needs they called me over and said the sun was too bright. I asked the sun to stop shining, but that bitch didn't want to cooperate so then they wanted to move. I reminded them that we are in fact outside which tends to have sun and told them that the entire inside of the restaurant was shaded if they wanted to move their gloober-globber asses inside. Of course they didn't. They wanted to move the table somewhere else making it almost impossible for me to walk around them, but sure. Whatever makes my customers happy is what I want. Uh huh. They also tipped me $7.00 on $62.00. Assholes. I hope they get a touch of melanoma from their three minutes in the bright sun.

Another time a lady freaked the fuck out because she saw a rat on the sidewalk. It's a sidewalk. In New York City. That's where rats live. Be thankful the rat didn't pull up a chair and order a Bloody Mary and ask for separate checks.

Another time a lady called me over because a gnat had flown into her mimosa and she wanted another glass. This very thing happened just a few days ago. I personally think that drowning in a mimosa is a pretty good way to go, but whatever. It's a gnat. Who cares? Fish it out and continue drinking. I read somewhere once that we eat about a pound of bugs a year and don't even know it because they get in our food all the time. I told her this, but she didn't like that factoid. I took her mimosa inside and pulled the bug out of her drink with my impeccably clean hands. I then poured her drink into a new glass and gave it back to her. She should have been more specific and asked for another drink and not just another glass.

I hate working on the patio.


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Sunday, June 6, 2010

Must Be 21 to Read This Post

Every once in a while, someone will send me an email that will spark an idea of what I should write about so a big shout out to Leila for this blog post idea. Minors trying to order drinks are such a nuisance. In my day, I never even tried to order before I was of age because I had such a baby face that it was never gonna happen. I would just do what any sensible minor would do which was sit in my car and drink a couple of Bartles and Jaymes or California Coolers followed by a chaser of Boone's Berry Farm before going in somewhere. All of my friends had fake i.d.'s so I would just watch them drink or maybe if the circumstances were right, they would order for me.

It's funny to be a server and see some obviously underage kid trying to order a cocktail. It's always a dead giveaway when they order some stupid ass drink like a Long island Iced Tea or a Banana Daiquiri. Or they go in the other direction and try to be so cool and order a scotch on the rocks. If they would just order a Coors Light or some other nondescript drink, I probably wouldn't notice but if you ask me for a Sex on the Beach or a Bahama Mama, I'm gonna figure you are either a tourist, stupid or under age. Or all three. When I was first waiting tables I hated to ask for i.d. because I was barely 21 myself and still looked like I was 17 and was always so afraid that I was going to offend someone. Nowadays I don't give a shit. It's fun to bust a kid. And they always have the same excuse. "Err, uh..I must have left my license in my other purse" or "dude, my wallet was stolen but I am so 21. Seriously, I was born in 1989, dude, for real." Sorry. Not gonna fly with me. Like I really want to lose my (shitty ass lame) job for serving a minor just because he wants to see what a Mudslide tastes like. I was out once with a group of people and one kid was only 19. He was trying to be all cool and shit so he ordered a White Russian, but requested it to be "easy on the Kahlua." My friend looked at him and said, "you know that Kahlua is an alcohol, right?" He didn't. What a dumbass. If you're gonna order a White Russian while in a dive bar, the bartender will look at you and think you are a dumbass, dumbass. He didn't get served. He should have ordered a Budweiser and no one would have questioned it.

Kids, don't try to drink in my station. I will card you because I enjoy disappointing you. I may even let you order it, wait five minutes and then come and ask for i.d. just so you can get your hopes up that a Mai Tai is coming your way. Don't fuck with me, fellas. I ain't got time to waste. Get your self a fake i.d. or order a fucking apple juice.


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Saturday, June 5, 2010

The Menu is Your Friend



This an older post that I thought needed to be seen again since so many people are not familiar with the word "menu."

Sometimes people think that when they come into the restaurant they are in their own kitchen and I am their personal chef for the day. No bitch, that is not how it works. We have this thing called a menu. M-E-N-U. It is this really great idea that someone came up with that tells you what we have to offer. You should read it. Someone was paid to create it and make it and print it. And then that girl at the front who showed you to your table gave you one for you to look at it. It is not for your devil spawn children to draw in or for you to use to flag me down. It is for you to choose what you want to eat. Some ass came in the other day and threw himself into a booth without being seated. Then he complained the table was sticky with syrup. (He HOPES it was syrup.) So he didn't have a menu and he ordered a chicken parmesan. Seriously? Does this look Bella Italia or The Olive Garden? No, ass, we are a diner. Burgers, salads, meatloaf. I ain't got no fucking eggplant rollatini so don't ask for that shit either. So I told him we don't have it. "What, you out of that today?" I suggested that he order two fried eggs with hash browns and toast because that is what we do. Or maybe a burger with a side of pubic hair because that is what he was about to get. This other douche bag came in last week and started ordering all this ala carte crap without looking at the menu. He ordered two eggs just like his friends. Fine. That comes with hash browns and toast. Then he says he wants French Toast too. Okay, we have that. And then he wants sausage. And coffee. And orange juice. It all came out, he ate it and then got his bill and had a fucking pissy bitch fit. He wants to know how three orders of eggs can cost more than twenty dollars. I told him it was simple mathematics. One order is $6.95 and when you multiply that by three it comes out to more than twenty dollars. See? It's easy, douche! He thought there was a better way I could have rung up his food so he did not have to pay for everything. I took him a menu. MENU! I showed him each thing he ordered. I asked him, "Is that what you had? Did it come to your table? Did you eat it all?" He answered yes to all these things. Then here is your bill. End of story. Read the fucking menu people and make both our lives a little easier, but I will still want to drop pubes in your burger, just so you know.


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A Travesty Has Occured

A terrible thing has happened and I can hardly live with myself. How have I made it through 24 years of life ( I was born in 1986, give or take a few years) and not known something of this magnitude? I feel like the rug has been pulled from under me and I don't know what's real anymore. Yesterday was National Doughnut Day and nobody fucking told me. And this is a holiday that has been happening since 19 freakin' 38? According to the vast amount of research I did on Wikipedia, this wonderful event was started to honor the ladies who served doughnuts to the soldiers in World War I. And on a side note, I think one of those soldiers was in my station a few weeks ago. National Doughnut Day happens on the first Friday of every June so I have placed this handy dandy countdown clock here to remind us that on June 3, 2011 we can all have donuts for breakfast, lunch and dinner and when someone gives us the judging evil eye we can say, "fuck off, it's for the troops." And then proceed to cram another glazed doughnut into our pie hole.

Apparently Dunkin' Donuts was even giving away a free doughnut yesterday if you ordered a cup of coffee. This is not right. I could have spent all day yesterday hop, skipping and jumping from Dunkin' Donuts to Krispy Kreme and filling up on fried dough. My arteries are royally pissed off that they missed this wonderful opportunity. This will never happen again. It is now marked as permanent alarm in my phone, the date on the calendar is already circled, there is a string around my finger and I have a tattoo on my face that says "don't forget doughnut day." But don't worry. The tattoo is in a real fancy font so even though I have a tattoo about doughnuts on my face, I'm still classy.


This clock is set to New York City time, just so you know.


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