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Saturday, July 31, 2010

...and I Will Be Your Server Today

Sometime during the late 80's it became the fashion for servers to come up to a table and introduce themselves. I blame it on the explosion of chains like Bennigan's and Chili's that wanted to give customers that down home welcoming feeling. Well, I think it's a stupid load of crap. "Hello, my name is Sheila and I will be serving you today." "Oh really, Sheila, because I was pretty sure that you were going to be giving me a pap smear. Thank God you told me that you were here to be my waitress or it would have been really embarrassing when I took my panties off and laid my cervix on the table." What the fuck else is Sheila there for? Another thing that happens a lot (I'm looking at you, Pizzeria Uno in Springfield, Massachusetts next to the Basketball Hall of Fame) is that they write their name on the table with a crayon as if we don't have the mental capacity to recall the word Mary Lou for more than the thirty minutes we will be eating there. And they always have to write it upside down so that it is right side up for us at the table. How many shifts did Mary Lou need to finally master the art of signing her name upside down. Some customers probably encourage this behavior by complimenting Mary Lou on her handwriting after she does it.


I propose that we no longer introduce ourselves to tables. (Not like I ever do...). I think by telling a table my name, it just gives them the opportunity to use it too often. And I certainly have no need or desire to know the name of every person who sits in my station. Occasionally I will look at the name on a credit card so I can say "thank you, Mr. So And So, I appreciate you coming in today" but I only do that so that maybe he will tip me more because I was so damn fucking personable. I learn names on a need to know basis. I am a big fan of sweetie, honey, babe, dude, man, brother, buddy, sir, ma'am, asshole and beeotch. And I expect that most people are the same way I am. So from now on, don't waste syllables and breath by tellingh your tables your name. They don't care. I don't care. Let's all not care together.


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Friday, July 30, 2010

Can't Take My Eye Off Of You

So I don't know if I have mentioned this or not or even if anyone gives a shit, but I am not waiting tables for a couple of weeks because I am too busy being an actor. That's right. Someone is paying me to put on silly costumes and act a fool up on a stage. This has been the summer of not waiting tables because I have been lucky enough to go from show to vacation to show. Never fear though, because in a couple of weeks I will again have a pen and pad in my hand, an apron around my waist and a razor blade next to my wrists. My show opened last night and to celebrate (and to work off the hangover) I took myself to breakfast this morning in lovely Maryland.

My waitress was Nancy who was great. She had obviously been waiting tables for a long long time. I can imagine her taking orders on a stone tablet with a hammer and chisel when the special of the day was roasted Brontosaurus burgers with a side of Dodo bird. I ordered my breakfast (cheddar and bacon omelet, home fries, rye toast and Pepsi) and it came out moments later. No sooner had I taken the first bite when my gaze fell upon something that took away my appetite and nearly had the tequila from the night before coming up for a visit. No, it wasn't a roach or a mouse or anything so ordinary. It was another waitress. But this waitress appeared to have only one eye. Wait, what? A one-eyed fucking waitress? This lady's left eye looked like it had simply called it quits on that bitch and the skin grew right over it. I kid you not. She saw me looking at her (well, half saw me) and I looked the other way. Now how the hell am I supposed to eat my way through a hangover when I got Cyclops Sally eyeing me down? She walked away but I kept staring at her wanting to make sure that I was not imagining that a woman with purple/grey skin covering her eye had just served food to a table. I think somewhere in Maryland there is an actual pirate museum. Why didn't this lady swing down to the gift shop and pick up an eye patch for $1.99 so diners didn't have to be grossed out every time she attempted to make eye contact? How do you make eye contact with that? I guess it's easier than trying to make eye contact with a lazy eye because in that case you have to make a choice about which eye you want to look at. In this case the choice was made for us: we look at the one eye that is not rotting. I said a little thank you prayer to Martha, the patron saint of waiters for allowing me to have Nancy as my server and not Captain Hook over there in the other station.



I finished my meal with my head down so I didn't accidentally catch the gaze of Ol' One Eyed Wilma. As I went up to pay my check, she was standing there next to the register. She smiled and I said good morning. I wondered how she lost her eye and thought about how much it would cost to stick a marble up in there and pull an old Sammy Davis, Jr or Sandy Duncan. I felt like I should give her some money because in New York City when you see someone like that, they usually have a styrofoam cup in their hand asking for handouts. But she just told me to have a nice day. She seemed nice and friendly and like a really sweet person. I could just tell. I could see it in her eye.

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Thursday, July 29, 2010

The Mexican Rice Emergency

So how many times can I write about inept restaurant managers before I have told every store that needs to be told? Apparently, there is an never-ending supply of stupid ass restaurant managers so the stories are infinite. I was recently having a margarita in San Francisco's Golden Gate Park when I saw some total ineptitude happening right in my face. Thankfully, my face also had some salt on it from the rim of my glass so I was able to deal with what I witnessed. First off, I sat down at 3:45 and ordered my cocktail. Immediately afterwards, I saw the table tent that alerted me to the taco bar and drink special that started in a whopping fifteen minutes. At 4:00, margaritas would be two for one. Why oh why could I not have been told that had I waited a few minutes I could have double the pleasure of tequila? Whatever. I survived. I watched as the servers were setting up the buffet table with the big silver chafing dishes. And then the manager came out to make sure everything was going as planned. She just stood there with her hands on her hips scanning the action and struggling to look important. And then she uttered these immortal words of advice:




So if someone comes up to you and says something like, "uh, hey you're outta rice", then what you should do is...? Go tell someone that you need more rice. Okay?



Wow, someone needs to run out and get a stone tablet because it sounds like we now have eleven commandments.
We need a rewrite and reprint for the Bible.
Call Confucius and tell him he's got a new saying for his next batch of fortune cookies.
Alert CNN that they have their latest news crawl for the bottom of the screen.
Send out a mass text.
Rosetta Stone is no longer the answer to the world of language.
Embroider that shit on a pillow.


Was she for real? Who the hell couldn't figure that out on their own? I think if you threw an apron on a ten year old and told them to start waiting tables they would immediately start crying (that's what I did on my first day of waiting tables) but they would know what to do if someone told them there was no more rice. But thank God Retard Manager was there that day. I can just imagine what could have happened if she had not passed on that vital piece of information.


Customer: Uh...hey you're outta rice.


Waiter: What?


Customer: You're outta rice, can you get some more?


Waiter: Gee, I dunno if I should. No one told me what to do if we ran out of rice. Maybe I should get more Jello.


Customer: But I want rice.


Waiter: Or pudding. Pudding's good. Oh, or what if I got more hummus? Or french fries! Yeah, I'll get more french fries, maybe. Oh God, I dunno what to do. Why didn't someone train me for this situation?? This is horrible!


Customer: Maybe you can just go to the kitchen and get more rice?


Waiter: Lemme go ask my manager what to do. Hold on. (He goes to kitchen and then returns.) Okay, I'm back. She told me I should just go get more rice. So I'll go get more rice.


Customer: Wow, that manager must really be a genius. She really averted a potential crisis.

Why must so many managers be oh so very very lame?

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Wednesday, July 28, 2010

Chew Chew Train, Part Two

Once before I wrote about being on a train and it was not a very great experience. In fact I would feel comfortable saying it was the opposite of great which is shitty. However, while on vacation I traveled by train from San Francisco all the way to Portland, Oregon. It was scheduled to be a 17 hour train ride which blossomed into a 25 hour train ride. It wasn't so bad because I had a first class ticket (I'm fancy) and my own private sleeping quarters. Meals were also included and they were served on real plates with real silverware and served by a real honest to goodness waitress that stepped right out of a television sitcom. You know of my love for Flo, Alice and Shirley and this waitress was like all three of them rolled into one snarky wise ass waitress. I never got her name, so I shall refer to her as Pearl.

Pearl was one of those waitresses who always has a quick comeback whenever you ask for anything and if she didn't say it with a smile and a wink you would just think she was a total bitch. I wanted to know what it was like to wait tables on a train and live in the same place that you work for days at a time. She told us that her days were 18 hours long and she worked three days in a row and then had six days off. As if waiting tables isn't hard enough, Pearl has to do it 18 hours at a time and on a train that sways back and forth as it rolls across the country. She was my new hero. I asked her how she managed to deal with such a crazy kind of job. Her answer: drugs. I just fell in love with her a little bit more. I think she meant something like Ambien or Prozac, but in my mind I imagined good ol' Pearl curled up in her sleeping quarters while sucking on a crackpipe and free basing some crystal meth before her breakfast shift.

By the end of my breakfast, she told me that her drugs had kicked in and she had a joke for me. "What do you call a cow eating grass?" she asked. In my world that would just be a hamburger, but she told me the answer was a "lawn mooer!" And then she busted out laughing like it was the funniest thing she'd ever heard. Hmm, maybe she really was on crack. Her joke led to a whole smorgasbord of bad jokes from every other table in the dining car. And here they are:

Q: What do you call a group of rabbits walking backwards?
A: A receding hare line!

Q: What do you call a monkey with a time bomb?
A: A baboom!

Q: What did the fish say when it swam into the wall?
A: Dam!

Q: Why was six afraid of seven?
A: Because seven ate nine!

Thank you, folks. I'm here all week. Try the veal.

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Tuesday, July 27, 2010

How To Make More Money

"Do you want to make more money? Of course we all do." Does that phrase ring a bell for anyone? It's the opening line for the commercial that iconic actress Sally Struthers did in the early 90's for International Correspondence Schools. That shit ran all the time usually when you were watching your stories to see if Luke and Laura were going to stay together on "General Hospital." Sally offered all of us the opportunity to learn at home and get better jobs and promotions. If you called the 1-800 number you could be on your way to an exciting career in learning the personal computer, interior decorating, child day care, gun repair, or even catering! Luckily for me, I had an innate skill for catering and gun repair so I never had to call the number. Other people who are too afraid to make the call that will change their life have to come up with other ways to make more money and I came across one of these people last week.

I was sitting on the bus in San Francisco when I heard this dumb bitch behind me yapping on her cell phone. She was jib jabbing away about things that nobody cared about but we were all forced to listen to. And then things got interesting. She started to tell her friend how she had discovered a new way to make more money at her job. I thought that maybe she wasn't as dumb as she sounded because she clearly seemed as of she wanted to move ahead in her career. My nosy ass started listening closer to see if I could glean some wisdom from this career-minded independent woman. And then I realized she was a fucking cocktail waitress. And her brilliant idea to make more money was basically stealing. She had realized that if she didn't ring in all the drinks and just collected the money, she could then pocket that cash as her own. Bitch, please. Does she really think she is the first one to come up with that idea? Waiters have been skimming like that since the dawn of time. I think Benjamin Franklin was pocketing coins the same way when he was waiting tables at Ye Olde Tavern Inn back in 1750 right before he discovered electricity and invented bifocals. She was all proud of herself for discovering stealing. "Girl, I took a hundred dollars last night. If I could do that three times a week that would be like... (ridiculously long pause here as she tried to multiply) ...$300 dollars a week!" Yes, honey or $1200 a month. And then two to three years in jail when they bust your ass for theft. She was clearly not the brightest bulb. Every smart thieving waiter knows that taking that much a week is just asking for trouble. Start small. Ten dollars here and ten dollars there. What a fucking amateur.

I don't steal from my jobs. Not worth it. Sure maybe the occasional cocktail or a lunch that I eat that I don't pay for, but cash? No way. Never. Well, except for that one summer I worked at a Putt-Putt miniature golf course and pilfered a few bucks a day to pay for my Dairy Queen blizzards and my lunch of chicken sandwich from the Burger King that shared the parking lot with me. But nothing since then. (Sorry, Putt-Putt. I was young and hungry and only making $5.00 an hour.) Word of advice: don't steal. If you want to make more money, take Sally's advice and call this number: 1-800-228-3800. And you can watch her commercial here and be on your way to financial freedom.


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Monday, July 26, 2010

For Amos (A.K.A. I Hate Kids)

While having one of the best meals of my entire vacation, I was visually assaulted by the horrific sight of a booth that was crammed with unruly children. The picture that you see is an actual photo of these awful beasts. I was going to draw one of those black lines across their eyes to protect their identity, but I couldn't figure out how to get Photo Shop to work and I decided that I didn't fucking care anyway. This family deserves to be seen so that waiters across the land can steer clear of these people if they ever venture into their section.


I was in a great restaurant in San Francisco enjoying good food, good cocktails and better company when out of the corner of my eye, I saw a little girl wandering around the restaurant with a napkin on her head. She thought she was playing Princess Fiona or some shit by prancing around but really she was just in the mother fucking way. The server who was tolerating this table was also my server and his name was Amos. I promised him that I would write about these brats and I truly hope he sees it. (Amos, if you read this, give me a sign.) These three little girls were all over the place. The mother had her head resting in her hands as if she had given up on the whole "living a happy life" thing and the father was just as removed. He looked like he had mentally checked out of the situation right after he realized that he had three daughters and estrogen would be ruling his household for the rest of his life. The three girls were loud and irritating to everyone around them. My favorite part of their performance was when they each decided that chopsticks would be fun to use as musical instruments and serenaded the whole restaurant with a rousing rendition of every one's favorite song, "We Want to Ruin Your Meal."

Amos came up to the table to gauge our cocktail situation. "Is everything alright here?" he said.
As I slurped down the last of my first drink, I slurred to him, "We are good, but how are you? How's that table over there treatin' ya?" Being the professional that he was, he answered with a smile. "Oh, they're fine. No worries." I looked at Amos with a deep look of understanding and said, "I'm a waiter. You can tell me the truth." Amos sighed and said through gritted teeth and forced grin, "They're a pleasure." But he said the word "pleasure" as if it meant that he was getting a homemade tattoo with a needle, a candle and a ballpoint pen. I felt for Amos, I really did. It seemed so unfair that I was on vacation and not having to deal with little twats like them while he was slaving away at work. But then I remembered that I didn't really know Amos and asked him to brink me cocktail number two.

As soon as the table of terror left, there was a collective sigh amongst the section because finally we could all enjoy our meal without the screeching of misbehaved children and the deafening silence of their inattentive parents. I looked over at the booth and saw the requisite pile of food and napkins thrown on the floor and watched Amos as he got down on his hands and knees to clean it up. Again, I felt a little guilty that I was away from the world of service while others carried on in my place. And then I ordered cocktail number three. Amos, you rock,



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Sunday, July 25, 2010

Hello, My Name is Bitchy Waiter...

I am back. This is the first new post in days and days so forgive any typos and the apathy that may creep into this writing. My brain is still on vacation mode. While gallivanting across the Pacific Northwest, I ventured into many dining establishments and was served by a variety of servers. Young or old, experienced or newbie, they all had one thing in common. Each and every one of them brought my ass a cocktail. It is not surprising that I drank my way through my vacation. What is surprising is that I carried a pen and paper with me so I could keep meticulous notes of all the alcohol that I ingested. On average it's about three cocktails a day so it's not like I have a fucking problem or anything. Some were better than others but all were divine. Below, you can witness the slow poisoning of my liver and I have listed where they each came from in case you want to sample them sometime. Some were made for me at the homes of friends but I am pretty sure if you turn up on Stephanie or Ron's door, they would be happy to make you a cocktail. Or at least give you the recipe.

  • #1- Pisco Punch at my hotel The Galleria Park in San Francisco. Never had Pisco before but fucking loved it.
  • #2- Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, Twin Peaks bar in The Castro
  • #3- Pomegranate martini, 2223 restaurant
  • #4- Pomegranate martini, 2223 restaurant
  • #5- Margarita on the rocks with salt, Beach Chalet in Golden Gate Park
  • #6- Pomegranate martini at Stephanie's house
  • #7- Pomegranate martini at Stephanie's house
  • #8- Pomegranate martini at Stephanie's house
  • #9- some French beer at some French bistro. Bastille Day!
  • #10- Blueberry rum fizz at my hotel
  • #11- Kiwi cosmo, Catch restaurant
  • #12- Vodka gimlet, Badlands bar in The Castro
  • #13- Margarita on the rocks with salt, The Lodge in Sonoma, CA
  • #14- Russian River Valley Chardonnay, Della Santina's restaurant
  • #15- Wine tasting at Gundlach Bunschu winery
  • #16- Wine tasting, Bartholomew Park Winery
  • #17- margarita on the rocks with salt, Maya restaurant
  • #18- Pomegranate martini, Stephanie's house back in San Francisco
  • #19- Betel Juice (midori, rum and pineapple), Betelnut restaurant
  • #20- Betel Juice (midori, rum and pineapple), Betelnut restaurant
  • #21- Betel Juice (midori, rum and pineapple), Betelnut restaurant
  • #22- Vodka/cranberry on Amtrak train going to Portland, OR
  • #23- Frozen mango martini at Ron and Larry''s house
  • #24- Pink margarita on the rocks with salt, Dots Cafe
  • #25- Pink margarita on the rocks with salt, Dots Cafe
  • #26- Mirrorball (watermelon vodka, cranberry, prosecco), Saucebox restaurant
  • #27- Vodka gimlet, Ron Tom bar
  • #28- Blackberry cosmo, Doug Fir Bar
  • #29- Blood orange margarita on the rocks with salt, The Farm restaurant
  • #30- Portland pomegranate martini at Ron and Larry's house
  • #31- Portland pomegranate martini at Ron and Larry's house
  • #32- Miss Mona (frozen vodka, orange juice and pomegranate), at Ron and Larry's house
  • #33- Epic Peachy Bitchy Spritz (vodka, peach lemonade, seltzer), at Ron and Larry's house and thank you to Sarah for creating it.
  • #34- a beer at Ron and Larry's house before getting on the plane

And in case any of you were wondering, I do not go to Alcoholics Anonymous. Yet

Saturday, July 24, 2010

Is Vacation Over Yet?

This should be my last rerun because vacation is over. However, I reserve the right to continue being lazy for a couple more days. And in honor of vacation, here is a post about this delusional woman from a few months ago.

xo,
The Bitchy Waiter



This lady came in the other day and she's always a little bit of a pain in the ass. Just because she's a semi-regular, she thinks that she deserves special treatment. You know the type. As soon as she sat down she said she wanted something special to make her feel like she was on a tropical vacation. I hate when people say stupid shit like that. I wanted to suggest that she put on an ugly one piece bathing suit with a ruffle and then get a sunburn while listening to Tom Jones on her Walkman because I figured that's what she usually did when on a tropical vacation. Instead, I simply asked her what she would like to drink. She thought long and hard about this oh so complicated question. Suddenly her eyes lit up as she realized what drink would satisfy this tropical craving she was trying to fill. I couldn't wait for her to ask for a Pina Colada or Banana Daiquiri so I could tell her we don't have a blender. And then she asked for something that is so completely incongruous with tropical that I thought she was kidding. "Can I have a Frangelico and coffee?" She said it all whispery and shit with this snarky grin like it was so so daring of her to order this wild and crazy drink. What the fuck kind of tropical vacation does this bitch go on that she sits on a beach and drinks coffee? Is it a beach in Antarctica? Is she retarded? Then she altered her order a bit and requested iced coffee which made it a teeny bit more understandable. "And can you put some whipped cream on it so it really seems fancy?" Yeah, lady. Every drink I have ever had while on the beach had whipped cream on it and it made me think it was fancy, will do. I put about six inches worth of whipped cream on her drink because I knew it would make her wet her panties when she saw it. If I would have had one of those little paper umbrellas I would have stuck that in it too, but no such luck. Instead, I did one of those tricks you do with the paper of a straw to make it look like it was a flower. She squealed with pleasure when she saw it. This lady really needs a life. Or a vacation. But she loved me. Bitch loves her some Bitchy Waiter.

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Friday, July 23, 2010

Butter Sandwich

My vacation is almost over and I am probably somewhere right this second crying and trying to cram as much fattening food into my mouth as possible because it's vacation and it's okay to do that. And on that note, a blog about butter.

xo,
The Bitchy Waiter



When we start a new job, we always find ourselves full of uncertainty and nerves. We worry about whether or not people will like us and will our co-workers be nice or not. It can be quite stressful and we depend on others to make us feel welcome in a new environment. When someone new comes into my restaurant, I always make sure I am part of the Welcome Wagon. I always introduce myself and offer to take them on a tour of the front and back of the house. I give them tips and pointers on how to make the computer system work for them and advise them which cooks are willing to help you out if you get in the weeds. Oh, who am I kidding? I don't give a shit about new people. I wait at least a week before I invest any time with them because too many times people quit after two or three days and I realize I wasted two or three whole sentences on them. Some people like to play tricks on the newbies and one of the best happened when I worked at The Black Eyed Pea on West Grey in Houston, Texas.

At The Pea, we were responsible for making our own desserts so we had completes access to all of them at any time. One of our favorite snacks was to take two chocolate chip cookies and then make an ice cream sandwich using French Vanilla ice cream. Were we supposed to do that? Absolutely not. Did we do that? Every fucking day. So one day we decided to play a trick on some new guy. Tim made himself one of the ice cream sandwiches and then walked by the new guy while eating it and saying how delicious it was. Of course New Guy wanted to know what it was and if he could have one. "Sure," said Tim. "Since you're new let me make it for you. I'll be right back." Tim went to the cookie bin and pulled out two freshly re-heated not homemade cookies and then walked over to the ice cream freezer. And then walked past the ice cream freezer and went to the tub of whipped butter that we used for the biscuits and cornbread. He took a huge scoop of the butter and placed in between the cookies and smashed it together. Comparing the butter to the French Vanilla, the two desserts looked exactly the same. Off he bounds to New Guy to hand him his freshly made sweet.

"Thanks, you're nice, "said New Guy.

"It's what I do," said Tim.

We watched with eager anticipation as New Guy moved the cookie and butter concoction towards his hungry hungry hippo hole of a mouth. He opened wide because Tim had filled that bitch up with butter. It was going to be a big bite. As he bit into it, the cookie crumbled and the butter oozed out of the sides of his mouth. His eyes registered surprise and then realization that he was now eating a cup of butter. Of course all us bitches laughed at him as he tried to decide whether or not to swallow that first bite or spit it out. He spit it out, laughed at himself and learned that he had been had. He thought he was now part of the Black Eyed Pea gang. He wasn't and wouldn't be until it was his turn to play the trick on the next New Guy. Until that time, he was the newbie and had to face the fact that another prank could be waiting for him at any time. It sucks being the new guy. But then again it pretty much sucks to be the old-timer too, so there you go. A two way tie for shitty.

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Thursday, July 22, 2010

Miss Manners

I just wanted to remind some of you that I am not all bitch all the time. Just mostly bitch most of the time. And vacation is good.

xo,
The Bitchy Waiter


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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Wednesday, July 21, 2010

I Can't Believe It's Not Fabio

Yes, bitches, my ass is till on vacation. I probably have a margarita attached to my face right this second. This post is older than the rolls I used to serve at Houlihan's, but it makes me laugh. Some people didn't like it. To them I say, piss off.

xo,
The Bitchy Waiter

I was fondled at work this week. Well, sort of. Let us look at this post as a creative writing exercise. I will begin with the story exactly as it happened and at some point I will switch it to complete fiction and you see if you can tell when it switched from story telling to a big fat fucking bullshit lie.

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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Tuesday, July 20, 2010

I Hate Kids, Part 525,600

I am on vacation so you are forced to read this old tired summer rerun of a post. If I can pull myself away from the cocktails, I will write something new. In the meantime, this is all there is. My apologies.

The Bitchy Waiter


I may have found my new hero. Someone sent me a story (holla out to Bonnie) about a something that happened somewhere called Hallifax West Yorkshire in England-land. The link is at the bottom of the page but here is the gist of it written in a much more entertaining way and with much worse grammar.

Some family went to the grand opening of a Mexican restaurant and brought with them, as parents are apt to do, their two-year old child, Molly. Jeez, do parents have to take their kids everywhere? It's so annoying. The parents were obviously pretty stupid because they were going to a Mexican restaurant. In England. What the fuck is that? Chicken enchiladas with a side of scone? And English Breakfast margaritas? Whatever. I guess the restaurant was really slammed, or as they say in the Queen's English, "bartle bagged." (I totally made that up.) The family had to wait a long time for their food and I guess (say this with a Cockney accent) the lit'le tyke got a might impatient waitin' for 'er food and threw a bit o' a 'issy fit. (You can stop with the Cockney accent. You're really bad at it.) The article doesn't say exactly what Molly did other than get a bit "moany" and "grumbly" but I am pretty sure I know how she behaved. She wanted to wander around the restaurant and get in people's way and annoy other people who do not have kids. When her "mum" made her sit down, Molly began to scream at the top of her lungs and throw sugar packets and bread pudding spoons all over the fucking place. When the dad threatened to spank her arse, she cried until the food finally arrived making the waiter and every table around her hate dear sweet adorable Molly.

When they got the check they noticed at the bottom of it that something had been typed in underneath the food. It said, "thankyyou littell fucker." Now even though there are some points deducted for spelling, it is clear what was being said. The check called Molly a little fucker. Bravo! Hear ye hear ye! My hero. This server is Queen of all Bitchy Waiters. Capital B. Capital W. Understandably, the family got in a tizzy for insulting their little precious bundle of cunt and demanded an apology and blah blah blah blah. I am sure they got the apology and probably a free order of fish n chips quesadillas too. The sad thing is the person responsible for the "offensive" remark got fired. Or "sacked" as they say they across the pond. The server was just speaking the truth. Had she lived in America maybe she could have stood behind the freedom of speech and all that crap, but seeing that she lived in jolly old England, they fired her British ass. Hopefully, that server will move on to her next position having learned something from her mistake. You can never insult the customer. What I mean is you can never insult the customer where they will find out about it. Say it in the kitchen, write on your pad, think it in your head. Do not print it on their check. Amateur.

CLICK HERE TO READ THE STORY EVEN THOUGH MINE IS MORE INTERESTING

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Monday, July 19, 2010

Desperate Times Call for Desperate Measures

Yes, I am still on vacation so maybe you will enjoy this post from when I was looking for a job last summer. And since part of my vacation is taking place on a train, I thought this was apropos.

The Bitchy Waiter


Looking for a new restaurant job sucks big hairy donkey balls covered in dingleberries. There, I said it. What especially sucks about it is that you have to expel all this energy for something you don't even want to do. And at this time of year, no one is hiring because every restaurant is closing up their patio and cutting shifts. Whenever I walk into a place the bartender or waiter says the same thing. "Hi. One for lunch?" Then I have to say that I am looking for a job and I see their eyes shift into a look of pity towards me. They take my resume to "put on file" but I know what that means. It goes into a drawer for a week and then it gets thrown out. I know this because I have been the one that throws that crap out. But I persevere.

Craigslist is a veritable feast for restaurant jobs, but you never know what you are applying for. I saw an ad today that caught my bloodshot eyes. It said "Waitstaff/Entertainers, Weekends Only." I can do that. I can do waitstaff. I can entertain. I sent my crap via the internets I sent my waiter resume, actor resume and headshot. (Don't judge.) Lo and behold I got a call. The guy starts to tell me about the job and I have to interrupt him to ask him which place he is from. Hello, I have emailed about a thousand places. He tells me that he needs waitstaff who can sing and he sees that I have extensive musical theater background. (Don't judge.) So I am thinking it is some lame ass singing waiter job at like a 1950's diner themed restaurant or something. He asks if I can make drinks. "Sure I can, I do it every night." I didn't tell him I meant at home. Then he asks if I can cook. What does he want? A singing waiter/bartender/chef? Jeez, what am I getting into? Then he tells me it is on a train. A train. Uh huh. For a flat fee of $250, he wants me to meet him at an Amtrak station on Saturday at noon to prep the train. Like I know how to prep a train. A salad bar, yes. Train, no. I would be serving food on a train going to Vermont and then entertain the patrons who, he informed me, are all old . And how would I entertain all these old people? Why with a karaoke machine, of course. I kid not. Then we would spend the night in Vermont and I would be home Sunday night at midnight. What is this? I would be gone for 36 hours. I don't even know this man. What if I get on the train and there is some serious Agatha Christie shit going on? Intrigue, murder and mayhem! And how do I know what kind of place I will be spending the night at in Vermont? He said he had a suite for the crew, but what if I end up sharing a bed with a hairy greasy cook named Bruce? And what if I after all this crap he decided to only pay me twenty bucks? And you know what's really fucked up? I actually thought about it doing it. I asked to think about it for 15 minutes and then I came to my senses and called back and said no thanks.

I just want to serve brunch. Is that too much to ask?

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Sunday, July 18, 2010

I Hope You Choke on Cheese

Yes, I am still on vacation. But won't you please read this post about the first day at my current job. A year ago and I still remember what this asshole looked like.

The Bitchy Waiter


My first day at my new job went off without a hitch with the exception of one huge asshole who sat at table 24. Do they follow me? Am I an asshole magnet? My fellow co-workers were shocked that this guy treated me the way he did. "We never get people like that. I am so sorry you had to deal with him." Poor me, destined to deal with assholes no matter where I work. I may as well be a fucking proctologist.

So this place I work at now is pretty nice. Did I mention we have candles? Yeah, candles. Most of the folks that come in for the shows are prepared to drop a pretty penny for the cover charge and the two-drink minimum. But this guy was different. He plopped his fat ass at his seat. I gave him the shpiel about how he had to have two drinks while there and how helpful it would be to tell me both of them now so as not to interrupt him during the performance. "Do you gots Bud Light?" Being new to the job and seeing that he had a list of beers in front of him, I paused and told him I wasn't sure. I looked at the list and said, "No, sorry just Amstel Light and Sam Adams Light." He informed me that he would have an Amstel Light.

"Alright, sir. And would you like that for your second drink as well?"

"I dunno." Long pause as he stared at me. "I'll tell you what I do want though. Get the biggest glass you have. Fill it with ice. Then fill it with water. Then put a lemon in it. I want two of those right now." I make my way to another table and he calls me again. "Do you have any food?" I suppose he doesn't understand the purpose of the menu sitting in front of him.

"Yes sir, we do. I have hummus and pita chips, spinach artichoke dip-"

"No, no no. Food. Real food."

"That is food sir. We do consume that."

"Meat. Do you have any food that is meat?"

I was staring to hate this guy. "Then no sir, we don't have any food."

"What kind of food do you have then?"

I have now crossed the line from starting to hate this guy to actually hating this guy. I reiterated our food options and he finally agreed on the cheese plate and then berated me for not knowing the price without looking at the menu. He almost choked when I told him how expensive it was, but he ordered it. The table next to him told me "good luck" as I went to ring in his order. He yelled out to me he also wanted a shot of Jack Daniels. When I brought out his beer, shot and two waters (which he never touched) he told me he needed a Coke chaser and he was not paying for it because where he comes from you just automatically get a Coke chaser with a shot of Jack and he was not paying for it and he would not be paying for it. Got it, ass. Fine.

Halfway through the show he leaves his seat to come to the bar and complain that he is dissatisfied with his cheese plate. He was not paying for a plate of crackers with one piece of cheese. He would not be paying for it. Got it, fine. Meanwhile the other server went to retrieve said cheese plate and showed him several pieces of cheese that were still on it proving that it did have more than one piece as he claimed. "Well, I don't like swiss!" (It was edam.) "And I don't know what those other cheeses are!" (They were gouda and brie.) I guess he just didn't recognize his old stalwart cheeses of American, cheddar and Whiz.

We took the cheese plate of his bill. After the show, he walked around the room talking to some of his friends and ignoring me as I waited to accept payment. About fifteen minutes later I hear the other server calling after him as he walked toward the door. "Sir, are you going to pay your check??" Asshole laughed. "Oh my Lord. I totally forgot about it. I'm sorry. How much do I owe you? Hardy har har."

I ran his credit card and you know what the asshole did? On a $49 check, he left me ten bucks. I swear to God, I just don't get people.

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Saturday, July 17, 2010

Frazzled but Happy Stay-at-Home Mom

I loved this one that I wrote a few weeks ago when someone told me to "grow up, have a family and write about something that matters." So I tried it. And yes, I am still on vacation. And probably drunk right now.

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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Friday, July 16, 2010

Waiter, Can You Save My Life, Please?

Hopefully you are not sick of reading tired reposted shit. But vacation calls me. It calls me a bitch, but it still calls me.

xo,
The Bitchy Waiter


Working in a restaurant for so many years, you know that eventually you are going to have to deal with the prospect of someone choking on a piece of food. It ain't pretty and I never want to have to deal with it. I myself choked once and had to have the fucking Heimlich performed on me and that is the last time I try to eat a frozen fucking Snickers bar. For real. Scary shit. Amazingly, with my 83 years of food service experience, I have only seen it happen one time. Black Eyed Pea, Houston, Texas, West Gray Street. Some man who was not in my station started to choke on something. It was probably a grizzly ass piece of chicken fried steak that got all stuck in his wind wipe and shit, but he started doing that waving of the arms and freaking out thing. Since I didn't know the Heimlich and I had never bothered to look closely at the poster that showed how to do it, I took myself out of the equation. Plus, it wasn't my station, so whatever. Well, the man stood up at his table and everyone in the place started to freak the fuck out. People are running around and screaming and yelling. "Call 911!" "Somebody do something!" "Can I please get some more gravy??" He's gagging and gasping for air and the people at his table don't know what to do. Finally, someone at the next table comes to his senses and wraps his arms around the old guy's chest and starts heaving and ho'ing and eventually saves his life. The restaurant applauded the hero who shrugged it off and went back to his meal, no doubt chewing each bite twenty-three times before swallowing. Meanwhile, the old man, excused himself to the men's room to freshen up and wipe off the sweat and gravy from his face. I was surprised that no one from his table went in with him. They all just started eating again like it was no big deal. Maybe they were disappointed that he was okay because they thought they were about to cash in on their inheritance. A while later, Choking Charlie came back out and went to the man who had saved him and shook his hand. It was all very touching and shit. He ended up picking up the tab for the hero and his table and I thought that was pretty cool.

After all was said and done I thought that it was time I take a class on first aid or at the very least look at the poster for choking victims. If this ever happened again, I wanted to be able to take charge of the situation and be the hero and get all the fame and glory. Oh, and save a life too. It occurred to me that as someone who serves food, I should be able to be there for my guest who needs me to reach into his mouth, swipe the airway clean and breathe life back into his body. It was the least I could do and maybe I would get better tips if I informed my tables I was a certified life saver. But I never did it. Shit was too complicated. So if you are ever in my station and piece of hot dog gets lodged in your throat, you are on your own. I ain't got time to be saving no life. I got ketchup bottles to fill.

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Thursday, July 15, 2010

The Brady Bunch Makes Me Happy

I am on vacation so you are forced to read this old tired summer rerun of a post. If I can pull myself away from the cocktails, I will write something new. In the meantime, this is all there is. My apologies.

The Bitchy Waiter


Enough time has passed since I spoke of my true love The Brady Bunch and I must revisit that classic series. I am thinking back to episode #83, "Goodbye, Alice, Hello." The original air date was November 24, 1972 and I just want to reiterate that this was at least ten years before I was born. Do not question this. Just believe that I was born in the 80's. Yeah, the late 80's. Anyhoo, this is the episode where the kids feel that Alice is a snitch and they don't trust her anymore. Peter broke a vase and when Carol asked Alice who did it, she told the truth and got Peter into major trouble. Then some other shit happens that makes Marcia and Greg think Alice is wronging them so Alice says "fuck all y'all bitches" and she ups and leaves for a new career. As a waitress. Now I don't know how much money Mike Brady was paying her ass, but it had to have been more than she was making at The Golden Spoon Cafe (at Fourth and Oak). They only show her working one shift at the cafe but there are only a few tables in there and unless she is working 100 hours a week, it ain't gonna cut it. Plus all of a sudden she had to start paying rent and buying groceries. She had it pretty good at 4222 Clinton Way when she was living with the kids. True she had to clean up and cook for eight people but she had her own room, didn't pay rent and got to eat all the leftovers she wanted. Plus the uniform at the Brady residence was way cuter than that piece of shit they made her wear at The Golden Spoon. Who knows, maybe Alice shacked up with her piece of meat, Sam the Butcher during that episode. I mean, how could she quit her job as a maid and then the next day have a new job and an apartment? So the Brady kids feel all bad and shit for making Alice leave and they really hate her replacement, Kay. Kay is all business and won't even play a game of basketball with the boys when they ask her to. What a bitch, that Kay is. One day Greg, Marcia, Peter, Jan, Bobby and Cindy all go to the restaurant to check on Alice and ask her to please come back home with them. And of course she does. She throws her apron off and hugs them and is so excited that she got her old job back and off they go, leaving The Golden Spoon in a lurch because she was the only waitress and she just leaves in the middle of a shift. She totally burned that bridge and I hope she doesn't ever need a reference from Mr. Foster (he's the owner) because he was probably totally pissed off at her for bailing like that. Someone else that was probably royally screwed was Kay. She just started this cushy new job at the Brady's and then Alice decides she wants her job back, so now Kay is unemployed? I dunno, maybe she can talk to Mr. Foster and pick up some shifts at The Golden Spoon.

The fact that Alice left her waitress job to go back to the kids says a lot about waiting tables. Waiting tables must really really suck if she chooses to be a fucking maid for all those people (and Tiger too) rather than sling hash at The Golden Spoon Cafe. Waiting tables ain't easy. Go ask Alice. She knows.


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Wednesday, July 14, 2010

Homosexual Hounds

Vacation is going swimmingly well. While I am at the pool, why don't you read about some gay dog in Australia.

xo,
The Bitchy Waiter



I was perusing the internet news the other day trying to find something to pique my interest when I came across a news item that happened at a restaurant down under. In Australia. I don't know what those people are sprinkling on their Vegemite sandwiches, but they might be a bit crazy. But then again all my knowledge about Australia comes from Crocodile Dundee and Men at Work so what do I know?

Apparently, this blind man wanted to go eat at a Thai restaurant so he asked a waiter if it would be alright if he came in with his guide dog. (There was a sign saying guide dogs were welcomed, but maybe someone missed the memo that said blind people don't read signs. It's like those signs on the subway that ask if you want to learn how to read and speak English, but the sign is in English so anyone who may benefit from the sign can't fucking read the sign. Vicious vicious circle. Anyhoo.) So the waiter went to ask the owners if it was alright for the dog to come in but he didn't hear the word "guide" dog. The stupid ass waiter heard "gay" dog. Uh huh. And then the owners said no the dog couldn't come in because it was gay. Okay, all together now: what the fuckity fuck fuck? This is wrong on so many levels. Even if this was an actual homosexual canine who liked to get it on with members of the same sex, why would that be the reason the dog couldn't come in? They were going to persecute this dog because they thought it was gay? How stupid was the waiter to see a blind man and not know that it was a guide dog? Now if Elton John had sashayed into the restaurant wearing a frilly frock while holding a dildo and a big pink poodle, sure: gay dog. But a blind man with sunglasses, a cane and a dog with a handle on it? Gay dog? No, dumb ass. Guide dog.

The man left the restaurant and then presumably filed a complaint and blah blah blah. But when the owners were explaining the situation to the court, they said if they would have known it was a guide dog, it would have been fine. They just thought the dog was gay and that was why it wasn't welcome. I don't know these restaurant owners, but I pretty much hate them. They seem small minded, ignorant, rude and clueless. Basically, your typical restaurant owner/manager. They had to issue the blind dude an apology and pay him $1400 in compensation. And in Australia, $1400 buys a lot of Vegemite.

And in case you are wondering, Vegemite is is "a dark brown Australian food paste made from yeast extract. It is a spread for sandwiches, toast, crumpets and cracker biscuits and and filling for pastries." Thanks Wikipedia.

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Tuesday, July 13, 2010

Scamming for Free Food


I am on vacation so you are forced to read this old tired summer rerun of a post. If I can pull myself away from the cocktails, I will write something new. In the meantime, this is all there is. My apologies.

xo,
The Bitchy Waiter


Someone posted something the other day (shout out to Rebecca) that made me remember an event that happened years ago. She was mentioning that age old custom of giving your tables a survey or comment card to fill out to ensure that they had wonderful service and enjoyed their crappy pre-cooked food. Most of the time, people will only bother filling out a form when they want to complain about something. No one ever takes the time to really compliment you on these things except on very rare occasions. The little forms suck, but there is a way you can make them work for you rather than against you. It just takes some effort. And stamps.

When I was working at the now defunct Houlihan's in lovely Times Square, we were always busy with tons of tourists who came into the restaurant because of its familiarity. Don't ask me why anyone would get into an airplane and travel hundreds or thousands of miles and then end up eating dinner at a place that is also in their local mall. But people did. I guess once you're in New York you get so homesick that you need nachos and Sysco food products. Now we didn't have comment cards or surveys there but plenty of times people would ask to speak to a manager in order to complain about the quality of food or their service. It was always surprising to me when people thought their steak or salmon tasted less than ideal or that they thought the service was sub-par. C'mon. It's Houlihan's. In Times Square, for fuck's sake. Of course everything there will suck ass. Eventually I had had enough of people dissing my service. Granted, my service sucked, but I was sick of bitches telling my manager about it. I devised a plan. A very special Bitchy Waiter plan.

One night I typed a letter from a "customer" that praised my serving skills. I went on an and on about how I went above and beyond their expectations. How I recommended what they would like the most on the menu and then how delicious the food was. I even wrote some fake ass bullshit about how good I was with their children and how I made them laugh and finish their veggies. I also wrote that I suggested which Broadway shows they would enjoy. Basically, I said that I was an angel sent from Heaven so that I could serve at Houlihan's. I then put that letter into an envelope, stamped it and addressed it to Houlihan's. Then I put that envelope into another envelope and sent it to my friend who lived in Georgia and mailed it to him. When Ron got the letter, all he had to do was drop it back into a mailbox so it would be postmarked Georgia and no one would ever suspect that I wrote it about myself.

A few days later, the letter appeared. My manager was elated. She was so proud of me that she stapled the letter to the bulletin board so everyone could see what high standards they needed to live up to. I was the superstar waiter of Houlihan's Times Square. Only a couple of people knew that I wrote that shit myself while most people just couldn't believe that someone would write that about me. But there it was in black and white and hanging in the kitchen. And it was postmarked from Georgia so it must be true. The letter stayed there for a few weeks. Best of all, my manager rewarded me with a $50 gift card for TGIFridays. Yep. And all it cost me was about ten minutes of time and two stamps. It really is one of my proudest moments. My manager would be so disappointed if she knew the truth. There was no family in Athens, Georgia who loved me. I'm sorry, Gladys. But thanks for the free food.

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Monday, July 12, 2010

Bad Parenting

So my vacation officially starts today and I had already planned to have a repost happen. However, divinity stepped in and inspired me to write one more thing before I switch over to automatic (read: lame ass) pilot. I was on the F train yesterday headed out to Brooklyn to drop the dog at the kennel. The train was packed with people who were on their way to the loveliness that is Coney Island. By the way, this has nothing to do with waiting tables, but it does have to do with annoying parents and obnoxious children and the two pretty much go hand in hand.

It baffles me that so many people will have children and then treat those children like complete and total dirt. There were two moms on the train with their cumulative five kids. The one mom that was across from me was wearing the requisite fat lady outfit of tight blouse and black stretch pants. When a woman gets over a certain weight, do they just automatically receive black stretch pants in the mail? Is that how it works? Her shirt was black and white horizontal stripes and she was looking like the Pillsbury Dough Zebra. I think she missed the mass text that said horizontal is not flattering. She had on earphones so she was talking way too loud to the other mother. She would ask her a question and then say "wha?" when she couldn't hear the answer. She'd roll her eyes and sigh because she had to physically exert herself to remove the earphones, but then she would put them back in, ask a question and say "wha?" again. Stupid. Her daughter was about four years old and really fat. It makes me sad when I see an obese kid because I know that the only reason they are like that is because of what the parent feeds them. And sure enough. When the little girl started to cry, the mother got her to be quiet by giving her a McDonald's apple pie.

The other mom spent the whole time yelling at her kids to shut up. She had a baby in a stroller who was screaming at the top of his lungs the whole ride. Like everyone on the train was looking at each other with that knowing glance that says, "damn, that lady is one crappy ass mother." The screaming mother had this conversation with the baby:

Baby: Waaaa!
Mother: Shut the hell up!
Baby: Waaaa!
Mother: Whad are youse freakin' cryin' 'bout? You the only one even comfortable here with a seat.
Baby: Waaaa!
Mother: I don't even like you!
Baby: Waaa!

Now, I am not fluent in baby or anything but I am pretty sure he was saying, "oh my God, I can't wait until I am old enough to walk so I can run away from home. Seriously? You're my mother? Somebody save me. Shaken baby syndrome would be better than living with this bitch." I felt bad for those kids. I imagined them in my station and how awful they would be because the mothers didn't know how to teach their kids. I felt really bad. For some reason it made me sad and I got a bit teary eyed. As the water welled up in the corner of my eye, ready to make its way down my cheek I suddenly remembered I was starting my vacation. Woo hooo!! Vacation, here I come!


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Sunday, July 11, 2010

Ahh, New Jersey, How Do I Love Thee?

My first day back to work after three weeks off was as special as I had hoped it would be. I got a ten top from New Jersey who wanted separate checks. Ten. Separate. Checks. What the fuck, New Jersians? New Jerseyites? What in the hell do they call themselves anyway? There are New Yorkers and Texans but what are people from New Jersey? For now, I'll just call them assholes. I convinced the assholes to find a partner so I could give them five checks instead of ten and they were okay with that, but fuck they were on my nerves. The women looked like rejects from The Real Housewives of Poor White Trash New Jersey. They had come all the way into the big city to live it up in my station.

One lady wanted a glass of wine. "Hmmm, do you have white zinfandel?" Why was I not surprised at that request? "Yes, ma'am, we do. Is that what you'd like?" She tilted her head to think about it and as she tilted it, I was pretty sure I could see part of her brain slipping out of her left ear trying to escape and see the light of day. "That's like a rosé, right?" It isn't, but I told her it was pink and she was satisfied. When I brought it out, she told me she had an idea. This is what it looks like when someone stupid has an idea. Do the following: tilt your head, purse your lips, raise your eyebrows and inhale all at once. Did you do it? Do it again. This is what she did and then said, "bring me a drop of seltzer, a drop of ice and a lemon wedge. I'm gonna make me a wine spritzer." After she farted out that idea she looked around for validation like she thought someone would bestow the Pulitzer upon her for such brilliance. She thought she just invented the wheel. Instead, she had just reaffirmed that I hated her.

Another lady wanted a bite to eat. "Maybe I want hummus." But she pronounced it who-miss. This is the conversation she had with herself and the people around her who pretty much ignored her. "Do I want whomiss? I dunno. Honey, do I want whomiss? Would you eat whomiss if I bought a whomiss. I dunno if I want whomiss or not. Do I like whomiss? Would anyone wanna split a whomiss wid me if I bought a whomiss? I think I wanna try the whomiss." She ordered the whomiss. But first, "Are the pita chips fried? They aren't fried, are they because I don't want fried." I assured her that we do not fry the pita chips. Which is true. All we do is open up a bag of pita chips. Maybe someone else fries them, but we surely don't.

They ended up tipping me pretty well and they all ordered their two drink minimum. When they left, their glasses had huge lipstick smears on them and the air wreaked of spray tan and Britney Spears' Curious Eau de Parfum available at K-Mart for $20.64. I was back at work. Life was good.

And seriously, what do people from New Jersey call themselves? And people from Massachusetts too while you're at it.


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