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Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Dancing With The Bitchy Waiter

I can't write today because I picked up this really odd job for three days where I will be selling really expensive jewelry at a convention center. God bless Craigslist. I have worked for her before. It's like selling food but instead of a burger on a tray, I am carrying $10,000 worth of necklaces. I dropped a tray last time and realized I was scooping up precious jewels in the same way I would scoop up greasy french fries. Even though I had to get up at 6:45 this morning, I stayed up way too late though in order to watch Carol Brady on Dancing With the Stars. She kinda sucked. But I loved her. Sorry about this lame post. But I must sell jewels today...

I do not watch Dancing With the Stars because I pride myself on not watching vapid and useless reality television. (Not including America's Next Top Model, Make Me a Supermodel, Project Runway, Top Chef, American Idol, So You Think You Can Dance, Survivor, Wipeout, Design Star, The Next Food Network Star and 16 and Pregnant because I never miss any of those.) But I have never ever stooped so low as to watch Dancing With the Semi-Stars. Okay, I did watch it that one season when Marie Osmond was on it and I got to watch her pass the fuck out on live television and it was great. But other than that, I don't waste my time with that shit. However, I may have to make an exception this year because they have announced their lineup and someone will be dancing that I simply cannot resist watching. No it's not Bristol Palin or The Situation or even Margaret Cho that has made my panties moist. It's Florence fucking Henderson. You know The Bitchy Waiter loves him some Carol Brady. I just do. As proven here. Oh Florence, why won't you call me? Why won't you come to my station and let me serve you? Why are you not my best friend?

Okay, I just needed you to know about that. Carry on.


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Sweet Baby Jesus. The Cake.

When I go out to dinner and sit on the other side of the menu, I am hyper aware of the service that is given to me. A few days ago I went to a restaurant in Astoria called Vesta and had a religious experience. Lemme give a special shout out to the bartender Megan. Someone told me about the place and thought I would like it since they serve, you know, wine. Call me Kathie Lee Gifford, but I have never met a place that served wine that I didn't like. If I order a bottle of wine and they pour a bit into the glass for me to taste, I always feel a bit douchey as I pretend to consider if it's good or not. Will it give me a buzz? Yes? It's good then. But this place was great And they served their wine from a tap. Has anyone else seen that before or am I just so behind the times?

I sat at the bar because I'm cool like that and Megan came right up and handed me a menu. Never having been there, she gave me the lowdown on the place and the specials and even though she was crazy busy, she was patient and attentive. I liked her already. She asked if tap water was alright and I liked her more. You know how some waiters ask you if you want bottled water or tap but when they say "tap" they scrunch up their face like the water's going to come from the toilet so that you'll feel compelled to spend an extra five bucks on bottled? Yeah, she didn't do that. 'Cause she was cool. I ordered a thin crust pizza with potato, pancetta, caramelized onions, apples & goat cheese and that bitch was the tastiest fucking pizza I have had in a long time. It was also covered in arugula which was kinda weird for me because salad is not my favorite thing, especially on top of a pizza, but I ate it and loved it. When Megan was about to clear my plate that still had some arugula remnants on it, she told me to finish it. "I'm full,"I whined. "Honey, eat it it all. It's salad. On a cracker. You can eat that." I ate it because she was right. And I liked it. A coffee was ordered and she set it down and asked if milk was needed. I told her yes and she turned around and started making espressos and cappuccinos for a bit. Thinking she had not heard the milk request, I was about to remind her when she suddenly appeared with it like a dairy fairy. Of course she hadn't forgotten. She just had her mental list of things to do and the milk went on the list as she completed the things before it. A real pro. For dessert she recommended the Sweet Baby Jesus Cake. We were told by someone that the cake was named that because when a lady tasted it once she said it was better than the sweet baby Jesus so that was what they named the cake. It was divine. And I mean that in a holy way. I now worship at the altar of the Sweet Baby Jesus. The cake though, not the son of God. The cake.

I told Megan I would write about my perfect dining experience but I doubt she will ever read this. (Are you, Megan? Give me a sign. Or give me another piece of Jesus.) I just had to write because it needs to be known that The Bitchy Waiter is sometimes a happy customer. And that night was one of those times. If you're in Queens, hit it up. You will not be disappointed.

(And so ends my rambling...)

Vesta Trattoria and Winebar on Urbanspoon

Monday, August 30, 2010

Just In Case You Couldn't Remember How I Feel About Kids

I am taking my lazy ass to the beach today, so please enjoy this (tired from like 18 months ago old shitty) post while I am squeezing out the last days of summer. Sorry, boo bears.

So many mothers have this sense of fucking entitlement like she is the first woman to ever push a baby out of her Sweet Potato Pie Hole. It's been happening for thousands of years, no big whoop. I cannot write enough about my disdain for children in my station. I don't want them in my personal life so why the fuck would I want one at work? But people bring their babies in and then they think it's my responsibility to make sure the music is not too loud. Or they have the nerve to ask me to heat up their baby food. Why would they think I have time for that? It's not my baby. I am supposed to ignore my other tables and then bother the kitchen staff to heat up a bottle of milk? I'd rather you just breastfeed if it means I don't have to do anything. Not that I want to get a close up view of your areola when I refill your Diet Coke. These are the same people who bring babies to an R rated movie and think it's okay for everyone else to listen to it for two hours. No one cares about your baby except the people who know your baby (and some of them only act like they give a shit.) No one in the restaurant wants to step around your giant stroller or listen to it cry or watch you whip out your tit so it has an appetizer. Leave them at home with a sitter. Or just leave it alone while you come out to eat. I am sure it will be fine, whatever. Just leave a post-it note on its head with your cell phone number so if there is a problem the police will know how to reach you. You could always take it to Chuck E. Cheese where they live for that shit. The people who work there love it when they have a room full of screaming babies. Or better yet, order in. We have take out menus. Just don't sit in my station.

Sunday, August 29, 2010

A Wonderful Day for a Picnic

Yesterday in New york City was absolutely beautiful. Central Park was teeming with people, Coney Island had hordes of sun worshippers and the F train had someone having a fucking picnic on it. Wait, what? Yes, I witnessed a picnic. On the F train. At the 34th street station, the temperature was about 138º. Muggy, hot and miserable which is pretty much standard for the MTA this time of year. I noticed a family waiting for the train and they were obviously on their way to the beach. Seeing that it was already 2:30 in the afternoon and the beach is an hour away on the F train, it seemed that they were getting a late fucking start. The family consisted of some grandma types, a few young girls, some baby daddies and a litter of children. The F train was taking a long time to get there (as usual because the MTA sucks and I hate them more than someone asking me to have their burger recooked with no pink even though they asked for it to be medium) and one of the kids asked their sister or mom or whatever for a drink. Luckily, they were prepared because there was a cooler full of ice and beverages right there. Bitch whipped out a styrofoam cup and a two liter bottle of iced tea and poured a drink for her parched offspring. As it so often goes, another kid wanted a drink and then another and then another and then Grandma wanted a Coke. The cooler was propped open and it was a regular soda fountain up in there. Any second I thought I would see one of the fucking Archie comic douches pop up and ask for a milkshake. The next thing I knew someone pulled out a bag of sandwiches and started passing them around. Of course that was when the train showed up. They herded their village onto the F train and I followed behind. I was only on the train for two stops so I didn't get to see the inevitable happen. Surely one of the kids lost his grip on his cup and spilled it all over the damn place. And then Grandam probably chewed on a piece of gristle in her sandwich and spit it out onto the floor. The kids probably started playing hide and go seek thinking this was as good as the day was going to get. Again, I got off the train so this is all speculation. Highly likely and more than probable but speculation none the less.

I won't even eat a Cliff bar on the train because you can practically see the germs floating around in there. But if they want to let their kids roll around on the floor and then grab a handful of Doritos, go for it. Weird. A picnic on the 7 train. Almost as weird as that time I saw a magician (also on the F train...) complete with cape and flying doves. People will do anything on the fucking subway. But the thing I hate the most? Those goddamn mariachi bands that belt out their musica at ocho in el fucking morning. No fucking gracias.

About waiting tables? No. Bitchy? Oh hell yes.


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Saturday, August 28, 2010

New News in the Old Court

In an effort to make this blog more than just me bitching and bitching about the bitches and the bitchy ass things they do, I thought I would scour the internets and find some very important news shit to share with you folks. I dunno, is this totally lame? This site needs something to stir it up. Contests! Prizes! More daily updates! Naked ladies! Seriously though, your feedback can help me take this blog to the next level: from really lame to just kinda lame. Let me know your thoughts and what you like most and least about this site. Email me here with any ideas you might have. Plus when I get a lot of emails, it gives me something to do at work.

Love,

The Bitchy Waiter



There might be some dirty ass eggs out there still.

This food is way overpriced. I want to wait tables there.

No fucking substitutions, bitch.

Finally, a salad I want to eat. Deep fried.

Some waiters aspire to greatness. Others aspire to do this.

I need to work here so no one sees my thumb in their pasta.

Old news. Someone harassed a waitress...

Friday, August 27, 2010

Excuse Me, Waiter? There's a Condom in My Soup

Has anyone else read about the lawsuit where the guy sued the restaurant because he found a condom in his soup? I wrote once about a table that found a fishtail in their brownie bottom pie but I must admit I think a condom is way way worse. You can read the article here but I will synopsize it for you. A man was at a Claim Jumper restaurant in California eating some French Onion soup when he started chewing on what he thought was an extra chewy piece of cheese. He spit it out and his wife was all, "If I had a dollar for every time you spit a condom outta your mouth, I'd have eleven dollars." Again, I am paraphrasing so she may not have said exactly that. Yes, there was a pecker poncho in his soup and he chewed on it. And I thought I was a bitchy waiter. The suit has been settled but neither the restaurant or the poor man who chewed on a love glove claimed liability. Normally, I would say it's the customers fault, but in this case I don't think so. If the man wanted to score some free food I think he would have just used the old "roach in the salad" bit or "broken glass in my ice" routine. More than likely, it was some asshole cook who wanted to fuck with the waiter. And to that cook, I say "kudos." This man really outdid himself in the true bitcheryness department.

I have never heard of this Claim Jumper place, but by looking at their menu it looks like your typical TGIF's or 99 or Applebee's. The main difference is that their French Onion soup comes with a love glove. Now I loves me some French Onion soup and my favorite part is when you get to chew on that melty provolone cheese that has been toasted in the oven. The next time I have it, I will be forced to evaluate it with my eagle eyes to ensure that no one is slipping me a gentleman’s jerkins up in there. And what about the waiter? What can you say when something like that happens? You're supposed to deny it?

Customer: There was a fucking condom in my soup.
Waiter: Sir, I am certain the soup did not have a condom in it because we have only have the utmost intentions to make your meal a high quality experience.
Customer: Well, here it is. Hangin' outta my mouth. How do you think it got there?
Waiter: Perhaps it is left over from last night, sir? I am not certain of your lifestyle and I don't want to judge you.
Customer: Are you saying that I put this in my mouth last night and I've had it there all day without noticing it?
Waiter: Again sir, I don't want to judge you. That's God's job, not mine.
Customer: Excuse me, but the soup came out with a fucking condom in it!
Waiter: That's impossible sir. Maybe it belongs to your wife. Ma'am, is it possible that this is your condom?
Wife: (long uncomfortable pause) What brand is it?


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Thursday, August 26, 2010

Bacon: the Good Part of the Other White Meat

While reading all the comments to the infamous vegetarian post it brought to mind another incident that happened at Pizzeria Uno once and it involved someone eating something they didn't mean to eat. A table had ordered the delicious pizza skins® which were described on the menu as "a single serving of our signature skins complete with mashed potatoes, cheese, bacon and sour cream." Basically, it was mashed potatoes on a pizza crust and I subsisted off of those for three or four months because they were the cheapest thing on the employee menu. One night as I was ignoring my section and eating pizza in the kitchen I heard a commotion out in the dining room. Yelling, crying, the works. Of course my nosy ass immediately dropped my slice and went out to see how I could be of assistance. A table had finished eating their Pizza Skins and then realized that there was bacon on them. The table was Muslim. And pork was forbidden. How they ate a whole plate of something covered in bacon and not question it, I will never know. If you ordered something and it came out with crispy pieces of meat sprinkled all over it, wouldn't you ask what it was just to be certain they weren't rat poops or something? (At Pizzeria Uno, South Street Seaport, a very real possibility.) The family was screaming at their waiter for not telling them they had ordered something with bacon as if it was his duty to know what foods were forbidden by every religion. And even if he did know, did they say, "We are Muslim and we are ready to order now?" I doubt it. They were very upset. The manager intervened and did the only thing he could do; he comped it. That's right, the family had just devoured something that may send their souls to the eternal depths of hell and we took $4.00 of their check. I felt bad for them, I really did. The older woman was clearly devastated. How were we to know though? Shouldn't they have read the menu and asked what bacon was? If they sat in my station, I would've had no idea. I had only just moved to New York City from South Texas, so I only knew about Catholics and Southern Baptists and as far I know they are both allowed to eat heaps and heaps of pork. In fact, in the Baptist religion I'm pretty certain that ham is just as important as Christmas and Easter. The family left the restaurant awash with the fear of their God. They all looked petrified of the future. Well, except for the youngest girl. She was smiling. You know she liked the taste of the bacon. Evil or not, that shit is good.


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Wednesday, August 25, 2010

My Job Stinks

You know that smell we all have after a long day at the job? It's a smell that anyone who has ever worked in a restaurant is intimately familiar with. It smells like the storage room and it has a musty, musky, produce-y, fajita-y smell. When I got off work last night and got onto the N train, the whole car smelled like that. Perhaps a busboy convention was happening somewhere in the city and they had all just let out because when the subway door opened I was hit across the face with the odor. Once on the train, I noticed that about two thirds of us were quite clearly just getting off work. The guy next to me was wearing all black just like myself. Two guys across from me were wearing those kitchen pants that are like a black and white hounds tooth check pattern. I saw at least three other people wearing black pants and white shirts and then one bitch had on khakis and a polo shirt. All she was missing was some high top sneakers, suspenders and some flair and she could have stepped out of Bennigan's circa 1988. She may have just made a bad fashion choice though, not sure. Right then and there I decided that the time had come to stop wearing my uniform on the train. It's just such a pain in the ass to carry it with me. And I never want to leave my uniform at work because there are always people who forget theirs one day and then go to the closet and put on someone else's. An apron sure, no biggie. But don't be wearing my pants. I don't need some gal getting her panty pudding all up in my uniform pants. Honey mustard, yes,. Panty pudding, no.

At 59th Street, someone got on who smelled like bar-b-q. Is there even a bar-b-q place at 59th Street? Or did someone just roll around in a vat of liquid smoke? Either way, not good. I wanted to spritz some fucking Axe body spray all over that train car. I hate the smell of Axe body spray, but I hate the smell of bar-b-q/bus boy/fajita/waiter even more.

You all know the smell, right?



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Tuesday, August 24, 2010

Bitchy Waiter Food Necklaces

As you know, I write. I also act. I serve food. I paint. A regular Renaissance Bitch, is what I am. The Bitchy Waiter now has an Etsy page where I am selling my original creations. Currently, there are some necklaces for sale there that i made. These are necklaces I have been wearing and making for friends for a while and they get so many compliments. Want to take a look? Go to my Etsy page to see if you like anything.

Thanks,
The Bitchy Waiter

Snooki Makes Way More Money Than We Do

It seemed like I had a lot of money when I looked at the pile of bills on my dresser. Everyday, my tips get put into a little stack, minus the 3% that goes into an envelope for my retirement. Upon closer inspection, it turned out that the majority of the bills had George Washington on them and not Andrew Jackson. Sixty dollars looks like a lot of money when its all singles you know. Money is a fickle friend. Most of us never have enough and all of us always want more. So maybe this career choice is not the best. Then again, if I had my druthers I'd be the rich successful actor who has money to burn. How much money? Well, I came across an article on line that tells us exactly how much money our favorite (and not so favorite) actors make each week and it made me want to punch a Snooki in the face. That bitch makes $30,000 per episode for doing The Jersey Shore. How in the hell does she get paid that much each week to get drunk, pass out, and make a fool out of herself? I have been doing that for free for years. I want my back pay immediately. Has she ever had to wait tables? She may look and smell like a piece of bacon but has she ever served it? The list was depressing as hell:

Oprah Winfrey $315 million per year- we get it, Oprah. You're rich. That bitch makes $600 a minute. That's ten dollars a second. In the time it took me to figure out how to do that math equation, she made $9000. (Yes, it took me 15 minutes to compute that, don't judge me.)
Charlie Sheen, Two and a Half Men $1.25 million per episode- What the hell? Isn't he in jail right now? Or drunk or high? Snooky, is that you?
Christopher Meloni & Mariska Hargitay, Law & Order: SVU $395,000 (each) per episode- okay, I worked Law and Order once and I am pretty sure I didn't make that much. My scene was with them and I assumed we were all getting the same pay. If you take off the three zeros and then divide by two, that was closer to my fee. Dammit, I was bamboozled by my agent.
Julie Kavner, The Simpsons $400,000- so she doesn't even have to get dressed or comb her fucking hair to go to work because she sits in a recording studio. If I were her, I would be trying to figure out a way to phone that shit in. After 20+ years of the same job she's probably phoning it in anyway so she may as well do it from an actual telephone.
Jon Hamm, Mad Men $100,000 per episode- Actually, I'm okay with this one. He rocks.
Scott Caan, Hawaii Five-0 $80,000 per episode- how does this happen? I have never even heard of this guy and the show hasn't even started yet. And lemme guess, he gets to live in Hawaii while he's "working."
Rico Rodriguez, Modern Family $15,000 per episode- I think this is the little kid from that show. He is about 11. Yeah, that's fair.

The biggest shock to my system though? It was when I read that Kate fucking Gosselin makes $250,000 per episode for her dumb ass reality show about her kids. No wonder she doesn't want to give up the spotlight despite severely damaging the psyches of her litter. She's making shitloads of cash. And we all know that if she wasn't doing a television show she would be serving the rooty tooty fresh and fruity at the IHOP. Man, I wish I had a uterus. Then I could take advantage of my child bearing years, squeeze out a few all for the sake of reality television. And my bank account. And I could retire my apron forever.




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Monday, August 23, 2010

The Seasons Turn

Today in New York City there is a definite feeling of fall floating in the air. The gray skies and drizzle accompanied with the cooler temperatures tells me that autumn is right around the corner which means that winter is right behind. I hate winter. All of those people who say they like freezing their tits off make me want to snap. They're always like, "oh, but then you get to wear your sweaters and cute coats." Sorry. Wearing a cute sweater is not enough for me to embrace the frigid bitch known as winter. My point is, that once fall is here there is another season that makes its presence known: catering season. Time to pull the used tuxedo out of the closet and scrape off the honey mustard from the last party, because I will be needing to put that shit on and pass around hor d' ourves too soon. Tis the season for a cater waiter.

Every Thanksgiving, I work for a family in Westchester. Or Long Island. I dunno where it is really, I just get on the train they tell me to and then they pick me up at the station. I have done it for three years and they consider me "part of the family." I guess they are referring to that one family member who stays in the kitchen all day and serves their food, washes their dishes and takes out their garbage. What family member is that anyway? Grandma the Housekeeper maybe? Uncle Charlie the Slave perhaps? Anyhoo, that's me. Last time I was there someone brought their friend for dinner and the guy started making small talk with me in the kitchen. "So how are you? Where do you live? What do you do?" I told him I was an actor and I do catering and stuff and this year I got to work on Thanksgiving. He was all, "you have to work today? That sucks. When? After dinner?" I realized he had no clue I was the hired help. It finally dawned on him when I pulled my apron out of my bag, tied it around my waist and opened up a can of cranberry sauce. He was embarrassed. And didn't talk to "the help" anymore.

The year before I was washing all the dishes (by hand, because that's how I roll) when I realized I was familiar with the pattern on the dinnerware. I turned it over and recognized the name of the potter who makes them. It was the same lady that I work for twice a year at the New York International Gift Show when she sells her pieces to stores all over the country. Yes, I had sold these very dishes at one job and here I was washing them at another. It was a perfect circle of subservience. The lady of the house couldn't believe that I knew the lady who had made her dishes. I couldn't believe that the universe had made it so crystal clear that I was having a shitty Thanksgiving. Thirteen more weeks until Turkey Day. Gobble gobble, mother fuckers. Life is funny, isn't it? So fucking funny.


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Sunday, August 22, 2010

Dear Bitchy Waiter

Dear Bitchy Waiter,

Have you ever had a bus person or server steal your tips? What should I do?


Signed, Anonymous


Dear Anonymous,
First, let me thank you for writing in. I only wish you had used your real name because whenever someone uses "anonymous" I think its one of those hater bitches who are always trying to bring me down. And now to your question. Yes, I have had people steal my tips and I blamed it on the bus boy. Those sorry ass mother fuckers always lift the money off the table to wipe it and then when they put the money back down, they keep a dollar or maybe just the spare change. Of course, it's hard to prove, but if you have an idea who is doing it, then you need to catch them red handed so you can report it to your manager and get their thieving ass fired. But how to catch them? There are many ways, but I recommend the following: go to your local Spy Store where you can buy something like a Nanny Cam. Get a high quality one that costs at least or four or five hundred dollars because you want the video to be crystal clear when you upload that shit to You Tube. Install the camera in a light fixture directly over a table in your station. This can be done by accessing the electrical wiring by going into the ceiling. While up in the ceiling, be aware of fiberglass insulation. You certainly don't want to get it on you. It may be best to wear a full body suit that electricians wear and you can pick one of those up at your local Home Depot for not more than seventy-five dollars. Once the camera has been installed, it is time to set your trap. Consciously leave your tips on the table for longer than you normally would so that the greedy thief has plenty of opportunity to steal it. Once you feel that you have caught what you want on camera, simply go back into the ceiling to remove the camera, transfer the tape on to DVD and edit it by using a simple home editing program like iMovie. I recommend you add titles, transitions and music to make the recording as enjoyable as possible. You may find it helpful to take a class at the Learning Annex to learn more about editing. Upon completion, present the DVD to your manager. Make sure you have labeled the DVD and created a jewel case cover for it (use Avery label templates) so that your manager knows exactly what he or she will be watching. After the theft has been clearly seen on video surveillance, it will be a very simple procedure to fire this bitch on the spot. Follow these simple steps and your problem will be solved!

If you feel that this is too complicated and you simply want revenge, slash that bitches tires or use the old iPod flier routine. Good luck!

signed,
the Bitchy Waiter


Do you have an issue that The Bitchy Waiter can help you with? You can email me here and I will answer one question a week!

Saturday, August 21, 2010

I ♥ Veggies

I climbed into my bed of lettuce last night, wrapped myself in swaddling clothes made out of cabbage leaves and prepared to see how my last post about vegetarians fared with readers. What a freakin' shit storm. This one really irked plenty of people and I was not expecting that at all. I mean, when I write about babies being annoying or old people getting on my nerves or a one eyed waitress, I expect some hatin', but this one caught me off guard. The funny thing is, I don't have a problem with vegetarians. I just can't ever imagine being one myself because of my long term relationship with gravy. Some of my best friends are vegetarians. My niece is a vegetarian. And yes, I have even eaten at vegetarian restaurants. I have seen "Food Inc" as was recommenced to me many times and I do eat grass fed organic beef and free range organic chicken and organic eggs. I don't think I wrote anything that was particularly mean about vegetarians, but I need to respond to a few comments that were a bit intense:

"How does the idea of breastmilk ice cream sound to you? conversely, why would you want to suck on a cows tittie for a drink? we are literally the only mammal to drink milk past infancy, let alone from another mammal." We are also the only mammal that wears clothing but I don't think we will all be running around naked anytime soon. And I am not going to give up ice cream but I don't want the breastmilk kind. Titties scare me.

"If you want to be sheltered about where your food comes from, fine. but you shouldn't make fun of people who are obviously more educated than you." I make fun of all people and I am the first to admit that most people are more educated than I am. They just aren't smarter.

"I expect better from you. first foreigners, now this? you should make your next rant about how niggers never tip you stupid fuck." Wow, this bitch really went there? How did she go from a simple post about vegetarians to me being a racist? Fuck her.

"But the BIG POINT: Vegetarians are no fun." I beg to differ. I never once insulted veggies. I am going out to dinner tonight with one and I expect to have a very fun time. She drinks. A lot.

"No longer a fan due to this post." I simply cannot believe that this post was the one that broke that camel's bitchy back. If you reread the post. I don't think I ever was mean about anyone. All I said was it can be a little annoying when we have to accommodate our menu to serve their dietary needs. Get over it.

"Very offensive and not funny at all. and I'm NOT a veggie. disappointed in this, especially by all the idiot comments." Reread my post. I was not offensive. It was the comments that took it to the next level. It's not like I was talking about vegetables and referred to them as Terry Schiavo. Now that would have been offensive. But I didn't do that.

"I agree with the idea that all living creatures have a place on this earth. sometimes that place is next to the mashed potatoes." True. Enough said.

So let us put this issue behind us and live as one big happy family and share the love. By the way, vegans? Now they're complete asswipes.

Friday, August 20, 2010

Vegetarians Confuse Me

I don't get vegans. At all. I mean I understand what they are, I just can't comprehend how they actually want to be one. Maybe its because I grew up in the land of meat and potatoes where the closest thing I ever got to a vegetable was a Bac-o on my baked potato. Oh sure, Mom would open a can of English peas every now and then but that was a mere gesture at the five major food groups. The peas were a facade. I ignored them and had double helpings of Hamburger Helper with Kraft macaroni and cheese. But vegans don't just avoid eating meat. No no no. They have to be so aware of the suffering of animals that they won't even eat cheese because it came from a cow that may have lived a difficult life in order to produce milk. Tough titty said the kitty, but the milk's still good. I find it hard to trust anyone who doesn't eat cheese. Or they won't wear a belt because the leather came from that same sad cow. So what, I'm supposed to wear vinyl shoes and a pleather belt? I saw Alicia Silverstone on Oprah a few weeks ago and she was praising the benefits of veganism. "My skin is clearer, my bowel movements are better, my attitude is happier..." You know what, Alicia? Take some Proactiv®, swallow some Metamucil® with a Paxil® chaser and you'll be fine. Then have some fucking nachos with grilled fucking chicken on 'em. So, what if a vegan raised a baby chicken into adulthood and it lived in the backyard and had the most perfect of lives? The chicken was fed only natural grains, it was showered with love and it got to sit in the coop all day and watch Jerry Springer and Bewitched (my dream afternoon, by the way). One day that chicken pops out an egg. And a vegan wouldn't want to scramble that bitch up? I don't get it.

I hate when vegetarians come into a restaurant and act all offended that the menu has only a few options for them. "What do you mean you don't have a veggie burger? What am I supposed to eat?" "Gee, how about a piece of toast and a glass of water or take your ass down the street to the Grass and Greens Veggie Delite Hut. Whatever." Or there are those vegetarians who will order the chicken noodle soup and just take the chicken out before they eat it. Does that count as being a vegetarian? I don't think so. Or they will order fries; the fries that are fried in the same oil as chicken wings? Does that count? Vegans are the worst though. They will look at the menu for thirty minutes and then try to concoct something that will not cross the imaginary line they drew for themselves. God forbid they should get a piece of bleu cheese in their cobb salad. A cobb salad with no chicken, no cheese, no egg, no bacon is not a cobb salad. It's just a sad salad. I personally order my cobb salad with less lettuce, extra cheese and extra bacon and ranch dressing. But hey, I'm not a vegan. Or vegetarian. I am carnivore, hear me roar.

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Thursday, August 19, 2010

I Am Not an Animal, Part Two

I am not an animal. I may not be Brad Pitt, but I am not an animal. (If you have not seen me before, then I am in fact a dead ringer for Brad Pitt when he was in Thelma and Louise. Seriously, a dead ringer.) Everyone must have feelings of self doubt and insecurity but sometimes in this world people just bitch slap you in the face with a hearty dose of reality soup and make any self esteem that you may have once had plummet into a canyon of nothingness. I have even written about this before. A friend of mine was telling me how she was sick of looking for a new waiting job and it reminded me of something that happened to me a few years ago.

I was in Chelsea walking up and down Eighth Avenue going into every restaurant and dropping of my resume. I came across a sign in a window that made my heart skip a beat because it actually said that they were hiring. Finally, my resume would go into the hands of someone who cared. When I walked in, I noticed two guys filling out applications at the bar. They were both your typical Chelsea boy: gay, muscly, hot and modelesque. Pulling out my resumé, I head to the bar and ask to fill out an application. With all the years of experience in my back pocket, the application seemed like a mere formality. "Hi, I'd like to fill out an application for the server position." The tanned and toned bartender looked at me and paused. He rolled his eye-lined eyes a bit and, "Oh, we're not hiring anymore." I looked at the guy to the left of me diligently filling out his application and then looked at the guy to the right of me filling out his. They both seemed to be figuring out how to spell their own names. Models are dumb. "I'm sorry, what? I asked. The bartender said, "Yeah we're not accepting anymore applications because the position has been filled." I scratched my head and looked at the applications being filled out not two feet away from me. "But you have a sign that says you're hiring." Pause. "Nope, not anymore. Position's been filled." I started to protest and realized that any words I said would be falling upon deaf ears. The words would be landing in the same place that the two hot guys would be landing their facials later. And I was fairly certain that the position wasn't the only thing that was going to be filled that day. With a bad case of sour grapes, I left the restaurant. I didn't wanna work there anyway. Right? Assholes.

With my self-worth in the gutter, I went out to Coney Island and filled out an application for the freak show.

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Wednesday, August 18, 2010

Frazzled But Happy Stay at Home Mom

Oh dear readers, maybe you read my last posts here or here, but I have just been so busy lately that there simply has not been time to write again. What with school starting next week for the oldest, I have been up to my eyeballs in preparation. So much to do. And I love it! LOL! Last night was back to school night at the elementary school and hubby and I went there to meet Suzy Lou's teacher and get her school supply list. Well, the funniest thing happened and you will not believe it. Or maybe you will, LOL. All we knew was that the teacher's name was Miss O'Brady. I certainly didn't know her because we were told this was her first year as a teacher at this school. (Someone told me she had been somewhere else last year, but changed schools for some unknown reason.) I dropped hubby off at the front entrance while I found a parking space for the minivan. (yes, I drove so that hubby was able to take a nap. The poor dear works so hard at the office.) When I walked towards Miss O'Brady's class room, I could hear laughing and joking and I was so eager to join the fun. I walked into the classroom and Miss O'Brady was sitting in hubby's lap and giggling as he tickled her. She was saying, "Oh Robert, you bad boy, stop it!" When they saw me walk in they both stopped laughing and I must admit I was a little bit confused. Within seconds hubby explained it all to me. It turns out that he used to babysit Miss O'Brady when she was little and they lived in the same neighborhood and they were just reliving the good ol' days. Isn't that an amazing coincidence? It's a small world, after all! I just know that Suzy Lou is going to have the best school year ever since we already have such a wonderful relationship with her teacher. Aren't I lucky to have such a wonderful husband who maintains friendships from so long ago?? (I love you hubby, if you're reading this! And if you are reading this, get back to work! JK. LOL!)

I must go now. I have to get to Wal-Mart to buy school supplies and I also need some new Shout stain remover. Hubby came home with lipstick on his collar again last night. Silly man! He's so clumsy that at least one a week he manages to let that happen. This time, he was helping a lady change her tire on the freeway and when he stopped to help her she hugged him. That must be how it happened. Oh well, at least it wasn't his fault. He was just helping a damsel in distress. My very own Prince Charming. Last week though, he tripped at the drug store and fell into he makeup counter. Be careful, dear! I love you too much to have you break your neck! LOL!


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Tuesday, August 17, 2010

A Response to "Foreigners Don't Tip"

When I wrote about how many times foreigners don't tip, I expected plenty of response from other waiters who were like, "no shit, Sherlock." Sorry, foreigners, it's true. A few people from other countries wrote to tell me that the articled had schooled them and they would be sure to tip correctly the next time they visit these shores. What surprised me was the people who were like, "yep, I'm foreign and I don't tip. Deal with it." Oh , hell no.

A Finlandian writes: I'm from Europe and no we do not tip. The way we think: "The waiters get their salary, and hey, the drinks were expensive enough". When I'm in US, I'm aware of the tipping system. But I too would leave just 3 bucks (considering that I only bought some drinks). 15% is waaay too much! For instance, if I spend fairly much on a couple of meals in a restaurant, with the 15% tip, I could already by myself another dessert at least.

Sorry.


What the fuck? I mean, I like your vodka and everything, but you're telling me that you know you should be tipping but you don't do it anyway because we already get our salary and you could buy a dessert instead? 15% is way too much I guess because we are already getting that huge paycheck each week for $8.00. Ladies and gentleman of the jury, I give you reasonable cause to hate it when anyone from Finland sits in your station. Had there been a photo of the reader attached to the comment, it would be plastered all over this page so everyone knows who to avoid.

Another reader comments: Sorry, tipping's difficult when it's not customary. I usually stick to $5 when I come over. Fuck working out 15% - if we're not from America, we're on holiday. Who does maths on holiday? Sorry bitchy waiter ... my family do tip ... just gotta hope we don't spend more than $50 at once, right?

Okay, so this person just claims math deficiency as the reason they don't tip? God forbid if he is on fucking holiday that he pulls out his iPhone with a calculator on it and figures out how to leave a decent tip. It's just a $5.00 blanket tip all around no matter what the bill is, is that it? Because math is too hard to. "Gee whiz, math is tough and I'm a cheapskate. Bloody good and cheers, mate." Fuck that shit. And ladies and gentleman, I give you reason number two to hate the tourists from other lands.

Attention tourists from other lands: please help break the stereotype. If you're on vacation, leave 15% to your server. It will only make it better for the next tourist from other lands who visit and maybe someday we can all love each other like one big happy family. World peace starts with a 15% tip. Remember that.

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Monday, August 16, 2010

McDonald's/Road Rage




Have we all seen this crazy fucking McDonald's addict who loses her shit when she finds out she can't get McNuggets? Supposebly, she was there before 10:30 in the morning and they were only serving breakfast. Well, this ho wasn't going to have that. She briefly considered filling out a comment card and then calling the McDonald's customer service hot line, but then she decided it would be better if she just out out of her car and started beating the shit out of the drive thru window clerk.

I have never had the misfortune of working in fast food. There was a summer after college where I made daily trips to Burger King and Dairy Queen (the royal "we") when I probably should have been put on their payroll, but never have I been officially. With my vast food service experience, if I ever take a foray into fast food, I would probably shoot right up the corporate ladder and be a shift leader immediately. Anyhoo, back to the video. This bitch is crazy for McNuggets but that McDonald's worker is ready for the fight. I particularly like when she grabs that trick's hair and tries to detach it from her head. And then they get the manager up in there too to fight the good fight. Out of everything though, the best part of the video is when she finally flees the scene and the next car drives like nothing happened up and is all, "Can I get a number two combo please? Super size me." The worst part of the video? No audio. In my mind, it goes something like this:

Driver: I want McNuggets.
McD's: We ain't got those. How 'bout a McGriddle?
Driver: I want McNuggets.
McD's: We ain't got those right now. How 'bout a hashbrown?
Driver: Don't make me cut you.
McD's: How 'bout a McMuffin?
Driver: I am gonna kick you ass bitch.
McD's: Manager! Manager!
Driver: (beating her) I'm gonna kick your ass, bitch. I want fucking McNuggets.
McD's: Bitch, I got your hair now, what you gonna do now, huh? What chu gonna do?
Driver: I'm gonna smash the fucking window with my hand and if I can't do that, I'm gonna get in my car and find something else to smash it with. Arrrg!
McD's: How 'bout an apple pie?
Driver: Arrg! (smashes window and drives away)
McD's: Thank you and have a nice day.

Anyone here work at McDonald's and care to share your viewpoint?


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Sunday, August 15, 2010

Dear Bitchy Waiter

Dear Bitchy Waiter,
I need your advice. I have just left my usual spot after receiving half-ass drinks all night from the bartender with the lovely face and ample bosom. After asking to cash out she proceeded to wait on many male patrons and when she finally returned to me with my card and receipt she popped attitude. Should I have clotheslined her like I wanted to?

~Donda

Dear Donda,
I can see how tempting it would have been to wait for this bartender's shift to end, follow her home in order to learn her address and then head over to 7-11 for a carton of eggs to pelt her house with. Very tempting indeed. I do not recommend ever doing this no matter how much fun it would be and how many wonderful memories you would have for the rest of your life. (And on a side note, an open apology to Mrs. Deheul, my 12th grade drama teacher: I'm sorry I pelted your house with eggs even though it was really fun and I am still carrying around those memories from that magical evening.) Donda, you should just let this girl be. We all know she was spending all her attention on the men folk because her big titties were going to help her get bigger tips. Can't says I blame her. I guess she didn't feel like it was worth it to pay attention to you even though there was a hefty Double D tip in it for her. What goes around comes around. Just last week I ate dinner at a bar and the hot young (male) bartender kept ignoring me as he poured attention on all the single ladies. Fine, whatever. But when he gave me my check, the dumbass had forgotten to ring in all four of my cocktails. They were $11.50 each. He fucked up because he was too busy with the hos he thought would tip him more. Did I tell him? Nope. It's happened to all of us. I left him a 30% tip on what he did charge me but it could have been so much more. Never fear. The bartender that dissed you will have her chance at getting dissed in return.

Love,
The Bitchy Waiter

Saturday, August 14, 2010

Rise and Shine, Bitchy Waiter

Oh it's so early for me to be up. How do people wake up at the crack of ass to serve breakfast? Not being a morning person (or afternoon person and not so much of a night person either) getting up before 7:30 AM is one tough cookie. My alarm went off this morrow at precisely 7:30 AM so that I could get to my job o' the day which is selling jewelry at a Gift Fair. (Don't ask, but I will be selling pottery for the next four days...). When I venture out my door at this ungodly hour what shall I see? Milkmen and paper delivery boys? Roosters walking around saying, "cock a doodle doo, bitch, it's early" and farmers off to milk cows? Will the air be fresher as the gentle fresh breeze of the new day whispers sweet nothings to me? Will I finally meet the morning shift of homeless people? Will I get a seat on the goddamn 7 train? I dunno what the world is like at this time.

I lived with a friend (hey Kimmy!) who used to serve the early breakfast shift every day. She rolled her ass outta bed at something like 4:30 every morning. The only good thing about it was she was done with work at 11:00 right when I was waking up and it always made me so jealous. And then the tables turned around at night when it was only 8:00 and she was having to go to bed before Melrose Place (the original one with Dr. Kimberly Shaw) even started. Life ain't easy for us mornin' risers. It just ain't. And what time did you get your ass up today?

Friday, August 13, 2010

Knit One, Pearl Two

I went out to dinner Thursday night for some much needed organic hamburger action and Berry Cosmos. I chowed down on that burger but used a fork and knife because I am so dainty and shit. Sitting at the bar and scanning the room to check out all the servers and pity them because they were at work and having to drink their Berry Cosmos out of paper cups hidden behind computers while I drank mine out in the open, my gaze fell upon a nine-top that was seated a few tables away. The woman at the end of the table appeared to be knitting. I was all, "who the fuck is knitting in a restaurant?" when I realized the answer was the other eight people she was sitting with. These bitches was all having a freaking knitting circle at the restaurant. They weren't even old ladies, although that would have only made a little bit more sense. These women were in their late 20's/early 30's and knit one pearl two-in' all over the place. Allow me to correct myself. There were eight ladies knitting and one man knitting. The man really fit in with his handlebar mustache and big gold hoop earring. Was this a bad dream? Was I really seeing a man with a handlebar mustache knitting while I am sitting a few feet away in a reasonably hip restaurant and having a cocktail?

When the waiter came out with their food he was forced to wait a couple of minutes while they slowly put away their yarn and needles and finished up the row they were each working on. Now I am not a mind reader, but I am pretty sure that the waiter was thinking, "Hurry up and put your shit away so I can put down your goddamn food. What the fuck are you doing here anyway? You're in a freakin' knitting circle. Shouldn't you be at a retirement home or in 1940?" Again, I am not psychic, but I got that vibe from the airwaves. They finally cleared away their crafts and stared eating. Well, all except for Handlebar Harry. He kept knitting. I guess it was imperative that he finished his masterpiece sofa throw right then and there and food be damned! Eventually, he ate a little bit, but you could see in his eyes that he would rather be knitting. As the rest of the table finished their food and the waiter cleared the table, the knitting came out again.

Perhaps this is the new social thing. Did I miss the mass Facebook message that told me that knitting in large groups at public places is cool? If so, I will jump right on board with it because I desperately seek attention. The next time I go to brunch, I will be taking all my scrapbooking supplies. Mimosas and crafts. What can be better?

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Thursday, August 12, 2010

Foreigners Don't Tip

Let me start out by apologizing to anyone who may be from Europe or some other country where it is not customary to tip your server. But some of you suck. In this country, we tip.

I went to work last night assuming the good mood from the night before would just carry over to the next day. Working in a performance space, the type of show is what affects the audiences and therefore my tips. Last night's was some French/Brazilian/New York World Music kinda shit. His fans were really into it, but there were a few things they were not into at all: making reservations, showing up on time, manners or tipping. We had reservations for 17 people which is easy for one person to handle. By the time the show was over, they had mushroomed to 40 people which is very difficult for one person to handle. If these bitches had made a reservation, then we would have had two servers on. Over half of them showed up after the show had started making it really impossible to keep a routine. They dragged in ten or fifteen minutes into the performance. I assume they were still on European time or something, but I thought the time difference was a few hours or something, not 15 minutes. Of course they were all rude when they got there because they were already missing some of the show like it's my goddamn fault they were late. And they could not grasp the two drink minimum concept. I ended up putting a lot of $5.00 minimum charges all over the fucking place. Here is the conversation I had with booth 6 which had two minimum charges on it:

Foreigner: Err, pardon me, but what is this ten dollar charge here?
Bitchy Waiter: We have a two drink minimum as we told you at the beginning of the show so I had to add the minimum charge.
Foreigner: But we had two drinks, a seltzer and a Cabernet
Bitchy Waiter: Sir, it's two drinks per person, not per table.
Foreigner: (grumble, grumble, grumble)

Does this dude really think that's gonna fly with me? So if I crammed eight people into the booth, he thinks they could just get two drinks, a straw and call it day? No, asshole, that would be 16 drinks. Of course, he didn't tip me.

Booth 3: Three girl with last names that had no vowels in them. Their check was $137 and they wanted to split it three ways with three separate cards. Apparently they really like that number because each of them only left me $3.00. Crap bitches.

Table #14: The man was fasting for Ramadan and could not even drink water. We were cool with that and I didn't charge him even the minimum charge since it's for religion and all. His friend though had only one glass of wine so she got one minimum charge. He was not pleased but she wasn't fasting, right? No, she wasn't. Their bill was about $35. They left me three bucks.

At the end of the night, I hated everyone there. The performer gave me a copy of his CD when he left. Like that would make up for the three twenty dollars bills I was making that night even though I was non-stop in the weeds the whole night. A CD. That's just great. Who the hell even buys CD's anymore? I'll regift it the next time I am forced to be in some lame ass Secret Santa drawing.

Foreigners: please tip at least 15% or you perpetuate the stereotype and we continue to hate waiting on you.

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Wednesday, August 11, 2010

My First Day Back Didn't Suck

Last night was my first shift back to work and taking drinks to people in return for tips. Nine whole weeks have passed since I have handled any cocktail that wasn't my own and I managed to get through the night without forgetting that the martini was for table 6 and not for me. I think it was the afterglow of my hero mixed with a healthy dose of mood stabilizers that allowed me to get through the night. I was in a good mood, but don't get me wrong. I ain't saying that I had rainbows shooting out of my ass and I was tiptoeing through any fucking tulips or anything, but things were smooth. It's almost like the customers knew it was my first day back and they all took a chill pill before sitting in my station. I was prepared to pull a "See Ya' later, Steven Slater" if somebody gave the crusty eye. Taking a cue from Mr. Jet Blue, I went in prepared for an emergency exit. My evacuation slide wouldn't have been as fancy as his of course since I had to make it with things I could find in and around my home. I MacGyvered an emergency evacuation slide using an an air pump, duct tape, Aqua Net hairspray cans and a Slip 'n Slide. It was then then crammed into a My Little Pony backpack. I also had a Cosmo in a canteen that I would crack open as I slid down. Wearing that shit all night was a wee bit cumbersome but it seemed necessary. You, know, for emergencies.

At the end of the night I was impressed with myself that the ripcord (made out of shoestrings and Silly Bandz)) never got pulled, when all of a sudden I looked into the room and saw some people who had let their Welcome Wagon coupon expire. The show had been over for almost half an hour and all of my sidework was done but these five people thought they had already gone home and were sitting in their living room chatting it up. I stood nearby shooting evil eyes and imaginary hippo farts at them when a co-worker asked me if I wanted a glass of wine. Immediately, I ceased to give a shit about the lollygaggers and ran to the bar where my chardonnay/pinot/blanc/whatever waited for me. By the time I slurped it up, the table had left.

Survived day one of actual work. Not too shabby.


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Tuesday, August 10, 2010

Waitress of the Sky Loses It, Becomes God

By now you may have heard of my hero of all heroes who decided that he needed Calgon to take his ass away immediately. A Jet Blue fight attendant had words with a passenger who started to remove his luggage from the overhead bin before the aircraft had come to a complete and final stop. The Waitress of the Sky known as Steven Slater told the douchedbag customer to sit his ass down since the captain had presumably not turned off the fasten your seat belts sign. Of course the customer was full of self importance and ignored the rules. When his luggage hit the steward(ess) on the head, all hell broke loose up in that cabin. According to legend, (because this is what it will always be to me, just like Paul Bunyan and his Big Blue Ox), my hero went up to the PA system and cursed this bitch out and then said that twenty years in the airline business was enough. He grabbed a beer, said, "It's been great" and then made the coolest and bitchiest exit ever in the history of quiting a job. He activated the emergency slide and slid his ass outta there and drove his ass home. Steven: next time you do this call me. I will come and get you in a white stretch limo and there will be buckets of champagne chilling in the back seat. The floorboard will be covered with rose petals and Queen will be singing "We Are the Champions" as we motor out of JFK in style. All service employees will salute you as we make our way to the Canyon of Heroes for your ticker fuckin' tape parade.

I have quit jobs before but this air hostess knows how to do it right. In the future when I decide to leave a job, the bar has been set so incredibly high by this modern day customer service hero that it may be impossible to surpass. As I face my first day back to waiting tables after a nine week hiatus, I am considering bringing my own emergency evacuation slide with me to work. I want one real bad. I can see it now. As I stand over booth five waiting for an ancient old lady to decide if she wants sparkling water, flat water or to just give up on living altogether, I pull the rip cord and grab a Cosmo. As the slide opens in a matter of seconds the sheer force of it knocks the old lady back into 1922. She then orders a Sarsaparilla float and starts to do the Charleston as I slide my ass outta there and live happily ever after. This, unlike our Steven Slater who was arrested a short while later and may have to go to jail for his drama queen ways. I doubt it though. I think any judge would be like "A for effort, but don't you do it again. Now get outta here, you crazy kid and don't let me catch you in here again." He probably lost his job for this stunt but I say write a book about it and sell the movie rights to Lifetime or Logo. Or at the very least, become a Deity so I have someone to pray to every night.

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Saturday, August 7, 2010

Am I Famous Yet?

Since I am currently a full-time actor (for one more day) and I was recognized the other day while buying ice cream on Main Street, I thought I would rehash an old post about celebrities. You know, since one sixteen year old girl asked me if I was in "that play" I am a total celeb (in my delusional mind).

I hate waiting on celebrities. I haven't had to do it very often because famous people don't usually come into the places that I sling hash. Generally, they like to go to places that are not chains, franchises and/or crappy and I usually work at places that are chains, franchises and/or crappy. If a famous person comes into a place I work, then I instantly question their judgement and credibility. Once when I worked in Times Square at the Houlihan's a soap opera actor came into my station. It was the old guy who played Palmer Cortlandt on All My Children. I think he's still on it. Anyhoo, he sat in my station with this really hot Latin guy who was about 100 years his junior. Palmer looked like he just came off the set of the soap because he was wearing a freaking ascot around his neck. The young guy was all flirty with him and and then Palmer paid for their lunch on his credit card. I ain't judging or anything, but can you say "sugar daddy"? He was really nice though and it was exciting to see someone from one of my stories. Several months ago Ivanka Trump came into VYNL where I was working at the time. Obviously, she was slumming or she wanted to see how poor people live because she came in to have an $8.99 omelet. I didn't wait on her. My friend did though and said she was alright, but only left a 15% tip. C'mon! Bitch, we know you have hundred dollars bills flying out of your ass and you're only going to leave four bucks? Bump it up to 20% and share the wealth.

Another person I know said she served the Grandma from Everybody Loves Raymond once. She seems like such a sweet old lady. Doris Roberts her name is. Apparently though, she's a dried out vagina lip. This colleague told me she ordered a two-minute egg. And sent it back five times. Five times. After the first time, don't you think the chef (fry cook) would actually time it to make sure it was really two minutes? And then a third time? And fourth time? And a fifth? Get real, lady. You ain't the Queen of England. Maybe the egg just didn't taste right to her because her taste buds arenow fossils. Or maybe she secretly hated eggs because her last ovary fell out of her cooch back in the Roaring 20's. Whatever the reason, it's no excuse.

If I ever see a celebrity in my station, I don't want 'em. I have ignored Connie Chung and I will ignore any other famous person too. Famous people are just people who lucked out. If they sit in my station I will treat them just like the stroller mom or the old homeless lady who pays with coins: like crap.

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Friday, August 6, 2010

Bitchy Waiter Advice

Someone sent me a Facebook post asking for my advice about how to deal with a co-worker. That's right. Someone was looking at me as their own personal Dear Abby. My plan was to copy that post and respond to it here, but they removed it before I had a chance to extol my wisdom. So I shall paraphrase her quandary:

Dear Bitchy Waiter,
First off, let me say how totally and completely amazing you are. You are the first thing I think of when I wake up and the last thing I think of before I fall asleep. Anyway, I need your help. My friend works with a woman who constantly steals tables from other people and no amount of reminding her what her station is seems to matter. I can't go to management with this problem because there basically is none at the restaurant. What do you think my friend should do?

Signed,
Worried Waitress

Dear Worried Waitress,
This girl that your friend works with sounds like a total bitch ass pain in the hoo ha. First off, I would take the matter to management. Even if she thinks the manager won't help, they are the ones to go to first. If they are so completely unhelpful, maybe another place to work is the answer. I would also go to the ghetto bitch and gently remind her that she is taking care of a table that are not hers. If that does not help, you have my permission to go passive aggressive on her ass.
This may not affect what tables she takes but it will make your friend feel a whole hell of a lot better. Get her cell phone number from the contact sheet. You then open up your handy dandy Word application and draw up a flier for an imaginary iPod that you are trying to sell for $50. Just explain that it's basically new but you got a new one for your birthday and want to get rid of the old one. Post the phone number of the table stealing whore on the flier. Then make sure that you say that she works odd hours so the only time to call is after midnight or before 8:00 AM. Make about a hundred fucking million of these fliers and head to your nearest college campus. Put these bitches up everywhere. I guarantee it will make her cell phone ring like crazy. I would also suggest that they text her so that she may go over her minimum texts for the month and have to start paying for them. Just to make sure that it's working, go to a pay phone (not a number you want traced) and call the number to ask about the great deal on the iPod. If she responds with "Stop calling me!! It's a wrong number!! Stop fucking calling me!! STOP!!!" then you know your work is done. Not that I have ever done this. Why, that would be mean and bitchy and horribly unlike me. Uh huh. Sure. Good luck.



Signed,
The Bitchy Waiter



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