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Thursday, September 30, 2010

Dear Bitchy Waiter

Thursday means it's time for some heartfelt advice from The Bitchy Waiter. Do you have an issue that The Bitchy Waiter can help you with? Job, personal, relationships? You name it. You can email me here and I will answer one question a week. Or just email me to say hello. It makes me happy. Let's see what we find in the mailbag today:

Dear Bitchy Waiter,

First off, let me say that I am a huge fan. Your blog is very hilarious all the time and whatnot. But anyways I need to ask you something. I have this friend, and to put it mildly he is a complete jackass. He is always talking about how he wants to hang out with me, and spend time with me, and blah blah blah but on the rarity that we do hang out he is on his god damn i-phone the whole fucking time. I have seriously considered just chucking his phone at the wall, or into the toilet, or out a window...something that would cause it some harm, but I don't want to piss him off cause he can be a good friend...sometimes. Anyways, what would you do?

Signed,
Friend of a dumbshit.


Dear Friend of a Dumbshit,

Thank you for your kind words about the blog. Your friend sounds like he cares more about his i-Phone than his friendship with you. If you think he is a dumbshit and a jackass, then why do you want to bother trying to salvage the relationship? Okay, okay, so he can be a good friend some of the time, but don't you want people in your life who can be a good friend all of the time? That is a decision you will have to make. I do have a couple of suggestions though for the next time you spend time with this jackass dumbshit that might make things better for you.

Why don't you schedule a certain time to hang out with him-very specific, like Friday from 4:00 to 6:00. In the meantime go to the "casual encounters" section of your local craigslist and set up an ad for your friend. Make him sound like he's be really fun to get to know and then post his cell phone number on the ad but say they can only call on Friday between 4:00 and 6:00. That way, the next time you hang out together, he can still be on his i-Phone all the time just like normal, but you will get a kick out of it too. (Beware: I think this is totally illegal...) It's a win win situation.

Another thing you can do is simply tell him that if he really wants to hang out then you need him to take a fucking chill pill from the goddamn i-Phone. I know some people like that and it's fucking annoying. Your friend needs to hear it. This is probably the most mature way to handle things but personally, I go for the whole passive aggressive craigslist casual encounters prank. Immature? Yes. Funny as hell? Yes, indeed. Good luck!

Love,
The Bitchy Waiter

You can read more great Bitchy Waiter advice here.






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Wednesday, September 29, 2010

Sifting Through Craigslist

I am always on the prowl for a new job, be it waiting tables, selling pottery at a trade show, putting on a huge trash can costume to walk in the Macy's parade or getting paid to make some pillows because someone posted on Craigslist that she needed that done. And yes, I sewed pillows for her. Met her ass at a Starbuck's, picked up the fabric and her designs and two days later got paid $150 for throwing together some ugly ass pillows for her daybed. And the trash can gig? Yes, it's real too. The proof is in the picture. Seriously, there needs to be a Craigslist app for my phone because I am on that bitch all the time. Here is what has caught my eye lately in my quest for employment:

We are holding an open house TODAY for Servers, Dishwashers, Porters, and Prep! Interview and get hired ASAP! Open House hours are from 12:00pm-5:00.
Okay, this will be a huge cluster fuck shit show. Don't bother. There will be about 200o people there, they will take your resume and then never call you. Don't waste your time.

Looking for experianced reliable waiter/waitress for busy resturant. Experiance with mediterranean or Turkish food a plus. Full time/ Part time
Why the hell would you want to work for someone who can't even spell the word "restaurant" correctly? And they also misspelled experience. These people are dumbasses who will never get your paycheck right. Stay away.

Looking for young, attractive, and experienced bartender/server to work at a fast paced popular spots bar. Please email resume with a picture.
In other words, we are looking for a girl with big tits.


We have a position open for a female daytime bartender ,their will be 3-4 shifts per week ,N,Y,C FOOD PROTECTION PREFERRED , ALSO N,Y,C EXPERIENCE A PLUS ,
This person does not know the difference between a period and a comma or the difference between "there" and "their" either. And I don't think I know what the hell "food protection" is. Can someone chime in with they're definition for that? Thanks, I appreciate, that, a, lot.


We are seeking a Part time dishwasher to help with restaurant setup and cleaning . Ideal candidate Must be available fridays 4-11pm and sundays 9-3pm. Must have transportation and proper documents to work. $10 per hour and meals included. Approx 13 hours per weekend. Position available October 8 2010 and ends in June 2011.
This sounds pretty good to me. The Bitchy Dishwasher? I like it. I wonder why the job is only for eight months though. The current dishwasher must have gotten knocked up.

And these are just the ones that were in food/beverage/hospitality. If you want to see some real winners, you gotta look under ETC, creative, and events. Wish me luck as I peruse the listings in search of the next great job. Or at the very least, the next great blog posting.
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Tuesday, September 28, 2010

A Comment on Comments

Every now and then, I like to pull a comment that ruffled some feathers and respond to it. Normally, I let things roll off my back because I am such a calm and easy-going kind of person. My post about Reichen Lekmkuhl really upset one Anonymous person and it was just crying out for a response.
Anonymous said...

I have a Google alert for Reichen and that's the only way I was led to your sorry blog. He's more famous for being admired for his military service and gay rights advocacy, and rise from total poverty, and less of a famewhore, like a waiter who is trying to get people to look at him for...being a waiter and a bitter queen. You should read Reichen's book. You are truly ignorant of this guy. I saw his play and it was hilarious. I look at the good in life. I'm sorry such a good accomplished guy had to be so close to your miserable company.

Ouch, Anonymous. That really hurts my feelings. I have to say Reichen is not more famous for his military service and gay rights advocacy, neither of which I intend to diminish. But let's be honest. We had never heard of him before he won the fucking reality show, so in truth that is what he is famous for. I called him a famewhore, this is true. Then you tried to insult me by calling me one too. Guess, what. I already admitted that about myself in that same post, so I'm rubber you're glue. Whatever you say bounces off me and sticks right up your ass. But he is kind of a famewhore, right? Doesn't he have another reality show just about to start and in all the ads he's in a bathing suit? If you do a Google image search of Reichen (here, I'll do it for you), you see a lot of him with his clothes off. I don't really see him in his military uniform and doing book signings that often. Not that I blame him for posing in his underwear all the time. If I looked like that, I'd be naked all the time too. Hell, I would never buy clothes again. And about his play? Sorry. I didn't like it. It aimed for the lowest common denominator to get laughs and relied on heavy stereotypes. I read several other reviews that agreed with me. His acting was a bit wooden but I commended the way he looked in his underwear as did almost every other review that was written. And as for you feeling sorry that such a good guy had to be so close to my miserable bitter queen company? Don't feel bad for Reichen for being in the same restaurant as me. He doesn't know me. He didn't know I was there, and I am sure that his evening was not spoiled by the fact that he was in close proximity to me. In fact, I am fairly certain that he was not affected at all. He'll be fine.

Thanks for the comment, though. I always love when I am able to push a button in someone and make them want to write out a sentence or two to share their thoughts. Thank you for exercising your first amendment right by saying whatever the hell you feel like saying. That's what I do too. On my blog: The Bitchy Waiter.

Monday, September 27, 2010

Proud Waiter Keeps on Rollin'

Have you ever had to wait on someone you really didn't want to? No, I don't mean that lady with the cold sores all over her mouth or that gaggle of stroller moms. I'm talking about someone you knew that you just could not face being their server. It can be awkward when someone from another part of your life turns up in your station and you suddenly are their subservient.

Many years ago when I worked at the Black Eyed Pea in Houston on Highway 290, someone came into my station who looked familiar to me. It was this guy from high school. Let's call him Guy. Guy was Mr. High School. He was popular, handsome, a cheerleader, smart, and he dated the girl that I thought I was in love with. (Dawn, are you reading this?) He was everything I wanted to be and he kinda made me sick in that jealous-I-want-your-life kinda way. And suddenly he is sitting in my station and I am about to have to go ask him if wants rolls or cornbread. I looked down at my uniform and noticed the gravy and butter stains on it and then looked at Guy who was wearing a suit and tie and was with three other men in business attire. I regressed back to high school on the day when we were having our school photos taken and I had forgotten. Guy was wearing this really cool purple sweater that I coveted and I was wearing some stupid ass t-shirt.

"Can someone please take table 14 for me? I can't do it?"
"Why? You're not even busy. It's four men in suits. You don't want it?"

I just couldn't do it. I was embarrassed. I had left high school to go to college in another state to study the theater and make it as an actor. Years passed, and I was back in Texas waiting tables and here was Guy. In a suit. During the lunch rush. In my mind at the time, wearing a suit and going to lunch at noon meant success. He certainly wasn't a waiter, that's for sure. When he left, I watched him drive away in his fancy Chrysler LeBaron which he had parked right next to my old Honda Civic. I went into the bathroom to splash some reality on my face and went on with my day. I felt like a loser. A gravy stained, chicken fried steak smellin' loser.

This was years ago. I have changed. Yes, I still wait tables and as much as I bitch about it, I know the reason I do it. I do it because I still remember what I wanted to be when I grew up: an actor. If Guy came into my station now, I would be proud to wait on him because I would be able to say that I am still pursuing my dream. It may not look like I have that much success to someone who is ordering a cocktail from me, but I know that the level of success I have surpasses many others in this world. I think just the fact that I still dream and hope and try says a lot about a person's achievements. If Guy was in my station, he may be a lawyer or a banker or some other bullshit boring ass profession like that, but I guarantee that when he was 16 years old, he didn't want to grow up to be that. I am what I wanted to be: an actor. An actor who supplements his income by waiting tables, but an actor nonetheless And that is a major achievement. So today, let us all be proud of ourselves for doing what we do. We have this job that allows us to make a decent living and it also gives us the opportunity to do other things. We can continue our educations, we can take extra days off, we can pick up extra shifts if we want to make extra money, we don't have to think about our jobs once we punch out and we can carry a tray like nobody' fucking business.

Yes, I am a waiter. A bitchy waiter. But a proud one because this job lets me be what I want to be more than anything in the whole world: a creative, happy, young at heart, financially stable actor. And all those Guys out there? They can keep their Chrysler LeBaron's. I have my dreams.

Do me a favor. If you like this post, share it with someone. Let's see how many people we can get to comment that they too are proud of their bitchy ass waiting tables job.



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Sunday, September 26, 2010

Awkwardness With Reichen

I had an awkward moment the other night and I'm not talking about the usual awkward moment I have when I put on my apron and think "what the hell am I doing with my life?" It was a different awkward moment.

I went to eat at a restaurant that is owned by my former employer. I have written about him before and kinda raked him over the coals a little bit when he closed the place I worked and dumped us all with no warning. I won't say what restaurant I used to work at because that would be totes unprofessional. But I went to his other place to eat because I like the food and sometimes I know someone there who will give me some free shit. As soon as we walked in, we noticed that Reichen Lehmkuhl was having dinner there. Does anyone know who he is? He won the reality show The Amazing Race a few years ago and has parlayed that success into some quasi-level of celebrity. He's a total fame whore and will do anything for attention if he thinks it will make him a little bit more known. (In other words, exactly like me...) He was doing a play here in New York City recently and I wrote a review about it because it's one of my many fucking jobs that I have. He was pretty bad in it and I gave the show a pretty shitty review. So there I was a just a few feet away from this man whom I had said was a bad actor but looked really good in his underwear (not unlike me.) He didn't know who I was and there was no chance he would realize that I was one of the people who had reviewed him so poorly, but it was weird.

The hostess took us to our table and then I saw John, the owner of the restaurant, at the bar. Seriously? Now there were two people in this place who I had totally reamed online? I had heard that the owner knew I had trashed him on my website and here I was just three feet away from him and hoping that someone would give me free food? Awkward. I slid into the booth as quickly as possible so he wouldn't see me. It would have been very embarrassing to have been asked to leave because my mouth was watering for a chicken chilaquiles and a gingerita. He never saw me. Or if he did, he either didn't remember me or didn't give a shit. After a few sips of tequila, I didn't care anymore either.

Reichen eventually left never knowing of course that his bad reviewer was so close by. I suppose the only way he will ever know is when he sees this posting. You know his ass has a Google alert that tells him whenever his name goes on to the Internet (again, just like me.) But I started to think about my reckless behavior and how immature it is of me to spout off things about people and then just post it on the Internet. Hey, maybe I am being irresponsible. Maybe I'll grow up and try to really think about what I write. Hey, maybe I'll dye my hair. Maybe I'll move somewhere. Maybe I'll get a car. Maybe I'll drive so far they'll all lose track. Maybe I'll sleep real late. Maybe I'll lose some weight. Maybe I'll clear my junk. Maybe I'll just get drunk on apple wine. Me, I'll be just fine and dandy.

(Anyone recognize the musical theater reference there?)



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Saturday, September 25, 2010

The Truth About Fajitas

There is a dirty secret about Mexican food in the restaurant industry and I want to share it with you right now. It isn't that the guacamole is very often frozen in big gigantic bags that get thawed out in a sink of hot water (I'm looking at you, Houlihan's.) It isn't that the "authentic Crema agria" that is topped on the enchiladas is the same old tired ass Sysco sour cream that goes on the baked potato. And it isn't that the Mexican workers in the kitchen are all undocumented. It's about fajitas.

You know that big cast iron skillet that comes to the table overflowing with carne and pollo and vegetables and it's always screaming with sizzle and steaming with style? It's fake. Those fajitas are not cooked on that skillet. Those skillets are stored under the burner so they get good and hot. The meat and the veggies are all cooked whenever and then just sit under the heat lamp until the rest of the order is ready to go. When it is time, they put the fajitas on the hot skillet which is then placed on some old funky woven straw basket bullshit or a piece of wood. And then right before they go out, someone picks up a squeeze bottle of oil or water and they jizz all over the skillet. Abracadabra: steam. And then when it gets to the table, it looks like the meat was actually cooked on this authentic Mexican fajita skillet. Customers are always so impressed.

customer: Oh my God, would ya look at that plate of fa-jee-tas? It looks so durn good.
waiter: Yeah, be careful, it's hot.
customer: Ethyl, listen to that sizzle. You can tell by the sizzle that these are gonna be good.
waiter: Yeah, be careful, it's hot.
customer: I betcha they have a little old Mexican lady back there makin' these just like she did in her village in old Mexico. My Lordy, I cain't wait to eat these. My glasses are all steamed up! Ethyl, did ya' see that? My glasses got all steamed up from my authentic Mexican fa-jee-tas? That is amazin'. (He reaches towards the skillet) OUCH! Oh, Lordy, I burnt my hand on this authentic fa-jee-ta skillet. Gosh durnit that stings.
waiter: Yeah, be careful, it's hot.
customer: Can I get some extra tor-till-as?
waiter: Yes sir, I will ask Rosarita to please make you a few more as soon as she gets back from walking the burro.
customer: Grass-i-ass. I love fa-jee-tas.


And now you know the truth.


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Friday, September 24, 2010

Glitter and Be Gay

I just spent the last three days not waiting tables because I found a better gig. By "better" I mean that it paid more money and isn't that the bottom line for all of us? I sold jewelry at a trade show and was on my feet for nine hours straight for three days in a row. And for my lazy ass, that is something. If you think you deal with some bitches when they are ordering their hot tea, you should try dealing with them when they are ordering $15,000 worth of jewelry These are women who are buying for their fancy little boutiques around the country and they feel like since they are spending thousands of dollars, they have a right to treat me like shit because I am the loser who who is writing up the order. My God. At least with waiting tables, I know what I am dealing with. I can just set down the cup of coffee and move on. But these ladies get all up in your face and scrutinize every single solitary thing that you do to ensure their order is exactly how they want it. Granted, I don't blame them for being particular, but do they have to be so goddamn mother fucking pull the stick out of their fat ass rude? And if you think substitutions on a dinner entree are bad, you have no idea what it can be like when there are over 1000 pieces of jewelery with over a hundred different semi-precious stones and they can be mixed and matched until there is no tomorrow. They could pick up a perfectly beautiful necklace that had four different stones on it, but when they learned you could change the stones their eyes lit up because they saw an opportunity to be a nit-picky whore. They would proceed to decipher a way to make the necklace as complicated as possible so the the order I am writing looks like freakin' hieroglyphics from hell. And the words please, thank you and you're welcome do not exist in the dictionaries that these women own. They are not in their lexicon. Nope.

I was happy to get my check yesterday but it was definitely earned. After three days of selling bracelets, earrings, rings, necklaces, broaches, bangles, baubles, beads and cock rings (just kidding on that last one) there are a few new phrases I can do without hearing for a long time:
  • Isn't that darling?
  • That is precious.
  • We are trying to tell a story with the pieces.
  • Oh what a soft/bright/strong/bold/interesting/daring color palate that is.
  • How does this look on me?
  • This looks so good on me.
  • Can I get this in two weeks? (It's hand made and takes six months. There are no mythical jewlery elves that come in the night and shit out a $3000 necklace.)
  • Gimme that.
  • Take this.
  • I'm in a hurry.
  • I work for "insert name of person I am supposed to know or give a shit about".
  • Why is it so expensive? (It's gold, lady. It ain't aluminum and tin foil.)
  • Oh, the minimum is $5,000? What if i just want one pieces that is $500? (What do you think, bitch?)
  • It's magical. (Yes, someone actually said that.)
But that job is done. On to the next one which will be back at the club doing what I do. Carrying a tray and then coming home to bitch about it. By the way, does anyone get the reference in the title of the post?


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Thursday, September 23, 2010

Dear Bitchy Waiter

Dear Bitchy Waiter,

I have read that the tip is calculated on the before-tax amount of a restaurant bill (or other service), but that always seems rather cheap, so I usually tip on the gross amount (i.e., food, drinks, and taxes). Which is the correct way? Do waiters feel snubbed if the tip is based on the before-tax amount?

Signed,
I Wanna Be a Good Tipper

Dear I Wanna Be a Good Tipper,

First off, thank you for your concern and desire to make sure that you tip your server in a way that will make him or her happy. Many people do not put such thought into their tipping and will simply throw a few dollars onto the table regardless of the total of their bill. I suppose the correct way to tip would in fact be to look at the total before taxes and then figure out 20% of that amount. However, using the total with the tax included does not make a huge difference so I would simply use that number and then round up to the next dollar. Here in New York City, the sales tax is about 8.25% and what a lot of people do is look at the tax amount and then double it making for about a 17% tip. This is fine too except for when you sit at the bar and the drinks do not have tax on them.

Of course the best way to ensure that you are tipping correctly is to do it this way. Look at your total (with tax) and put that number into your calculator (there is probably a calculator function of your cell phone.) Let us say the total is $79.32. Now hit the divide button, then the number two and then the equal button. You should now have a figure that reads $39.66. Round up to the nearest dollar making the total and even $40.00. This is the tip. It's much easier to do this than trying to figure out 15, 17 or even 20%. Math is hard. If this also is too complicated here is another, even easier, method.

Say your total is $32.56. Imagine that the word "total" is actually the word "tip." Round up to the nearest dollar making it $33.00. This is the tip. This way is very simple and will guarantee that your server will be satisfied and also that he will remember your face the next time you come into the restaurant. Should you choose to use this method to calculate your tips, please email me to find out the address of my job so that you can sit in my station. I will love you forever if you use this method. You will be my best friend. I will marry you and have your babies.

Love,
The Bitchy Waiter


Do you have an issue that The Bitchy Waiter can help you with? Job, personal, relationships? You name it. You can email me here and I will answer one question a week. Or just email me to say hi. It makes me happy.

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Wednesday, September 22, 2010

Time To Go Home


My tables would not leave a few nights ago. One of my favorite managers of all time, Sherill, used to say "You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here." So for those customers who don't get it, here are a few signs that it might be time to pack your ass up and get the hell out of the restaurant:





  • you are the last customer in the restaurant
  • the waiters are blowing out the candles
  • every table except yours has been cleared of everything
  • chairs are being put on top of tables so the floor can be mopped
  • the floor is being mopped
  • the ambient music has either been turned off completely or switched to heavy metal, country western or musical theater and turned up really really loud
  • the kitchen crew is eating their dinner at a table next to you
  • your waiter is sitting at the bar having a cocktail (this does not necessarily apply if your waiter is The Bitchy Waiter, for that could happen at any time of day)
  • your server is standing next to your table with his arms crossed and he is tapping his foot
  • there is a sign on the door that says "we are closed and the only reason we are still here is because the dick at table 33 won't leave"
  • you see the morning crew arrive and start to make coffee and put jelly caddies on the table
  • last call was more than two hours ago
  • Sherrill walks around the restaurant and says "you don't have to go home, but you can't stay here."




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Tuesday, September 21, 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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Monday, September 20, 2010

Get That Shit Outta My Way

Speaking of things getting in your way, what is it with people who bring impossibly awkward items into a restaurant and then demanding that we find a place to put it while they eat? Just because someone decided to organize their life and go hog wild at The Container store does not mean that I have to store your huge plastic boxes for you while you eat in my station. "Table for two, and do you have someplace I can put this?" as they hand me bags and bags of crap from Macy's. It's New York City you know, so they can't just leave that shit in the trunk of their car. It's amazing what people will drag into a restaurant.

A few years ago when those Razor scooters were all the rage, one set of parents thought it was okay that their kid ride one into the restaurant. Seriously? Does this look like a fucking park? Leave that shit at home. Of course they sat at a booth and then left the damn thing sticking out so we had to walk around it every time we passed their table on a a busy Saturday brunch. After about the 525,600th time I had avoided it, I decided they needed to know that the scooter was in the way in a big way. I was going to intentionally trip over it. After years of stage combat classes and learning how to do pratfalls and physical comedy, I figured that knowledge should be put to use. I told my friend Bill to watch me as I headed towards the booth. Timed perfectly, my right foot "accidentally" caught the back end of the scooter and I fell to the floor all dramatic and shit making the scooter fall over as well and make a loud crashing sound. As I hit the ground, I looked at Bill who was standing behind the bar. He bent down behind it to conceal his laughter. "Oh my goodness, "I said loudly as I brushed myself off. "That scooter is in the way a bit, huh?" The entire restaurant was quiet at this point and every diner looked at the family and silently judged the parents who let their kid bring a fucking scooter into the restaurant in the first place. Immediately, the dad apologized to me and then reprimanded the kid for leaving the scooter in the aisle. The kid felt like shit. The parents were mortified. Bill was laughing. And because I am professional faller downer, I was fine. That table left me a huge tip. Falling down totally made my day that Saturday. So much fun. The big tip was just the icing on the cake.


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Sunday, September 19, 2010

Move. Move. Moooooove!

I grew up in the country and often saw cows walking down the road with blatant disregard for the cars that were trying to pass them. One morning on my way to school, we had a cow that got in front of the school bus and began walking at a snail's pace. Our bus driver Lorraine was losin' it and even though we were in a three-ton bright yellow school bus, the cow didn't give a shit and meandered down the road never moving out of the way. Lorraine was laying on the horn and screaming out the window and the cow turned around and threw her a look that said "go fuck yourself, I'm busy chewin' cud." Of course the bus driver was the only one who gave a shit that we were going to be late to school. I was in the tenth grade (eight years ago) and knew that if I was late because of the bus it was an automatic excused tardy. Take your time, cow. The other night at work was like that. I swear to god I wanted an electrical cattle prod to jam up the sphincters of the people who would not get the hell out of my way. I felt just like Lorraine the bus driver only I had teeth and didn't wear a wig.

The show I was cocktailing for had about 70 people in the audience and after it was over about 68 of them thought it was a good idea to stand up, get in the aisle and stay there. No amount of "excuse me's" and "pardon me's" did anything. These people were like fucking statues. Where was a giant pigeon when I needed one so it could swoop in and shit all over their heads? Throughout the performance, they were in my way too. I only have a narrow little space to maneuver thorough in the dark while carrying a tray with martinis on it. You would think that people would understand that by pushing their chair away from the table, my narrow space becomes even narrower. I must have tripped over one lady's chair about ten times. And at least one of them was for real. The other nine were me just kicking it so she would think, "Oh, I must be in this fine young man's way" and then scoot her chair in. She never got it. (But then she gave me $40 on a $21 bill so I didn't mind. I send out an internet apology for all the intentional kicks, lady at table 28X.)

The point is, too many people are unaware of their spatial relationship to their waiter and I need them to move, move, move right outta my life. I even made a fucking video about it.





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Bitchy Waiter Necklaces For Sale

There is some new Bitchy Waiter necklaces up for sale on my Etsy page. Take a peek. See if you like anything. And if you don't like them, you don't need to log in and leave a nasty ass comment about it or anything. A simple click of your mouse will make that page vanish from your sight and you'll never have to go there again. However, if you do like them, lemme know. And I am open to suggestions too.


Bitchy Waiter Etsy page is right here.

Saturday, September 18, 2010

What Would You Like to Drink?

You know I work in a music venue where everyone is required to have two drinks while there for the performance, right? And most people understand that and are fine with it. If it was me, I would have to ask what the maximum is because two cocktails is sorta like an appetizer for me with my entree being three more cocktails and dessert one fancy liqueur. But I don't have a problem or anything. Really, I don't.

I went to a woman the other day before the show started and asked my customary question: what can I get for you to drink? Now when I say drink, I am referring to the intake of liquid. Any liquid, be it water, juice, soda, beer or liquor. She crossed her arms, tilted her head down and then looked up at me over her glasses. (Do that motion, so you can really imagine what she looked like.) And then she snorted, "I don't drink." She said it all Judge Judy-like and condescending. What she meant was that she does not drink alcohol but what she said was that she doesn't drink. Period. Like this poor woman must be so fucking dehydrated from not drinking anything that her insides must be a big pile of dust.

"Well, we have a two-drink minimum, so would you like for me to just put the minimum charge on your check?" Yes, I could have clarified that she could order water, but since she was being all high and mighty about it, I pretended to not understand. "Well, it hardly seems fair that just because I don't drink alcohol I should be penalized for that," she retorted. "Oh! You mean you don't drink alcohol. I misunderstood. You said you don't drink. Period. We also have bottled water and juices if you do drink other things." She ordered two hot teas.

Why do so many people assume that when I go to their table to ask if they want something to drink, they assume I am pushing liquor on them? I am not trying to pull you over to the evil side of imbibing cocktails. I just want to make sure that your body is hydrated so you can remain healthy and happy. I care. Drink. It's good for you.

drink: n.
1.
A liquid that is fit for drinking; a beverage.
2. An amount of liquid swallowed: took a long drink from the fountain.
3. An alcoholic beverage, such as a cocktail or highball.
4. Excessive or habitual indulgence in alcoholic liquor.

You see? It can mean a variety of things. It's also a verb.


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Friday, September 17, 2010

Have a Coke and a Smile

Coke is the real thing, right? People love their Coca-Cola but every restaurant has to make a choice if they will be serving Coke products or Pepsi products. Most people prefer one over the other but they will settle for either. Or I will just decide for them. It's not the end of the world when you want a Pepsi and all I can give you is a Coke, is it? Did I just tell you that a comet is heading towards our planet and we will all be gone in 36 hours? No, I didn't. Did I just serve the last known hamburger in the Western World and now if you want one, you'll have to travel to the Far East to get one? No, I didn't. Did I just walk by your table and let out a silent but deadly fart because you are so on my last nerve? Yes, I did.

One time I had a lady call me over to her table to give me so dreadful news. "Excuse me, but I ordered a Coke and this is Pepsi. Can I please get the Coke that I ordered?" She said "please" like I was an imbecile and she had to make it real clear that even though she was bitchy, she was being polite.

"Ma'am," I said. (I always like to say "ma'am" to women who are bitchy and clearly younger than I am just so they feel old.) "We only have Coca-Cola products here, so I can assure you that you are in fact drinking a Coke." She inhaled but in that way that sounds like it's a sigh and rolled her eyes at me. "I can tell the difference between Coke and Pepsi. If this is a Pepsi, I would rather you just be honest with me than tell me it's a Coke when I know it's not."

"It's Coke." She shrugged her shoulders and turned to her friend and gave her a look that said something like "this poor dumb waiter thinks he can fool me." I picked up the glass and left. As it happens, our soda gun was not working that day so all of our sodas were being poured out of cans that we had stacked behind the bar. I went to the bar and filled a new glass with ice. I grabbed an unopened can of Coke and headed back to the table ready to make the bitch eat her words, eat some crow and then take another whiff of the second fart I would be leaving for her. I set the glass down in front of her. I pulled the can of Coke from my apron, tapped the top of it three times, popped it open and poured it into her glass. "It's. Coke." Standing there with my arms crossed and waiting for the apology that I knew would never come, she mumbled something. I inhaled but in that way that made it sound like I was sighing. "I'm sorry, what?" She responded with, "Oh. It's in a can. That's why it tastes different." I farted a third time and left her table.

Why do people have to get so fucking bent out of goddamn shape over something so inconsequential? She really irked me. But I felt like I had won because she never said anything else to me for the rest of her meal. I love it when I can prove without a doubt that the customer is not always right. I farted a fourth time for good measure.

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Thursday, September 16, 2010

Dear Bitchy Waiter

Dear Bitchy Waiter,

I am sixteen weeks pregnant and couldn't be happier. Well, except for one thing...I never realized how rude people really are. I was raised to believe if you don't have something nice to say, then don't say it. Since I pretty much stick to those words I have been able to avoid people's harshness. Yet now that I am showing and more people know, everyone seems to be a freakin' obstetrician. For instance I am not getting enough of that, or eating the proper amount of this and how so many babies are born with birth defects because of eating non-organic food. Yeah, I would love to eat all organic foods if I could afford it. Plus, last week my husband actually had to throw a glass of wine in this guys face for harping about how horrible the name we picked out for our baby to be is. It's a family name for crying out loud. Now I know since you're male you might be thinking how the hell should I know lady but, I love the way you deal with humans. If you can give me any advice at all I would greatly appreciate it.



Sincerely,
One Annoyed Prego

Dear Annoyed Prego,

First off, congratulations on your upcoming bundle of joy. I absolutely love children and invite you to bring your weeks old baby to my station anytime where I will coo over it and shower it with affection. Being male, I have not had the pleasure of being pregnant and while I do not have children of my own, I can still appreciate what you are going through. You are right. People have no problem sticking their big ass noses all up in somebody else's beeswax. I bet they feel it is perfectly acceptable to rub your stomach too, right? I just don't understand how some people can be so unaware of their rudeness, carelessness and thoughtless behavior (and before Anonymous jumps in and calls me out, I am aware of my rudeness, carelessness and thoughtless behavior.) I applaud your husband for throwing a glass of wine in the man's face who disliked the name you chose for your offspring. The man deserved it, unless the name you chose was some dumb ass moniker like Paris, Hamburger, Apple, Moon Unit, Brooklyn, Vagisilia, Gyne Lotrimin or Kathie Lee Gifford. In the future when someone says something to you that you feel is inappropriate, I would suggest you do the following. Simply respond (in your best hillbilly accent) with, "I's just a hopin' that it comes out with ten fingers and ten toes! Ya see, I done got pregnant with my brother. But I shure does love my brother so it's all good." That ought to shut 'em up. And when someone wants to rub your belly, might I suggest you electrocute them with a cable that you have wrapped around your waist? You can surely do this by installing some kind of electric fence apparatus that you can pick up at your local home improvement store. The folks at home Depot are very helpful and they will be more than willing to assist you so that you can figure out a way to shock other people while not shocking yourself. Or your unborn child.

Good luck, Annoyed Prego! And thanks for your question.

Love,
the Bitchy Waiter


Do you have an issue that The Bitchy Waiter can help you with? Job, personal, relationships? You name it. You can email me here and I will answer one question a week.

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Wednesday, September 15, 2010

I ♥ Vegetarians, Part 2

Since I pissed of so many vegetarians a few weeks ago, I thought I would offer this video as an apology. I will be going to dinner tonight at a Thai restaurant and ordering vegetarian spring rolls.



Happy eating everyone!

love,
The Bitchy Waiter

Patio A Go-Go

Sorry about this re-post, but I am actually out looking for a job today. And since writing this blog does not pay, I have to set my priorities. Of course, you could change that by clicking here. Or you could just leave a comment. Either way.


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

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

Another time a lady freaked the fuck out because she saw a rat on the sidewalk. It's a sidewalk. In New York City. That is where they live. Be thankful the rat didn't pull up a chair and order a bloody mary.

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

I hate working on the patio.


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Tuesday, September 14, 2010

Oh, Shit

Fact: someone recently told me that they went into the bathroom of the restaurant they worked at in order to give it the cursory check. When emptying the trash can, inside it was a pair of neatly folded men's underwear that was full of shit. I can only imagine what led to that catastrophic event. I hypothesize:

It was a lovely Saturday morning in early fall when a man decided he wanted French Toast and bacon for breakfast. He took himself to the nearby diner and ordered his meal. As he waited for his food to arrive, his stomach began to rumble and moan a bit. "Hmmm," he thought. "Maybe I shouldn't have had that glass of Metamucil before I left the privacy of my own bathroom. Oh well. I'm sure everything will be fine." His waitress placed his order before him and he started eating, enjoying the fresh blueberries that were piled high on his plate. As he took a bite of his maple bacon that was cooked perfectly, his stomach again twitched. Suddenly, he realized that he needed to go to the bathroom. Immediately. Still chewing the bacon, he ran to the single occupancy facility. He surveyed the cleanliness of the bathroom and noticed there were no toilet liners making it necessary to place layers of toilet paper around the seat. Hurrying to strategically place the paper before he strategically placed his ass, he farted. Sensing urgency, he threw down his pants and sat on the toilet releasing his bowels just in time. Or so he thought. Looking down, he noticed what looked like the contents of a can of Wolf Brand Chili sitting in his underwear. "Oh my God. I just shit in my pants. I just fucking shit in my pants. Are you freakin' kidding me? Did I just shit in my fucking pants." Someone knocked on the door. "Occupied!" he screamed.

The man didn't know what to do. His stomach was feeling fine now, but his underwear were not. He knew he could not put them back on. He slowly lifted his legs from his pants and was now standing naked from the waist down in the bathroom that probably had a line outside of it by now. "I'll just fold them up and wrap them in some paper towels," he thought and then noticed the air hand dryer on the wall. No paper towels. He opened the trash can which was of course empty and he gently placed his feces covered Fruit of the Looms at the bottom of the pail. Another knock on the door. "Occupied!!" With no paper towels in sight, his only option for cleaning up was wet toilet paper. He went through a whole roll of it as he tried to clean his ass from the explosion. When it came time to flush the toilet, it stopped up. Thankfully, there was a plunger on hand so he plunged away the evidence and prepared to leave the bathroom. Minus his underwear of course.

We can only assume that the man rushed back to his table, threw a twenty dollar bill on it and fled the scene because he knew someone was going into the bathroom immediately following him. He ran down the street chafing his taint with his jeans and wondering if his underwear was the only thing that had poo on it. Meanwhile, a lowly waitress goes into the restroom to make sure there is a soap. She smells something in the trash can, open it and screams out, "Who the fuck does this? Asshole." That same waitress later emails The Bitchy Waiter to tell him what she dealt with at her job that day.

And how was your day?



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Sunday, September 12, 2010

Thank You For Being a Friend

One of the best things about working in a restaurant is usually the people you work with. Granted there are always a few folks who you could do without, but for the most part the co-workers are one of the things that makes waiting tables tolerable. (The tips that allow you to pay your mortgage and buy food goes without saying.) How many of us have stayed at a job way longer than we should have just because all of of our friends worked there? I worked at Houlihan's for two and a half years or so. About eighteen months of that was just because I had so much fun with friends like Jane, Randie, Corinne and Kim. (Hello ladies, if you're reading this.) The thing is, I have not worked at Huli's for over ten years and I am still friends with the people I met there. That says a lot about co-workers, right? On the other hand, sometimes it's the c0-workers who drive you away from a place.

I worked at a restaurant called Josie's once for about two weeks. I dunno what it was with all the women who worked there, but most of them were totally rude to me. They weren't helpful and they acted like they didn't have room for another bitch on staff so they wanted me out. When I start a job, I am nothing but nice. I am quiet, never curse, never complain and friendly to everyone. In fact, after I have worked someplace a for a few months someone always tells me, "Oh my God, you are so different than I thought you were when you first started." In other words, they thought I was sweet, but they figured out I'm a bitch. Anyhoo, there was this one chick at Josie's (let's call her Evilene) who was so mean. On my first day there, I was wandering around downstairs trying to find the locker room to put my stuff in. I saw a door that was cracked open and poked my head in to see if it was the right place. Evilene was there putting her shirt on. "Oh, I'm sorry," I said. All she was doing was buttoning up her shirt but she acted like I just walked in on her while she was taking a dump or changing her tampon. "Excuse me, there is someone in here! I don't know where you grew up, but when you see a door closed, you knock on it first!" I apologized again and kinda laughed. "I wasn't even sure if this was the locker room and since the door was cracked open..." She interrupted me. "Well, here we knock first, okay? Got it?" What a bitch. It was a fucking communal locker/store room. It was my first day. Get over yourself. Like I really wanted to see her in her bra and panties. When I quit two week later, I told the manager that one of the reasons I hated it there was because Evilene was such a bitch.

At Houlihan's we changed clothes in the middle of the fucking dining room as we ate breakfast. We liked each other. We made each other laugh. It was what kept us all there. We were a family like a giant tree branching out towards the sky. We are a family like a giant tree, growing stronger, growing wiser. We are growing free. We are a family. The point is that no matter how crappy your job is, you can usually find something good about it and nine times out of ten, it's the people you work with. Okay, all together now: awwwwww.

(Bonus points to anyone who can name the two musicals referenced in this post.)


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Saturday, September 11, 2010

Sorry, We're Out of That

Someone sent me a picture last week (Theresa, maybe? Thank you.) and it jogged my memory of some bitch in my station years ago. Sometimes restaurants run out of things. We don't plan it, we don't like it and we don't do it on purpose. But sometimes shit happens and you run out of meatloaf or something. A lady ordered a Cobb salad. I had to let her know that we were out of avocado so if that was going to ruin the whole aesthetic of her salad, then maybe she should order something else. Well the lack of avocado was not okay with her. "You're out of avocado? How can you be out of avocado? Aren't you a restaurant? I don't understand how someone could let that happen." What I didn't understand was how not getting avocado in a salad was anything other than no big deal. Had I told her we had run out of oxygen and we were on our last breaths, sure. Or maybe if we were out of water, that would be weird. But avocado? Move on, guacamole ho. I patiently waited for her to let me know if she wanted the salad sans avocado or if she would order something else and then I realized that her "how could this happen?" question was actual and not rhetorical. She stared at me waiting for a response.

"Uh, you know how sometimes at home you run out of milk even though you don't mean to? Maybe more people ate cereal than usual and then you baked a cake which took a lot of milk and before you knew it, you were out of it? That happens in restaurants too. I guess more people ordered guacamole than usual, so we ran out of avocados. That's how someone let it happen."

She grunted with dissatisfaction and then mentioned that there was grocery store nearby. Like I am going to hop skip and jump over there to get her a freakin' avocado. No, lady. If you are so familiar with the location of the grocery store, then maybe you should go there, buy the avocado along with everything else that you want in your goddamn salad and then go home and make it your fucking self. We're out of avocados so fucking deal with. It's not the end of the fucking world.

Another time a lady ordered a Chinese chicken salad which had been taken off the menu. She gasped when I told her. "Oh. My. God. I loved that salad. How horrible is that??" She looked like she was gonna cry. This was a few weeks after 9/11. I paused. "You know, in the scope of world events recently, I would say it's not horrible at all. You want something else?" She shut up. Bitch ordered a Cobb. We had avocado that day.




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Friday, September 10, 2010

Screaming Children Will NOT Be Tolerated!

We all know how I feel about babies in restaurants. It's not that I hate babies. Really, I don't. I just want parents to control them when they are in restaurants (and movie theaters, planes, subways, grocery stores, bars, liquor stores, porn shops and the world in general.) I have never been mean to a child when I am at work and even when I am eating out and there is some adorable tot playing peek-a-boo over the booth behind me, I will tolerate it. But a restaurant in North Carolina finally put up the sign that we have been wanting to make ourselves for years. "Screaming children will not be tolerated!" I say bravo to the owner of Olde Salty's for standing up and making her restaurant a place that she wants to be in. You know that sign stirred up all kinds of controversy when they taped that shit to the door. The stroller moms probably formed a brigade and rolled down the street chanting "Just because my baby cries, doesn't mean I can't have fries!" They pelted the manager with baby wipes and formula bottles while the whole time the babies were thinking, "I don't even give a shit, let's go to fucking Chuck E. Cheese and call it a day." According to the owner of the restaurant, business has never been better. Of course! There is a whole demographic out there who will flock to a place if they know that their eardrums won't burst when Junior wants another cracker.

People who don't have kids don't necessarily want to be around them. It's a fact. Many of us have made the conscious decision to be childless because we would rather spend our money on vacations, dinners, cocktails and electronics than new shoes every six months, school supplies, college educations and whatever else a child might need, like food. One time I worked with a woman who told me that I was selfish for not having children. She actually got mad at me that I was old enough to have children, in a relationship and still didn't want to have kids. To me it seems more selfish to have a kid when you don't really want it. If I can't take it to the kennel or throw down a wee wee pad for it when I go out of town, then no thank you. She was shocked. Keep in mind this "shock" was coming from someone who was pregnant with her third baby and she didn't even realize she was with child until she was 7 months along. Wow, there's an attentive mother for you.

I may rant too often about kids in my station, but it's my blog and I can rant if I want to. Lately, there have been a lot of Anonymous haters who get on here and complain about what an ass I am. To them I say this: the blog is called The Bitchy Waiter. The title should give you a general idea about what the blog will be about. If this is not your cup of (not hot enough, herbal) tea, then maybe you should find a blog that is more up your alley. If this is not up your alley, then shove it up your ass. Okay?

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Thursday, September 9, 2010

Dear Bitchy Waiter

Dear Bitchy Waiter,

I am an 18 year old girl who is just starting college and am thinking about getting a part time job as a waitress. All my friends tell me that this is a bad idea because restaurant employees, especially servers are a bunch of cigarette smoking, booze swilling, drug addicts. Is this true? The waitress in my home town in Idaho, is a very sweet lady. My friends also say that if I start working at a restaurant, I'll turn into a crack addicted tramp. Is that true as well?

Confused


Dear Confused,

I feel it is my duty to let you know that your friends are 99% correct about restaurant employees. Most of them are exactly as they have described with the exception of myself and the sweet waitress you know from Idaho. We are both wonderful and caring people who avoid cigarettes, drugs and booze at all costs much unlike everyone else in the restaurant industry. (Occasionally, I may fall off the wagon and have a cocktail or two.) Your hometown waitress was a total meth head for many years, but she kicked the habit and now her only addiction is Diet Coke. She is constantly at the soda gun feeding her cravings by drinking straight from the tap. It's not pretty, but it's better than meth. Sort of. Anyhoo, if you decide to get a job as a waitress, be ready to eat a big slice of I-Told-You-So pie from your friends because you will most definitely become a crack addicted tramp.

So what should you do to earn money that will not lead you down the path of evil? Well, it has to be something with flexible hours so that you can continue your education. And it has to be something where you can make good money in a relatively short period of time so you have time for your homework. And it has to be something that will not make you smell like fajitas. I would suggest prostitute. As a young woman, men will be willing to pay a pretty penny for your time and you can be certain that your "johns" will treat you with way more respect than they would if you were a lowly waitress. And as a bonus, you can make your own hours, be your own boss and not pay taxes. It's a win win! Confused, I know you can do this if you set your mind to it. Good luck! (By the way, I hear that Craigslist has removed their "adult services" sections so I would suggest "casual encounters.")

Signed,
The Bitchy Waiter

Do you have an issue that The Bitchy Waiter can help you with? Job, personal, relationships? You name it. You can email me here and I will answer one question a week.

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

The Hospitality Job Hunt Resumes

I am on the prowl for a new job. Catering season is upon us and I want a piece of that pie so I have been submitting my resume to catering companies up and down the eastern seaboard. And when I say "eastern seaboard" I mean three places that some friends told me about. I also went to one restaurant that was having an open call for interviews. I showed up with about 1000 other hopefuls and got one of those fucking corporate applications that takes half an hour to fill out. Why the fuck do I bother printing a resume if I have to fill that shit out? I knew I didn't want to work there, but went through the motions anyway. It had essay questions. Really, B.R. Guest restaurant conglomerate? Really? No one answers those questions the way they want to. They answer them the way you want us to.

What does "hospitality" mean to you?


What I said: Efficiency, friendliness, professionalism, going beyond the guests expectations. Pretty much what they'd teach you in hospitality management schools.

The truth: Kissing customer asses to get better tips and kissing manager asses to get better shifts.


What is your favorite thing about working in the food and beverage industry?


What I said: The flexibility, the people I work with and the immediate gratification of good service rewarded with a good tip.

The truth: Knowing that restaurant jobs are a dime a dozen and if something pisses me off I can say fuck you and leave. I also like stealing food and liquor.


What is your least favorite thing about the food and beverage industry?


What I said: The inconsistency of income and schedule.

The truth: Customers, managers and co-workers.


What are your goals in the restaurant industry?


What I said: To find a place that I enjoy working at and possibly move into a managerial position.

The truth: To stay at this restaurant through the holidays and make a shit load of money since you are down the street from Radio City Music Hall and tourists will be pouring in the door after they see that God awful Christmas Spectacular.
I was called over to the table for an interview. For availability I had put Tuesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday. The manager said she would hire me in a heartbeat with all my experience, but my schedule wasn't open enough. I explained to her that I had another job that I didn't want to leave because it was a good place to work. She told me that since they were opening a new restaurant, they required everyone to have complete availability for the first two months. In other words, they don't want to have to take into consideration that some of their employees may have a fucking life outside of Bill's Fucking Burger Bar. "I understand," said I. "Good luck with that then." I got up and left.
I'll keep looking. Something will turn up, it always does. I can sense it in the air. (That's your cue, Laurence.)

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

Did AT&T Just Insult Me?

There is a television commercial out there that pretty much just confirms what we all know already: waiting tables sucks ass. It's an ad for AT&T and they say every second counts. Have you seen this shit? It's basically a rip off of that crappy ass movie Sliding Doors that Gweneth Paltrow did a few years ago. The ad shows this woman who is downloading something on her phone and since she isn't using the miracle that is AT&T, her download takes too much time and the opportunity of a lifetime passes her right by. Because she is using some other crap service (T-Mobile, probably...) she does not meet the people who could turn her into a big time fancy ass ballerina diva bitch and instead she ends up being...wait for it...wait for it...a server. That's right. If only she would have used AT&T all of her dreams would have come true but instead she has to wear a white shirt and black tie and be a waitress. In bad lighting. With a sour look on her face. Call me a purist, but I think she needs more than AT&T to make it as ballet dancer. Her technique is poor and her turn out is awful. And I know. I took two semesters of ballet in 1986 and I also watch So You Think You Can Dance.

The point is, why did they choose waitress as her alternative career? Should we take offense? What if they would have shown her as a kindergarten teacher and she was all depressed and miserable passing out coloring books to snot nosed brats? Then the teachers of America would rise up and cry out that they have been insulted. What if they showed her as nurse who hated being at her job? Or a bus driver? These other occupations were not chosen for her "loser life" because the advertisers thought that the most pathetic career she could have instead of ballet dancer is that of waitress. And they also figured that most servers would see the commercial and be like, "yep, my job sucks. I better go get me some AT&T in my life, pronto." At the end of the commercial, she is shown sitting in a theater watching a ballet instead of dancing in it. Watching her dreams from afar. And probably smelling like fajita. I say be proud of your waitress career, girl. At least you don't work at a fucking Houlihan's. Or Pizzeria Uno. Carry that tray with pride. Even though it is a far cry from the life you expected, wanted, worked towards, dreamed about or cried for. You're a waitress. With shitty cell phone service. Can you hear me now?



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