Sometimes a blog posting is hard to come up with. I scratch my head and ponder the possibilities and every so often I draw a blank. On the other hand, every once in a while a topic drops into my lap like manna from Heaven and I don't even have to think about it. Today's posting is brought to you by the Parisian bitch who sat in my station last night. I don't know what her name is so I will refer to her as Fifi le Douche.
When people come into the club, they are given a seating pass which tells hem where they are to be seated for the show. We escort them to their seat and then expect them to stay there, but Fifi needed some super glue on her ass last night because she was hop skippin' and jumpin' all over the damn place. What the customers don't get is that it's imperative for them to stay in the seat we assign to them because our totals have to match the totals of the host so that the performer knows exactly how many people were in the audience because that is how their pay is based. The more people they have in the audience, the more they can make. When people move all the fuck around it makes it difficult to ensure that all of the totals match. Get it? Simple, right? Fifi didn't get that. I went up to table 2 to take an order and Fifi coos at me that she is not sitting here really. She is "seating over zere" but she is just visiting this table. Fine. I go to her correct table to get her seating pass to write down her order and she asks for a suavignon blanc. Because she's French, you know. Two minutes later she is walking round the room and she comes up to me to ask where her wine is. Listen, le bitch, the bartender has to fucking pour it first, chill le fuck out. She wasn't even in her seat so how am I supposed to know where to put it anyway? I took her wine to her and the show started.
Fifteen minutes later, the other server tells me that table 1 wanted a Diet Coke (Coke Light, whatever) and he took it to her. Once again Fifi shows she has not the patience to wait for her server. She accosts anyone with an apron. At the end of the show, she of course wasn't at her table. She had floated off somewhere, so I placed her check on the table and went on with my business. About thirty minutes later, she was the only one who hadn't paid her bill yet so I went to find her. She was at the front of the club parlez vous Francaisin' to someone. I handed her the bill and told her I would be back in a few minutes to pick it up. Two minutes later she comes up to me with the check and says, "Excuse me, but I need to take care of this right away because I must leave." Pardon moi, but after the check sat on your table for half a fucking hour, now you're ready to leave and you act like I'm the one who is holding you up? At this point, all I wanted to do was slap this bitch with a piece of french toast, cram a french fry up her ass and then cover her with french dressing and say au revoir. Her tip was about ten percent which is spot on for the average French tourist. Fifi le Douche did a fine job of living up to every stereotype in the book. Au revoir, Fifi le Douche. Bon Voyage. Fuck off.
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