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Thursday, March 31, 2011

Beware: Old People Crossing

Perhaps you have noticed that patience is not my strength. I want people to be quick, concise and to the point. I need them to get out of my way when I am trying to work and let me do my job. If someone calls me over to their table to order and it is clear that they are no where close to being ready to order, my attitude towards them will drop a few hundred points. When I see something that needs to be done, I do it. For example, last night when I noticed that my home supply of tequila was low, a trip to the liquor store happened immediately. No wasting of time.

There was show last week at work that must have had an AARP discount because the entire audience was full of people who were born at the beginning of time Most of them could probably recall the day they first rode in the Ford Model-T or what it was like when fire was discovered. They were old. Like I think one lady was the daughter of Betsy Ross. Between their age, their walkers, their canes and hearing aids, it made it right near impossible for me to serve them. They meandered around the room before the show started leaving me no place to walk with my tray. At one point, a man who was at least as old as paper was standing in the middle of the one aisle and yammering away about how when he was a kid he had to walk ten miles uphill in the snow just to get to school. I politely said, "Excuse me" but he didn't hear me. I said it again. And again. I was getting very frustrated and couldn't help but picture him in his living room on his rug saying "I've fallen and I can't get up." I tried again. "Excuse me, sir, but if I could just slide right by you..." Nothing. I looked at a woman who was watching the whole thing transpire. She shrugged her shoulders and smiled. "I am talking, aren't I? You can hear me, right?" She confirmed that my vocal chords were in fact operating. Visions of elder abuse danced in my head and I pushed them out of my thoughts. I finally gave up and went over to the stage to cross it so I could get to the other side of the room.

Coming back, Grandpa Joe was still in the aisle talking about what it was like for him to deliver mail for the Pony Express. I noticed he had a hearing aid. He had a sweet smile and kind eyes and the people he was talking to were looking at him with love and affection. I assumed they were family members. He saw me this time and said, "Oh I'm so sorry. Am I in your way?" I smiled back at him and simply said, "No, sir. You're fine." He finished his story and then went back to his seat as I patiently waited. He patted me on the shoulder when he walked by and smiled at me again. I thought about my Mamo Rita and how slowly she moved sometimes when she had to use her walker. I hoped that no waiter was ever frustrated with her and that no one ever mistreated her just because she was old. Grandpa Joe gave me a lesson in patience that day and he didn't even know it. I guess that's what our elders do for us. They teach us things. Even if it's something as simple as "let the old man finish his story" it's a good lesson to learn.

As of today, I am on vacation. As you read this, my ass will be in a plane going to Miami to soak up some sun and vodka. This post was a new one, but don't be surprised if you see some tired ass repeats over the next few days. -BW



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Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Dear Bitchy Waiter

I reached into the old mailbag and pulled out this letter from someone seeking my advice. I hope I can help this dear child. You can email me here if you have a question that needs attention. Or you can just say hello. That's nice too.


Dear Bitchy Waiter,

My friends and I recently turned eighteen, so now several of them (including myself) are considering applying to become waiters as a summer job. My friends think that the tips you earn as a waiter make it worth being one. Since I've read your blog for several months now, and you seem to be somewhat of an expert on the subject, I thought I'd ask you. I have learned many of the negatives to being a waiter from your entries. But I was wondering, is it worth it? Does the money make up for all the annoyances that come with being waitstaff? Have you ever had a non-food industry job (aside from acting)? I'm worried that I'd end up bitching out customers.
Sincerely,
I am Just a Poor Girl From a Poor Family
(Well, not really, but it sounded a little catchy. Sorry if you aren't a Queen fan)


Dear Poor Girl From a Poor Family,

Yes, there are a lot of negatives to being a server. Smelling like fajitas, having clothes that are covered in grease stains and dealing with rude customers are just a few of the pitfalls of waiting tables. However, it can definitely be worth it. I think a few months of waiting tables as an 18 year old would be a perfect option for you to fill your summer days. Yes, the hourly wage is hardly anything, but when you factor in your tips, it can be quite a profitable job. Just the other day, I worked for a total of nine hours and walked with $231. That comes out to an average of $25.67 an hour take home. Not too bad, right? If you get a job at The Gap and they paid you the minimum wage of $7.25 (here in NYC) you would only pull in $65.25 before taxes or maybe a net of about fifty bucks. Ouch. Of course, not all shifts average out to $25 an hour, but it's always better than minimum wage.

If you have no experience, it may be hard to step right into a waiting job. Chains like Applebee's and Outback Steakhouse are more willing to take someone with little or no experience because they have major training programs. Or sometimes you have to be a busser or host first to prove your worth to the manager and then maybe they will move you up to a server. (If the manager asks for sexual favors in exchange for a server position, I would recommend getting that in writing. Trust me, you don't want to get scabby knees from doing a "no-no" behind the dumpster of the Bennigan's in Humble, Texas and still be a busser. Don't ask me how I know this. The shame is far too great.)

I doubt that you will end up bitching out customers. No matter how annoying they can be, most of servers quickly learn to let it roll off our backs. It's not worth it. Always remember this: "it's just lunch and they will have another one every day for the rest of their lives." It keeps it in perspective. Internalize your rage and then go home and blog about like I do. It does wonders. Please keep me posted. I'd love to know how it goes for you.

In regards to your other question about my non-food industry jobs. I hope to write a book one day about the jobs I have had over the years: real estate agent, substitute teacher, theater reviewer, Pottery Barn whore, amusement park employee, ceramics sales rep, jewelry sales rep... God it's pathetic how many jobs I have had.

Love,
The Bitchy Waiter

Email me here if you have a question.

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Snort Pig Eats Popcorn

Okay, so I am the first one to admit that this a kinda mean thing to do, so if you have a problem with that you might wanna step off the carousel right now because this pony is about to go. I worked with someone once who was all kinds of annoying. She was always getting up in my personal space and standing too close to me which was never cool because she had a penchant for not wearing underwear. Why she always wanted to let me know when it was a commando day, I will never know, but it still haunts me. One day I was feeling particularly annoyed by her because she kept getting into conversations that she was neither a part of nor welcome to. "This an A and B conversation, so please C your way out of it, okay bitch?" She could be on the other side of the room pretending to do sidework and hear two other people laugh at something. She'd yell out, "What? What's so funny? I wanna know." You know the type?

At this particular restaurant, we served bowls of popcorn to the tables when they sat down. It wasn't any special kind of popcorn, just some shit that was bought in bulk over at the Costco or Sam's Club. We all nibbled on it, but only when it was fresh out of the bag. This girl would eat it like it was her only source of sustenance for the day. I imagine that she didn't have access to a refrigerator, pantry or a grocery store because she always had feeding bag full of popcorn attached to her face. You know how you eat popcorn at the movie theater in the safety of the darkness? You cram it in by the handful and some falls onto your lap and you just pick it up from there and shove more in? Yeah, that's how she ate it all the time. When I was at the computer and she was waiting to get on it after me, I would always just close what I was doing because the sound of the incessant smacking that came from her lips was too much to take. I wanted to fucking punch her in her popcorn puss.

One day, I bussed a table who had left a bowl of half eaten popcorn. None of us ever ate out of the bowls that were left on the tables because we all know that people don't wash their hands and the bacteria in there is rampant. It's like the bowls of peanuts at bars. I took the bowl of popcorn over to the trash can ready to dump it when I spotted good ol' annoying girl out of the corner of my eye. I decided to just put the nasty used popcorn on the sidestand right where we would normally keep our clean bowl of popcorn to see if Hungry Hippo would eat it. I told all the other servers to avoid it and save it for Popcorn Polly. Within two minutes, she drifted toward the bowl and grabbed a handful and crammed it in her mouth. I thought of the people who had left that bowl of bacteria and shuddered with disgust and amusement. By now, everyone on the floor knew that the contaminated popcorn was being eaten by by Bacteria Betty. We all watched as she returned to the sidestand every three seconds for more of the tasty snack. Within minutes, the bowl was empty.

Was it mean? Yes. Yes, it was. Did it hurt her? No. No it didn't. Did it make my day? Ab-s0-fucking-lute-ly.



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Sunday, March 27, 2011

Just Tell Me What You Want to Drink

This is a repost, because I have a long day today. I have to be at work at 11:30 and won't be finished until 11:30. I don't know how my body is supposed to be away from the couch and the computer for over 12 hours, but I am going to try it today. God have mercy on my lazy ass soul.

Maybe I have said this before, but it bears repeating. I cannot stand when I ask someone what they want to drink and they respond with some dumb ass response like "what do you have?" It makes me want to grab their nipples, twist them off and use them as a garnish on their Cosmopolitan. Seriously? What do we have? We are a bar. We have what all bars have. There's a pretty good chance we'll have what you want unless you're asking for the milk of the aloe vera plant, a glass of water from the Fountain of Youth, or Tang. And then they look at me like they think I'm really going to recite a laundry list of every possible beverage. I would think that most people have a pretty good idea of what they want to drink. Don't we all have our usual suspects? A Coke, a gimlet, a water. But maybe this asswipe was new to our planet and really wasn't sure what we offered. Perhaps I should have been more patient with our inter-planetary friend but I was not in the mood. I responded with "the usual things that a bar has to drink, so I'll let you think it over and come back later." I don't have time for that shit. If he really needs help, there is thing we have in the club that is made for that purpose. It's called a menu. Look at it. Choose something. I will bring it.

So let's review. If you have a question about a beverage, make it a good one. Like "what reds do you have by the glass?" or "do you have any non-alcoholic beer?" or "if I have six margaritas, you're not gonna to cut me off, are you?" (Okay that last question might be just for me when I go to Margarita Mondays.) Just don't ask some broad-based stupid ass question like "what do you have?" It will piss me off. And pissing off your server right before he hands you your Coors Light is not a good idea.

Am I the only one who feels this way?



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Saturday, March 26, 2011

Have It Your Way at Burger King

I have never worked in the fast food industry. By the time I was looking for a job, I jumped right to busser at Juanita's Mexican Food in Denver because I was so advanced in the art of food service. Sadly, I missed out on the fun that is drive-through windows, all-you-can-eat french fries and the lovely customers like this one who lost her shit at a Burger King this week. Usually, she is probably a soft delicate flower of femininity, but not this day. Apparently, her Whopper, Jr. took too long so she felt like the best way to show her dissatisfaction with the service was to slap an employee, pull some hair, climb up on the counter, hit someone with a plastic container and throw napkins all over the place. Oh yeah. And she did it all while in a bikini, because she's classy like that.



I don't get it. All this over a Whopper, Junior? It's not like it's a Mexi Melt from Taco Bell or something. If they fucked up your Mexi Melt, by all means, go for it. Kick some Taco Bell ass. But this Burger King, honey. Who cares? Of course she was arrested and it came out that she is the mother of four. Three of her kids were with her when all this went down because she is real big on providing positive role models for her children. You can be sure that the next time her daughter wants an extra chicken finger at the school cafeteria, the six year old will strip down to her bikini and start going to town on some lunch lady, slapping her with a lunch box and throwing Crayons at her.

My favorite part of the article on The Smoking Gun:
"When I walked in they had no smiles on their faces. We weren’t treated fairly." Having herself previously worked at McDonald’s and Church’s Chicken, Smith added, “I know how to greet my customers.”
Oh, so it's the employees' fault? They didn't have smiles on their faces because they are working at a fucking Burger King. In Florida. During Spring Break. Can you blame them? I'm surprised they didn't all have suicide notes pinned to their shirts after they opened the doors and saw that their whole clientele was in bathing suits that day. I don't like Whoppers, but to eat one while looking at women in bikinis makes me wanna puke a little bit. Hold the pickles, hold the lettuce, bitches in bikinis might upset us.




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Friday, March 25, 2011

It's Closing Time

It's ten minutes before closing time and most of the sidework is done.The only thing left is to blow out the candles and put plastic wrap on the ramekins of ketchup. The second hand moves in slow motion as you eagerly wait to run to the front door and lock it barring any more hungry customers from coming in. Only seven more minutes, so you go to the tray of ketchups and wrap it in the plastic and head to the walk-in. That's when it happens. Someone pokes their head in the door and says, "Are y'all still open?" Goddamnit!

My brother told me a story last week about how he went to a restaurant with his wife and kids and their friend with his kid. They weren't sure if the place was open so Little Bro went inside and asked. The bartender said yes, so he went out to get the brood. Once inside, he realized that they were closing in ten minutes. "Oh, I'm sorry. Are you sure it's alright?" The hostess answered like this: "No, it's okay...I mean you can stay...if you want to..I mean we are closing in a few minutes but if you really wanna stay I guess you can." My brother is cool and went elsewhere. He knew that no waiter wants to be stuck at work after close serving three kids. Who the hell wants to eat in a restaurant being the only ones there while knowing that the whole crew is waiting for you to eat and get the fuck out? Turns out, plenty of people. I get it. If we close at 10:00 then it shout be perfectly alright if someone wants to come in at 9:59, but it sucks. No other job is like that. If you are a secretary (sorry, administrative assistant) who gets off work at 5:00, you leave at 5:00, right? What happens if the phone rings at 4:58 and they need you to look up the minutes for a meeting that happened in 1998 and they need copies of it in triplicate? You say, "I will take care of that first thing in the morning" and punch your ass out at 5:00. But in a restaurant, that same secretary can show up at 9:58 and order a well done steak after two apps and keep me at work for an extra hour and half.

Many years ago, while in Las Vegas with friends, we needed a place to eat. We saw a restaurant that looked cool but it was about ten minutes until 11:00 and we didn't know how late they were serving. My friend David ran up to the hostess and asked if they were open. She gave the obligatory "We'll, we are open until 11:00, so..." David turned to us with a big thumbs up and yelled, "Come on! They're still open!" The three of us walked into the restaurant and I asked the hostess how late they were open. She looked at her watch and said, "For about 8 more minutes." Oh, hell no! I dragged us outta there right then and there. David was like, "But they're open!" David, honey-pie, sweetie-lump, sugar-bear. No. No no no. Not only does it suck for the server, it will suck for us. Our apps would come out in two minutes and then our entree is going to show up one minute after that and God forbid we order dessert. It might come with a side of hot fudge and a hair ball. And as we sit and eat dinner, we are going to watch the busser mop the floor around every table except ours. Not worth it.

Never go into a restaurant if they are closing within twenty minutes. It is just better for all of us. Servers and diners alike. Trust me.



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Thursday, March 24, 2011

Dear D-bag:

Dear Douche Bag who sat at table 28 last night,

I just wanted to thank you for perpetuating the stereotype that men who go see stand-up comedy shows are gloober-globbery frat boys who have no manners. I was wondering if that myth was a reality and now I know it is true. It was so cool of you to walk into the club and immediately bellow out through your bloated face, "So do I buy my two drinks now or later?" I loved how you said "later" as if there was no "r" on the end of the word and instead it had an "ah." That was neat. I apologize that none of us thought it was as funny as you seemed to think it was. Thank you for understanding when we explained to you that it was table service only.

Kudos to you for finding such a sweet girlfriend. She seemed nice despite the way she kept her eyes down towards the floor every time you said something too loud. At first glance, it seemed like maybe she was embarrassed by you, but she was probably just looking to see how clean the floor was, right? I mean, why would she ever be embarrassed by you when you were wearing your pants so baggy that they hung past your ass? Wearing pants that way makes you cool, right? Yeah, I thought so.

When I took your order, I must admit I was surprised by what you wanted. I fully expected you to ask for a Long island Iced Tea or a shot of J├Ągermesiter. But you just said "bottled water" in that cute way you do, dropping the "r" and adding an "ah" sound. Remember how I asked you if you wanted sparkling or flat and and you just said, "I dunno, just regular water!" That was adorable. Your girlfriend ordered a Guinness and then a Heineken and I can only assume that it was to dull her senses and make sitting across from you more tolerable.

You know what else I loved about you, douche bag? I loved how you pulled your chair out from the table and then spread your legs apart really wide, presumably to give your huge penis and low-hanging testicles room to breath. Never mind that it made it near impossible for me to walk past you every time I needed to get to table 35. I'm sure your "boys" appreciated the fresh air seeing that it probably smelled like like gym, Goldfish crackers, freshly laid sod and head cheese in there. And to your girlfriend: if I would have thought about it, I would have given you three free shots of tequila just so you could be prepared when he asked you later to give his "little buddy" a kiss.

Finally douche bag, I am sorry I wasn't able to get to you as soon as you yelled "wait-ah" across the room. I know you said it three or four times while waving your money at me. I heard you. I was just dealing with another table and there were about twelve people between me and you at that moment, and I just couldn't get to you any sooner. Believe me, I really wanted to drop what I was doing and serve your needs, but sadly I was assisting another guest who was nothing but friendly, polite and charming.

I look forward to seeing you again soon. Thank you for coming in and making my night so special and most of all thank you for the tip. I was very exited to hear that I could "keep the change" from the sixty dollars that you gave me to cover your $55.14 check. It was the icing on the big smelly, vinegar and water cake.

Love,
The Bitchy Waiter

p.s. I'm sorry I didn't have a plastic bag for you to carry your second bottle water in when you left. We don't normally have "to-go" bags since we are a cocktail bar. Lucky for you, your girlfriend offered to put it in her purse. I know how difficult it would have been for you to carry a bottle of water in your own two hands.



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Calling All Servers!

This following was forwarded to me and they asked if I could reach out to all 102 of my readers for assistance. Perhaps you can help this man in his quest to find servers who have done the unthinkable.

Have you ever gone to extreme lengths to take revenge on a rude or irritating Customer? My name is Mark Rankin I'm a Researcher for a new Discovery Channel programme about the unusual world and one section is on Bizarre/ Stressful Jobs from around the world. We are looking to hear from waiters/waitresses who have been put through hell by customers and have finally reacted... it is time to hear your side of the story so if you wish to speak to me further in confidence please do email me at mark.rankin@talkbackthames.tv

I Look forward to hearing from you

Thanks
Mark


Alright, bitchy readers! Go to town with your stories for this guy!



Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Credit Card Fraud is Not Cool

We food-slingers work for tips and it's no secret that we depend on them to make our living. Anonymous, let me stop you right there before you say some stupid ass shit like "get a real job" or "tipping is optional." For whatever reason, we wait tables. And for whatever reason, in this country tipping is expected. End of story. When we look at a credit card voucher to see what our tip is, there are many scenarios that can make it confusing for us. (And Anonymous, it's not confusing because servers are stupid. It's confusing because too many people don't understand how to fill out a freakin' credit card slip. Zip it.)

How many times have you gotten a voucher where they just scribble in a total without bothering to write how much the tip is? You know what I mean? Say their bill is $72.23 and they don't bother writing a tip in. They just put $100 in the final line. Not a huge deal, but it means that I have to pull out my third grade math skills and subtract subtract $72.23 from $100 to find out what I have to put into the computer for my tip. (It's $27.77, Anonymous. I'm not stupid.) It's just an extra step that I have to take and it can suck when you are looking at a pile of 40 vouchers that have to be closed.

Another irritating thing is when people write the tip in clearly and the total in clearly, but the the two don't add up. Then I have to decide which one do I accept as correct. For instance: the bill is $40 and they write as the tip $8 but then they total it as $50. What to do? If I put in $8 for the tip, then the total will differ from their copy and wreak havoc when they try to balance their checkbook. So I go with the $50 total and assume they meant to give me a ten dollar tip. However, if the bill was $40, they wrote in $10 for the tip and they total it as $48, I will have to take the ten dollar tip. I will always take what is going to benefit me the most. If there is a problem (and there never has been) all I have to do is show that the ten dollars was very clearly written.

Finally, I fucking hate it when people just scribble random numbers in various spaces that don't mean shit and I have to pull out the goddamn Rosetta Stone to decipher what the hell they meant. Sometimes we just have to hope for the best and guess at what the tip was meant to be. That can be dangerous though because you don't want to be all guilty of credit card fraud and shit. This woman was just arrested for adding $953.19 in credit card tips between February 3 and March 12 of this year. That's almost two hundred bucks a week. That silly goose must have been adding zeros left and right and she thought no one would notice that shit? Uh, honey. If someone meant to tip $13.28 and you try to close it out as $132.80 cents, they're gonna notice. Dumb, honey. Real dumb. And to top it off, she worked at Outback Steakhouse. Hopefully, the judge won't throw her ass in jail and will just tell her she has to work an extra shift every week for two years. I would imagine serving Bloomin' Onions all day is a prison all its own.




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Born This Way

There is a great blog out there called "Born Gay, Born This Way" and I am thrilled to say that they posted something that I wrote. It has nothing to do with waiting tables, but I hope you will take a minute to go check it out my story. Well, actually, the beginning of my story does have something to do with waiting tables since I was mopping at the restaurant when I thought of what I wanted to write about. (And by the way, does anyone else have to mop their whole entire restaurant before they open? Jeez, I'm getting my measly ass tipped-employee hourly wage to fucking mop a floor? Isn't that why we have bussers and dishwashers? I digress...) Anyhoo, please go to the site if for no other reason to see an actual photo of yours truly. Yes, I have outed myself in more ways than one. It is a blogspot site, so once there feel free to comment on my story so that it can become popular and I can feed my sad and desperate need for attention.

And if you care to read my other thoughts about the gay lifestyle, you can always read about Chick-Fil-A or the day that someone called me a name and I felt the urge to spit in their lemonade.

Love,
The Bitchy Waiter



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Tuesday, March 22, 2011

How to Drop a Tray

I don't know if this is real or not, but who freakin' cares? It's brilliant. According to the original You Tube posting, "Joe Pantoliano, a.k.a. Joey Pants, (The Sopranos, The Matrix, Memento, Bound) was shooting a scene in a restaurant. The cast was waiting for the film crew to do something off-camera when a waitress walked past the table and spilled a huge tray of food on the actors." Maybe this is all part of the scene, but I would like to imagine that it isn't. Observe, please and be prepared to be amazed:




Parts of it seem incredibly real, right? Watch the blond woman who has her back to the incident. Her reaction seems real. But look at the guy in the bottom right hand corner of the screen and he looks like this was take number 49 and he is struggling to stay awake. He looks like me when I am being an extra on Law and Order and I have to look surprised when the perp runs past me in Central Park for the 1000th time. Some people say it was staged because the waitress doesn't do anything after she drops the tray. She just stands there with her hands covering her mouth in shock. Like if it was real, she would immediately start cleaning it up or least take the damn tray off the guy's back. Personally, I would have just kept on walking until I got to the time clock and then just punched my ass outta there and went home. Game over.

I have watched the video dozens of times and the one thing that I can't get out of my head is the woman at the table who only knows three words: Oh, my and God. How many times can she say that? And you can tell that if the video kept going she was about to look at the waitress specifically and say, "Oh, my God."

This post is very short today because a picture is worth a thousand words and this video is worth even more. Go ahead, watch it again and again and again. And then share it with your friends.



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Monday, March 21, 2011

A Comment on Commenst

I know it was just a few days ago that I did a Comment on Comments, but I couldn't let this one pass by. In response to Good Times, Good Times, someone burped out some true wisdom that I must respond to.

Jeff
said: Lame. Don't quit you're day job!

Dear, sweet, addle-brained, Jeff. How can a comment with only six words have so many things wrong with it? You have a real talent for making sharp and concise observations, don't you? First off, I beg to differ that Good Times, Good Times was "lame" as you so eloquently put it. The post was supposed to be an homage to the classic television sitcom Good Times which was a top show on CBS from February 8, 1974, until August 1, 1979. No, they did not really come into my restaurant. The chance of that happening is as unlikely as you ever understanding the difference between "your" and "you're." And for the record, you might want to brush up on "too," "to" and "two" as well as "there," "their" and "they're" since I bet you get those mixed up as well. I understand, though. Grammar's hard, huh? I know it is, because I write every day and sometimes I make mistakes too. However, I write about 3,500 words a week and maybe a mistake slips by every now and then. If I only had to piece together six word to insult someone though, I would try really hard to make sure I spelled everything correctly. But, that's just me.

In addition, I will not be quitting my day job since this whole blog is about my day job. It's not called the The Bitchy Unemployed now is it? If I quit my day job, what would I write about? So never you worry your empty little head about me quitting my day job. You should spend some time worrying about other things like spelling and grammar, alright? Thanks so much for reading. It makes me happy that someone like you takes the time to give me such a wonderful critique. My blog will only become better thanks to comments like yours. The next time I post something, I will think to myself, "What would Jeff think? Is this lame?"




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Sunday, March 20, 2011

I Want to Poke Moe in the Eyes With a Fork

I am blogging a fine line when talking about my new job, but I just can't not do it. It's in my blood. It's in my veins and my heart and the tiny little capillaries in my eyes that are especially noticeable today from too much drinking. I work with someone I shall refer to as Moe. Not because his name is Moe or because he has an unfortunate haircut, but because I want to poke him in the eyes with my fingers and then hold his nose with my left hand and swing my right arm around and slap my hand from his face. He makes me that crazy. All day, he constantly follows me and makes sure I am doing everything right. He gets all up in my station and deals with my tables which I do not like at all. I also think it's confusing for a customer when they have more than one waiter helping them. I had a table last night that had an empty glass of water on it because the man had told me he didn't want any more water. But Moe sees it and thinks I am being a lazy insolent waiter and grabs the pitcher and runs over to fill the glass. I saw him go up to one of my tables and recite the dessert specials even though I had already done it and was seconds away from bringing them their cake. He'll tell me that a table needs more bread as I am already walking to the bread station to get it. It's freaking annoying, but what can I do? I'm the new guy and he has been there for about four score and seven years. Maybe he is just making sure I am doing as fine a job as he is, but from what I have seen, I wouldn't want him as my server. I have yet to see him smile and he starts telling the specials as people are taking off their coats. Dude, slow the hell down. I know our goal is to "turn 'em and burn 'em" but let the folks at least sit down a second. I have also noticed that as soon as they put the last bite of entree in their mouth, he spews out dessert specials. Slow the fuck down.

One night Moe had picked up the check from one of my tables to run the credit card because he thought he was helping me and I guess I was moving way too slow. He handed me their check and told me they had paid half in cash and half on the card. I took it to the table and said good night to them. They left no tip that I saw, so I assumed that they had already given it to Moe with the cash. Since we pool, I didn't worry about it. A few minutes later he came up to me. "Did they leave a tip??" "No," I said. "They didn't already give it to you when they gave you the cash?" Moe got all upset and was like, "No! They paid $46 on the card and paid the other $46 in cash. They gave me sixty dollars so I gave them back fourteen in change. Did you ask them if there was a problem with the service?" Well, no asshole, I didn't because I didn't know they were stiffing us since you were all up in my business. I know what happened though. They were three women chatting and they just weren't paying attention. I heard one of them say "we already took care of it" so maybe they thought the way they divided it up had included the tip. It didn't, but since I didn't know what was going on, I never questioned it. Moe was all pissy but what the fuck was I supposed to do? Had he just let me deal with MY table from beginning to end, it could have been avoided. And now he probably thinks I gave them shitty service or I pocketed the tip or I am clueless when really, it's his fault.

So, Moe. Keep your stubby hands off my tables. I've been waiting tables since The Flintstones so I have plenty of experience. You know that part in the opening credits of The Flintstones when the waitress brings out the huge rack of ribs and it flips the car? That waitress is me. In drag. And I was a cartoon. Yes, I have been waiting tables since dinosaur days. If Moe doesn't back off, this Curly is gonna get all up in his face and Shemp his Larry ass.



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Saturday, March 19, 2011

Dear Bitchy Waiter

I get a lot of emails from people asking for advice regarding their restaurant related problems. I do my best to answer every single letter despite the vast number of them. (About three or four a week...) The following email arrived a few weeks ago and I don't know what to make of it.

You can email me
here if you have a question that needs attention. Or you can just say hello. That's nice too.



Dear Bitchy Waiter,

Hello My name is (name withheld) and I would like to order individual grilled chicken salad in your restaurant,for 150 people on 21st of march and pick up time is 3 pm and it's for my Dad's Birthday Party and it will be picked up by Private Shipper Agent and I am ready to pay the full payment with my credit card so can you make the order for me on that date while you get me the grand total of the foods inclusive of the tax fee,get back to me with the total cost,you can also get back to me.

Please advise.

Dear Name Withheld,

Let me advise. First of all, please learn what a period is because that run-on of a sentence gave me a freaking headache and I had to read it four times to understand your email and then I still didn't understand what you were asking me because I am not a restaurant, I am a blogger and run-on sentences are so bad that we should never ever use them unless it has a point like proving how annoying they are in the first place and stuff like that there and so on and so forth and etcetera. I see that your Dad's Birthday Party is in just a few days and it sounds like a real humdinger of a party if it's happening on a Monday at 3:00 in the afternoon. Seriously, how did you find 150 people who could go to a party on a Monday afternoon? Or maybe the pick-up time for the salads is at 3:00, but the party isn't until 8:00. If that is the case, you are going to have 150 limp and soggy ass salads to deal with that may be teeming with bacteria. But the salads won't come from me. You should probably look into ordering food from a restaurant or catering company rather than a waiter who writes a blog. I don't even know what city you are in, but I guess it doesn't matter since the order was going to be picked up by a Private Shipper Agent. Whatever that is. Although it is nice that you are ready to pay the full amount, including the 60% tip I would have added, I won't be able to help you. I hope your dad has the best Monday afternoon party in the history of Monday afternoon parties. Wherever you get your individual grilled chicken salads from, I hope they are delicious and perfect. Might I suggest Chick-Fil-A? Thanks for your inquiry.

-The Bitchy Waiter

Please email me here if you need guidance from The Bitchy Waiter.



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Friday, March 18, 2011

Good Times, Good Times

So I was waiting on a table recently. A real nice woman with her three children and a friend of theirs who was with her daughter. They seemed like they were all really close. They laughed a lot while the oldest son, about 18 years old, picked on his younger sister who was about 16 or 17. The older brother was tall and skinny and was wearing a turtle neck and a crazy hat that looked like it came straight from 1974. The younger brother was about 13 or so and was reading a book about Malcolm X. It seemed an odd reading choice for a kid during dinner out, but I figured he must have to write a book report or something. I took their order but the skinny kid said he wasn't hungry because he had already eaten at his job today. "Oh, do you work in a restaurant?" I asked him. He stood up and rubbed his barely-there goatee, cleared his throat and said, " I am the numero uno employeemundo at the Chicken Delight. Now dyn-o-mite!" His sister pulled his hat off his head and hit him with it and told him to sit down. "Uh, okay..." said I. I asked the youngest girl who was about 10 years old what she wanted and she smiled a dazzling smile. She looked like a younger version of Willis' girlfriend on Different Strokes. "I would like a hamburger, please, if it's not too much trouble." She was so cute. I asked her what her name was and she told me it was Penny. "Well, Penny, it is no trouble at all. Do you want cheese on it?" She looked at her mother and said, "Willona, can I have cheese too?" I thought it was weird that she called her mother Willona, but she was given the approval for cheese and Penny acted like she had just been given the biggest gift in the world. "Wow," I thought. "This kid acts like she never gets anything nice at all." Willona ordered a Cobb salad, little Malcolm X ordered a grilled chicken with no oil, steamed broccoli and brown rice, and his sister ordered pork chops. Their mom still had not decided what to order. "I just don't know. It just doesn't seem right to be here without James. I can't eat without my husband here." Willona chimed in, "Girl, it's time you faced reality. James is gone and he's never comin' back. He would want you to have whatever you want, so open up that menu and pick something." The rest of the table added their two cents. A chorus of "c'mon, Ma's" and "Willona's right's" echoed through the dining room. The mother took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She put her hand to her chest and then looked up to the ceiling. "Alright, then, James, this is for you. Can I have the t-bone steak please?" Her table applauded her efforts. No, I mean they actually clapped for her which made what I had to say next really difficult. "I'm sorry, ma'am, we're out of the t-bone. Maybe a strip loin instead?" The mother looked stunned, like it was just one more disappointment that she had to face in an entire life of disappointments. She didn't say anything for about thirty seconds. I didn't know what to do. Suddenly, she picked up a punch bowl that was conveniently on the table and threw it to the ground shattering it into a thousand pieces. She threw her fists up into the air as if to curse the world and screamed a guttural "damn, damn, damn!" I thought she was overreacting a bit. It was just a t-bone steak, right? Everyone at the table got up and hugged her as she moaned with pity and grief. And then it faded to black.






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Thursday, March 17, 2011

It's St. Patrick's Day: Get Trashed

I hope you started your day with some pink hearts, yellow moons, orange stars and green clovers because today is St. Patrick's Day. Yes, I am talking about Lucky Charms, nature's perfect breakfast food other than Cap'n Crunch or Honeycombs. If you needed to have a warm breakfast, then perhaps you settled for a bowl of McCann's Irish Oatmeal and if you are a big ol' lush, maybe you just sucked down a Guinness. If that is the case, do not feel bad about it, for today is St. Patrick's Day and heavy drinking is not only expected, it is encouraged. Does anyone even really know what St. Patrick did? He's a Catholic something or other and the only hard-core Catholic I know that would be able to give me the lowdown on the guy is probably on her fourth or fifth beer by now. (Marlene, call me. It's been a while.) Did he chase the rats out of Ireland or see the image of the Virgin Mary on a piece of Irish soda bread toast? I have no idea. Maybe he turned water into green beer? Regardless, today is the day that we all wear green and some people pull out their stupid ass "Kiss Me, I'm Irish" buttons and we go around pinching people who forgot to wear the color of the day. We go to McDonald's for a shamrock shake and then we head over to Bennigan's, Houlihan's, or Maggie Mae's Irish Pub to get as trashed as we possibly can because that is what St. Patrick and the Catholic church would want. We must honor that tradition, y'all. Get trashed. And don't worry if you forgot to wear green. If you drink enough pints, your face will soon be the right shade.

When I worked at Houlihan's, we had a big ass countdown clock one year counting down to the minute that people felt it was acceptable to order beer at 11:00 AM. Why people thought Houlihan's was a traditional Irish establishment, I'll never know. Are nachos and chicken fingers Irish? Now that I think about it, I do recall hearing a story about how St. Patrick needed to feed a hundred billion people one time but all he had was one block of Velveeta cheese and a lone bag of Doritos. But miracle of miracles, he fed those multitudes nachos until they were satisfied. That is the power of St. Patty!

I will keep this post brief because I know you are probably already drunk by now (Marlene, call me) and you are ready to go put on your leprechaun costume and run around looking for a pot of gold. I will be at work tonight serving all the drunk bitches in green but I will do it with a smile on my face. For that is what St. Patrick, the patron saint of nachos, would want. Happy St. Patrick's Day!




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Wednesday, March 16, 2011

The Miracle of Pity Tips

Ah, the pity tip. Have we all received these before? It's when you get an outrageous tip and you know it was only because your customer felt supremely sorry for you. It usually happens when a situation spirals out of control and there is a perfect storm of "of, fucks." Like you get triple sat, two or three orders in a row are all cooked wrong and then your nine top wants nine separate checks. Things just pile up and you end up so far in the weeds that you can't see past your station and as a result your customers think, "give this boy an extra dollar, he's in sad shape." This happened to me the other night.

The show I was working had reservations for about 70 people which is at the cusp for needing three servers instead of two. But the two of us are both really strong so we felt like it would be okay. It would have been okay if thirty more people hadn't shown up who didn't make a reservation. Suddenly, I had about 60 people in my station all needing a drink before the show started in twenty minutes. Panic and acid reflux began their way up my esophagus. My station was filled with one and two tops so the number of checks I had was staggering. People were clawing at me to get their second required beverage before I had even greeted half my station. Ordinarily I would be pleased as punch that people were on their second $15 martini before the show had even started, but I really needed to get to those people in the back of the room to see what they wanted. "Seriously? A hot tea and a Pelligrino? And you want a Pelligrino too? And you also? Wait, am I about to bust my hump for a bunch of five dollar Pelligrinos?" Yes, my hump was indeed busted for a bunch of five dollar Pelligrinos. My hump was so busted, I looked like a tired ass camel prostitute who had been ridden so many times that my hump was no longer a hump. It was just a of soft fleshy mound of "I just got screwed." I spent the whole 75 minutes of the show struggling to stay afloat. I had so many orders in my head that I couldn't remember who got what and I was wading through my station with a tray of cocktails just waiting for someone to raise their hand when they saw what they had ordered. I could picture my tips going down the drain faster than Charlie Sheen's career. (Lame topical reference, I know. Winning...) I felt really bad when the last song of the show was starting and I was just barely setting down booth 5's second round of Cosmos and wine. I was a bad waiter. I felt shame deep within my soul for not meeting the expectations of my guests. That may sound facetious, but I genuinely felt bad. Technically, it wasn't my fault. It was the fault of the 30 people who didn't see the need to make a two minute phone call to make a fucking reservation.

As I distributed the checks to the table, I felt the need to apologize to every single one and let them know that we were clearly understaffed. And my apology was sincere. When I started to pick up the checks to run credit cards and make change, something wonderful happened. "Keep the change, you deserve it" was the mantra of the people in my station. I saw 20-25% tips. It was like a miracle. I think out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jesus turning water into wine and then I saw Moses parting the Red Sea, so I guess God felt like throwing in some kick ass tips for me as well. I know they were all pity tips. They felt bad for me. But I'm okay with that. Now if only I could figure out a way to get pity tips when I am not slammed. It will be difficult, but maybe God has a plan.



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Tuesday, March 15, 2011

A Comment on Comments

I have not felt the need to write a "Comment on Comments" post in a while because in my old age, I have learned to accept that people have differing opinions and it's what makes our world such a wonderful place to live in. However, that being said, someone wrote something that I could not let pass by. I wrote a post called Neat vs. Straight Up way back in October of 2009. Someone who is way tardy for the party wrote this comment the other day, edited because she might be a bag full of hot air and belchy smells:

Kelly said: Ahhh, you've got to love people in the "service" industry who act like life would be great if it weren't for all these f*&king customers. You wait tables or bartend for a living. Most people don't drink for a living and therefore might not get their orders perfect. When customers act like a$$holes, then I agree they deserve a good trashing. No one deserves to be disrespected.

It would be great if servers, yes servers, would find a decent way to help people make corrections without making them feel like jerks.

How about:
Customer: I'll take a Maker's Mark up
Waiter: (Kindly) In our bar, up means chilled. Would you rather have that neat, which would be room temperature?
Customer: Yes, that would be great. Thanks!

Your method of bringing me what I didn't really want and getting into a pissing match about it means I'm going to a different bar next time.
Okay, so I already explained that the customer was the one trying to make me feel like an idiot. He was rude, condescending and I didn't like his outfit. I didn't disrespect him. I corrected him which is the right thing to do or he will spend his entire life ordering his Maker's Mark the wrong way and thinking that every waiter he ever has is stupid. He ordered his Maker's Mark "up" so that is what I brought him. It's rare that someone would want that liquor up, but some people like it on the rocks so how am I to know? A Manhattan is made with Maker's Mark and it comes up and in a martini glass, so it wasn't like the most unusual request I have ever had. I don't judge (okay, I totally judge) when someone orders White Zinfandel with ice or an Irish coffee without any liquor, so if he wanted his Maker's up, so be it. And thank you, Kelly, for your suggestion of how it should be played out the next time this situation arises. Your little script will be very helpful. Rest assured that I printed it out in fancy font, shrunk it down, had it laminated and it is now in my wallet for the next time I don't know what to say to a customer. Can you do me a favor? Can you please write out some other scenarios for potentially awkward situations? I would like laminated directions for these moments:
  • when someone asks me to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for their two year old when it is not on the menu.
  • when someone wants to know why we have Pepsi and not Coca-Cola.
  • what do I say when a customer wants to know why their well-done burger is still not ready three minutes after they ordered it?
  • how do I respond to the customer who wants me to turn the music to another channel because they don't like that song?
  • or what about when a customer asks me to turn the music off because her baby is taking a nap?
Thanks, Kelly. I can't wait to have these good-to-go scripts ready for my next confusing moment. Your help is invaluable. And also, your comment "most people don't drink for a living" is the saddest thing I have ever heard. You just brought down my entire day.




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Monday, March 14, 2011

To Go, or Not To Go. That Is the Question

Oh, take-out containers, why do you mock me so? I hate having to stock them because I hate that they even exist because I hate wrapping up food to go. Every time someone asks me, "Can you just wrap this up for me?" I want to say to them, "No, can you just finish it?" Half the damn time I go to the trouble of wrapping up that one last bite of food, they leave it at the table anyway. I have to then throw it away, along with the Styrofoam container which is shitty for two reasons: It's bad for the environment and more importantly I just stocked that stupid thing for no fucking reason.

The next time you are in a restaurant and you are considering taking your leftovers home, I want you to think of me and how much I hate doing it. Ask yourself a few simple questions:
  1. Will I really eat this last bite of scrambled egg tomorrow?
  2. Wouldn't it just be better if I cleaned my plate?
  3. What will these three french fries taste like when I try to reheat them in my microwave tomorrow night when I get the munchies?
  4. Do I want to carry around a container for the rest of the day?
  5. What if I put the last bit of tilapia into a bag and then it doesn't get refrigerated fast enough? Will I get food poisoning and if so, is it worth it?
  6. Does my waiter want to do one more fucking thing for me even though I will probably only tip him 10%?
  7. Will my waiter wash his hands before he picks up the remainder of my chicken club sandwich to lovingly place it inside a to-go box? (The answer to that one is no, by the way.)
  8. If this food was so delicious, why don't I just finish it now?
  9. If this food was too nasty to eat, then why the hell do I want to take it home with me?
  10. I can't think of another question, but I really wanted there to be ten?
A few days ago, I had to wrap up a tiny amount of rice and salmon. It was about a tablespoon of food. When she asked me to wrap it up, I serioulsy thought she was joking with me. I looked at the practically empty plate waiting for her to say something stupid like "Can you tell I just hated it?" But she didn't. I took the plate and dumped into a container. When I took it back to the table, she said, "Oh, do you have anything smaller?" No bitch, I don't have a thimble or an Altoids tin to put your half bite of salmon in. I serioulsy have more food in my teeth right now than this lady had in her to-go container. Ridiculous. I wanted to just put the food on a spoon and do the old choo-choo train trick to get her to take one more bite. At least she remebered to take it home with her. I'm sure it made a wonderful buffet for her pet hamster or a nice addition to her compost pile.

Taking your food to go? Just say no.





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Sunday, March 13, 2011

Spring Forward, Fall Back, or Whatever

Today is daylight savings time so we all lost an hour last night which is why your ass is so sleepy right now. I was happily watching television last night at 12:30 when I realized it was time to push the clocks forward. Suddenly it was time to go to bed. Sure, it'll be nice to see sunlight later tonight, but it was a lot easier on November 7th when I gained an hour. Why I remember it like it was four months ago. I looked at the clock and saw it was 1:00 AM. My glass of margarita was empty and I wiped a tear from my bloodshot eye. But then I moved the clock back an hour and it was deemed necessary to have another cocktail. Joy! I really don't get the whole Daylight Savings Time thing. I know Arizona and Hawaii don't even bother with the shit. I think the whole concept started because of needing more light to harvest the crops and that it was better to have more light in the autumnal mornings so children could be seen on their way to school. But, hello? I don't harvest crops. And put some fucking reflective glow tape on your kid when they have to walk to schoolin the dark. Leave the clocks alone.

Every year, there is some one at work who uses the old "I forgot to change my clock routine" and that pisses me off. And by the way, that excuse only works in the spring. I once worked with this dumb ass bitch who showed up an hour late to work when we set the clocks back. She breezed in an hour late and was all, "Oh my God, am I late?? (exasperated intake of breath) Oh shit! I forgot to change the clocks, I am so so so sorry!" Yeah, bitch, nice try. If you really forgot to move your clock back, then you would be early, not an hour late. Thank you for playing, please try again. Or maybe it's the fall when that excuse works. I really have trouble understanding it. It reminds me of algebra and geometry class with Mrs. Krebs. She would explain it to me but it would just go in one ear and out my asshole. My brain just can't wrap itself around certain concepts like math, time, physics, employment, Republicans and empty vodka bottles.

So go change your clocks. Spring forward, bitchs, don't fall back. And that's another thing. Wouldn't it be just as easy to say "fall forward and spring back?" How the hell are we supposed to keep track of time? Who the hell are we? Doc Brown from Back to the Future? Enjoy your day, sleepy heads.





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Happy (late) Birthday, Liza Minnelli

I know I have posted this video before, but yesterday was Liza Minnelli's birthday and I let it slip by without so much as a mention. I am a very bad person. So happy birthday to the best damn diner waitress I have ever had serve me two eggs, sunny side up. with a side of rye toast and extra crisp bacon. Liza is one smokin' hot waitress who just happens to have a Tony, Emmy, Oscar and Grammy.






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Saturday, March 12, 2011

They Sang My Tweet!

There is this great Twitter-er out there called @wesingyourtweet. According to their website they are "a social experiment in music. A way to highlight tweets we love from people we love to follow. You tweet it, we sing it. Songs in 140 characters or less." It's pretty funny and I was totally psyched that they chose one of my Tweets to turn into a song. True, I may have been stalking them a bit, but they finally granted me one of their illustrious "sweets"- a singing tweet, get it? For some reason they think I am a girl. I guess it's okay because when I was a little kid, I was constantly told how pretty I was. I remember sitting in my stroller and a woman at the grocery store asking my mom how old her pretty little girl was. Although I do have some feminine attributes, there are many things about me that are decidedly male. Namely, my penis. Anyway, you should totally go check out the song they wrote for me. You can see the video here. These guys should have way more followers on Twitter, so if you like what you see, you should follow them. And then someday maybe they will write a song about you.

This is my Tweet that they musicalized:
And then Oprah was all "This Q32 bus smells like ripe papaya but at least it's easy to drive." She's so pretty.
Go to their site to hear them sing it and then follow them on Twitter. And maybe make a comment on their page so I can become popular.




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Friday, March 11, 2011

High Maintenance Table #1

I had my first high maintenance table at my new job recently and you know I have to blog about it. When the group walked in, I was warned by the bartender that they might be a problem. "They're nice, but..." I got the drift. I greeted the family and asked how many people were in the group. "I dunno, five or six." You don't know how many people are in your family? It ended up being five of them so I took them to a booth and as soon as they sat down the Mom laid a heavy sigh out on the table. "I need a glass of Cabernet right away," she said like she had just gotten through negotiating a peace treaty with Col. Moammar Khadafy and she was dead beat tired. As I opened my mouth to ask if anyone else at the table was in need of a drink, she waved her hand and said, "Just go get mine right now, thanks." Okay. I can see where this is going. I am going to make multiple trips to the table, fine. When I returned with the oh-so-needed wine, I saw that all the candles from surrounding tables had been moved to their table so the kids had light to read their books. While I applaud the children's need to read, I now had to go scour the restaurant to find three more candles to put on the now naked tables beside them. Mom spoke up again. "We come here all the time and the chef always makes our kids some pasta with butter, can we just order that now? Thanks, they're starving." Although she made it sound like the chef does this as a huge personal favor just for her and her precious bundles of brat, when I asked him about it, he told me there is a key for it on the computer. So it's not like he does it just for this bitch like she thought. I ordered their pasta and then went back to see what the grownups wanted for din din.

"Now does the chicken come with a vegetable or just the potatoes?" Mom asked. I admitted, being new I was not positive but was pretty sure it was just potatoes. I was also thinking, "Bitch, I thought you came here all the time..." I confirmed it was just potatoes and then the Grandma ordered a hot tea. Of course she did. "Do you have any herbal?" I told her we do and that I would bring out the choices for her. Mom said, "Just don't ask him what kind, because he won't know the answer. Hardy har har, I'm so funny. Snort pig, snort pig, rutabaga, rutabaga." I smiled. The husband was decidedly quiet throughout dinner, probably because he gave up a long time trying to insert any kind of opinion to his wife who obviously wore the pants, the boots, the suspenders and the strap-on in the family.

I noticed Mom had an empty glass of wine and knowing how badly she wanted the first one, I offered her another. "Oh, not now." Two minutes later she called me over to order another glass of wine. Bitch, I was just there. She liked to have control, so since it was my idea that she have another glass of wine she shot it down. But when it's her idea, it's a real gem. The children eventually got tired of reading and one of them thought it was fun to constantly get up from the table with her umbrella and go outside for thirty seconds and then come back to the table to let everyone know she had just gone outside. Newsflash: your daughter just went outside in the rain. Eight times. Each time, getting in my way and getting the floor more and more wet. My kingdom for a bottle of Crazy Glue that I could have smeared in her seat.

They finally finished and left me a good tip. It wasn't that they were crazy rude or mean, just annoying. I made more trips to that table than I did any other table all night. People like that use us servers as their own personal servants. They say "please" and "thank you" but only because they feel they have to, not because they mean it. And then they leave a 20% tip to make themselves feel okay about being so freaking annoying. That's fine. I'll take 20% for annoying, Alex.




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Thursday, March 10, 2011

Is Porky the Pig a Slut?

As I was walking my dog this morning, I was visually assaulted by an 18-wheeler cruising through my neighborhood. On it was a giant picture of a cartoon pig along with the words "Porky: Servicing the Food Industry." Now maybe I am just a dirty minded old man, but when I hear the word "servicing" I imagine someone on their knees providing oral stimulation to one of their dear close personal friends or a stranger they met in the bathroom of a Chipotle Mexican Grill. So of course, I went there. My mind conjured up an image of a line of waiters, bus boys, kitchen crew and managers all patiently waiting for their turn with someone named Porky. Now I assume what this Porky company actually does is provide food supplies to restaurants, but to me Porky just presents the wrong image. I can't help but think of the 1982 classic film, Porky's. (Since it was released way before I was born, I have only seen it on DVD, by the way.) But if I called Porky Products to enquire about the cost of some frozen chicken fingers and the receptionist answered with a perky, "Thank you for calling Porky, how can I service you?" all I would be able to think about would be that scene from Porky's the movie when Miss Balbricker is holding onto that guy's penis through a hole in the girls bathroom. I'd have to stifle a giggle and then hang up, because, yes, I really am that immature.

I also wonder how this company has managed to have a big cartoon pig as their logo and not have the fiery breath of Warner Brothers coming down on them for defiling the image of Porky the Pig. I would think they would come down on them so fast that Porky's ham hock ass would spin. A few years ago I was selling on eBay some painting of various Monopoly cards and I got a cease and desist order from Parker Brothers.

I was only selling these things for about twenty bucks, but they had their lawyers all over my ass. But Warner Brothers doesn't care that there is another Porky the Pig out there? And instead of stuttering, this Porky sells slabs of bacon and ham? And that's another thing. I don't want to see a cartoon pig selling me real pig. It's gross. It's like the pig is saying, "Hey, I'm a pig, so fry my bacon ass up and serve me with a side of grits and some eggs. Or you can take my rump and put it in a slow cooker for dinner. Or why not slice up my rinds and put them in a bag and eat them the next time you are watching World Class Wrestling or NASCAR? I'm the other white meat!"

Okay, enough. I just had to get that out of my system. Th-Th-Th-Th-Th-... That's all, folks. And speaking of pigs.




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Twiiter Followers Wanted

Since I am always looking for new followers on Twitter, Facebook and whatever else I think might propel this blog into the stratosphere of popularity, I recently signed up for a new website called Tweetbooster. Do I know what it does? No. No I don't. Not yet, anyway, but I am willing to give it a try. Because it's no secret I am a big ol' social media whore...


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Wednesday, March 9, 2011

I Dreamed a Dream

All servers have them: those horrible dreams where you are the only waiter in a giant restaurant. Your station goes as far as the eye can see and there is a revolving door of customers pouring into the restaurant who all need to order right away. It's like one of those awful fever-induced dreams where nothing makes sense and you wake up in a pool of cold sweat. Jolted from your dream, you find yourself sitting upright in your bed and then when you lay back down again, your sheets are damp with perspiration. I hate those waiter dreams. I have been told by former servers that they still have them even though they haven't waited tables in decades. Does this mean that I can look forward to those dreams for the rest of my life? Probably.

I had a server dream last night, but it was little bit different than usual. In it, I was not at work as the sole waitron. I was simply eating dinner in a warm pub-like restaurant with some friends. When I got up to go to the bathroom, someone at a table motioned for me to come to them. I was wearing all black, so I must have looked like a waiter. They asked me for something and rather than tell them I didn't work there, I just went to get it. The dream is slipping back into my subconscious so I don't remember what it was. I think it was like they wanted water and since I could see a pitcher nearby, I just got it for them. No biggie. When I returned from the bathroom, another table told me they were ready to order. Again, I just went with it and asked them what they wanted. "Can I get a medium plain pizza with a small salad?" they asked me. I told them it was no problem and went to find someone who worked there to pass it on. I went up to a waitress and asked who had the second booth. "Tina," she said and pointed towards a girl on the other side of the restaurant. I went to Tina and told her that table two had ordered and she thanked me and put the order into the computer. I went back to my table and continued my meal.

So what the fuck? So now even in my dreams I can't enjoy going out to dinner? Isn't it enough that when I go out to eat I constantly have to observe the servers and watch the interactions with their co-workers? I scan the sidestation to see how it's organized. I watch the hostess to make sure the seating rotation is even. I can't just sit back and be a customer and I hate it. And now even in my dreams I am unable to sit at a table and let someone serve me. I have to get up and take some fucking orders? If this is what the future of my dreams are, I'd rather not have anymore, thank you.

I had a dream. I dreamed it for you, baby.
And it wasn't that I would take Tina's goddamn pizza order.

I dreamed a dream of time gone by. And it was of a time when my dreams were about good things and not working in a fucking restaurant.

I dreamed the impossible dream. And it was of me having a life that did not revolve around burger temperatures.

Once upon a dream. And then I woke up in a puddle of sad and salty sweat and tears.

Why can't I just dream of Jeannie?



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Tuesday, March 8, 2011

I Wanna Be Your Hero

A news article was sent to me praising the actions of a waiter in Atlanta, Georgia who saved the life of a man who was choking on a fucking quesadilla. There is even video of the event. According to the choking victim, "I think I just took a really big bite and forgot to chew." Uh, okay. Forgot to chew? That might be something he wants to work on for future eating times, but thank God for his waiter Matthew McConnell who had learned the Heimlich at the training for the restaurant. Let's all give it up to Matthew. He's a hero. I wrote about this before when I saw a guy choking in my restaurant once and I didn't know what the hell to do. Thankfully, he wasn't in my station so I didn't feel any real responsibility for the poor guy. Another customer jumped up and saved his life. It was all very dramatic and inspired me to sign up for a class in CPR and shit. However, if I remember correctly, the class was happening on the same night as the season finale for Designing Women, so I skipped it. Anhoo, back to our hero, Matthew! Of course he is downplaying the whole "hero" moniker as any modest hero would, but I would be basking all over that hero worship shit. And yes, I am a bit jealous that no one has ever called me their hero.

Shouldn't I be considered a hero for all the lives I have saved too? Maybe I didn't pull a piece of quesadilla from someones windpipe, but I have had my moments. What about the time that lady sent her food back three times because the steak was undercooked and then she had the nerve to tell me at the end she wasn't really hungry anyway? I wanted to strangle that bitch. But I didn't. Life saved. What about when that kid left his scooter in my way and I tripped over it (on purpose to prove a point)? I could have killed that kid for endangering my life, but I didn't. Another life saved. And finally, what about all those people who get great service and then leave me a 5% tip? That is grounds for manslaughter, but I have never done it. Countless lives saved. I am practically a goddamn fucking superhero when you look at it that way. Sure, this guy Matthew gave the Heimlich and saved one lousy life. I, on the other hand, with restraint and patience have managed to save at least one life every day. I am a hero too, world. Just a different kind of hero. In the immortal words of songstress Enrigue Iglesiais:

I can be you hero baby
I can kiss away the pain
I will stand by you forever
You can take my breath away

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go pick up my cape from the dry cleaners. I got some 1000 Island dressing on it the other night when this lady changed her mind about her salad. She told me she wanted a 1000 Island but when I got to her table she swore that she said Ranch. She didn't. I tossed the salad into the garbage and got the dressing all over me. I was pissed off and wanted to punch her unconscious. But I didn't. Yet another life saved. It just doesn't end for me with the fucking life-saving.




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