A Dish Best Served Cold (Guest Blogger)

 In my absence while I am on vacation, I have assembled some wonderful guest bloggers to fill in for me. Please comment and share. Also remember, these are guest bloggers. Visit their websites and show them some love. 

This blog comes from the most excellent, Terry Everton who writes at Working Stiff Review.  

Thanks,
BW

“Excuuuuse me, Waiter…This table is dirty. Do you think you can clean it for us?”

“Sure, just as soon as I grow a third hand,” I told the two entitled princesses as I walked past them with my hands full of six dirty plates. Even though there were at least eight clean tables on the patio, they had determined that the unset one with dirty glasses on it was where they absolutely had to plant their asses – after bypassing the hostess and seating themselves, of course.

Here’s a tip from your server. If you absolutely, positively want to assure yourself the worst possible dining experience you’ve ever had, then ignore the hostess, seat yourself and bitch to the first restaurant employee you encounter about how dirty the table you just sat yourself at is.

By the time I made it back out to the patio after depositing the dirty plates in the dish area, a busser had visited the princesses and cleared and wiped their table. I arrived just in time for the blondest of the duo to summon me again in her best sing-songey tone.

“Um, excuuuuse me, Waiter…Do you think maybe we could get some menus?” 

There are select moments when life lobs you softballs, and whether you choose to swing for the fence is entirely at your discretion. Always one to recognize and appreciate such rare gifts from the universe, I wound up and gave it a whack.

“Oh golly,” I palmed my jaw as I replied. “Didn’t the hostess bring menus with her when she sat you?”

They both looked at each other like I had just changed the channel halfway through an episode of The Kardashians. “Uh, we, uh, well, uh…”

“I’ll tell you what,” I continued. “I’ll go ask her why she sat you here without bringing you any menus. I can’t believe we’re paying people to give such bad service to our valued guests!”

The least blonde of the two began backpedaling faster than a right wing Christian fundamentalist who had just inadvertently stumbled into a John Waters film festival. “Nooo, wait…She, uh, didn’t really, uh, do anything wrong, uh, we kinda, just picked this table out ourselves, uh…”

Swing, batter batter batter, swing! Swing, batter batter batter, swing! “You know what, you’re right. Let me get our manager to come talk to you, because I’m sure he’d want to know how badly some of the people on his staff are performing. He’ll probably fire her, though I hope it won’t upset her mother too much, what with her recent cancer diagnosis and all.”

The blondest of the duo began running in the opposite direction quicker than if she had just been told she was about to stumble headlong into a hurricane of sense.  “Uh, no, uh, I think, uh, maybe we should just, uh…”

“Stay here,” I told them. ‘I’m gonna go get the manager so we can all pitch in and get this bitch fired!”

I walked to the nearest side station, rang up a shot of Jagermeister for myself and downed it when no one was looking. By the time I had taken a lap through the bar, kitchen, dining room and made my way back out onto the patio the pair of blondies had decided to vacate their ill-gotten table and plant themselves elsewhere, preferably in a different restaurant.

After she had sat the freshly-cleaned former princesses’ table with a four top, the hostess cornered me. “What did you say to those two girls who sat themselves, anyway?”

“Not much,” I lied. “I just told them that I’d be with them as soon as I got rid of some dirty plates, and when I got back to their table they had left. Why do you ask?”

“It was weird. They each gave me a strange look, wished me good luck and handed me a twenty dollar bill as they left. I don’t know what I did.”

Vengeance, as always, is mine.



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