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Thursday, March 29, 2012

Best Bachelor Party Ever, or I'm Getting Married

Oh, man am I hungover. My head is pounding and my tongue is as dry as my humor. I don't remember a lot about last night but I do recall how it began. It all started when I got off the N train at 57th Street and headed right to the Hooters on 56th Street with all my buddies. I must admit that I already had a little bit of a buzz when I got off the train because I had been pre-gaming at home with PBR's while watching a basketball game that I had DVR'd. Maybe it was a little early to start drinking, but it's not every day that a guy is celebrating his bachelor party is it? Yes, I am getting married on Monday and yesterday was my day to sow some wild oats, cut loose and live it up as a bachelor one last time. And where else to start a bachelor party than Hooters?

As soon as I walked in, I ordered the Gourmet Chicken Wing Dinner that comes with a bottle of of Dom Perignon. I asked for the 9-1-1 sauce because I am a big tough manly man and I wanted the hottest sauce possible so it could put a little hair on my chest since it was all waxed off just two weeks ago. Delicious. Well, lemme tell you one thing about my waitress. That little filly had just about the prettiest darn eyes I've ever seen. I don't remember what color they were because right after I noticed them, I focused on her big beautiful fun bags that were popping out of her t-shirt. Dayum, brother. I could tell that the waitress was into me because she kept asking me questions. "Do you need more napkins?" and "Do you want another drink?" Pretty obvious that she knew I was about to go off the market and she wanted one last chance to see what was underneath the Bitchy Waiter apron.

I must have had about two dozen wings and six beers. I guess I drank the bottle of Dom too because it was empty. Damned if I know. Then my buddies thought it would be a good idea to do some shots. They all did Jagermeister but since it was my bachelor party, I wanted something more refined. I had a Slippery Eel which is Jager layered with Bailey's and Creme de Menthe. Fancy as fuck right? I'm gettin' married!

After we paid the bill and left a huge tip (that's what she said) we headed to our next party destination. It was only about ten blocks away, but we went in style. We had a stretch white Hummer with LED wheels and a hot tub. As we rode those ten blocks, we were all hanging out the windows and waving to all the jealous haters. We were so cool. We had this bad ass tune blaring on the c.d. player and before we knew it we were at Dave and Buster's in Times Square. That's right, I was about to get my bachelor party game on with some Whack-a-Mole and Skeeball. Nothin' says bachelor party like Dave and Buster's, yo. We were partying it up and I was downing the Jello shots and collecting more tickets than I ever had. I was on fire! I had enough tickets to take them to the counter and trade them in for the biggest stuffed teddy bear you have ever seen. My fiancee is going to love it when I put a tuxedo on it and make him my best man on Monday.

From this point on, I don't really know what happened.

I know we went to Flashdancers after Dave and Buster's. It's that cool gentleman's club right across the street from the David Letterman theater that always has the balloons? I remember walking into the club and trying to release the balloons and then a security guy yelling at me but that's pretty much all I got. The only way I know I was there for sure is that there is a picture on my cell phone of me getting a lap dance with three women and a hermaphrodite. I look pretty happy in the picture. I looked through my photo gallery and there are 22 pictures from last night. In one picture, my face is in the urinal but I have a smile on so I guess it was alright with me. There is another picture of me doing the splits while two mafia-looking men are pointing guns at me and then there is a picture of a penis. I didn't think it was my penis because it had a tattoo on it and my penis doesn't have a tattoo. Or so I thought. I looked down and see that I do in fact have a tattoo on my penis. It's a real beauty. A Mexican cutie. How it got here, I haven't a clue. According to photos, I also took the tram to Roosevelt Island, rode the carousel at Central Park, had a burger at Shake Shack, made out with a homeless lady, was naked on Ellis Island, saw Porgy and Bess, climbed a statue at Columbus Circle and took a nap at The Container Store. What a night!! The best bachelor party ever!

So yes, I am in fact getting married on Monday to my partner of 21 years. Monday will be our 21st anniversary. I have been busy which is why the posts have been lacking. Thank you for your understanding. And if you feel the need to to honor this special day, you can click here and do that. Thanks, everyone!

-BW



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Tuesday, March 27, 2012

Olive Oyl is Alive and Well

Have you ever wondered what Olive Oyl would like in today's day and age? Wonder no more because I think she sat at table 18 last night. She has put on some weight which is a good thing because I always thought Olive Oyl was bit too thin. It was rumored that she had body dismorphic syndrome and may have had some type of eating disorder as well which would explain why she always seemed to weigh about 70 pounds. Judging from her fickle nature and not being able to decide between Popeye and Bluto also shows that she probably had some issues with low self esteem. But last night she was healthy and robust and acting like she has finally got her life on track. Her hair is still jet black but it's obvious that she dyes it now. But she's in her early 90's, so more power to her. It also appeared that she had gotten a boob job because she actually had breasts. Popeye and Bluto probably chipped in and paid for those tits after years of pancake breakfasts. Her feet are still huge but she was wearing snow boots so maybe it was an illusion. She was wearing that sad black pencil skirt and red top but she had jazzed it up with a zebra print jacket. Overall she looked good for a 90 fucking year old cartoon character

"Hello, ma'am. May I get you something to drink?" I asked.
"Oh dear, I dunno. Ooooh I dunno. Ooooh...ooooh."
"I can come back in a few minutes if you want to take a moment to decide."
"Nooooo, I'm ready. Ooooh, I would like a vodka on the rocks with olives. A lot of olives. I love olives."
"More than three?"
"Oooh, are they the big olives or the little olives. I love olives."
"They are the big olives," said I.
Olive Oyl smiled from ear to ear and said, "Ooooh, I love the big olives. I'll take as many as you can give me."
I went back to the bar and crammed five olives on to the tiny toothpick and carried it back to the table. She eyed the glass and went straight for the olives. I just knew that her panties were a little wet with olive oil at the very thought of downing those delicious salty little fruits.
"Ooooh dear, these are big olives. Thank you so much. I love olives," she said again as she swallowed two of them at once.
"Yes, I heard that about you. Would you like to order any food or will you be having olives for dinner tonight?" I followed that remark with a laugh so she would think I was being funny and not bitchy even though I was being bitchy and not funny.
"Oooh dear. Hmmmm. Ooooh my. Oh, I know! I would like an order of spinach artichoke dip."

Apparently her years with Popeye had rubbed off on her and she was a big fan of the spinach can. I was afraid to ask her about Popeye. He was older than Olive Oyl was so he's probably dead now. I also wanted to ask her who the hell Swee'Pea was and if he was the bastard child of Popeye or Bluto, but it seemed too personal for a waiter to ask a customer. I almost shared with her how I played her one summer in an amusement park in Denver but decided that she probably wouldn't care. (Yes, I really did. I was Olive Oyl at Elitch Gardens the summer of '87 so if you hugged her that summer, you probably hugged me.) The rest of the night with Olive Oyl was uneventful. She had her two drink minimum and enjoyed the show. She gave me a good tip and went on her way. I was just happy to see that Olive Oyl was alive and well and living in New York City. Now if I could only find out whatever happened to Josie and the Pussycats.






This is a repost because I am getting married next week and have been kinda busy.

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Thursday, March 22, 2012

What Would You Do?

Everyday, we are faced with decisions that can alter the course of our lives. Do I take the N train or do I walk the extra block to the F train? Do I use the money in my checking account to pay my electricity bill or do I go buy an iPad? Tequila or vodka with dinner? (The answer to the last question is all too often "both.") In the restaurant industry, we are also given the task of deciding things and sometimes it's not easy to know what the best choice will be. Should I take table 7's order now or should I run the drinks to table 14 first? Do I hide my coffee cup of chardonnay behind the bread warmer or on the shelf next to the to-go boxes? Do I ignore that crying baby or do I hand it a steak knife and hope for the best? All of these are important decisions but one event happens in the course of every server's life that becomes not just any decision but a moral one.

It was a very busy night at the restaurant. I was the only server and we had no busser or food runner meaning I was doing it all except for making the drinks. It must have been a slow night on television and that coupled with the abnormally warm weather for early March made for a slammed night. Every time I turned around, there was another party waiting at the door to be seated. Tables were dirty and I was a mad man. I actually really like it when it's that way. I tend to do better in a pressure situation. My smile goes into hyper-drive and I wait tables like a well-oiled machine. The food was coming out quickly and the customers were all satisfied. Maybe they had to wait a little longer than usual, but I have found if you at least reach out to that customer and let them know that you know they are there, it makes it okay. "Hi folks. I'm a bit busy but gimme a minute and I'll be right back with a water pitcher and I will take your order," I said over and over again. Repeatedly, I heard comments like 'I can't believe you're the only one here, you're amazing!" and "You are doing such a great job and your hair is gorgeous." I relish in those compliments as long as they back them up with 20% tips.

At one point, I had food in the window, tables to clear, a guy needs a beer, waters to fill, she needs her bill, orders to take, coffee to make, people to seat ready to eat. Madness! And then:

"Excuse me. Can you wrap this steak up for me? Thanks."

"Absolutely, ma'am. I will be right back." I took the plate from her hand and ran to the back sidestand where we keep the to-go boxes and my coffee cup of chardonnay. While holding the plate, I bent over to pick up a box from the shelf and I watched the half-eaten steak slide slowly from the plate and onto the floor, that although was just mopped by myself a couple of hours earlier, was certainly not clean enough to eat off of. This is what we call a moral decision.

Do I take the steak from the floor citing the "three-second rule" and put it in the to-go box and carry it back to the woman or do I go to the chef and explain that I need another well-done steak but I only need half of it and I need it ten minutes ago? Who will know if I put the dirty steak in the box? As long as I brush off any dust bunnies and/or crumbs, nobody. The chef will be pissed off if I ask him to make another steak, especially in the middle of a rush like this. He'll make me pay for it and that ain't gonna happen. Will the lady get sick if she eats the dirty steak? Maybe it's for her dog anyway. Maybe the chef will be understanding, but that seems highly unlikely. What to do, what to do?? I picked up the dirty meat and placed it gently into the to-go box and closed the lid. Should I give it to her? Maybe I can just tell her what happened and then offer her a dessert on the house instead. Or maybe she'll say it doesn't matter because it's for her step-daughter's lunch tomorrow. Maybe I go to tell her and she gets totally pissed off at me and makes a big scene and I could have avoided the whole thing by giving her the floor meat. I looked over at the chef who was yelling at another cook about how he had just wasted two pieces of bacon by over-cooking them. I looked at the lady who was laughing at the joke of her friend and finishing her third glass of wine. I looked at my coffee cup of chardonnay and took a swig. I closed the lid of the box and wrote on top of it, "Enjoy!" Maybe I'll just tell her it fell on the floor and I will get her another glass of wine. But then I'll have to tell my boss that I need a glass of wine comped and this is the man who won't even let me have french fries. I placed the to-go box into a bag and finished off my chardonnay. This was a moral dilemma.


I am not going to reveal what I did because if you are a regular reader, you can figure it out. But what I want to know is what would you do?




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How To Treat Your Server



Do what the signs tells you to do and you will be a very happy customer who has a very happy server as well.
Indeed.


Tuesday, March 20, 2012

Drag Queens ♥ Chick-fil-A

You know I have a love/hate relationship with Chick-fil-A. While I am tempted by their crispy chicken sandwiches sporting the lone pickle slice and the orders of waffle fries I am also torn because of the company's history of supporting anti-gay organizations. But now I have permission to indulge in the chicken and that permission comes from three kick ass drag queens named Willam Belli, Detox and Vicky Vox who say to go anyway. "Don't matter if you're gay, chow down at Chick-fil-A!"

Thank you, drag queens. I feel better now.





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Come to the Cabaret, My Friends

Big step here, but I want to meet you guys! I am performing in a show here in New York City next week Monday March 26th. It's a cabaret that will be benefiting a organization called Help Is On the Way which provides assistance to kids living with HIV. If you come, you will have to buy a two-drink minimum (not an issue for you lushes, I know) and the cover charge of $15 goes directly to the charity. I will be singing two songs in the show. Not only will you get to hear some incredibly talented singers while getting your buzz on, you will be helping a great charity and the bonus is that I will finally get to meet some of you! And if you need more incentive, how about if I promise to give everyone who comes to the show a Bitchy Waiter "Bitch Proud" bracelet? What a deal, eh?

All of the information is here on this Facebook Event.

Monday March 26th at 7:00, but get there at 6:15.
Tickets are $15 plus a two drink minimum.
Downstairs at West Bank Cafe, 407 West 42nd

Doors open at 6:15 PM and the show is at 7:00 PM
There is a $15 Cover and $15 Food/Bev Min required

to make reservations call 212-695-6909


Please think about coming. I will be singing two great songs. And more than anything it would be so exciting to finally say thank you to the ten or twelve of you who regularly read this blog. But please make a reservation so the staff is prepared and then shoot me an email here so I know to look for you. So excited! And thank you.

Monday, March 19, 2012

It's Closing Time So Go Home

Is there anything more irritating than that customer who comes in minutes before closing? "Are you still open?" they ask, all hopeful and eager. "Yes, we are open for 15 more minutes," we respond, all bitter and discouraging. "Oh, good, we just made it!" they say, all relived and happy. Such was the case last week.

I get it. If the restaurant is open, then you absolutely have the right to come in and eat. But since this is my fucking blog, I absolutely have the right to bitch about it to my heart's content. This couple came in after 10:30 fully aware that we would be closing in less than half an hour. When some people find out the restaurant closes soon, they make an effort to decide on their meal a little quicker and pay their bill in a timely manner. Other people take it as an opportunity to have the whole restaurant to themselves and use it for their own personal living room, just sitting and chatting away completely oblivious to the busser sweeping around them and the candles that are slowing burning out on surrounding tables.

I put on my big fake ass smile and asked them what they wanted to drink. "Hmm, I think we'll have a bottle of wine." Really a bottle of wine? No one drinks a bottle of wine in 15 minutes so I know now that they are in for the long haul. I practically ran to the bar in order to get them drinking it as soon as possible. Then they ordered their two entrees. Thank God they didn't want an appetizer. The kitchen banged that catfish special out so quick that the fish was practically flip-flopping around on the plate when I served it. The man ate it very quickly because he could probably sense that the bartender and I had nothing to do except blow out a few candles and clear their table before we were free to go. The woman on the other hand ate that catfish like it was an instant replay in super slo-mo. Was she savoring every delicate bite or was she just doing it to piss me off? I don't know for sure, but I go with the latter. I timed her between bites and when she didn't pick up her fork for 4 minutes and 47 seconds, I assumed she was done. "May I take that out of your way?" I asked? "Oh, I'm really slow. I'm still picking on it." The only picking I wanted to see at that moment involved an ice pick and her eyeballs. By this point, we were very closed. After the food sat on her plate for a few more minutes, the man finally finished it for her and I whisked the plate away.

With their check in my apron and my eye on the clock, I went back to the table. "Do you guys need anything else tonight or can I just get your check for you?"

The woman put her right elbow on the table and rested her chin on her palm. "What do you have for dessert?" she wanted to know. It was 13 minutes past closing time and they still had a third of a bottle of wine.

What I thought: Oh my God, are you serious?? I didn't have a customer for the last 80 minutes and now you're gonna keep me here this late just so you can eat a fucking dessert? Go to the deli across the street and get a goddamn pint of Ben and Jerry's or go home and eat some Rice fucking Crispies. I don't wanna be here anymore and you alone are the reason I am still here now. Don't you see the lights are turned off in the back and everyone is sitting around twiddling their thumbs? Did you not see the dishwasher walk by a few minutes ago with bags of trash? We are closed! Get out! Now!

What I said: We have apple cobbler with vanilla ice cream, vanilla bean creme brulee and profiteroles with chocolate sauce.

"Oooh, we'll have the creme brulee!" Of course you will. It's the one that takes the longest to prepare.

When I served the dessert, the man told me, "You can go ahead and bring the check. We don't wanna keep you here any longer than you need to be." Too late, sir. I gave them the check and they let it sit on the table for 11 more minutes before he gave me his credit card. I ran the card and returned it to him in about two seconds and then he let it sit there for another five minutes before he signed it and then they sat there for another 7 minutes after they were done with the dessert. Perhaps some Crazy Glue had been applied to their pants before they sat down at booth 7 but more than likely, they had no sense of time and didn't give a shit that I had already been at work for eight hours and just wanted to get he fuck out.

They left 40 minutes after closing. Not horrible but all the worse because of how slow it had been for the hour before they came in. Their bill was $89 and they left an $18 tip. That was $9 for me and $9 for the bartender. A good tip but as far as I was concerned, I would have rather left 5o minutes earlier with $9 less in my pocket. But I'm lazy like that.

People if the world: know what time the restaurant closes and when that time comes, do your best to get the fuck out of it. Thanks.



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Saturday, March 17, 2012

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

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!

(yes, this was a repost...)




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Friday, March 16, 2012

An Open Letter to the Man Who Smelled of Urine

Dear Man Who Smelled Like Urine,

What happened? It took me a while to pin point where that smell was coming from but my nose finally determined it was table 23. You, sir. Why do you smell like a bad urinal cake? I don't understand. I mean we all have days where maybe we forget to put on our deodorant or maybe we are experimenting with one of those stupid crystals that don't work. And then you get into the subway car and it was one with no A/C which you should have known because it was the only car that had plenty of seats in it while the car in front of it and behind it were totally full. But nonetheless, you got on it and then the train had signal problems and you were stuck in that car for twenty minutes and you got all sweaty, but why did you smell like pee? I sometimes sweat vodka but never pee.

Are you a crazy cat person who lives with 29 felines who pee all over everything and you are so used to the smell that you don't notice it when it seeps into your clothing?

Does your long white beard have a stowaway possum in there that is eating sleeping and peeing all over your face?

Do you like a cologne that has a distinct ammonia smell in the same way that I like one that has clean smell of citrus or spice?

Did you go to a Golden Shower party right before being seated in my section?

Were you listening to the Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton classic "Islands in the Stream" and you took it too literally?

It was nice to see that you were with four friends, but do all of them have some kind of weird olfactory sense disability that makes them unable to detect what they are sitting next to? If I went to dinner with a friend and he smelled like he had just taken a nap in a litter box, I would have no problem saying, "Bitch you smell like urine sample, what the fuck is wrong with you? Get your ass home and take a fucking bath, you stinky ass bitch."

One of the other servers asked me what the smell was. She thought it was booth four, but I made sure she knew it was you, sir. Why should the weird lady at booth four take the blame for your odor? Just because she was drunk as a skunk doesn't mean that she smelled like one. I gave you full credit for that scent. The server walked by your table and returned to me saying, "You're right. What the hell is that? A wet diaper?" Maybe it was, we shall never know.

So, in the future, if you choose to visit my station again, I would ask that you take a little time to, I dunno, bathe? Change your clothes? Whatever it takes. Nobody wants to smell your pee. Oh and by the way, that ginger ale you drank was not yours. That belonged to the lady next to you. When she flagged me down to tell me that I never brought her the ginger ale she ordered , I noticed it sitting in front of you and it was half empty. Was the odor wafting from down below so strong that it impaired your ability to determine the difference between a ginger ale and a gin and tonic? That's an issue. Take a fucking bath, sir. You smell bad.

Love,
The Bitchy Waiter

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Thursday, March 15, 2012

Paula Deen and Liza Minnelli: Together at Last

It's no secret that I have a feeling deep down in my buttered loins for one Ms. Paula Deen. The proof is in the Crisco pudding right here, y'all. I also have been know to wax poetic about Liza Minnelli as is evidenced right here, darlings. So imagine my surprise and delight when Liza decided to pay a visit to Paula's house. Could it be that I would get to see both of these mesmerizing train wrecks at the same time? What could these two women possibly have in common? A lot as it turns out. They each lost their mother when they were in their early 20's. They both like to eat German Chocolate cake with their hands. And they both have been known to sing to chickens. Yes, sing to chickens.

I caught this hot mess on the Food Network and when I went to You Tube to find some clips of it to share with others, there were none. I have remedied that problem because the world needs to see what happens when these two esteemed ladies share a kitchen together. It was a mutual admiration society up in there and by the time it was over I am pretty sure that they buttered a roll and sprinkled it with sequins and then Liza drop kicked it into Paula's mouth. They didn't show that on television, but I just know that it happened. I hope you can spare two minutes out of your extraordinarily busy lives (please, you're reading the Bitchy Waiter...how busy can you be?) and watch this video. And when you are finished watching it, share it. After sharing it, immediately go rinse your eyes in the nearest emergency eye washing station because your corneas are going to be more fried than Liza's vocal chords.





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Wednesday, March 14, 2012

Yes, Virginia. There Really Are Good Servers.

On occasion, I will write about an outstanding server I had so the world will know that there are actually people who wait tables who go above and beyond the expectations of their guests and do it all with a smile and a wonderful attitude, unlike me who will take notes about your dining experience and then go home and blog about your ass. This is really about two such servers on opposite sides of the country. One is named Tia who works at the Sapphire Hotel in Portland, Oregon and the other is named Ashley who works at Dutch Kills Bar in Long Island City, Queens. Truth be told, I am not sure that Ashley was her name. I had a few cocktails that night and my brain was all mushy when I left, so maybe it was Samantha. Or Melissa? Honestly, she'll never read this so it doesn't really matter. As for Tia, she was not actually my server but a friend of mine who lives in Portland told me that she was amazing. Tia and Ashley/Samantha/ Melissa, this is for you:

(Since I didn't experience the service that Tia provided, her story is 99% fiction)

Tia was incredible. She didn't just walk to the table, she floated to it like she was a hovercraft with a cocktail tray. Her smile was brighter than Dr. Phil's bald ass head and her hair was prettier than Paula Deen's. No this has nothing to do with how she served the drinks, but a compliment is a compliment and since I wasn't really there, I have no idea. Her hair looked like it was spun from gold. Like Rumpelstiltskin had just gotten a new batch of hay and spun it directly onto her head. Her uniform was perfectly pressed and she manged to hold forty five glasses at one time when she was bussing a nearby table. (I wasn't there, remember?) She knew what everyone wanted to drink just by looking at them. "So let me see," she said. "It looks like we will be needing two Jack and Cokes, a Bud Light and apple and pear cosmo with a splash of St. Germain for the gay guy in the corner, is that it? Oh and I am going to give you all separate checks because I can tell that you guys are pretty good friends but one of you has a habit of not putting enough money down and screwing everybody else. I'll be right back." She floated off and three seconds later she materialized with the drinks and a complimentary plate of nachos "with the jalapenos on the side because two of you are going to get really trashed tonight and make out in the parking lot. Anything else you need?" she asked. Everyone at the table was mesmerized by her all-knowing personae. The gay guy in the corner was hoping he was one of the people who would be making out in the parking lot later so he downed his cocktail and another one appeared immediately. Tia was amazing.

As for Ashley, I watched her as she put up with the flirtatious behavior of a much older man in her station. He was coming on to her and even though she was not interested, she let the old man get his jollies as she smiled and laughed at his jokes. I wasn't sure what I wanted to drink and told her that it could be bartender's choice. My only criteria was "vodka" and "citrusy." She returned with a mint and cucumber concoction that was out of this world. She told me what it was called and how it was made, but if I can't remember her name, do you really think I will remember the name of a cocktail? When we mentioned we were hungry, she whisked off and returned with a folder full of take-out menus. "You can order in, we don't mind." We asked for a suggestion and she told us that the bar-b-q place was very good and very meaty. Thirty minutes later as we were staring at our embarrassingly large plates of meat, she said, "See what I mean? Meaty! I'll bring you some water." She brought us our second round and we chatted about the lech across the aisle who had since left.

Meanwhile, back with Tia, when it was time to clear the tables she did so by repelling from the ceiling and removing the glassware as she hung upside down. "I didn't want to bother anyone," she explained.

Ashley removed our trash from out takeout order and had our check in her hand. "I'm not rushing you, but I have your check if you're ready to go. After a pound of brisket, I'd wanna go home and take a nap." She was right. We thanked her for her foresight and paid the check.

Whe Tia showed up with the checks, she thanked everyone for coming in. She gave a knowing wink to the two people she knew would be making out in the parking lot momentarily and then she gave Gay Guy in the Corner the phone number of another waiter who thought he was cute in that Gay Guy in the Corner kind of way. Tia was amazing.

We tipped Ashley 25%.

Tia was tipped 25%.

Each waitress went home from work that night satisfied that they had given wonderful service to their customers. Job well done, Tia and Ashley. (Or was it Emily?)

Do you remember the name of a great server you had once?

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Saturday, March 10, 2012

Bitchy Waiter of the Day

And the honorary Bitchy Waiter of the Day is Megan H. who had this to say:

So apparently my table can wrap up their shrimp to give it to the bum on the corner (words from the costumer's mouth), but they can't leave me enough money for their whole bill. Bill was $85.00, they left $75.00.

Good luck, Megan! Yes, people suck ass, we all know that. Hopefully today will be better.

Want a chance to be Bitchy Waiter of the Day? You can email me here with your story of frustration and I will put it in the frothy mix.

Friday, March 9, 2012

The Cocktail of the Evening! (with recipe)

It is Saturday night and like a true party monster, I am at home about to watch Project Runway and Downton Abbey while drinking some cocktails on my sofa. The cocktail of the evening is a delicious Pink Grapefruit Margarita that my dear friend Ina Garten, the Barefoot Contessa, taught me how to make. The last time I was at her place in the Hamptons, our good buddy Susan Stroman stopped by and we had an old-fashioned piano party and way too many of these drinks. Jeffrey was out of town and what happens at Ina's stays at Ina's! Anyhoo, here is the recipe. You're not gonna believe how easy this is.

Pink Grapefruit Margarita

  • 1 lime, cut in wedges, optional
  • Kosher salt, optional
  • 1 cup ruby red grapefruit juice
  • 1/2 cup freshly squeezed lime juice
  • 1 cup orange liqueur, like Triple Sec or Grand Marnier
  • 2 cups ice
  • one cup white tequila

Directions

If you like a salt rim on the glasses, rub the lime around the edge of the glass and then dip the rim of each glass lightly in a plate of kosher salt. Set aside to dry.

Combine the grapefruit juice, lime juice, orange liqueur, and ice in a blender and puree until smooth. Pour into a large pitcher and stir in the tequila.
Serve ice cold and drink those bitches up.

Happy Saturday, everyone!

love,

BW


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Thursday, March 8, 2012

Mario Batali Owes $5.25M for Being Sneaky

Well, well, well, look who owes $5.25 million for being a sneaky sneak and misappropriating 4 to 5 percent of each shift's wine and drink sales from the workers' tip pool and then taking an unlawful "tip credit" that pushed pay below minimum wage and failed to pay extra for shifts lasting more than 10 hours: Mario "I'm About to Explode and Send Olive Oil All Over the Fucking Place" Batali. Well, he owes it with his business partner Joseph Bastianich, so technically he'll only be responsible for half that amount leaving him plenty of money to buy some more orange Crocs and hopefully some Stridex medicated skin pads to scrub some of that grease and smirk off his face. About 1,100 employees, including servers, busboys, runners and bartenders who worked at restaurants like Babbo, Bar Jamon, Casa Mono, Del Posto, Esca, Lupa, Otto and Tarry Lodgein Port Chester will divvy up the money after one third of it goes to the lawyers.

Can we get a collective "Hallelujah" up in here? It's so nice to see that some restaurant workers who felt they were being taken advantage of actually got up the courage to take their bosses to court and they were proven to be right in a court of law. Stephanie Capsolas and Hernan Alvarado, a waitress and a kitchen runner at Babbo, were the ones who initially filed suit against the restaurant and I hope they are somewhere today sharing a bottle of over-priced wine and celebrating the victory.

It's really a victory for all restaurant staff because so often we are taken advantage of. I don't know about you, but that first hour I am at work mopping, filling ketchups and scraping out candles, I am only getting paid the tipped employee wage and not one of those ketchup bottles has ever tipped me. And when I worked at another certain restaurant, I really didn't appreciate having to tip out people who should have been paid an hourly wage. Really? I tip out that girl in the kitchen who makes coffee just so you can pay her a tipped employee wage instead of minimum wage and you can save on payroll? Not cool. (But I still love your frozen pomegranate margaritas.) And at the Restaurant That Shall Not Be Named, I questioned their tipping procedure but I was fired before I could put on my Sherlock Holmes outfit and determine if it was on the up and up. The point is, that maybe restaurants will take note of this lawsuit and think twice before being a low-down dirty sneakity snake ass place that tries to screw the little people.

But back to Mario Batali. I know he shares this debt with his business partner, but since Mario Batali is famous, let's talk about him. He gets on my nerves. He always looks like he needs to make a bowel movement but he didn't have time to do it before he left home and now he doesn't want to go anywhere else so he'll just hold it. He looks like he could bottle his own olive oil by just wiping his face with a towel and then wringing it into a water bottle. Crocs are even worse than Uggs. I have eaten at his Otto restaurant and I will give it up to him that it was delicious fucking pizza. Expensive as hell, but delicious. I'm sure I tipped well and now I know that some of that tip went into his own pocket, right next to his emergency stash of pork sausage. I also know that now it is going back to the server, food runner and busser who earned it in the first place.

Way to go, employees. Congratulations on the settlement. What would you like to say to Mario Batali if you had the chance? Because you know he reads The Bitchy Waiter. (No, he doesn't.)



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Wednesday, March 7, 2012

How To Spill Beer on Your Political Leader

By now you have probably seen the video where the German Chancellor, Angela Merkel, gets covered in a beer bath by a waiter. It's every server's worst nightmare. It happened at some Ash Wednesday event where she was speaking. If Ash Wednesday events in Germany involve drinking pints of beer, then sign me up for a Catholicism right away, because I had no idea. From what I know about international politics (nothing) the Chancellor of Germany is the head of government much like the Prime Minister in Great Britain, the President in the United States and Shift Leader at Applebee's.



According to reports, the waiter is named Martin and he was taking the beer for another server who was too nervous to carry the tray. Martin was all, "I'll do it, ya!" and the next thing he knew he was giving his political leader a golden shower. He has been quoted as saying "I was shoved from behind, and tried to catch the beers, but it was too late." After reviewing the tape, I do in fact see a man in a dark suit squeezing past Martin and it appears that the man's back bumps into the tray. However, it seems to me that the five beers were already on their way to say hello to Ms. Merkel before the man made contact with the tray. In my opinion, the server was carrying the tray in an impractical way. Why is he letting it rest on his forearm? Poor form, Martin, poor form indeed.

Chancellor Merkel takes it like someone who is used to having beer poured all over her. Maybe she was once a St. Pauli Girl and beer on her back is as common to her as a margarita is on mine. (Long story.) She simply smiled and went right on drinking the one beer that made it to her table. You know that in her head she was trying to calculate where the nearest Dress Barn was so she could buy a new suit, but on the outside she was as cool as a cucumber with a side of sauerkraut.

The real drama queen of the event was the chick in the blue sweater who brought her hands to her face in sheer terror after it happened, but then she acted like she was just fixing her hair and it was no big deal. And what about the blond on the right-hand side of the screen who is all Miss Kiss-Ass and rushes over with a napkin and then hands her a new beer? Bitch, please, nobody likes you, we can tell. My favorite response is the chick at 19 seconds who's face is saying, "Whatever, not my problem, I want some bratwurst."

Maybe it's just me, but this whole things seems like it came right out of an episode of Family Matters. Urkell is trying to make some extra money to buy himself some new suspenders so he gets a job at a German beer hall. After some confusion involving his apron strings being too long he finally carries out his first tray of beer and wouldn't you know it? He has to serve the German Chancellor Angela Merkel.

"Hello, Chancellor Merkel, my name's Urkel. Oh my goodness, our names rhyme. I can't wait to tell Carl that I met you and that our names are practically one in the same. Hey, can I get an autograph? I just know that Carl will never believe me."

At this point Urkel loses his balance because his apron strings accidentally got tied to his shoelaces and he spills five beers on Chancellor Merkel.

"Did I do that?"

laugh track, fade to black.




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Tuesday, March 6, 2012

Bitchy Waiter of the Day: Daniel T.

I get so many emails and messages from other fed up servers that I have decided to feature someone else every once in a while. This way, people who come across this blog will know that I am not the only one who sometimes feels the need to vent, complain, bitch, pull the hair from my head and drink heavily. A shout out to the Bitchy Waiter of the Day who has this to say about his crappy shift:

Daniel T. says:

Soooo I had a table sit in my section, 2 guests, they sat there over an hour, and ran up a tab, 130.00$, They were doing shot's and had margarita's, made me do a birthday... and asked for a military discount, ( took the bill down to 121, and some change)

Left me 8$

The next group to sit at the table, was a mom and 2 sons, they watched an entire basket ball game, they all had about 7 Drinks, and i took good care of them, when it was time to go the mom paid her bill with a 100.00$ bill (42$ Check) and she had her son try to give me a penny! and he was yelling "here's your tip" I came real close to getting fired tonight, I wanted to hit that mom with the beer bottle I was holding,

I hate people.

Thank you, Daniel T. You are the Bitchy Waiter of the Day! Anyone have words of encouragement for Daniel?



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Monday, March 5, 2012

On The Good Ship, Butter Packet

This is the story of an adorable little girl who sat in my station last week. With her head of blond curls and pudgy little cheeks she looked just like everyone's favorite singing toddler, Shirley Temple. Well, this little girl looked like Shirley Temple if she had just eaten Laurel and Hardy. She was Shirley Temple, the large economy size.

With the assistance of her parents, she slid into the booth and immediately faced the other direction, hanging her cute little sausage arms over the booth and into the the booth behind her. She was now effectively part of another couple's dining experience. "Hi," she said to the man and woman who were trying to enjoy their meal sans Moppet Head. So cute. I love when the kid in the booth behind me wants to talk to me, don't you?

I went to greet the family. I expected that Shirley Temple Extra would jump onto the table and do a tap dance number with Buddy Ebson, but instead she sat politely in her seat and listened as I explained the specials. She was not interested in the sauteed shrimp with garlic or the herbed chicken and vegetable soup and certainly not the pork medallions with collard greens. None of those things were to her liking. No, this little girl had other food in mind. "I want pasta!" She beamed as she said it and pointed at herself with her thumb in such a way that made the curls on her head bounce. "And mashed potatoes too. Yummy!" She rubbed her belly and laughed. I wondered if she'd like an appetizer of animal crackers. I made eye contact with her mother to see if she was alright with her daughter having a carb and carb for dinner and the mother seemed satisfied with the order. Who am I to judge? If the little girl wants pasta and potatoes, so be it. Who needs vegetables? Not this little girl, that's for sure.

I placed the order and went on with my other customers. As I passed by the little girl's table, her father asked me a question. "Do you have any bread?"

"Of course, I'll be right back."

Two minutes later, I placed the bread in the center of the table. The father picked it up and handed the entire basket to his daughter. "Here you go sweetie. Here's your bread and butter." I watched the family to see if anyone other than Costco Shirley Temple had any bread. They didn't. It was so cute when she picked up that half of a loaf of bread with her cute little ham hock hands and pushed it into her mouth. I told the chef that we needed her pasta and mashed potatoes as soon as possible seeing that this little girl was clearly on her way to starvation.

I brought the Carbohydrate Dinner within five minutes and thought it was adorable when she caught my eye indicating she had a question. "Can I has some ketchup, please?" Again she pointed at herself with her thumb. I got the ketchup for her and watched as she dumped it on top of her penne. I had a feeling that tomato ketchup was as close as she was going to get to a vegetable serving that night. She cleaned both plates and her parents congratulated her on doing such a "big girl job" on her dinner. Key words being "big" and "girl."

I think the cutest thing she did all night was when she asked for dessert and her parents refused. She gave a cute little pout and put her hands on her hips. She then picked up two butter packets, opened them and licked them clean. Nothing is cuter than watching a Jumbo Shirley Temple eat butter.

I gave them their check and they left me a 20% tip. They were all very sweet and kind. The father helped his daughter put her shoes back on, for they had fallen off her feet at some point during the meal, possibly because her feet were crying out for relief. They helped her off the bench and put her coat on. "Good night, everybody!" Super Size Shirley Temple said. "Thanks for everything." She glanced back at the table to make sure there were no butter packets left for eating. There were none. She skipped out the door, her hair bouncing all around like little curly fries. She was so cute.



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Friday, March 2, 2012

Vintage Waitress

Just because I wanted to post these lame ass photos I added captions to since I have no life so have all the time in the world to do stupid shit like this.

















Thursday, March 1, 2012

Marcia Brady ♥'s Davy Jones

Dear Diary,

Yesterday was the most horrible and awful day I could ever imagine. It was even worse than when I was at school and drew that picture of George Washington and then my friend Jenny wrote the caption "Mrs. Denton? Or a hippopotamus?" on it and I got blamed for it and then my first ever slumber party was nearly canceled! It was even worse than that time when Doug dumped me because "something suddenly came up" but I know it was because my nose was swollen from getting hit with a football. Yes, diary, it is worse than that. My one true love died yesterday. Davy Jones is gone.

I'll never forget the first time I saw Davy Jones in person. It was at the recording studio I sneaked into to ask him to sing at my junior high school prom. I was wearing my favorite knitted yellow poncho that Alice had made for me. You know the one? With the fringe on it? Oh, diary, it was so wonderful to stand there and watch him listen to his recording of "Girl." It was like he sang those words just for me:

Girl, look what you've done to me,
Me, and my whole world,
Girl, you brought the sun to me,
With your smile, you did it girl.

It was so neat. Or at least it was neat until that mean old manager of his yelled at me, "Who are you?" and practically pushed me out of the studio. I just wanted to speak to Davy Jones since I was the president of his Fillmore Junior High fan cub and he told me that if he was ever in town he'd be glad to help me out. I cried my eyes out after I left that studio because I thought I would never be able to show my face in school again since I had already promised everyone that he would sing at the prom. I quit crying though when I realized it was going to make my eyes all puffy and make me look like Jan does when she first wakes up in the morning. I'm pretty.

Well, since Davy Jones was an upstanding man, he heard my plea and showed up at my house later that day. He was wearing the dreamiest dark navy blue blazer with groovy stripes on it. I was wearing my favorite orange sweater that matched the pillows on my Mom's couch and luckily I had just put on a fresh coat of Pretty Pouty Lip Gloss. He gave me his record and then he agreed to sing at the prom on that Friday! And guess who he took as his date. Me!! Oh it was a wonderful night. We danced and he dedicated every song to me. I know I was the envy of every girl at the prom, but in reality that was the case even before I dated Davy Jones. I'm pretty.

Thank you Davy, for making the morning brighter
Davy, for making the night time nicer
Davy, for making a better world for me.

Thank you Davy, for making the winter warmer
Davy, for making the music softer,
Davy, for making a better world for me.

I will always miss you.

Love,
Marcia







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