Bacon: the Good Part of the Other White Meat

While reading all the comments to the infamous vegetarian post it brought to mind another incident that happened at Pizzeria Uno once and it involved someone eating something they didn't mean to eat. A table had ordered the delicious pizza skins® which were described on the menu as "a single serving of our signature skins complete with mashed potatoes, cheese, bacon and sour cream." Basically, it was mashed potatoes on a pizza crust and I subsisted off of those for three or four months because they were the cheapest thing on the employee menu. One night as I was ignoring my section and eating pizza in the kitchen I heard a commotion out in the dining room. Yelling, crying, the works. Of course my nosy ass immediately dropped my slice and went out to see how I could be of assistance. A table had finished eating their Pizza Skins and then realized that there was bacon on them. The table was Muslim. And pork was forbidden. How they ate a whole plate of something covered in bacon and not question it, I will never know. If you ordered something and it came out with crispy pieces of meat sprinkled all over it, wouldn't you ask what it was just to be certain they weren't rat poops or something? (At Pizzeria Uno, South Street Seaport, a very real possibility.) The family was screaming at their waiter for not telling them they had ordered something with bacon as if it was his duty to know what foods were forbidden by every religion. And even if he did know, did they say, "We are Muslim and we are ready to order now?" I doubt it. They were very upset. The manager intervened and did the only thing he could do; he comped it. That's right, the family had just devoured something that may send their souls to the eternal depths of hell and we took $4.00 of their check. I felt bad for them, I really did. The older woman was clearly devastated. How were we to know though? Shouldn't they have read the menu and asked what bacon was? If they sat in my station, I would've had no idea. I had only just moved to New York City from South Texas, so I only knew about Catholics and Southern Baptists and as far I know they are both allowed to eat heaps and heaps of pork. In fact, in the Baptist religion I'm pretty certain that ham is just as important as Christmas and Easter. The family left the restaurant awash with the fear of their God. They all looked petrified of the future. Well, except for the youngest girl. She was smiling. You know she liked the taste of the bacon. Evil or not, that shit is good.


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Does Anyone Still Wear A Hat? While Waitressing?

Summer is upon us and the humidity level is creeping higher and higher. Here on the East Coast, the weather is a crazy thing to me. Having lived here for 16 years I am still not used to the fact that in the winter it can be 5° and then in the summer it can be 95°. What the hell kind of place is this? And I don't care what people say about it not being the heat but the humidity. If it's 95° it's fucking hot no matter what the humidity level is. The reason I'm so flumfluxxed about the temperature is because I have to wear a uniform to work and that uniform is black pants and a long sleeve black button up shirt. You try wearing that and walking into the depths of holy hell that we call the subway and try to stay fresh for more than three minutes. It's impossible. When I get off the train and get to work, it's not pretty sometimes. Sure, I could carry my uniform to work in a garment bag, but really? A garment bag that carries a stain covered pair of pants and a faded dress shirt? Not worth it. Or I could fold it and carry it in a bag, but really? And then get to work and have to wear a stain covered pair of pants and a faded dress shirt that is also wrinkled? A true dilemma. So what do I do? I wear it and and turn into a big hot sweaty mess and then serve my guests looking like a tired dried up French whore who just gave a blow job in a sauna.

At my last job, I could wear whatever I wanted which was a good thing for about two weeks. And then I realized I was getting all my real clothes stained with coffee and grease and I started longing for a uniform again. I don't know who came up with the universal uniform for restaurant folks to be khakis, but that's what it is most of the time. Pizzeria Uno, Bennigan's, Houlihan's and Black Eyed Pea were all khakis. I have spent about 13 years of my life being forced to wear Dockers and Gap pants.

My big issue with a uniform is when the restaurant requires you to wear a certain article of clothing but they make us pay for it. That pisses my shit off. If I have to wear that ugly ass burgundy shirt, Mr. Houlihan's, I don't want to pay for it. Same thing with you, Mr. Black Eyed Pea. I have to buy the green shirt with the stupid ass embroidered logo? Or sometimes they will give you one shirt but if you want another it comes out of your paycheck. Fuck that. I will take the one free shirt and wear that bitch every day until it has so much food on it that it walk itself into the restaurant and start picking up shifts.

If I have to wear a uniform, I want to wear one that has some personality. I want a little hat and an cute frilly apron and a name tag. I want a big starched white collar and white sneakers. I want bright red lipstick and a beehive. Basically, I wanna be Flo from the television show Alice. I have written about her before and I have even been her for Halloween. Now that's a uniform.

And does anyone get what the post title is referring to? Does anyone still wear...a hat?

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Take This Job and Shove It

I believe that it's apparent that I have had a lot of jobs in the course of my life. For me to move on from one job to the next wonderful opportunity, it means that I have had to quit a lot of jobs over the years too. Quitting jobs is a delicate proposition. It must be done professionally and in a mature way so as not to upset your employer and ensure a good recommendation in the future. Or in my case, you can leave a smokey trail of burnt bridges across the land. When I want to quit a job, my impatience rules and I just have to get the fuck out of there.

Pizzeria Uno, South Street Seaport. I had worked there for about four months I guess. I hated it because the place stayed open until two in the fucking morning and sometimes I wouldn't get home until almost 3:30. All we served were tourists and rats. And when prom time rolled around, I couldn't believe how many guys brought their date to Pizzeria Uno for the big night. I think a lot of girls traded in their V-card for a deep dish pepperoni pizza that year. How romantic. Anyhoo, after a summer there, I was really on the edge and wanting a new job. One day at our shift meeting before the evening shift, our managers were ripping us new assholes. Some servers were adding gratuity to the checks of foreign tourists without telling them. Now we all know that a lot of foreign tourists don't tip and it's great when we can add the grat. But what these waiters were doing was adding it, burying the total in the check and then not telling them and hoping they would get tipped on top of it. Ethically and morally wrong and believe it or not I was not doing it. Shut up, I really wasn't. (Truth be told, I was still too new and didn't even know it was a possibility. I was innocent by ignorance.) At the shift meeting our managers were really upset about it and screaming at all of us even though it was just a few servers who were guilty of this horrendous crime. "It's wrong, it's dishonest, it's stealing from the company!" In all actuality, I think it was stealing from the customers, but whatever. I really didn't appreciate getting yelled at for something I had no part of. After the manager had hissed her last breath of anger, I went to look at my station for the night. I didn't like it. I was supposed to close. I didn't like that either. Suddenly I realized that there were way too many things about this job I didn't like.

I went to the back of the house and to my locker and got my belongings. I walked back through the kitchen, to the time clock, punched out and walked past the host stand. Someone yelled at me, "Hey, how are you getting to leave so early?" "Easy," I answered. "I just punched out. Bye, I quit."

I mailed them a self-addressed stamped envelope the next day for my final paycheck and never set foot in that place again. Quitting jobs is easy. And fun. Fuck you, Pizzeria Uno. Fuck you and all the rats that live there.

Waiter, There's a Rat in My Soup

When I wrote this post back in the olden days of The Bitchy Waiter (like six months ago), Susan Sarandon and Tim Robbins were still together. And now, not so much. Sadness.

Rodents Rule the Roost

I have worked in a couple of restaurants that had their fair share of the Mickey Mouses. And the Ricky Rats. Every place has roaches, that is so no big deal. The rodents can be a big turn off to the customers though. Don't get me wrong, I am no fan of them either. When a customer feels a mouse run across their feet I can pretty much kiss my tip good bye. Rats are even worse because those bitches ain't scared of people. They will crawl up on the table and taste a fried cheese app and then send it back if it's not hot enough. One place I worked at had a real big problem with the rats. It is a restaurant that shall remain nameless, but I will say that it was on a pier next to a huge fish market. Let's just hypothetically say it is called Pizzeria Uno at the South Street Seaport in New York City. Damn, that place had some rats. I swear to God they were so bold that they had the right of way if you saw one coming towards you. We used to throw forks at them to get them to go away. The worst is when a customer would call us over to tell us they think they saw a mouse. Then we have to act all surprised like we have never heard of such a thing at our fine establishment. Meanwhile a manager is banging some pots on the floor hoping that the fucking thing would go back to it's nest under Table 27. Then the customer would always want a discount which ain't gonna happen. If we gave a discount to every person who saw a rat at that place, word would have gotten out that everyone eats free at the hypothetically called Pizzeria Uno at South Street Seaport. That place was full of laughs. I saw Susan Sarandon and Tim Robbins eat there with their kids once. Everyone was all excited and I just wanted to ask her for my seven bucks back for Lorenzo's Oil. And another time a Muslim family ordered the Pizza Skins and then freaked the hell out after they finished and realized they had eaten bacon. That was some funny shit. Hey, is it our fault they didn't read the menu? I got over that place real quick. Between the ridiculously late hours, the tourist tippers and the nightly Rat Parade, I quit after about two months. I left 30 minutes into my shift. Another waiter saw me leaving and asked how I was getting to go home so early. "Easy," I said. "I punched out."