The Bitchy Waiter Has Been Published

Okay, so it is time to toot my own horn for just a moment (as if I don't do that pretty much every day...) but I must share some news with you. Something I have written has been selected for publication in a new magazine and I am pretty darn proud of it. I am not going to judge the people who chose my writing but they must have been on their third or eighth round of Hollie Hobby Sangria when they thought my writing was good enough to pass the test, but for whatever reason they chose me. And I said yes. I have a feeling that the next day when they saw my email, they were like, "Did we really ask The Bitchy Waiter if we could publish that shit?" It's sorta like when you get really drunk and go home with someone and the next morning you see a mountain of flesh and hair in your bed and realize that you may have slept with it. But regardless, they asked, I said yes, and it's too late now for them to change their minds.

The magazine is called The Printed Blog. You can check out their website here. It's a great idea for a new magazine. They are trolling the Internet and finding the most interesting stuff (plus The Bitchy Waiter) and then printing it in an actual magazine. I think they realize that there are still plenty of people who like the tactile act of turning real actual pages. Plus, reading a magazine is so much nicer when you are on the subway, an airplane or the toilet. I mean an iPad is great, but you don't want to carry that into the bathroom with you, right? They also have a Facebook page that I think you should check out here. And finally if you want the digital version of the showcase issue you can go right here and download it. Get it now while you can, because soon it will cost you real money to see this fucking cool magazine. And did I mention I am in it? Page three, ladies and gents! Go subscribe right now.

I just want to say thanks to Josh and the whole gang at The Printed Blog and also a thank you to the readers who come here every day. Your emails make me happy and you encourage me to keep writing. In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I say thank you. Thank you very much.

Love,
the Bitchy Waiter

So Many Liars

I was sitting on the sidewalk in Times Square yesterday at 6:50 AM because I was waiting in line for an audition. Sure I was watching men pile crap into a garbage truck, I could smell the stench of someone who was probably sleeping in that exact spot a few hours before and the air was a little chilly, but it was all better than being at work. I was just two short blocks away from The Houlihan's that I spent so many happy hours at so I want to tell a story of those days.

We used to have this bartender named Evy. She was grumpy, mean, a habitual liar and not a very nice person. I always managed to stay on her good side because if you didn't, she would flat out refuse to make your drinks. You could be so in the weeds and then you finally run over to the bar to pick up your ten million pina coladas and they wouldn't be there. And Evy would say something like, "Oh I must have been changing the printer paper when you placed your order. Sorry." Yeah, she was that kind of person. I quickly learned to kiss her ass in order to make my life easier. We worked together for a long time and after a while all of her wild and fanciful stories seemed to be a little too wild and fanciful. It took me and the rest of my co-workers a long time to realize that she was making up shit left and right. One day she came into work with her head half shaved in this kind of mid-90's asymmetrical bob deal. It was not like her to have a hair cut like that so we all asked her what made her decide to go so radically different. She had an answer:

Well, I went to Las Vegas this weekend just because I thought it would be fun. So I was there with a friend of mine and we were at a bar. The bartender was totally ignoring us and I really wanted a drink so I told him that I was getting mad and I went off in him. The man next to us, turned to me and said, "You are the meanest most horrible vile person I have ever seen in my entire life. And I want you to be in my movie. So he cast me as a gang member with a bad attitude and he wanted me to cut my hair this way. So I did. Because I'm gonna be in a movie. Me! And I'm not even an actor! Isn't that crazy?

It was at this point that we all started to realize that Evy might have a wee case of the pathological liar syndrome. Of course the movie deal fell through. Because it never happened to begin with. Her stories were always big. Like the time she went to a Knicks game and ended up in the VIP seats "just because" or when she was going to go to Paris next week "for the fun of it" but then it didn't happen because something else came up. If she was a Facebook friend, her status would always be like, "OMG, just because I turned down Prince William's proposal now he's gonna marry that skank Kate Middleton" or "I ♥ scratch off lottery tickets. Just one $500! Again."

I don't know whatever happened to Evy. I can''t even remember if she left Houlihan's first or if I did. It was impossible to be her friend because you never knew what her real story was. All I knew to do was listen to her tales and nod enthusiastically so that when I needed something from the bar, she would just make it. Life was simple then. Good luck, Evy, wherever you are. To hear her tell it, she probably had plastic surgery, changed her name and got racial reassignment and is now living in the White House as our first African-American first lady.

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My Dogs Are Barkin'

What do you have to wear for shoes at your job? It's one of the things I hate the most about putting together a work uniform/costume because shoes are too freakin' expensive to begin with. And then to have to buy a pair that you are only going to wear at work and eventually you see them covered in coffee, ketchup and tears. At my most recent job, I was required to buy a very specific pair of shoes so that they would match the decor of the restaurant. Unlike normal eateries, this place wanted shoes based on style rather than comfort or safety. We were asked to wear Converse or Vans or Keds or some similar sneaker and they needed to be a certain shade as well. They encouraged us to look for these shoes at thrift stores in order to "go green" but like anyone is going to buy a pair of used shoes. You may as well just put out a welcome home sign for bed bugs, cooties and bacteria. So I splurged and bought some really cute tan colored Vans that I thought I would wear outside the job too. However, once I wore them at work for more than a couple of hours, I knew these would only be work shoes. I have never noticed before, but sneakers like that have absolutely no support and wearing them on hard floors all day was not good for the dogs. In addition, they have no resistance, so slipping was a common occurrence. "Oh, what? You slipped and busted your ass and your arches have fallen? Pity. Your shoes are darling though and they go so well with the decor."

After my first eight hour shift, I was longing for my Payless $29.99 work shoes that are made of vinyl and have a skid resistant sole. Any food or drink that drops onto them simply wipes right off with a wet paper towel. These Vans were made of canvas, so the first time any bit of food gets on them, it's a permanent stain. And they were not good for my corn either. Yeah, that's right. I have corn on my little toe and no amount of Dr. Scholl's products will heal it. I have had it for so long that it's practically a member of the family. Seriously, my corn will have a place at the table on Thanksgiving. Only on that day we won't refer to it as "corn. In honor of Thanksgiving, we shall call it "maize."


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Run, Bitchy, Run...on an Elliptical Machine

A lot of times, people ask me how I come up with a topic each day to write about. Sometimes it’s really simple. Some stupid ass may post a comment that is crying out for a response or maybe something in the news gets my wheels to turnin’ and I use it for inspiration. Most commonly though, an event or person at work makes it clear that they are the next thing that should be written about. But sometimes all of those are brick walls. I scratch my head and ponder the possibilities but come up with nothing. These are the times that I have to dig deep into the recesses of my (very shallow) mind. I clear my thoughts and wait for an idea to pop up. I may be in the shower, or about to fall asleep or even at the gym on a cardio machine when a light bulb goes off. But not today.

I was at the gym and on an elliptical machine struggling to do 5,000 strides in thirty minutes and waiting for an idea to come to me. Should I write about the tired ass drama at the new job? Or should I write about that ridiculous handbook full of stupid ass rules that I am trying to familiarize myself with? Suddenly and without warning, I felt the beginning of a brilliant topic on the precipice of my subconscious. I mean, it was really good. Like a blog post that would inspire people to share it with their friends and make this bitch of a blog go viral and then I heard a huge creaking sound. My goddamn elliptical machine was fucked up. I wasn’t about to get off it because I only had 12 minutes left and I didn’t want to jeopardize my distance and calories burned. So I kept going even though it was screeching and moaning the whole remaining 12 minutes plus the three minute cool down. How dare this machine steal an idea from me. The creaking and groaning scared away the most brilliant idea I have ever had and I blame my gym and their crappy ass elliptical machine.

When I got home, I did a Google search to see if I could find some elliptical reviews so I could find out what the fuck was wrong with the machine I was on. I was ready to look their ass up and send them a dirty rotten (and of course anonymous) email raking them and their machine over the coals. I actually found the machine that I was using at the gym (a Nordic Track A.C.T. if you care) and was surprised to see that there was no mention of it breaking down right when people are about to have a brilliant idea. Sure, it gives your upper body a work out and has a heart rate monitor, but it doesn’t do anything to help you remember a great idea that you had for only half a second. Damn you, Nordic Track A.C.T., damn you to hell. I did take the time to forward the elliptical reviews website to my gym because they said they are about to replace all of their machines and I wanted to do my part. Hopefully, the next elliptical machine they buy will not make annoying screeching noises. And I also hope it has a television, because cardio is so much better when you can watch Maury Povich and see if Bubba is or is not the father of Charlene’s baby.

Okay, so tomorrow maybe The Bitchy Waiter will actually be about waiting tables. But bitches, it ain’t easy coming up with something every day. Especially when you're as lazy as I am.

I Am Not a Sommelier, But I Play One in My Mind

Last week I worked a dinner shift and at the new job and dinner is what it's all about. People come in there ready to drop some coins and I was happy to help them out. It's funny when you're the new guy because you want to know all the answers to everything, but you just don't yet. When people ask me which is better, the lobster or the strip loin, do they really think that the restaurant lets the servers sample that? No. We get a shift meal of pasta and salad or tacos. So when I say that the lobster is so delicious because it has a subtle taste of the smoke from the wood in the oven, I am blowing said smoke up your ass. I just repeat what I have heard other customers say. And if every single person who orders the arctic char says it's the most wonderful piece of fish they have ever had in their mouth, then I am going to say the same thing. Have I actually tasted it? No. No, I have not. When it comes to wine service, it's even more difficult. I can look at the list and tell you how it is described (citrus with a cherry aftertaste and a full rich flavor of apple fucking blossoms...) but I have not really had it. But the other night, I had a big shot in my station. He was president of some major company and owns about 1000 restaurants around the world and I am pretty sure none of them are called Pizza Hut or Applebee's.

"Pardon me, but do you have a sommelier here?" he asks me.
"No sir, we don't, I'm sorry." He reminded me of a Grey Poupon commercial. "Can I help you?" As soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted it, because unless he was going to ask me about a California Cooler or some cheap ass Yellow Tail Chardonnay, I wasn't going to be able to follow through on my suggestion.
"Yes, I would like a good bottle of wine. What would you recommend?"
My mind started to race. "Should I just pick a random bottle? Which one? The most expensive? If it's expensive it must be good. How do you pronounce that shit anyway? Maybe my two nights in Sonoma wine country over the summer was enough to make me come up with an educated guess. Oh fuck., I dunno." Finally, I said to the man this: "Sir, I am going to be completely honest with you. I work mostly lunches. My wine knowledge is not what it should be. I could make up something so you would think I knew what I was doing, but I think you would rather me admit this to you. Would you let me find someone who can assist you the way you deserve to be?"

The man paused and I thought I had just royally fucked up. He tilted his head and squinted his eyes as if he was so supremely disappointed with me, the service, the restaurant and the entire wine making industry. He sat up a little straighter and cleared his throat. "Young man?" (Brutally long pause.) "I appreciate your honesty and integrity. Thank you for that. And yes, would you mind asking someone else to make a recommendation for me?" I may be paraphrasing that last part, because honesty I got a little woozy when he called me young. I sent someone over who knows the wine menu backwards and forward and he helped the man choose the most perfect bottle of wine.

The gentleman left me a huge tip at the end of the night, presumably because I was an honest upstanding waiter who was willing to admit to his faults if it meant giving the customer better service. Or maybe he tipped me huge because he and his table polished off a couple bottles of wine and several Grey Goose martinis and he was too trashed to tell the difference between his bills in his wallet . Either way, he left happy and so did I.


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I Never Meant to Hurt You

You Need a Drink

I am reposting this because I went back to the same restaurant for more of the delicious hibiscus margarita. The place is called Spring Street Natural. Sit at the bar. Ask for Caitlin. Tell her the Bitchy Waiter sent you.

After a long hard day of shopping, I scoured the Soho area for a place that would sooth my overwhelming desire for a cocktail. I came upon a place on Spring street that promised natural and delicious foods but what really sealed the deal for me was the liquor licence that was displayed proudly over the bar. The bartender Caitlin greeted me warmly and handed me a menu. She seemed nice enough but I was soon to learn that she was no mere bartender. She was an angel sent down from heaven to show me the road to the most delicious libation ever to have passed my lips. And that's saying a lot. My first drink had Pisco in it and it took me back to a few months ago when I first tried this liquor and kinda fell in love with and wanted to marry it. However, if gay marriage isn't legal in New York, I am pretty sure that me marrying a bottle of liquor ain't gonna fly at City Hall either. For my second cocktail, I returned to the menu and my eyes were drawn to something. It was if they were forced to focus on a drink called Hibiscus Cranberry Margarita. How had I not seen that first? Had my tequila radar been on the fritz momentarily? I quickly ordered it. When Caitlin returned, her blond hair had morphed into a halo and the glass she offered me was the Holy Grail. Sipping it for the first time was unlike anything I have ever felt when having a cocktail. Ever. (Well, not since a few days ago. I do love me some tequila.) My tongue frolicked in the lovely libatious (not a word, but should be) liquid of hibiscus infused tequila. My taste buds bloomed as if the hibiscus flower itself had taken root in my mouth. I looked at Caitlin who by now was sporting the shimmering wings of an angel and plucking a harp with perfection. She was indeed my tequila angel and I fell madly in love with the cocktail. "What is in this?" I uttered? "For it is all things heavenly and wonderful and if but all the world could taste this, then wars would cease and humanity would become one. How have I not been granted the privilege of tasting this hibiscus tequila before now? Tell me, dear sweet Caitlin...what is in this margarita?" She proudly told me that she had created the recipe herself, thereby confirming that she was in fact heaven sent. She listed the ingredients and gave me the bottle of Gran Centenario Roseangel hibiscus infused tequila to hold. Of course the word "angel" was on its label, for how could it not be? For this truly was a gift from God. I cradled the bottle to my chest and whispered to it that soon it would be living in my house. I handed the bottle back to Caitlin and thanked her for bestowing this gift upon me.

Before I left, I told Caitlin that I would be writing about her. I gave her a card and she was kind enough to pretend that she had heard of The Bitchy Waiter. Hopefully she will read this. (Do angels use computers?) Caitlin, if you read this give me a sign. Create a rainbow or have a unicorn fly by me or come to me in a vision. Or you can just log in and say, "Hey it's me Caitlin. You're a freak."

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Won't You be My Psychic Friend?

I may need to have my Psychic Friends card revoked and take Dionne Warwick off my speed dial, because some predictions I made a couple of days ago did not come true. I repeat: they did not come true. Despite wearing my best Valerie "Rhoda" Harper scarf and trying to look like a fortune teller gypsy, my powers failed me. I predicted that my job would call me about not showing up for a shift that I had clearly told them I was unable to make due to my other job. It had already happened with another shift because of a communication breakdown (in other words, somebody didn't read their email). But behold, I did not get a phone call asking me where I was. Either the management team finally read my email or they decided to fire my ass and I just don't know about it yet. Either way, my prediction failed miserably. The other vision I had was that of me having a citrus martini at the end of the night. That too failed to come to fruition when I instead had a glass of pinot grigio because I was too lazy to do anything other than pour from an already opened bottle of wine.

Maybe my psychic powers have gone. I certainly hope not, because I still play the lottery numbers that I dreamed about 23 years ago and I know that someday they are going to come up. Yolanda Vega is going to whisper those six sweet digits into her microphone and they will be handing over one of those gigantic checks made out to The Bitchy Waiter. I will now look into the bottom of my cup of tea and read the leaves to see what else I see in the near future. These are my latest predictions:

• Bristol Palin will win Dancing With the Stars prompting her mother Sarah to follow the surge of victory and run for president in 2012 with Bristol as her running mate.
• California will finally have "the big one" causing Los Angeles to break off and float into the Pacific Ocean making it one gigantic island where marijuana is legal and movie tickets cost $28 each.
• Lindsay Lohan will revive her career in a film adaptation of Gilligan's Island. She will play Mary Ann. She will win a People's Choice award for it. That girl who plays Joan on Mad Men will play Ginger Grant.
  
• It will be determined that high fructose corn syrup isn't really all that bad for you.
• A massive tsunami will hit a tiny island in the south Pacific but no one will die because by sheer coincidence the entire island will all be seeing Mission Impossible 4 which will be playing at the lone movie theater which happens to be on the highest part of the island. Tom Cruise will be designated a national hero and he will move there and become their God/President. Suri will stay in the United States because she "needs a break" from her dad.
  
• Gay marriage will become legal in a slew of states because all of a sudden people will realize, "oh, who fucking cares anymore?"
• Oprah Winfrey will decide that season 25 is not her final season after all and she will take her show on the road playing Knights of Columbus Halls across the land.
• Vice president Joe Biden will admit that he had some "work done."
• American Idol will play its final season because no one cares about the new judges and its time to out a fork in that shit.
• The whereabouts of Amelia Earhart will finally be discovered. It turns out she has been in line at the Whole Foods in Columbus Circle.
• The Bitchy Waiter will have something new to bitch about.

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I Have Been Robbed

I have not written about the tipping situation at the new job yet, because I needed to get a handle on it. I was pretty sure it was going to suck but today I realized that it was not as bad as I thought it was going to be. It is so much fucking worse. This place has the most fucked up inane way of tipping out employees that I have ever seen and I should know having worked in the food and beverage industry since the the Pilgrims first landed on these shores. I was a fucking cater waiter at the first Thanksgiving and even then I only had to tip out the Native Americans 10% of my tips. Plus some ears of corn and some glass beads. But this new job takes the frickin' cake.

First off, it's a pooled house which does not make me happy. I pool at my other job, but there are only two servers and a bartender. At the end of the shift, we split the money three ways and call it a day. But this new job has way too many employees and apparently they are all considered "tipped employees" meaning they get the bare bones minimum of $4.60 an hour leaving the rest of their salary up to the tips from the customers. From the tip that the customer leaves me, a portion of it goes to the busser, food runner, bartender, backwaiter, barista, host, maitre d' and the homeless lady who lives in a refrigerator box next door. It's fucking bananas. And we don't get the tips at the end of the day. Oh no. All of them get written into a log and then they are put through this spreadsheet to be dispensed to us on the Friday of the next week. So I started working the floor on one day and will not get those tips until eleven days later. They take all the tips for that shift, add them up, divide by the number of hours for everyone who worked that day to come up with an hourly wage. And then you get your tips depending on that hourly wage and what percentage of the hour you have earned. In other words, bussers get .5 of the hour and waiters get .8 of it. So a busser gets 30 minutes of that hourly wage and I get 48 minutes of it. A bartender gets a full point so they get the whole hourly wage. Make sense? Yeah, me either.
Example: if the hourly wage comes up to $20, then a busser would get ten bucks and a waiter would get twenty for every hour worked. After two weeks of trying to get an answer about the tipping procedure, I was finally explained this yesterday. Had they told me this shit at the first interview, I'd never have stayed. And an added bonus? They also told me yesterday, "Oh, and sense you're still within your first five days out of training, you only get .6 of the hour and not .8" What the fuckity fuck?

Here's how it breaks down. One night last week, my sales were $2500. I kept track of my tips and made about $500 that night. $411 were credit cards tips and $90 was in cash which went to bartender for safekeeping. According to the formula my take-home would be about $175.00 for that night. Oh, hell no. Don't get me wrong. $175 is good for a shift, but not when I had pulled in $500. That means I tipped out 65 fucking percent to other people. This is very upsetting to me, but if it's their way then it's their way. It's not illegal or anything, I just don't like it. I tend to do better in small restaurants with just a couple of servers.

Am I pissed off? Fuck yes. Now I know why they were so hesitant to sit down and explain the tipping pool to me. (Because I would have quit.) Now I know why they have only 50% of their original staff from when the opened six months ago. (Because it sucks.) Now I know why all of the servers there are young (Because they don't know when they are being taken advantage of.) What really irks me is that this place is a gold mine. Customers are fighting to get in. And the company is raking it in because even though they have about 1000 people on staff, all of us are only getting minimum wage. And when I give exceptional service and get a 30% tip (hey, it happens), I don't get to benefit from that. A shitty server in the next station gets to benefit from that more than I do. I am itching to name this restaurant, but not until I quit. And when I quit, I will write my resignation letter right here on this blog and send the whole staff a link to it so they can see it for themselves. The Bitchy Waiter indeed. Grad school suddenly looks very nice.


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Let Me Gaze Into My Crystal Ball

Maybe you didn't know this about me, but I'm a bit psychic. It's true. I predicted our economic downturn, I predicted the election of President Obama and I also predicted that The New Adventures of Old Christine would be cancelled despite an Emmy win for its star Julia Louis-Dreyfus. I'm good, y'all. So let me gaze into my crystal balls and see what is in the future for today.

I was put on the schedule at work for today at 5:00 which is a direct conflict with my other job. I mentioned this to managers through email and personal interaction. I went through all the right channels to make sure it was known that I would not be there today at 5:00. However, according to my vision, at 5:15 I will get a phone call from Lispy Gay wanting to know where I am.

"Hello, Bitchy Waiter? Thith ith Lithpy Gay Manager? Thorry to thee that I got your thell phone becauth I relly need to thpeak to you? I thee that you're on the thchedule but don't thee you here, tho I wath wondering (pause) where are you? Call the rethervathion line ath thoon ath you get thith methage? Thankth."

You wanna know where I am, Lispy Gay? I'm at my other job. The job I told you about when I fucking interviewed with you. I am at the job that I emailed you about eight days ago when the schedule came out. The job that I emailed again about five days ago. The one that I told another manager about two days ago. That job. You don't fucking listen or read your emails so it has become your problem. When you call at 5:15, I will be unable to pick up my phone because I will be in the middle of my shift so you can go ahead and think I am a no call/no show until I forward you all the fucking emails that gave you ample warning about this conflict. Again, I am psychic so I am almost certain this phone call will be happening. Maybe not though, I could be wrong. I also predicted that by 2009 we would all be using Segways to get a around, that Madonna would win an Oscar for Evita and that I would be a rich a successful actor with a Tony award for Best Featured Actor in a Musical by now. So my powers are not perfect. One thing that I can see for certain in the next ten hours? I will be having a citrus martini. I will let you know if my prediction comes true. (The phone call one, not the citrus martini one. The citrus martini is definitely happening.)

Another Day, Another Bitch of a Manager

I have not yet written specifically about one of my new managers. She was mentioned briefly in Katy Perry Likes Mashed Potatoes as Other Manager, but it's time she has her own name and story. I will call her Porcelain Doll because she is always so put together and pristine and she looks like if she smiles, her fucking face will crack apart. None too surprising, she's a bitch. The first day I saw her she forced a weak smile and extended her tiny wimpy hand out for me to shake as she introduced herself. "At least she tried to smile," I thought. Her grip was that of a wet soba noodle. The next time I saw her was the day she was trying to produce the illusive mashed potatoes for Katy Perry. Her impression on me was less than positive. As I rang in my first order of that day and my first one without the assistance of a trainer, she was standing next to the computer. "Oh, Porcelain Doll, I'm glad you're here. Would you please make sure I am ringing this order in in the right way before I send it to the kitchen?" Porcelain Doll's response? "Well, I'm not just standing here because you're pretty." Wait, was she being funny or being a bitch? I patted my naturally curly hair and said, "Well thank you for calling me pretty" and then produced a little girly laugh. Porcelain Doll didn't move her face and it was clear that she wasn't being funny. She was being a bitch. And she didn't think what I said was remotely funny.

What is it with these managers? Were they required to take an aptitude test to determine that none of them have a funny bone in their body? Do any of them understand what a sense of humor is? Can any one of them see that the job they do is not as important as a brain surgeon or the Secretary of Defense? I have repeatedly tried to lighten things up around there only to be shot back down by a no-nonsense stare from a pair of glassed over eyes. Porcelain Doll seems to be the worst one when it comes to having any fun. She needs to be put under glass and displayed at the Museum for Artifacts of Lame Shit. Admission would be a suggested donation of ten dollars. No one would ever pay that amount to get in because the museum would suck and the only people who would go to it are kids who have to write a report on it for their social studies class. Porcelain Doll would just sit there and wait for someone to look at her but no one ever would because even the losers who would go into the Museum for Artifacts of Lame Shit would avoid her because who the hell wants to look at a doll in a museum? Porcelain Doll would eventually dry up and deteriorate into a pile of dust which the janitor would vacuum up and toss into a dumpster. A perfect ending for a perfect bitch.


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I Wish It was a Smoothie

I saw something happen at work yesterday that both entertained me and horrified me at the same time. No, Holly Hobbie did not finally release the lemon that has been stuck up her ass. In fact, I think the lemon has been joined by citrus friends orange, pineapple and grapefruit along with a bottle of Cabernet. Bitch has a fucking sangria party happening up in her poop chute. I was standing near my station when I saw a woman rushing to the bathroom. She had a white creamy liquid dripping off her face and hands and her blouse was also covered with it. Next I saw a waitress following her with a linen napkin held out in front of her that was also dripping the same questionable substance. "Hmmm," I thought. "Did Lispy Gay Manager just have a party with his friends?" I looked in the direction from whence they came and saw some back waiters mopping the floor and people milling about. I then figured that someone had dropped one of the delicious organic and overpriced smoothies and it splattered all over the poor lady sitting nearby. Sucks to have smoothie all over you, right? If only it was smoothie.

When the waitress came out of the bathroom of course I got my nosy ass all up in her face and asked her what happened. "Oh nothing. This lady just threw up, that's all." That's all? Hello no, that's not all. I want details. Did the food make her puke? Did Linda Evans say hello and the very sight of the double face piercing make this woman projectile vomit? Did she get a whiff of Lispy Gay's cologne? The waitress told me that the lady was pregnant and simply threw up. My next question was this: "And did you clean it up with that napkin?" Had it been me, and I saw a lady throw up in my station, she would have been up vomit creek without a barf bag, because my ass ain't helping with that shit. If I helped, then there'd be two people tossing their cookies up in there. The waitress went on to explain that she was the oldest of about a dozen children and she grew up around pregnant women so she saw what was about to happen. "So I grabbed a napkin and tried to catch it." That's right, this Wonder Waitress caught the vomit. It was at this point I noticed there was a chunk of leftover vomit on her right shoulder. After it was pointed out to her, she laughed and went to the sink and rinsed it off with a wet paper towel. I resisted the urge to gag.

I never did see the lady come out of the bathroom. I presume she exited through the window because she was so completely ashamed about puking all over herself while a waitress tried to catch it in a fucking dinner napkin. She must have slunk her pregnant ass home and prescribed bed rest for her remaining pregnancy. Maybe after the baby is born she will be able to put this episode behind her. They say that all the pain of child birth is forgotten once you lay eyes on your new baby. Hopefully, this too will be erased from her memory. If only it could be erased from mine.


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Dear Bitchy Waiter

I need a break from discussing the new job so let us look into the Bitchy Waiter inbox and see who could benefit from the wisdom amassed from 45 years of waiting tables.

Do you have an issue that The Bitchy Waiter can help you with? Job, personal, relationships? You name it. You can email me here and I will answer one question a week. Or just email me to say hello. It makes me happy. Let's see what we find in the mailbag today:

Dear Bitchy Waiter,

I have been waiting tables for exactly two weeks. Recently I had someone give me a 50%+ tip on a lunch because he was wooing people who might give him a contract. He called me toward the back, gave me some instructions that would have been obvious otherwise ("Provide those business people with good service!"), and pressed a wad of cash into my hand. "You've given me far too much," I said. "I know," he replied while staring intensely into my eyes. "Well, thank you very much. I will make sure that your table's every need is taken care of." Which I would have done anyway.

So--aside from the fact that it's my job to do what he's just overpaid me to do, and aside from the fact that his requests were for nothing more than the industry standard--what might I do to help him feel that he's getting his tips worth, so he might come back again?

thanks,

bemused


Dear Bemused,

First off let me say how impressed I am with your enthusiasm to serve having only been waiting tables for a mere two weeks. Having someone give you such a generous gratuity so early in your career should signal to you that you have indeed chosen the right path for your life's work. Congratulations! So this man was trying to impress his clients and asked for your assistance by pressing a huge wad of cash in your hand. Surely you did all the things that exceeded his expectations, but there are always a few extra steps a server can take that will impress tables. For example, if someone leaves the table, always take their napkin and fold it into the shape of a swan so that when they return they see that you have been busy. Fresh cut flowers on a table are always nice too and if you don't have any available at your restaurant, they are easy to find these days at grocery stores, delis and even gas stations. Flowers say that you care. I also find that using a guest's name (you can look on the reservation book or on their credit card) always impresses them. Doesn't "Thank you Mr. Jones" sound so much better than plain old "Thank you?" Follow these steps to ensure great service.

There was one point in your letter that caught my attention. When you say the man stared intently into your eyes as he handed you the 50%+ tip, he may been implying something else as well. Oral sex. Now I am not sure if you are male or female, but either way, you should have simply looked into the man's eyes as intently as he looked into yours and said, "Sir, I am a professional. I take pride in my job as a server and I will do whatever I can to make your dining experience a good one. Meet me behind the garbage dumpster in 10 minutes and I will service you until the cows come home. Or until I get another table, whichever comes first." If you are a straight female or gay male, this should be an easy breezy piece of cake. If you are a gay female and the idea of oral sex on a man is insulting to you I say this: 50%+ tip. If you are a straight man, there is something called "gay for pay." Look into it.

Congratulations on your wonderful career choice as a food server. I hope you have many years of happy employment and way to score such a great tip!

Love,
The Bitchy Waiter

Katy Perry Likes Mashed Potatoes

Maybe you have heard that I have a new job and that it sucks big hairy donkey balls that have been shaved with a rusty razor. The restaurant is well-known and celebrities seem to flock to the place. In my short week there, I have seen famous chef Wolfgang Puck, famous lesbian finance guru Suze Orman and world renown pop star Katy Perry. I served Katy Perry on my first day out of training. As if your first day out of training isn't stressful enough, I have to have the managers breathing down my neck to make sure I cater to the every whim of Katy Perry. As it turns out, she was polite, friendly, sweet, down to earth, kind and patient. All the things that my managers are not.

When she sat down with her circle of five friends, I decided I would treat her just like I do every other person in my station: like a person. Because that's what she is. A person. Who eats food. The table ordered and then Katy (I call her Katy, because we're close like that.) asked if we had mashed potatoes. "Um, I know we do for dinner, but I have feeling that we won't have them this early in the day. Lemme check and I'll let you know, okay?" I went up to manager Holly Hobbie and another manager who I have not written about yet (long story short: she's a bitch too.) "I have a table that wants mashed potatoes. Do we have those for lunch?" "No," said Holly Hobbie. "Oh, okay, because Katy Perry was asking-" Other Manager interrupted me. "Oh, is it for Katy Perry? Katy Perry wants mashed potatoes? I will go ask the kitchen if they can make mashed potatoes for Katy Perry since Katy Perry wants mashed potatoes." She zoomed off as if the world's very existence was at stake. Holly Hobbie let her glasses slide down her nose and said, "In the future? You should always say? Katy Perry wants mashed potatoes." (I don't know why so many of these managers say everything as a question, but they do.) Got it. So the next time anyone at lunch asks for mashed potatoes, I should say Katy Perry wants mashed potatoes. Other Manager came back from the kitchen looking like she had just had her stomach punched, completely defeated. "We don't have any mashed potatoes. You'll have to tell Katy Perry we don't have them. I tried, but the chef just doesn't have them. We would try to do it for Katy Perry if we could. Now if Joe Schmo wanted potatoes then..." I finished her sentence for her. "No potato for Joe Schmo!" I laughed and turned to walk back to my station. Other Manager called at me to return. With dead seriousness she said, "I'm serious. No mashed potatoes for Joe Schmo." Wow, she was for real.

I went back to my dear personal friend Katy to break the bad news to her. "Yeah, just as I suspected we only have mashed potatoes at dinner and they're just not ready yet." And how do you think Miss Katy Perry responded? Like a normal person, she said, "Oh, okay. That's totally cool. Just fries then." I always thought I liked that Katy Perry chick and now I know for sure. She's cool. I want to send her a big tub of mashed potatoes from KFC just to say thank you for being a friend.


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Can You Hear Me Now?

At the new job, there is absolutely no fucking communication between management and staff. All of the managers have their heads so far up their asses that they must not have a signal for their Blackberries, because they never respond to emails even though they initially told me that "email is the best way for us to all stay connected." Email is only as good as the person who opens the fucking emails, twats.

The schedule went up with a few conflicts for me because no one ever bothered to ask about my life. At the initial interview I told Holly Hobby about my other job and that I could only work certain days. "Sure. No problem. We love people who are willing to take only a few shifts a week so that maybe they'll be able to pick up extra shifts when we need it." Clearly, she did not know who she was talking to. Me pick up extra shifts? That's funny, Holly Hobby. At the first day of orientation, they gave us the spiel about our required five days of training and after we had completed those, they would let us know if we would be invited to stay on as a member of the team. (Finally, I could be on a team. Take that, all you assholes from junior high who chose me last to be on the kickball team.) I assumed that at that discussion they would also speak to us about our availability since they have a set schedule and I have a life outside their restaurant. That didn't happen. The schedule just went up willy nilly with me all over the place. After a couple of attempts, manager Linda Evans finally emailed me back saying she would send out an email to get the shift covered and "no worries." Great. I do not have to worry about it because to me, that is what "no worries" means. But I knew that today when I was supposed to be at work, there was going to be a communication breakdown and whichever manager was working would have no idea why I wasn't showing up. Supposed to be there at noon. At 12:15, my cell phone rang which I didn't answer because I was in the shower. Thirty seconds later the home phone rings and this is what I hear from the bathroom:

Uh, hi, Bitchy Waiter? Thith ith Lithpy Gay Manager? And I thee that you're on the thhedule for today? But I don't thee you here? Tho can you call me ath thoon ath you get thith methage? Thankth.

And yes he really talks that way and everything is in the form of a question. I want to find a period, stuff it in his mouth and cram the perpetual question mark up his ass hole. I knew this would happen. Linda Evans didn't cover my shift for me like she said she would and now I look like the douche bag new employee who doesn't give a shit about his new job. Okay, that may be true, but I don't plan on letting it be that obvious for at least three weeks. I called back and spoke to whichever host ho picked up the phone. Lispy Gay Manager was busy so she told me she would pass on my info and he would call me back if he needed to talk to me. He didn't call back, because I read the email from Linda Evans to the Host Ho that said she was taking care of it. He knew I was right.

Later today, I received an email that went out to the whole staff about shift coverage and the correct procedure. I know that it was sent on my behalf. And you know what? I won't be there on Sunday either for the same reason: I have another job, I told you I did, you said it was okay, and Linda Evans said she'd take care of it. What a fucking joke this place is. I gave up unemployment benefits for this?


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There's No Place Like Home

After a week of training at my new job where the people are less than friendly and the protocol is ridiculously strict, it was so nice to be back at my old job last night. It was if I had just clicked my heels together three times and was suddenly transported back to a place that was comfortable. There truly is "no place like home." My old job opened up her arms and smothered me in a warm welcoming embrace. Last night, I chatted with the host who I actually like. A lot. He didn't ignore me or tell me to clear a table like those cold bitches at the new job. My co-worker laughed at my jokes and I laughed at his, not like at the other job where no one talks to me because I'm the new guy. And most importantly, at the end of the shift, the bartender made me not one, but two citrus martinis. I think I missed him most of all. He's my scarecrow.

When I took my first order and walked back to the computer, the familiarity of that old fashioned piece of crap was so nice. Seriously, the computers that we use at the old job are like from 1986. They are huge and awkward and the screen looks like an Atari video game. (If you are too young to know what that means, I officially hate you.) Sure the fancy touch screen Aloha computers at the new job are nice, but sometimes I want a throw back to the when the days were more simple and carefree. It was nice last night to know the answers to the questions that people asked instead of having to go find out or just make something up. I suppose that eventually, I will feel comfortable at the new job, but it takes time. Time that I don't want to give. No one bossed me around last night, no one told me I was being too loud, and no one made me go to the basement and polish glasses for an hour and a half.

But alas, I have taken a new job. And given up unemployment to do so. I have painted myself into a corner because if I quit I can't just go back to unemployment. Now if they let me go though, I could. (Note to self: get fired.) I thought I could find something better in the world of food service, but I didn't. I understand now how Dorothy felt. "If I ever go looking for my heart's desire again. I won't look any further than my own backyard. Because if it isn't there, I never really lost it to begin with." True dat, Dorothy. True dat.

And if you like that image of the ruby slippers, you can fucking buy it here. Yeah, I painted it...)


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This Manager Thinks the Restaurant is Her Dynasty

In my continuing series of first impressions of the people at my new job, let us focus our attention on another manager that we shall refer to as "Linda Evans." Not because she looks like the pristine flower Krystle Carrington from the hit television show of the '80's, Dynasty, but because I always wanted a poodle named Krystle Carrington and this lady might be as close as I ever get. On my second day at work, I was standing near the bar when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and it was her. "Hi, I'm Linda Evans and I'm a manager. I need you (pause) to tuck your shirt in." I quickly apologized and did as I was told only to look up and see that she had vanished. Really? That's how you're going to introduce yourself to a new employee? I had seen her for two days already and thought she was host because she never said one word to me. And before you think I was being slobby or disrespectful about leaving my shirttails untucked let me inform you that I reached that decision very carefully. I noticed that most of the women did not have their shirts tucked in and none of the bartenders did including the guys. So I felt more comfortable with mine untucked as well. All it ever does is come untucked anyway whenever I reach up to a high shelf, bend over to pick up some crap off the floor or fall to my knees asking "Why God? Why? Why didn't I want to grow up to be a doctor?" Linda Evans had nothing else to say to me that day. But I watched her. And I questioned why it was me that had to have my shirt tucked in? And who was she to make that style-based decision? This chick has a nose ring, a lip piercing, was wearing tight black stretch pants and tacky ass Uggs looking boots with a fur vest? Really? My shirt was what was inappropriate? Okay, Linda Evans.

Linda Evans has not said much else to me. I had to discuss my schedule with her because she wrote it out completely ignoring the fact that I told them I could only work part-time because I have another job and a life. She scheduled me all over the fucking week with conflicts up my ass. She told me to email her and she would take care of it. Thirty-six hours have passed since I sent the email and still no word. I will not be there on Tuesday, Linda Evans. The only other time she has approached me was last night. I accidentally shut a cabinet hard too hard and it made a little bit of noise. She rushed over to me and told me I needed to be quiet. Now it was 9:00 on a Saturday night, we were packed, you could barely hear yourself think, but she told me that I shut the cabinet too loud. Why not go over to the ten top at table 14 who are on their fifth bottle of wine and ask them to bring it down a decibel or two? They have been screaming their heads off but the cabinet door I shut is what is too loud. Linda Evans clearly has a need to tell people what to do. And get this: I think I am old enough to be her father. I kinda hate her for that reason alone. I want to send some Alexis Carrington Colby over to this chica and slap the shit out of her.


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Holly Hobbie Has a Stick Up Her Ass

You know the old saying that you never get a second chance to make a first impression? Well, such is the case with a couple of people at my new job. I have a manager who we shall refer to as Alexandria who made a very strong first impression on my first day at the job and that impression would be one of true ice queen bitch from fucking hell. What is it with restaurant managers who think they are so superior to everyone else?

So it was my first shift meeting and I am getting bombarded with all kinds of information that either I don't understand or don't give a shit about. And then Alexandria had something to say. Let me paint a picture of her so you can imagine what I have to look at. She dresses like Holly Hobbie grew up and started shopping at Anthropologie and she put on a special outfit for a Stevie Nicks concert. She wears glasses on the tip of her nose, all the better to peer over them in a condescending manner. She must have a lemon stuck up her ass, because her face is in perpetual sourpuss mode and she has a stick up there too which must have gotten there when she was trying to extract that piece of citrus fruit from her bunghole. You know what they say: when life gives you lemons, you shove it up your asshole. I don't like her. So she says, "Okay, so during opening side work this morning, someone thought they would put their iPod into our system and listen to their own music. That is not acceptable. The music that is played in here also plays in the mezzanine of our neighboring store." (We share a space with a fancy retail store.) "Not okay." Then another manager (we'll call him Lispy Gay) says, "Yeth. Now at night I thimply don't thay anything becauth the sthore ith clothed. But during the day, we abtholutely cannot do that." Now my thought was this: if you allow it at night and have never told anyone that it is not alright to do during the day, how in the hell is anyone supposed to know that vital piece of information? Then Alexandria, pulls the iPod from her crocheted vest pocket and asks who it belongs to. A server raised his hand and apologized. "Don't let it happen again," she hissed. And then she tossed the iPod across the bar and let it bounce a few times before coming to rest in front of the vilified server. She threw it. Was there a reason for that shit? It was an honest mistake and she could have broken the fucking iPod just because she wanted to toss her authority around. All of the servers said a collective "oooh" when it hit the bar. Alexandria pushed her glasses back up her nose and then readjusted in her bar stool presumably to see if it was time for the lemon to fall out of her ass hole. It's not time. And it never will be time. That lemon is there for eternity.

As I have mentioned before, I will not be telling anyone there about this blog so I can continually rake them over the coals without them knowing about it. Stay tuned for more first impressions of Lispy Gay, another bitch manager we will call Linda Evans and anyone else who gets on my fucking nerves. A new crappy job may be the best thing that could have happened for this tired ass blog.

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First Days Are Hard

I am up to my eyeballs in training shifts for my new job, so I decided to re-post about the first day at my last new job. And no, I did not quit my job at the club. I just wanted a a few more shifts somewhere else. This is from September of last year:

My first day at my new job went off without a hitch with the exception of one huge asshole who sat at table 24. Do they follow me? Am I an asshole magnet? My fellow co-workers were shocked that this guy treated me the way he did. "We never get people like that. I am so sorry you had to deal with him." Poor me, destined to deal with assholes no matter where I work. I may as well be a fucking proctologist.

So this place I work at now is pretty nice. Did I mention we have candles? Yeah, candles. Most of the folks that come in for the shows are prepared to drop a pretty penny for the cover charge and the two-drink minimum. But this guy was different. He plopped his fat ass at his seat. I gave him the shpiel about how he had to have two drinks while there and how helpful it would be to tell me both of them now so as not to interrupt him during the performance. "Do you gots Bud Light?" Being new to the job and seeing that he had a list of beers in front of him, I paused and told him I wasn't sure. I looked at the list and said, "No, sorry just Amstel Light and Sam Adams Light." He informed me that he would have an Amstel Light.

"Alright, sir. And would you like that for your second drink as well?"

"I dunno." Long pause as he stared at me. "I'll tell you what I do want though. Get the biggest glass you have. Fill it with ice. Then fill it with water. Then put a lemon in it. I want two of those right now." I make my way to another table and he calls me again. "Do you have any food?" I suppose he doesn't understand the purpose of the menu sitting in front of him.

"Yes sir, we do. I have hummus and pita chips, spinach artichoke dip-"

"No, no no. Food. Real food."

"That is food sir. We do consume that."

"Meat. Do you have any food that is meat?"

I was staring to hate this guy. "Then no sir, we don't have any food."

"What kind of food do you have then?"

I have now crossed the line from starting to hate this guy to actually hating this guy. I reiterated our food options and he finally agreed on the cheese plate and then berated me for not knowing the price without looking at the menu. He almost choked when I told him how expensive it was, but he ordered it. The table next to him told me "good luck" as I went to ring in his order. He yelled out to me he also wanted a shot of Jack Daniels. When I brought out his beer, shot and two waters (which he never touched) he told me he needed a Coke chaser and he was not paying for it because where he comes from you just automatically get a Coke chaser with a shot of Jack and he was not paying for it and he would not be paying for it. Got it, ass. Fine.

Halfway through the show he leaves his seat to come to the bar and complain that he is dissatisfied with his cheese plate. He was not paying for a plate of crackers with one piece of cheese. He would not be paying for it. Got it, fine. Meanwhile the other server went to retrieve said cheese plate and showed him several pieces of cheese that were still on it proving that it did have more than one piece as he claimed. "Well, I don't like swiss!" (It was edam.) "And I don't know what those other cheeses are!" (They were gouda and brie.) I guess he just didn't recognize his old stalwart cheeses of American, cheddar and Whiz.

We took the cheese plate of his bill. After the show, he walked around the room talking to some of his friends and ignoring me as I waited to accept payment. About fifteen minutes later I hear the other server calling after him as he walked toward the door. "Sir, are you going to pay your check??" Asshole laughed. "Oh my Lord. I totally forgot about it. I'm sorry. How much do I owe you? Hardy har har."

I ran his credit card and you know what the asshole did? On a $49 check, he left me ten bucks. A great tip. I swear to God, I just don't get people.

Dear Bitchy Waiter

It's time for some heartfelt advice from The Bitchy Waiter. Do you have an issue that The Bitchy Waiter can help you with? Job, personal, relationships? You name it. You can email me here and I will answer one question a week. Or just email me to say hello. It makes me happy. Let's see what we find in the mailbag today:


Dear Bitchy Waiter,


I just recently turned 20 years old and my friends threw me a party. Of course there was alcohol there, but I didn't drink. I never do as I feel it is against my standards. For years my friends have always overindulged with alcohol, and I see how much fun they have when we party while I'm the odd one out. They make fun of me saying that I'm a goody two shoes and how I need to loosen up and have some fun, and I'm beginning to wonder if maybe they're right. I see commercials for things like Captain Jack, Smirnoff and every type beer you can think of on television. There are also numerous billboards and internet advertisements. Even you have professed your love for alcohol and all things apple martini. I know I'm not yet 21, but I feel like the influence of alcohol is all around me. Everyone else is doing it. Should I?

Sincerely,

Curious

Dear Curious,

Believe it or not, I say don't drink. First off, you're only 20 and it's illegal. Secondly, there is no hurry. If you don't want to drink, then don't drink. When I was in high school, I too was pressured to do a lot of things I never really wanted to do. People called me Goody Two Shoes but I held firm. Well, at least until the invention of the California Cooler and then I caved in. However, there are many things that I always have and always will say "no" to. On occasion, there are nights that I find myself without a martini glass firmly affixed to my hand and I still have a good time. Yes, I love my cocktails but not all the time. I have a friend who doesn't drink except for the occasional glass of wine with dinner. When the check comes, she always owes a fraction of what my alcoholic ass does, so at the very least you can always relish the fact that you won't go into the poorhouse to keep up with your friends. As for your friends, they will respect your decision to not drink. If they don't, then they are assholes and not really friends. Anyone who pressures you to drink, smoke, do drugs or shoplift are only doing it to justify their own behavior. Stand firm in what you believe. There are a lot of ads out there for alcohol but who cares? The only thing I see advertised more is cars and I don't even drive. Tune them out and order that Shirley Temple with pride. And rejoice that you only have to shell out two bucks for yours as opposed to the twelve bucks I have to come up with for my apple martini. Good luck


Love,
The Bitchy Waiter

I Got a New Job

Did you hear the angels singing yesterday? Did you see the rainbow form in the sky and end at my doorstep with a unicorn sliding down it? Did you get a whiff of the sweet smell of success? I started a new job. (Cue confetti cannons and balloons, please.) I began training yesterday with what we all know and love: trailing. For those not in the know, trailing is when a new server follows behind someone who teaches newbie the ropes. I hate it. Give me a table chart, a menu and tell me how to ring in food and I'm good to go. It's especially annoying when the one who is training me is younger than my Smiths concert t-shirt that I sleep in. But what choice do I have? None. Like a helpless puppy, I follow Mike around so he can tell where the salt is kept in dry storage. Important, yes, but there are so many other things that I want to know about on my first day of work but you just can't blurt these things out:

• What do we get for shift meal and when is it?
• How much did you walk with yesterday?
• Which of the managers is a bitch and which one is cool?
• Are we really not supposed to use our cell phones or is that just something they say to the new people? Because I saw that girl texting in the sidestand.
• So the manager said that our jeans had to be a certain shade so I went and bought a new pair, but now I see people all over the place with faded ones. What the hell?
• Is the chef who is expediting always so cunty?
• Which of the servers are not cool, because I don't want to waste time getting to know them if they are losers.
• Do Jay Z and Beyonce really come in here all the time or is that something they told me at the orientation so I'd be all excited about my new place of employment?
• Are the managers gonna have an issue with me needing off November 15-17 because I kinda want to go to Washington DC for a couple of days?
• It's great that we have a barista who deals with all the coffees, teas and cappuccinos, but how much am I going to be tipping their asses out?
• Do I really have to use a tray to carry a single glass of water because that is so dumb.
  
• What happens if I fail my menu quiz? At Bennigan's we were told if we failed it, we couldn't wait tables. I failed it but still waited tables. Do I really need to memorize every fucking ingredient in the chicken liver toast appetizer?
• Which hostess is the biggest whore? I just wanna know.

I suppose all of these things will eventually be known to me. It's hard being the new guy. None of them know how totally cool I am and that they will soon be starring in this blog. I shan't tell anyone though. It took me long enough to find this goddamn job, so I ain't risking telling the wrong person about The Bitchy Waiter and get my ass fired. I'll just write about them. Soon someone will do something that warrants a whole blog post but will they know about it? Hell no. This is our secret.

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TAKE OUT, a kick ass short film

Someone sent me this great film and you all really need to see it. If you have ever waited tables, (and I know you have) you will totally get it. It's only six minutes long so do yourself a favor and watch it. Go here to see it on You Tube.

I wanna be her.

Can You Speak Sign Language?

A friend of mine told me of his night out last week when he came across a server who may out bitch even me. David ran the story by me to see if the waiter reacted appropriately or not. Usually, I side with the waiter but I heard him out before I passed judgment.

David was at a very expensive restaurant with a party of about ten or so. They had made a reservation and were there to celebrate a birthday. A cake had been brought to the restaurant before and plenty of money was being spent. According to my friend, the place was really loud because there was an overzealous deejay and it sounds like one of those places that can't decide if they are a restaurant or a club. It was also very crowded which was keeping the server from getting to all sides of the table. At one point my friend wanted some more water but was seated too far away from the waiter to ask him. Since he didn't want to yell across the table, he simply made eye contact and mouthed "more water please" while pointing to his empty glass. The waiter put on his "I'm a bitch" hat and yelled back to my friend, "I'm sorry sir, but I don't speak sign language." He then turned on a dime and swished off. Wait, what? David told me that the restaurant was kind of a hoity toity place so I am sure the waiter was one of those bitchy ass queens who thinks they are too good for their job. And I can say that because I might be one of those bitchy ass queens who thinks he is too good for his job. I know David and I know that he didn't mean this in a rude way. Plus he's British so everything he says sound perfectly polite. He can say, "Pardon me, but I just took a dump on your sofa and I feel just awful about it. My apologies." And with that accent you just kinda go, "Oh, okay. Thank you. Where are you from?" The table was stunned by the waiter's response so David called him back over and told him there was need to be so rude. The waiter laughed like he was just kidding and said he would go get the water. Yeah, I've tried the laughing thing to make what you said sound like it was a joke when in all actuality it was just plain bitchy. He didn't bring the water until they were leaving.

So my friend wanted to know if I would have been offended by the way he asked for water and I must say the answer is no. It's clear when someone is doing something if they are doing it to be dismissive or they are doing it in earnest. I think I would have known why David pointed at the water and wouldn't have given it a second thought. I feel that the waiter was over his night, knew that this table was having an auto-grat stamped to their bill and didn't give a shit. We've all done it. I confirmed to David that the waiter was just being a prick and encouraged him to let it go. The waiter got his 18% but David told the manager what he did. David felt better, the manager probably just told the waiter to chill out and someone else paid for the bill. All in all, everything worked out fine. But what a bitchy ass waiter. I like him. "I don't speak sign language." What a hoot. I've totally gotta remember that one.

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