How To Open a Bottle Of Champagne

I hope you have your champagne chilling because in just a few hours it will be time to obligatorily take a sip and then kiss who ever you are dating, married to or just happen to be standing next to at midnight. So many people love the taste of champagne but only have it on special occasions. I say fuck that. Have it whenever you want it. About two weeks ago, I made hamburgers for dinner and served it with a bottle of fine sparkling wine. It really complimented the Costco meat patties, Miracle Whip and American cheese. Opening a bottle of champagne takes a bit of practice so I thought I would share with you my immense experience of opening them. And before you think I am a total alcoholic (I am), this experience comes from six years as a brunch server where I opened about twenty bottles a day. Most people think that successfully opening bottle of champagne means it spews out all over the place in a premature ejaculation kind of way. Not cool though. Here is the right way to open a bottle of champagne:

1. Take off that foil crap that is all around the cork. Use your teeth if you have to.
   
2. Now you want to remove that wire cage thing. You have to put your thumb over the cork in case the pressure has built up and it's ready to pop. Unless you shook the bottle too much, it's probably fine. Just don't point the bottle at your nether regions or eyes. Twist the wire counter-clockwise six half rotations and then take it off. Or leave it on. Whatever.
   
3. Now you can put a towel over it in prep to remove the cork. I don't do that though because I'm a pro. Grip the cork and now start twisting the bottle. Not the cork. The bottle. Kinda pull it at the same time and you should feel it start to loosen and rise from the bottle.
4. Keep control of the cork even though it's totally tempting to shoot that bitch at somebody. Don't do it. It really brings down a party when someone actually loses an eye. You want to let it release with a soft "poofy" noise. Like the sound a fart makes when you think it's going to be silent, but it's not. You don't want that loud pop.
   
5. It's open. Pour that baby into a beer bong and go to town.
   

The movies always show people popping the cork and then laughing as the champagne spills all over the place. What they don't show is what a pain in the ass it is to clean up all that champagne. They also don't show me sitting in the corner at the end of the night all pissed off because we are out of champagne because half of it is on the fucking floor.

Happy New Year!! Tweet this for good luck.




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How to Impress Your Boss

At my job, we have a newly instituted "Superstar Employee of the Month" contest. We are all supposed to go above and beyond for our guests and make sure we blow them away with good service instead of just blow them in the bathroom like a certain hostess I knew at Bennigan's once. The prize is that your picture goes into a frame and hangs on the wall. If that's the prize, then I am already the grand champion winner in my mom's house, so there. I only work there part time so my chances of being Superstar Employee of the Month are pretty slim. That, coupled with the fact that I am The Bitchy Waiter, pretty much insures I will never have my picture in that frame. When I worked at Houlihan's in Times Square, it was decorated with all that useless vintage crap all over the walls, including headshots of some famous and not so famous actors. When they were doing some remodeling once, my friend Jen and I took the liberty of putting our own headshots into frames and placing them in the stack of things to be replaced on the wall. A few days later, our happy mugs were drilled onto the wall like they were supposed to be there. Volia! We became our own personal Superstar Employees of the Month!

But how can I earn the respect and gain the attention of my boss so my picture can be in that frame now? I mean other than doing a great job, being to work on time, no more leaving early, no longer drinking in the sidestand, finishing my sidework and quitting bitching. I think the best way to show what a great employee I am is to let my customers tell him for me. Since that would only happen if I actually impressed them, there has to be another route. Allow me to introduce to you, my good friend Yelp. Yelp is a wonderful website that allows people to review restaurants so you can check out what you are getting into before you get into it. It is also a great place to log in, create a fake account and praise the hell out of yourself so your boss sees how amazeballs you are.

Many moons ago, before the invention of the Internet, I wrote a letter praising my service and sent it to my friend in Georgia who then mailed it back to my restaurant manager. It got me a $50 gift card to TGIF's and the respect of my co-workers. But why bother with a stamp when you can do it all online? Just log into Yelp and find your restaurant. Read some of the other crap reviews and then devise one of your own. Here is a sample. Feel free to cut and paste:

I loved (name of your restaurant) but I loved my server even more! The food was wonderful and the decor was fine but what made my experience practically orgasmic was the attention given to me by (your name here). It was as if he/she had ESP and knew what I was going to ask for before I even knew I needed it. (Your name here) was always there for me whether it was extra napkins, answering a question or just a dazzling smile. On top of his/her service I must mention the uniform. It was neatly pressed and in perfect shape-no stains or a dirty apron like at so many other restaurants (you can add a name of a competitor if you want to, but it's really all about you so who cares?). The service was top-notch without being too clingy or needy. Perfect, perfect, perfect. This server deserves a pat on the back, a raise and a $150 American Express gift card STAT, lol! Kudos to (your name here)!

If you want to kill two birds with one stone, you can add this part about the least favorite person you work with:

The only issue I had all night was with another server named (insert enemy's name here). I asked her once for more water and she told me "you're not in my station." I was horrified that someone could be so rude, so lazy and have such an odd body shape. Her head is clearly too big for the rest of her body and it's very disturbing. And is that a hump on her back? What the hell? I happened to be in the restroom when (enemy's name here) was doing a very noisy number two and she did not wash her hands when she was finished. I also know she didn't even bother to wipe because I was in that stall first and left it when I saw no toilet paper. She is a horrible person. The only thing that erased the memory of that skank ho, was my experience with (your name here). Thank you (name of restaurant)! I will be back as long as I can sit in (your name here)'s station and that other server is either fired, asked to remain in the kitchen or sent back to the SPCA from which she came.

Once you are done, click submit and then just wait for the praise. (For the record, I have not ever done this because my bosses would see right through it and call me out on it in a second. Okay, I totally did do it. Once. No, I'm just kidding, I haven't. But I did. Not really.)

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What Happens in Vegas...

In all the land, there can't be anyplace else that has more severs per capita than Las Vegas, Nevada. I did absolutely no research regarding this, but I would assume that there are about fifty ba-jillion servers in that city. Give or take a billion. I have a feeling that there you can't throw a stale biscuit without it hitting a cocktail waitress. I also have a feeling that it can be a pretty miserable place to work. Think about it; the casinos are open 24 hours a day and every place offers a smoking or non-smoking-but-you-can-still-smell-it section. I have only been there a few times, but as I recall, all of the servers on the casino floor were ladies, so I bet guys are hard pressed to find a job there. Let's give it up for those casino floor cocktail waitresses, y'all.

As they meander around the room in their slutty looking uniforms with their tits hanging out, they breathe in second-hand smoke and take orders from people with nicotine stains on their lips and fingers. I bet the customers never bother taking their eyes off the slot machine in order to say thank you and since the drinks are usually free in the casinos, there are probably a lot of losers who don't bother tipping. The first time I was ever in Vegas, I was 21 years old. I had just dropped out of college and went there with my friend Erika. With a pocket full of singles, we headed to the slot machines and kept our eyes peeled for a "cocktail babe." The idea of free drinks as long as were playing was like a 21 year-old's heaven. "Hey Erika, you see a cocktail babe? I need another vodka cran." We would give them a dollar for every drink which in 1989 was pretty generous, we thought. In order to make our money last longer, we headed over to the nickle slots. It was also a great place to pretend that we were making a lot of money. Three dollars in nickels makes for a lot of clang-clanging when you hit a jackpot. The downside was that the cocktail babes didn't really pay much attention to the people in the nickel slot machine section. Why would they? Other than me and Erika, the section was full of old ladies with wicker purses.

I would think that the real money to be found in the Las Vegas cocktail waitress world is over by the high-rollers clubs. It probably takes years of experience and seniority to make it to that section and I bet all the servers there must be attentive, professional, efficient and friendly. Or have big ol' fake ass titties. I wonder if any of the waitresses try to learn the tricks of the trade while they're working. It would come in pretty handy if your section was in the blackjack area and you spent your downtime learning all about card counting so you could finally throw that tray down and make some real money. Or I guess prostitution is always a viable option.

I have a couple of friends who play a lot of poker online at some place called CasinoTop10.net. They're pretty good at it but it just doesn't seem right to me. Unless the website is going to offer me complimentary Vodka gimlets as I sit on my computer, I'll pass. Of course, my friends are actually good at gambling and they do it for reasons other than the free drinks. I don't understand it, but more power to 'em. If I need a gambling fix, I'll just buy a scratch-off lottery ticket or take the express bus to Atlantic City.

I'd love to hear from some Las Vegas servers. Any of you out there? Comment please and give us a glimpse into your life. Do you make a lot of money? Do you get sick of dealing with tourists all the time? Has your boob ever flopped out of your uniform?

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Rice Tragedy at Table 16

Maybe kids have been playing it good for Santa the last few weeks, because I haven't had any horrible children to deal with. But re-reading this posts reminds me that now that Christmas is over and the Elf on the Shelf is gone, kids will be back to their horrible ways any minute now.

Obviously, any post having to do with children really touches some nerves. I'm referring to the post about children being banned at a restaurant which received over forty comments and 1,500 hits. There were some good points made on both sides of the argument. I was almost convinced that maybe a restaurant didn't have the right to ban children but then a couple showed up to work last night with their two-year old son. Thank you, couple, for reminding me why I bow down to the greatness of any restaurant owner/manager who says, "Take your kid and shove it."

The lovely young family were very kind and polite. Without any hesitation, they ordered a glass of wine, a beer, some calamari and two roasted chicken breasts. They did not order for their son. I assumed that were going to let him eat off of their plates. I wish. As soon as I dropped off the chicken, they asked for their check because they said they didn't know how long the kid was going to remain being so calm. "I totally understand, I said. As I printed their check, I thought about how conscientious they were being. They wanted to be able to make a quick getaway if he started to act a fool and I really appreciated it. They gobbled down their chicken and bolted out surprisingly fast. I thanked them as they breezed past me at the bar and I headed back to clear the table. What was waiting for me was a shocking mess.

I thought the parents were both humans but I now realize they must have been made of grains, for they had produced a spawn made of white rice. The kid had left piles of rice all over the place. I didn't even serve them rice. Is rice the new Cheerios? There was enough rice on the floor to make a dozen California rolls. It looked like a rice ball had exploded. Or maybe a rice and bean burrito, hold the beans, had thrown up. It looked like the monkey cage at the zoo. When I was kid, I went to the Houston Zoo once and saw a monkey taking his own crap and throwing it all over the place. Was this kid pooping out rice and doing his best chimpanzee impersonation? There was rice everywhere. On the table, in the booth on both sides, on the floor, under the table next to the booth. There was probably some on the ceiling but I refused to let myself look up to see because then I would be responsible for cleaning it. No wonder they left the restaurant so fast. They were ashamed of the Terror of Rice that was happening at table 16.

I went to get the broom and dustpan and started sweeping it all up. Have you ever tried to sweep up cooked rice? It doesn't sweep. It sticks to the floor and the broom and just moves from one spot to another refusing to go into the dustpan. The table next to Rice Hell gave me a look that said one of two things: "I'm sorry you have to clean up after that messy kid" or "I'm sorry about your whole life choice situation." One of the women at the sympathetic booth was very pregnant and it was hard for me to not tell her something like "You'd better not become one of these kind of hateful parents who let their kids do whatever they fucking want in a restaurant." (By the way, when Preggo ordered her hamburger she made sure to to tell me three times that it needed to be very well done because she was pregnant. As if I care why she wants her burger well done. And as if I couldn't tell she was pregnant. I think elephants gestate for less time than this woman. Her baby's arm was practically hanging out of her vagina trying to grab a french fry.)

Mr. and Mrs. Rice Paddy had a check that was $63.00 and they left me a $12 tip which was right at 20%. However, when I have to get on my knees under a table with a roll of paper towels, I expect more than 20%, people. My knees are weak and it takes a lot of effort to get on them. (And no I am not talking about when I get on my knees under a table with a roll of paper towels to give a blow job. That is 30%, thank you very much.) Cleaning up enough rice to feed a Chinese family of four deserves at least a 25% tip and also a "really sorry about the mess" acknowledgment. So ban children under the age of six? Bring it on.

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Merry Christmas!

Merry Christmas to you all and to those of you who are not observing this fine holiday, Happy Sunday to you! Hopefully most of you are not at work today. I have the day off since both restaurants I work at have owners with enough common sense to close on Christmas. They know that most people won't go out to eat today and every single employee that would be at work today would have a serious case of bitch.

If you are at work, I hope you have manged to hide some spiked egg nog in a coffee cup over there by the bread station where the manger never goes. Or up on that top shelf where you keep the extra coffee. Or in the cabinet where all the to-go stuff is. You know where I'm talking about.

Enjoy your day, everyone! Merry Christmas and thanks for popping by the blog today. Now get off the interwebs and go back to being annoyed by your families...

love,
BW

'Twas the Night Before Christmas

Tonight is the night that Santa will cram his fat ass down your chimney and leave you a bunch of crap that you have to take back to the mall on Monday to exchange for something other than "store credit." Good luck with that, because if you try to take back a baggy Gap sweater all you're going to get in return is another baggy sweater, some jeans or "store credit." But deal with that on Monday because today is is Christmas Eve!

Every year, I pull out this tired ass HTML code and repost the same thing I do every December 24th. It's a lovely poem that you will want to read out loud while sitting in front of a roaring fire curled up in your Forever Lazy with a glass of egg nog spiked with tequila. Please enjoy this magical tale of a waiter closing up the restaurant on Christmas Eve. If you'd like to hear it read to your lazy ass, please click here. If you'd like to download the podcast version of it on iTunes, you can click here. Merry Christmas!

Love,
The Bitchy Waiter

'Twas the Night Before a Bitchy Christmas

‘Twas the night before Christmas, in the front of the house
The only creature still stirring was that sad dying mouse;

The glue trap was placed by the reach-in with care,
In hopes that the rodents would soon be aware;

This server was ready to be home in his bed.
While visions of auto-grat danced in his head.

My apron now off, cleaning my last ketchup cap,
When I hear from the window a soft gentle rap.

I try to ignore all the obnoxious clatter,
But I walk towards the noise to see what’s the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Crack it open so slightly, do nothing rash.

The moon on the breasts of this tired looking ho
Gave me the feeling she wanted some mo’.

When, what to my wondering eye should appear,
This bitch had a coupon for one freebie beer.

With her Lee Press-on Nails and her mascara too thick,
I knew in a moment she must be some trick.

A hooker, a ho, or whatever the name,
“It’s Christmas Eve, bitch. We’re closed, it’s a shame.”

“Please, just a Bud, a Corona or Bass!
I have this free coupon I pulled from my ass!
In six more short days, the coupon’s not valid,
And if not a beer, maybe one small side salad?”

I looked at the lady, saw the need in her eyes,
And wondered how badly she wanted some fries.

“But we’re closed for the night and I’m ready to go”
So I turned off the light and shut the window.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof,
Scratching and gnawing giving me proof
That this crack whore was desperate and needed a beer
Or maybe she needed some holiday cheer.

She broke through the skylight and came down with a thud.
Her panties were twisted and covered with mud.

Way too much makeup was covering her face
And her sad bloodshot eyes were scanning the place.

Her eyes- how they crossed! Her hair was so scary!
I pitied the loser who had popped her cherry.

Her droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And her nose was all white from doing some blow.

The stump of a blunt she held tight in her teeth.
And the stench of her body encircled her head like a wreath;

She had a broad face and a round big fat belly,
And she reached to a table for a packet of jelly.

She slurped it up quickly and looked at the shelf
I picked up a steak knife to protect myself.

The bottles of liquor went straight to her head,
And I knew right away I had nothing to dread;

She spoke not a word, but went straight to the whiskey.
She downed the whole bottle and asked “did you miss me?”

And laying her finger aside of her nose,
She took one deep sniff and reached into her clothes.

In her hand was the coupon for the beer that was free
She said thank you, then burped and gave it to me.

I opened the door and she went out of sight,
Saying “Happy Christmas to all, and to all a goodnight.”

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If you click here and tweet this, Santa will rock your world

A Very Bitchy Christmas

Christmas is almost upon us and sometimes we need to take a moment to think about what the holiday season is all about. As you know, I have a close personal relationship with Jesus. He spoke to me last night while I was on the 7 train. I don't mean that He spoke to me through prayer or in a vision. I mean He actually sat down next to me and we had a conversation. The train was really crowded, but he squeezed his holier-than-thou ass all up into my space and started talking to me. He had several bags from Macy's and Best Buy in His possession so he seemed like he was almost done with his Christmas shopping. He mentioned to me that he got his Mom a gift certificate to Bliss Spa because she always gets so stressed out this time of year. Anyhoo, He asked me to remind people of a few things regarding his birthday so I pass this on to you as the word of God:

• If you go to a restaurant with a large group of people to exchange gifts, do not leave all that discarded wrap there on the floor for the server to clean up. It's rude.
• You don't have to just say "Happy Holidays." If you want to say "Merry Christmas," just say it. This country is too caught up in not offending each other yet we continue to be one of the most offensive countries in the world. (He's looking at you, Kardashian Clan.) If someone isn't celebrating Christmas and they get pissed off that you told them to have a nice one, they'll get over. It's not the end of the world. (That is coming right up, by the way, so repent, sinners.)
• Take a little time to enjoy The View.
• He wants you to stop with the fake money as a tip. It's giving Him a bad name and he does not appreciate it.
• Just because someone goes to church on Christmas and Easter does not give them the right to judge others, so stop it.
• He wanted me to tell you that he does not give a shit about same-sex marriage. "Love is love," he said. He also told me that he does not have time to deal with it and it is really low on his priority list. It's right under people who pray to win the lottery and/or get laid.
  
• He wants you to know that people who tip 25% get on the express elevator to Heaven, so keep that in mind the next time you eat out.
• Grass-fed reindeer is not as good as it sounds.
  
• If you are giving gifts this season, enough with the gift cards. He said to take a few minutes and really think about what someone would like. Don't just give another lame-ass $50 gift card to the Gap. Put some thought into it and stop being so Goddamn (His word, not mine) lazy.
• You don't have to go to church to have ever-lasting life. Be good to people and treat them nicely and you will ensure yourself a future of rewards. He told me that Karma is a bitch and He should know; Karma is his second cousin twice removed on his Father's side.
• It is better to give than to receive but that doesn't mean it's wrong to want. Wanting something sometimes makes you work harder to achieve it, so go for it.
• You don't always have to pray at a restaurant. It makes the server uncomfortable sometimes. Just a simple "Hey, thanks for the food, Heavenly father" will suffice.
• Stop being Him for Halloween.
• He really does like Santa Claus, it's just that sometimes he gets a little jealous of all the attention St. Nick gets. Who can blame Him? I mean here it Jesus' birthday and Santa is like that fat kid at the birthday party who eats more cake than anyone else.
  

There you have it. I took a picture of Him with my cell phone but it came out all blurry so I Googled that image if Him when he was a baby. Such an adorable baby, He was. So very Anglo-Saxon.

Below, I am sharing a video that I think captures the true meaning of Christmas. I sang this song last week at a benefit for kids with HIV because I am not always a total bitch. Just most of the time. Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Good Kwanzaa, Happy Solstice or whatever the hell it is you are celebrating this week! And do me a favor: share this, like it or whatever. Thanks!

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Dear Bitchy Waiter

Time for another installment of Dear Bitchy. I dug into the mailbag and found this question that perhaps I can shed some light on. You can email me here if you have a question that needs attention. Or email me to say hello. That's nice too.





Dear Bitchy Waiter,

I work in a restaurant, have been doing the classic rollup for years. The problem is the flap hangs out and doesn't always keep the silverware tight in the rollup. There was a person I worked with who rolled the silverware so that everything got tucked into the rollup, so it wouldn't come unwrapped. I can't remember how he did it!!!!:) Do you know how to do that? If not, where should I look? Signed, David

Dear David,

I do know of this secret technique you speak of. Are you referring to the one where all the corners of the napkin are somehow practically invisible and the rollup remains tight even as it is stacked and then carried to a drawer or bin? The technique was taught to me by a Buddhist monk who lived in a cave in the mountains of the Himalayas. He was on a 40 year vow of silence and all he did was eat, pray, and do rollups. I went to this guru once so he could show me the art of mastering the rollup. Unfortunately, I made a solemn swear to him that I would only pass on his technique to people who worked with me and could volunteer to do my sidework for three weeks in exchange for the coveted information. Sorry, David. Besides, the place I work now is a class act super fancy place that uses paper napkins so I very rarely use the rollup technique anymore. Had you asked me how to wrap to-go item in foil into the shape of swans, geese, elephants, puppies, goldfish, Mariah Carey, antelopes or cantaloupes, I would happily direct you. But you didn't so I won't. I did find this video on You Tube that may help you.



And David, I do apologize that I am unable to pass on the information that you need. The monk's name was Maha-Thera Sayagi U Ba "Scooter" Khin and I know he would be very disappointed in me if I shared his knowledge. I am sure you understand, right David? If the above video does not help you, I would suggest you take a quick trip over to Asia. There is a La Quinta in the foothills of the Himalayas that has a pretty good rate with a free Continental breakfast. The front desk can direct you to which cave Scooter lives in. He'd love to help you. Tell him I said hello. By the way, if you go, don't forget that Scooter is on a vow of silence so don't expect a lot of chit chat. Good luck!

Love,
The Bitchy Waiter

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Rainbow Overload

I need a break from thinking about Christmas so. I give to you Rainbow Overload, suggested by Keith:


Bam Bam McCunningham plopped himself on his bed after a twelve hour shift at the go-go bar. As he slid his size 7 pumps off his size 9 feet a good two or three ounces of glitter fell out of each shoe. He pulled his pantyhose off and noticed a small run in the left leg. "Occupational hazard," he muttered. Bam Bam served drinks in the raucous and raunchy gay bar in Western Queens called Otis' Place. Of course no one called it Otis' Place because it didn't roll off the tongue like it should. Everyone called it Opies. Bam Bam didn't like being a cocktail server but it was only until he got his big break as a writer. Every week he submitted a story somewhere and every week he got a rejection letter from someplace else. In the meantime he served drinks at Opies. In drag. When his vintage pink princess phone rang, his first inclination was to ignore it, but he thought that anyone calling this late must have something very urgent to discuss. "Hello?" After a few seconds of silence, the other end of the phone erupted in sobs that he immediately recognized as coming from his BFF from second grade, Lisa. It turns out she was just dumped by her boyfriend who realized he was gay. It was the fourth boy in a row she had dated who came out of the closet. In fact Lisa and Bam Bam had been a couple all through high school so she had quite the history of falling in love with the wrong man. But now he was her closest confidant. Most people referred to Lisa as Bam Bam's Fag Hag, but she preferred the title of Fruit Fly. He consoled her for two hours and promised to meet her for a champagne brunch the next morning followed by a day of shopping and then a mani/pedi. When he hung up the phone he was exhausted. He decided to leave the makeup on and go right to sleep but his Yorkshire terrier Bruce had other ideas. Bruce jumped into his lap holding his pink leash in his mouth and yelped at him asking to be taken for a walk. Bam Bam couldn't resist the cute face and knew that avoiding the walk would only make for a messy morning when Bruce decided to relieve himself on the new rug Bam Bam had just purchased from Crate and Barrel. Five minutes later, Bam Bam and Bruce were walking outside in the cool early morning spring air. With his dog at his side and the sound of Judy Garland pulsing through his iPod, Bam Bam found himself reinvigorated and not ready for sleep at all anymore. Once he returned home, he decided to put on his writing hat and get to work on his next piece. With his cute Jackie O. pillbox sitting jauntily on his head and Elaine Stritch playing in the background, he took a sip of his Cosmopolitan and began writing his one man play about coming out of the closet in a small Southern town.

Sally Field Liked Me, She Really Liked Me

I have waited on famous people before. I served Hillary Clinton once at a fundraiser in Chappaqua and then another time I served Bill Clinton at a 9/11 event. Once I served the actor who played Palmer Courtland on All My Children. What he was doing at a Houlihan's I'll never know, but the ascot he was wearing clashed with the decor of the room. I was once famously poked by Connie Chung while catering and I gave her husband Maury Povich a cheese ball. I get to add to my list of celebs who have graced my station because The Flying Nun flew into booth number three last week and knocked me over with her presence. Yes, Sally Field lowered her expectations and sat in my station.

When I saw her name on the reservation book, I was excited about the possibility of finally meeting Carrie from Smokey and the Bandit. Once she said hello to me I would only be one degree of separation from Burt Reynolds! At ten minutes before showtime, Gidget herself showed up. At first I thought it was weird that she was carrying both of her Oscars with her but I decided that I would do the same thing if I had two of those bitches. I'd be wearing them as earrings. She plopped them onto her table and then dug into her huge purse. She eventually pulled out three Emmy awards and a Golden Globe and placed them around the table. I gingerly approached her to take an order.

"Good evening, how are you tonight?" She ignored me. "Can I get you anything to drink?" I asked.

She looked at me without a hint of the sweetness I saw in Steel Magnolias and snarled at me. "Don't you know who I am?"

"Yes, ma'am, you're Sally Field."

"That's two-time Academy award winner, Sally Field. And everybody knows what I drink. Go Google that shit and figure it out, you lazy bitch of a waiter." I was impressed that although we had only just met, she knew me so well. "And bring a bottle of Grey Goose for my friends here." She motioned to the awards. "With six glasses. I don't like to drink alone."

A quick Google search revealed that Ms. Field's favorite drink was a double Johnny Walker Black with four and half ice cubes and a twist. I went back to her table with her drink, the vodka and six glasses. "Is there anything else I can get for you right now?"

She fixed her eyes on me and tilted her head in the way that she did in Forrest Gump when she was talking to Tom Hanks. "Yes," she said very softly. "There is something else you can get. You can get the hell out my fucking space, you Muppet-headed asshole."

I backed away and tried to hold back the tears. I have loved Sally Field since I was a little boy. I loved her in Soapdish when she said "I look like Gloria fucking Swanson," I loved her in Sybil when she was crazy as a bedbug and I even love her in her Boniva commercials when she's talking about her bone density. But now here she was in the flesh and she was being horrible to me. How can someone seemingly so nice be so mean? I avoided her table for the rest of the night because I figured if she needed anything she would make sure her presence was known. At one point, she needed to go to the restroom. I told her where it was and she looked at me like she was waiting for me to do something for her. "Oh please don't make me go wipe your butt for you," I thought. She stared at me with glassy eyes.

"Yes ma'am?" I asked?

"Where's my seat-filler?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"My. Seat. Filler. Whenever I get up to go somewhere, someone is supposed to sit in my seat while I am gone and keep it warm. Jesus fucking Christ, get your ass out there and keep my goddamn seat warm, you lazy bitch of a waiter. " Again I was happy that she really did seem to know me very well.

I went to her booth to keep her seat warm. While there, I touched all six of her awards. The Oscars really are heavier than you'd think and the Emmy's were beautiful. The Golden Globe looked a little cheap but it was still impressive. I noticed that the bottle of Grey Goose was almost empty. She stumbled back to the booth and waved me out of the way.

Finally, it was time to give her the check. I was so ready for this celebrity encounter to be a thing of the past. She gave me a hundred dollar bill and told me to keep the change, meaning it was about a 8% tip. It was disappointing but at that point I just wanted Sally Field out of my life. I had given her so much over the years and all she had given me in return was evil. I mean, I even sat through Punchline in 1988.

After she was gone, we all talked about how unlike her public personae she is. All that kindness she exhibits on Brothers and Sisters is truly just acting. I guess that's why she has two Oscars. Oh well. Thanks for bursting my bubble, Sally Field. I don't like you. I really don't like you.

And now the truth:

She did come in. She was very sweet. When I asked her what she'd like, she said, "I'm so boring. Just a glass of chardonnay. Thank you very much." Genuine, kind, warm and just as nice as you'd hope. And she left me a 25% tip. But the version above was much more interesting to read, wasn't it? And more fun to write.

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Chick-fil-A Does it Again

I have a love-hate relationship with Chick-fil-A. On the one hand, I love their tender juicy chicken sandwiches with three pickles and no mayonnaise on a tired-ass white bun but on the other hand I hate that they continually donate large sums of money to groups who want to deny gay people their rights as citizens of this fine (uptight) country. Well, Chick-fil-A is in the news again because one of their employees was fired after a blatant case of racism.

At a Chick-fil-A in Southern California, a cashier took an order and instead of asking the two UC Irvine students their names to type onto the receipt, this dumb bitch typed in "Ching" and "Chong." Yes, the two customers were Asian. I guess the stupid ho at the cash register thought that the customers wouldn't notice that there were two racist comments typed at the top of their receipts. Um, hello? Everyone knows that Asian college students can read. If she was going to to go with the stereotype of "Ching" and "Chong" then shouldn't she have gone with the other Asian stereotype that they were smart enough to read? And do math? And play the piano? Of course, the receipts were brought to the attention of a manager and the girl was fired for her insensitivity. My real issue with the receipt is why did "Ching" order an Orange Fanta? Who the fuck drinks Orange Fanta?

The cashier's name was Lia and she made a huge mistake. She was fired for that mistake and here it is just one month before Chinese New Year too. "Honestly, it was just a young person doing something stupid," company spokesman Jerry Johnston told msnbc.com on Wednesday. "Had she simply typed in 'Diesel Dyke' and 'Gay Homo' we would have put Lia on the fast track to career advancement in the world of Chick-fil-A," Johnston continued. "Our Chick-fil-A restaurant Operators and their employees try very hard every day to actually go the extra mile in serving ALL of our customers with honor, dignity and respect except for those customers who choose to live the sinful life of homosexuality. If Lia would have stepped up to the plate, she would have been rewarded handsomely." Instead, Lia was given her severance package of a medium waffle fry and a coupon for a free ice cream cone on her next visit.

Or she could have just used their real names, Lily and Kevin. They are co-captains of the chess team. Lily plays the flute, violin and piccolo and Kevin scored a perfect 1600 on his SAT. They both have a good sense of humor and consider themselves Crazian. They are pre-med while Kevin is double majoring in math. Lily is sometimes embarrassed by her mother who pushes people out of the way to get a seat on public transportation and then talks too loudly on her cell phone.

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No Campers Allowed

Dear Campers,

First, let me apologize if you are not keen on being called "campers." Perhaps you would prefer to be called squatters or better yet "the bitches who sat at my prime booth all night long and drank coffee refills and didn't let me turn over my table so I can make some fucking money." Is that better? Okay, now that we have that cleared up, let's get to the business at hand. Move on! I get that you haven't seen each other in over ten years and that you have a lot to catch up on, what with one you of getting your nursing degree and falling in love with a doctor who isn't interested in you, but can you discuss that someplace else other than my station? Maybe a park bench, a bar, the mall or better yet one of your own fucking homes, because booth #3 is meant to be rotated throughout the night. I do not want to have some nursing rag and her best friend sitting there all night showing pictures to each other on their iPads. Yes, your Labradoodle is adorable, but get out.

You see, if it's just the two of you and you each order one Caesar salad (to share, with the dressing on the side and not too may croutons but extra cheese) and then you each get a roasted chicken breast entree and then two cups of coffee, that does not entitle you to stay there all night. Your check may be about $40 and you may leave me eight dollars but if you stay there all night, no one else is going to tip me off of that booth. I essentially lose money because you needed to talk about how much you mean to each other even though you let ten years slip by without so much as a Christmas card.

Yes, it is very interesting for me to hear about your six year old son who is reading at a fifth grade level, but every story you tell about that brat is another dollar out of my pocket. Three hours at one booth is as unacceptable as that Kate Gosselin hairdo you both had. And as for you, Nurse-in Love-With Doctor, he might be more interested in you if you could wash off that stench of desperation wafting off your Mom Jeans. On second thought, it might just be the Mom Jeans. Maybe Pajama Jeans will snare that doctor you love so much. Everyone knows doctors like women who wear Pajama Jeans, you dumb bitch. Duh.

The point is, I need to have multiple people sit at my tables in order for me to make money. Basically, you are leasing that table and after you finish your second cup of coffee ("with a little decaf in it, please"), your lease is up. You need to pay your check and go or start over with another appetizer. Got it? I could have had that four-top sit there who was celebrating a birthday and ordered two bottles of wines, four apps, four entrees and four desserts, but no. They went to another station because you wanted another cup of coffee to sip as you talked about how much fun it was to live in the dorms and cook Ramen Noodles in a hot pot.

Please keep this in mind the next time you are in a restaurant. You are not just tipping on the food total, but also on how much time you were there. I only make money if I serve a lot of people. Thanks for reading and I really loved the way one of you signed your credit card slip; dotting the eye with a heart is so precious.

Love,
The Bitchy Waiter

p.s. Nurse Rag, if you are doing Secret Santa at the hospital, you should totally buy the doctor a Snuggie even if you didn't draw his name. Everyone knows that the way to a doctor's heart is through a Snuggie, you dumb bitch. Duh.

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Yes, We Know You Want COLD Beer, Asshole

Everyone wants their beer to be cold. It's pretty much expected. That's why there are signs in front of bars that say "Ice Cold Beer!" If the signs said "Luke-warm Beer!" or "Room Temperature Beer!" nobody would want to go to that bar. That's why it's so annoying when people order a beer from me and then always add the extra "a cold one." Really, sir? You want a cold beer? Thank you for clarifying so I didn't bring you the one that was just came out of the oven. Last week, a man ordered a beer and then gave me a very specific instruction. "Can you get it from the back of the refrigerator and make sure it's the coldest one?" Little did he know, every beer in the reach-in had been in there since the night before so they were all the same temperature. What he also didn't know is that I don't have the time or physical dexterity to get on my knees and reach all the way to the back just to get the "coldest one." My fingers do not have super sensitive thermostats on them allowing me to determine which bottle is a tenth of a degree colder than another one. The last thing he didn't know is that I don't fucking care.

His table was pretty close to the bar so I knew he would be watching to see if I really reached all the way to the back or not when retrieving his beer. I squatted down and grabbed the first bottle of beer I touched but made sure to rattle it against other beer bottles so the clinking sound would register with him as me reaching all the way to the back to get that ice cold beer he wanted. I placed it on his table. "This one is really cold," I told him. "My fingers are freezing!" He took a sip and gave me the "thumbs up" to let me know it met his expectations. I wonder what he thought I would do if he gave me a "thumbs down." Later, I saw his bottle was almost empty. "Sir, would you like another beer?"

"Yes, I would. Can you make sure you get the coldest one for me?" Really? So he has to reiterate that he wants a cold beer? I am so happy he reminded me because I had just put a six pack of beer into a pot of boiling water and I might have accidentally given him one of those had he not refreshed my memory that he wanted cold beer. After all, a whole fifteen minutes had passed by and I had completely forgotten his special instructions. He told me again. "Just get the bottle that's all the way in the back, thanks."

Again, I jingle-jangled the bottles as I pulled the beer from the front of the reach-in. "Here you are, sir. I think this one is even colder than the first one!" He took a swig and gave me the customary thumbs up. I gave him the imaginary finger.

Customers, we know you want your beer to be cold. We also know you want your coffee to be hot. There is no need to verify these things because that is how everyone wants them. We are not going to really test ten different bottles of beer to see which one we think might be the coldest one. Same thing with the coffee. The only time your coffee will be "extra hot" is when you are particularly annoying and your server will feel the need to take your cup of coffee and put it in the microwave for two minutes so it's a big cauldron of scorching java that will hopefully scald your face off when you take a sip. Yes, I have done that. If I had a sub-zero super freezer I would do the same thing with that bottle of beer that you want to be "extra cold." I would love to serve your bottle encased in a block of ice and say "I wanted to make sure your beer was as cold as possible, so here's an ice pick."

Maybe I'm just too easily annoyed, but then again if I wasn't, I wouldn't be The Bitchy Waiter. We can just add "extra cold beer" to my list of least favorite things.

Please Do Not Poo in Your Pants, Thanks

Fact: someone recently told me that they went into the bathroom of the restaurant they worked at in order to give it the cursory check. When emptying the trash can, inside it was a pair of neatly folded men's underwear that was full of shit. I can only imagine what led to that catastrophic event. I hypothesize:

It was a lovely Saturday morning in early fall when a man decided he wanted French Toast and bacon for breakfast. He took himself to the nearby diner and ordered his meal. As he waited for his food to arrive, his stomach began to rumble and moan a bit. "Hmmm," he thought. "Maybe I shouldn't have had that glass of Metamucil before I left the privacy of my own bathroom. Oh well. I'm sure everything will be fine." His waitress placed his order before him and he started eating, enjoying the fresh blueberries that were piled high on his plate. As he took a bite of his maple bacon that was cooked perfectly, his stomach again twitched. Suddenly, he realized that he needed to go to the bathroom. Immediately. Still chewing the bacon, he ran to the single occupancy facility. He surveyed the cleanliness of the bathroom and noticed there were no toilet liners making it necessary to place layers of toilet paper around the seat. Hurrying to strategically place the paper before he strategically placed his ass, he farted. Sensing urgency, he threw down his pants and sat on the toilet releasing his bowels just in time. Or so he thought. Looking down, he noticed what looked like the contents of a can of Wolf Brand Chili sitting in his underwear. "Oh my God. I just shit in my pants. I just fucking shit in my pants. Are you freakin' kidding me? Did I just shit in my fucking pants." Someone knocked on the door. "Occupied!" he screamed.

The man didn't know what to do. His stomach was feeling fine now, but his underwear were not. He knew he could not put them back on. He slowly lifted his legs from his pants and was now standing naked from the waist down in the bathroom that probably had a line outside of it by now. "I'll just fold them up and wrap them in some paper towels," he thought and then noticed the air hand dryer on the wall. No paper towels. He opened the trash can which was of course empty and he gently placed his feces covered Fruit of the Looms at the bottom of the pail. Another knock on the door. "Occupied!!" With no paper towels in sight, his only option for cleaning up was wet toilet paper. He went through a whole roll of it as he tried to clean his ass from the explosion. When it came time to flush the toilet, it stopped up. Thankfully, there was a plunger on hand so he plunged away the evidence and prepared to leave the bathroom. Minus his underwear of course.

We can only assume that the man rushed back to his table, threw a twenty dollar bill on it and fled the scene because he knew someone was going into the bathroom immediately following him. He ran down the street chafing his taint with his jeans and wondering if his underwear was the only thing that had poo on it. Meanwhile, a lowly waitress goes into the restroom to make sure there is a soap. She smells something in the trash can, open it and screams out, "Who the fuck does this? Asshole." That same waitress later emails The Bitchy Waiter to tell him what she dealt with at her job that day.

(Sorry for the repeat, but I have a long day ahead of me.) And how was your day?

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The Bitchy Waiter Turns 3 Today!

It seems like only yesterday that I rolled my lazy ass out of bed and hobbled over to the computer to figure out a thing called Blogger. "Hmmm, wouldn't it be fun if I wrote a blog about waiting tables and sent it to my friends?" It was three years ago on December 8th, 2008 when I posted my first (incredibly short) post. Of course it was about children. Three years and 682 posts later, I am still writing and every once in a while I shart out something that I think is pretty good. Most of the time, it's regurgitated crap that we've all seen before and I just put my own spin on it (In other words, hastily written with bad grammar and occasionally decent punctuation.) Happy third anniversary to me! There are others who celebrate today as their birthday, but they are all dead; most notably Flip Wilson, Sammy Davis Jr. and Sinead O'Connor (she may actually be alive and it's just her career that is dead...not sure.)

This has been a good year for Bitchy Waiter. We saw some national exposure thanks to Dr. Phil and CBS Sunday Morning and I even turned up in the New York Post. Yesterday, I sent off my book proposal so that some literary agent somewhere will have something fresh and clean to line their cat's litter box with. You're welcome, literary agent.

The traditional gift for a third anniversary is something made of leather while the modern day equivalent is something of crystal or glass. While a new pair of leather assless chaps would be lovely and I would never turn down a gift of glass or crystal as long as it was filled with vodka or tequila, I don't want that shit. I want world peace, an end to global warming and 30% tips. And If I can't have that, then I want you to watch this video and then "like" it and share it so I can see amazing numbers on my blog today. (Thank you to Jasmine, the superstar employee of December, who came up with the idea to do a parody of this song and then I totally stole the idea and ran with it).





If it is too much to ask of you to click the stupid little ↑↑↑ "like" ↑↑↑ button, then all I want is for you to keep coming back here every now and again. I will try my best to make you smile or laugh or get pissed off or cry or something. This blog is here for two reasons: to give me something to do instead of housework and chores and to entertain the people who read it. Thank you for being here. If it wasn't for you, this blog would not still be rolling along three years after it started.

Have a good day.

love,
The Bitchy Waiter

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Offended by a Butter Packet

Times are hard out there with the economy being what it is, and restaurants are having to find new ways to make more money. I get it. Tomatoes are more expensive so you can't be giving out that free chips and salsa like you used to do, fine. Surely there are people out there who try to make a whole dinner out of that free basket of chips and it's time to start charging Freddie Freeloader. However, I went for breakfast last week and when I saw a certain charge on my check, I was very surprised. Who in the hell charges for butter? Cheap ass bitch restaurant owners who think I want to eat a fucking dry ass scone, that's who.

The cafe is a place I have frequented many times. The waitress was sweet and efficient and I don't blame her for anything, but it pissed me off. I ordered a cranberry scone and yes I wanted it toasted and buttered. Doesn't everyone? Who would order a scone any other way? That's like ordering toast and being asked if I want it to be toasted. “Yes, I want it toasted. If I didn't want it toasted, I would have asked for bread.” I was not told that butter would be an upcharge, but there it was on my check: fifty cents. It's not like I asked for a scone dipped in gold or sprinkled with diamonds. I just wanted some goddamn butter. I paid the bill without bitching about it, but mark my words: I will never go there again. Fifty cents for butter? I was so angry that oleo was dripping from my ears. (Full disclosure: it wasn't oleo, it was vodka. And It wasn't dripping from my ears. It was seeping from my pores.)

I have never ordered a case of butter packets but I am pretty sure that a box of butter packets comes in a quantity of 300. That means that Greedy McGreed Greed is making $150 on every box of butter packets when he probably paid about$7.38 according to a Sam's Warehouse website. That is margarine madness, I tell you! Mr Cafe Owner, I am ashamed of you. And Paula Deen is even more upset because charging that much for butter is a down-right sin.

I left the cafe after resentfully paying the additional fifty cents but here I am days later still pissed off about it. If I was teenager, I would want to go egg his store but since I am a fully grown mature adult, what I will probably do is go to his restaurant one night and smear the windows with I Can't Believe It's Not Butter. That would be much more apropos for the situation, don't you agree? Have you ever cleaned butter from a pane of glass? Yeah, me either but I bet it's a pain in the ass.

I understand that the cafe owner has to make ends meet, so I offer these other suggestions for him to earn some extra cash:

• He can add a "Baby Tax" to all those who come in with a child. More than once I have gone in there only to be surrounded by strollers and moms so why not take advantage of those breeders and tack an extra five bucks on them?
• He could always order some cheap ass silicone bracelets and then charge $3.00 for them.
• Charge extra for things that people are used to paying extra for like cream cheese and bacon, not butter. Butter is expected.
• If he really wants to make some extra money on the butter, he could invest in some butter-flavored lip balm so people can rub it across their scone and then take it home with them when they are done.
• Just raise the price of the fucking scone so I don't see what a cheap ass you are by charging me fifty cents for butter, you tight wad twat.

If you'll excuse me, I am going to go to my fridge now and tell the sticks of butter how much I love and appreciate them. Has anyone else seen a restaurant that charges for butter on toast or a scone? C'mon, say it ain't so.

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Offended by a Butter Packet

Times are hard out there with the economy being what it is, and restaurants are having to find new ways to make more money. I get it. Tomatoes are more expensive so you can't be giving out that free chips and salsa like you used to do, fine. Surely there are people out there who try to make a whole dinner out of that free basket of chips and it's time to start charging Freddie Freeloader. However, I went for breakfast last week and when I saw a certain charge on my check, I was very surprised. Who in the hell charges for butter? Cheap ass bitch restaurant owners who think I want to eat a fucking dry ass scone, that's who.

The cafe is a place I have frequented many times. The waitress was sweet and efficient and I don't blame her for anything, but it pissed me off. I ordered a cranberry scone and yes I wanted it toasted and buttered. Doesn't everyone? Who would order a scone any other way? That's like ordering toast and being asked if I want it to be toasted. “Yes, I want it toasted. If I didn't want it toasted, I would have asked for bread.” I was not told that butter would be an upcharge, but there it was on my check: fifty cents. It's not like I asked for a scone dipped in gold or sprinkled with diamonds. I just wanted some goddamn butter. I paid the bill without bitching about it, but mark my words: I will never go there again. Fifty cents for butter? I was so angry that oleo was dripping from my ears. (Full disclosure: it wasn't oleo, it was vodka. And It wasn't dripping from my ears. It was seeping from my pores.)

I have never ordered a case of butter packets but I am pretty sure that a box of butter packets comes in a quantity of 300. That means that Greedy McGreed Greed is making $150 on every box of butter packets when he probably paid about$7.38 according to a Sam's Warehouse website. That is margarine madness, I tell you! Mr Cafe Owner, I am ashamed of you. And Paula Deen is even more upset because charging that much for butter is a down-right sin.

I left the cafe after resentfully paying the additional fifty cents but here I am days later still pissed off about it. If I was teenager, I would want to go egg his store but since I am a fully grown mature adult, what I will probably do is go to his restaurant one night and smear the windows with I Can't Believe It's Not Butter. That would be much more apropos for the situation, don't you agree? Have you ever cleaned butter from a pane of glass? Yeah, me either but I bet it's a pain in the ass.

I understand that the cafe owner has to make ends meet, so I offer these other suggestions for him to earn some extra cash:

• He can add a "Baby Tax" to all those who come in with a child. More than once I have gone in there only to be surrounded by strollers and moms so why not take advantage of those breeders and tack an extra five bucks on them?
• He could always order some cheap ass silicone bracelets and then charge $3.00 for them.
• Charge extra for things that people are used to paying extra for like cream cheese and bacon, not butter. Butter is expected.
• If he really wants to make some extra money on the butter, he could invest in some butter-flavored lip balm so people can rub it across their scone and then take it home with them when they are done.
• Just raise the price of the fucking scone so I don't see what a cheap ass you are by charging me fifty cents for butter, you tight wad twat.

If you'll excuse me, I am going to go to my fridge now and tell the sticks of butter how much I love and appreciate them. Has anyone else seen a restaurant that charges for butter on toast or a scone? C'mon, say it ain't so.

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Do Not Ask Your Server This Question:

The number one most hated question I ever have to try to find an answer to was asked not once, but twice last night. When I approach a table and say, "Hello, may I take your order?" the correct response is not:

What do you have?

Oh, Lordy give me the strength to not take this tray and pop this bitch up against the side of her head for asking that stupid ass question. What do we have? We have menus, lady, that's what we have. Menus. I work at a cocktail lounge so we have a full bar with the usual suspects; vodka, gin, wine, beer, martinis, etc. My response is always the same to this question: "Well, we have a full bar so whatever you like. What can I get for you?" It is always said with a smile. Last night we happened to be out of Tanqueray, but other than that, we had pretty much anything she wanted. She was confused by that answer. Perhaps she was waiting for me to pull out the Mr. Boston Bartender Guide and rattle off every possible drink known to mankind and then she could make an educated decision. I didn't do that though. I just told her that we have a full bar as well as juices, sodas, coffee, hot tea and bottled water. Her forehead wrinkled so much as she pondered that I thought her head was about to cave in. "If this bitch's head caves in and makes a mess all over my station I am going to be so pissed off," I thought. After wringing every last ounce of power out of her moldy sponge of a brain, she ordered red wine. I chose for her to have Cabernet because I honestly felt that if I gave her the option of that, pinot noir or merlot, she would have had a meltdown.

Five minutes later, a man asked me the same question. He had some vague Eastern European or Russian accent. "Whut dyou you haf?" he asked. I gave him the same answer I had given Little Miss Easily Confused who now had her glass of red wine but didn't seem to understand how to drink it, poor thing. "Dyou you haf someting to read weeth the du-rinks?"

"You're holding it in your hands, sir."

He looked down in surprise to see that he was in fact holding a menu. He eventually ordered a cranberry juice as did his wife who I had a horrible time understanding because of her accent and/or her oddly shaped teeth that didn't seem to want to allow her to form vowels.

When it came time to give out checks, I first went to the Cranberry Russian. He handed me twenty-five dollars and told me to "kip the chunge." His bill was $23.95 so that dollar was going to be great once it was split three ways with the rest of the staff. And the extra nickel was the icing on the piece of crap cake. Little Miss Easily Confused had a bill that was $63.00. She left three dollars which at least is easy to divide by three.

Let us review. If you go into a restaurant, bar or club and are not sure what you want, don't ask such an open-ended question like "what do you have?" We don't have time to read the menu to you. I certainly don't mind if someone asks me which entree I like better or if I have a preference for this martini or that martini. (I don't have a preference, martini=good.) But don't plop down and say "what do you have?" It's annoying and it makes you look stupid.

Brad, the host at work, told me a story of a woman who used to come into a restaurant he once worked in. She came in at least twice a week and always asked the same thing. "Do you have banana daiquiri?" Every fucking time, she asked this and every fucking time they told her no. Lady, nobody has banana daiquiri, but if you are really that desperate for one I can give the busboy five extra dollars to stick his banana up your daiquiri and you can call it a day.

I can't be the only one who finds the "what do you have?" question irritating, can I?



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