Sunday, July 31, 2011

Bonjour, French Bitch

Sometimes a blog posting is hard to come up with. I scratch my head and ponder the possibilities and every so often I draw a blank. On the other hand, every once in a while a topic drops into my lap like manna from Heaven and I don't even have to think about it. Today's posting is brought to you by the Parisian bitch who sat in my station last night. I don't know what her name is so I will refer to her as Fifi le Douche.

When people come into the club, they are given a seating pass which tells hem where they are to be seated for the show. We escort them to their seat and then expect them to stay there, but Fifi needed some super glue on her ass last night because she was hop skippin' and jumpin' all over the damn place. What the customers don't get is that it's imperative for them to stay in the seat we assign to them because our totals have to match the totals of the host so that the performer knows exactly how many people were in the audience because that is how their pay is based. The more people they have in the audience, the more they can make. When people move all the fuck around it makes it difficult to ensure that all of the totals match. Get it? Simple, right? Fifi didn't get that. I went up to table 2 to take an order and Fifi coos at me that she is not sitting here really. She is "seating over zere" but she is just visiting this table. Fine. I go to her correct table to get her seating pass to write down her order and she asks for a suavignon blanc. Because she's French, you know. Two minutes later she is walking round the room and she comes up to me to ask where her wine is. Listen, le bitch, the bartender has to fucking pour it first, chill le fuck out. She wasn't even in her seat so how am I supposed to know where to put it anyway? I took her wine to her and the show started.

Fifteen minutes later, the other server tells me that table 1 wanted a Diet Coke (Coke Light, whatever) and he took it to her. Once again Fifi shows she has not the patience to wait for her server. She accosts anyone with an apron. At the end of the show, she of course wasn't at her table. She had floated off somewhere, so I placed her check on the table and went on with my business. About thirty minutes later, she was the only one who hadn't paid her bill yet so I went to find her. She was at the front of the club parlez vous Francaisin' to someone. I handed her the bill and told her I would be back in a few minutes to pick it up. Two minutes later she comes up to me with the check and says, "Excuse me, but I need to take care of this right away because I must leave." Pardon moi, but after the check sat on your table for half a fucking hour, now you're ready to leave and you act like I'm the one who is holding you up? At this point, all I wanted to do was slap this bitch with a piece of french toast, cram a french fry up her ass and then cover her with french dressing and say au revoir. Her tip was about ten percent which is spot on for the average French tourist. Fifi le Douche did a fine job of living up to every stereotype in the book. Au revoir, Fifi le Douche. Bon Voyage. Fuck off.

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Saturday, July 30, 2011

When You Wish Upon a Star

Last night I found myself wishing upon a star. Today I am spending the afternoon working on my book proposal, because if you dream it you can acheive it. I know this is true because I saw it on a poster in my math class in seventh grade. Mrs. Fredrichs, you rock. Part of this post is a rewrite from about a year ago, but it still makes sense to me so I am using it again. I have been reviewing my old diaries to see how many freakin' waiter jobs I have had in my life. I have every day of my life documented in my diaries since December 31st, 1982. One entry stopped me cold in my tracks. Had I not written it in my own hand, I never would have believed that it was from me. It proves to all those naysayers out there that I have not always been a spiteful, bitter, angry waiter. There was a time when I was as pure as the driven snow and filled with hope and and inspiration to serve others. Of course, this was before I was an actual waiter. I was just a lowly busboy dreaming of the day that I could be a waiter and reap the rewards of that position. Behold:

September 30, 1989: Worked tonight and made $31. Cool, eh? People tell me I'm a great busser. I want to be a great waiter. I really do.

First off, yes, I was working in a restaurant in 1989 which is probably before half of you bitches were born. And yes, $31 was a decent sum of money to me back then when my rent was only $275. It was a long time ago before cell phones, computers and I think it was right before they invented these flying machines called aeroplanes. But we must take notice of my aspiration to become a waiter and how I truly wanted to be a great one. I was working at a Mexican restaurant in Denver called Juanita's. Who even knows if it's still there? But that place groomed me for my future in the food service industry. There was one waitress there who always said "pardon me" when ever she walked by and I always thought it was so sophisticated of her. To this day, I say that instead of "excuse me" or "get the fuck out of my way." I want to keep it classy.

I guess the point of this post is to remind us all that dreams really do come true. Jiminy Cricket says so and I do have him tattooed on my leg so it must be true. In 1989 I dreamed of becoming a waiter and I made it happen! Therefore, if I can dream of writing a book, then I can make that happen too. I am a waiter. I will be an author.

When you wish upon a star
Makes no difference who you are

Anything your heart desires

Will come to you

If your heart is in your dream

No request is too extreme

When you wish upon a star

As dreamers do

So, what did you wish for last night when your eyes fell upon the first star of twilight?

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Friday, July 29, 2011

My Apologies for Being a Scrunt

If you are one who tends to leave comments on this blog, you may have noticed some changes in how it happens as of late. There was a time when I did not moderate comments and all was right in the world. But then there came a time when people started to hate me and the comments got mean, abusive and downright nasty. Not to mention, poorly written and misspelled. Someone I pissed off has begun to post comments with my place of employment and that simply will not do. I can't have people showing up at my job begging to sit in my station and then take me out for cocktails afterwards. It sounds good in theory, but probably not the best thing. Therefore, I began moderating the comments which is a big pain in my lazy ass. One message they sent me was that all I needed to do was apologize and they would leave me alone. Therein lies the rub. Apologize for what? What could sweet lil' ol' me ever do that would merit an apology? I am not sure what I would be apologizing for so I made a list of a few possible things. Is it:
Whatever it was, I'm sorry. So so sorry from the bottom of my hardened heart. And I really mean that. Uh huh, I do. As a token of my goodwill towards you, I lift a cocktail in your honor. This virtual cocktail is called the Scruntini and was created by fellow blogger Adam H. You can check out his blog here. It's called The Little Pet Shop of Horrors. I hope this apology will bury the hatchet and I also hope you enjoy the cocktail. Thanks, Adam.


2oz pineapple vodka
1 oz triple-sec
1oz Guanabana nectar
just enough black tea to make it look "scrunty" (without it's a pretty shade of milky yellow, hardly appropriate)

Martini shaker with ice (and a little venom if you're making it for someone who has recently referred to you as Bilbo Baggins or something similarly heinous)
and then top with a little Champagne and some fieeeeeeeeeeeeeeerce...

Garnish with a troll and some sandpaper.

And the Winner Is...

The Bitchy Waiter Photo Contest has found its winner. After days and days of voting, one photo had more "likes" than anyone else. Congratulations to Diane H. who came up with the brilliant masterpiece you are seeing to the left of this post. Diane obviously spent hours perfecting her PhotoShop skills to manufacture this wonderful image. How many hours did she spend creating this one of a kind piece of art? We shall never know. What we do know is that she had a total of 125 "likes" and that she will win the grand fucking prize of a $25 gift card to Amazon. It's not a huge prize and when you break it down to how much time she probably spent making the image, it means she made about $2.50 an hour, just like a waitress! The most important thing is that she got lots of her friends to join the fun over at the Bitchy Waiter Facebook Page and that makes me happy. Diane, you will be contacted today.

I would also like to make mention of our second place winner, Suzie who received 96 "likes" for her image. I will be honest. I was rooting for Susie all the way because she had so many specific references to Bitchy Waiter posts. Sadly though, Suzie did not have enough friends to come over and click "like." Sorry you are a tiny bit friendless, Susie. (I joke!) As a consolation prize, I am posting your photo here so the world (okay. the 700 people who read this) can see your art!

Thank you to everyone who played along. It was fun to see that so many people put so much thought and time into these photos. Well, most of them, anyway. (I'm looking at you, Diane.) Hopefully soon there will be another contest that will let me gather more fans. The prize will most likely be one of the following:
  • iPad 2
  • $500 gift certificate to Zale's
  • $1000 shopping spree at Wal-Mart
  • three day, two night trip to Flushing, Queens
  • $20 at Piperlime
  • a dinner with The Bitchy Waiter at TGIFriday's
Thanks, everyone!

Thursday, July 28, 2011

The Hostess Knows Best

Contrary to what many diners may think, there is a method to the madness when it comes to seating tables. Although the hostess may look like a stupid bimbo who just gave a blowjob to one of the cooks in the parking lot next to the dumpster, she has a reason for seating people where she does. Just ignore her tousled hair and smudged lipstick and sit where she tells you to. The hostess has to make sure that every server is getting their fair share of tables so she is not bitched at later that night for playing favorites and letting one server make more money than another. Also, if she sat three tables in a row in the same station, then that server is going to be slammed and will not be able to give the service that we all know he wants to give. Trust the hostess. She has been highly trained to ensure that customers are being seated in the best possible way. Pay no attention to the scabs on her knees and the dried white substance that is in her hair. She is a pro.

Last night at the club, we had a busy show. It was pretty full meaning that it was imperative that the seat assignments that were given at the door stay in tact. Customers don't get it. "But I wanna sit with my friend on that side of the room," they say and meander to another table. It does not work like that, people. Some nights we may have as many as four different cover charges for the show. Maybe someone had a discount code or paid in advance or are a comp. The only way I know how much to charge someone is based on the slip of paper the hostess gives to the customer which also tells the which seat they are in. So when they move to another table and leave that slip, I have no clue how much to charge them.

When I was setting up the room last night, I noticed that table 39 was broken. It was all wobbly and shit and then I saw that the seat had candle wax on it. We were seconds away from opening the house, so I mentioned to the hostess to not seat anyone at that table and I would take care of it after the show. Cue Mr. Latecomer who showed up one minute before showtime. He was assigned a seat right next to the stage because it's first come first serve and his ass got there too late to warrant any kind of decent seating. I took his order as the lights were dimming and went to get his beer. When I came back into the darkened room, the singer now performing, Mr. Latecomer was not at his table anymore. A quick scan of the room showed me he had dragged his ass over to table 39. I placed the beer on the lopsided table and hoped for the best. Five minutes later, he flags me down.

"Excuse me," he whispered, "but do you have wet towel? There is something all over this chair!"

"It's dried candle wax," I said. "A wet towel won't do the trick."

He stood up (the show is happening about 18 inches from where he is, keep in mind) and starts to brush off his pants. It was pointless, because the candle wax was dried anyway and didn't get on his pants at all. "Well, I need a new seat."

"Maybe you would like to go back to the one we assigned you, sir? This table is also broken which is why we did not seat you here in the first place. You sat yourself here, remember?"

He sat back down defeated and maybe a little bit embarrassed. I handed him a bev nap so he could give another futile attempt at scraping the wax off the seat. Experience tells me that the only way that shit comes off is by scraping it with a credit card but I wanted to watch him try anyway. He eventually gave up and conceded to watching the show while balancing his Guinness and sitting in a chair covered with a dried white substance. On second thought, I can only assume it was candle wax. I never actually saw the candle spill. Who knows, maybe the hostess took her break at this table and the hardened white "wax" was residual fun left over from her time with a cook at the dumpster.

Sit where the hostess tells you to sit.

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Little Shop of Horrors (Not Whores)

I don't do this very often but when I do, it means I wholeheartedly approve of something. Please allow me to toot the horn of someone other than myself. If you are in the Annapolis, Maryland area, there is some great theater happening for one more week that you should take advantage of. The show is Little Shop of Horrors and is being presented by Infinity Theatre Company. They have a Facebook page that you can check out and "like" and that would make them very happy. So why am I promoting them? I worked with them last summer and had an amazing time. I was even lucky enough to meet a couple of Bitchy Waiter readers who ventured out to see the show. Perhaps you recall this post that I wrote while dining at a local Annapolis dining spot.

I am not in this production of Little Shop but I think my name is in the program somewhere for being a supporter of the arts and all. I wanted to audition really bad but had a prior commitment of being lazy and selfish this summer and that is what I have been doing. If you go (and you totally should) try to imagine that the guy playing Seymour is me because that is the part I wanted. Who cares that I am way too old to play the part? Who cares that my hair looks more like a plant than a plant shop owner? I have heard nothing but raves about the guy playing Seymour and the whole cast as well so it seems that they are doing fine without me. (That really hurt my ego to type that admission.)

Okay, that is all. Here are the details:

Little Shop of Horrors runs until August 7 on:

Thursdays at 8:00 (No performance on July 14)
Fridays at 8:00
Saturdays at 2:00 and 8:00
Sundays at 2:00

Click here for all the details.
And click here to "like" them on Facebook.

Good luck to Anna and Alan and the whole cast and crew of Infinity!

The Bitchy Waiter

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

How To Dine on a Patio

Summer is in full swing here on the East Coast. The days are long, the humidity is high and al fresco dining is all the rage. Anyone who waits tables someplace with outdoor seating knows what I am about to bitch about: the patio. God how I hate the fucking patio. The last time I had a job with outdoor seating, the "patio" was on the sidewalk of Second Avenue. Customers felt completely comfortable complaining to me that the fire trucks were too loud or that a person whose home is of the transitory nature was trying to eat french fries off their plate. Hello, it's not a patio. It's the fucking sidewalk in New York City, get over it. If a homeless person wants to eat a french fry off your plate, you best be willing to forfeit the potato. You're practically their house guest seeing that I may have moved their giant refrigerator box out of the way to set up table 201. At my current job, we have an actual backyard that people dine in. It's full of flowers, lovely views and people complaining.

There are a few things that people should keep in mind when asking to sit on the patio:
  • I will automatically hate you for making me leave the comfort of the air conditioning to wait on you when it's 98°.
  • To the customer who told me it was "too buggy," it's a garden. If you eat on the sidewalk, you deal with hobos, if you eat in a garden you deal with bugs.
  • Please do not call me over to tell me that it is hot. I realize it is hot. If you are hot sitting at a table and drinking a cocktail, how do you think I feel running around dressed in black?
  • Do not ask me if I think it's going to rain. I am neither God nor Sam Champion.
  • Conversely, if it is raining, do not ask me when it will stop. If I could foresee the future, I would not be waiting tables. I would be living in my beach mansion somewhere after predicting the winning lottery numbers. Margaritas would flow from the tap and the kitchen would be perpetually stocked with pizzas and nachos.
  • Do not ask to sit on the patio three seconds after it has stopped raining. The tables are wet, the chairs are wet, and nothing is set up. You whining "but it's not raining anymore" will not change my mind. It takes time to wipe down and dry every single thing that you will complain about being wet. Even if I did get every thing set up and moved you outside, as soon as one rain drop fell onto your precious plate of tilapia, you will then demand to go back inside even though there are no tables available for you. So, no. Don't ask.
  • If your table is wobbly, please look at the ground and notice that it is cobblestones and not a nice even hardwood floor. Your table will be wobbly. It just will. It will not change the taste of your food nor will I put a discount on it since you were so inconvenienced by the wobble. If I was allowed to put an "inconvenience surcharge" on every table that annoyed me, my beach mansion would be as good as mine.
  • If I advise you that the only available table is in direct sun and you have a sleeping baby in a stroller who I say may get warm, you might want to listen to me. I am not a parent, but placing your baby in direct sunlight seems like bad idea to me. However, if that's your thing, I would be happy to place your baby under the heat lamp next to the fried foods after coating it in butter and wrapping it in swaddling aluminum foil. It's the same thing.
  • Do not feed the birds or squirrels your leftovers. We do not need them feeling even more complacent because the next thing you know, some bold ass bitch of a squirrel is going to climb right up onto table 21 and order himself some herb dusted calamari. I do not want that. Squirrels are worse tippers than secretaries or teachers.
  • If the wind blows, hold on to your napkins. Every time a napkin flies off your table not only do I have to get you a new one, I now have to go pull your old one out of the bushes.
  • Also regarding the wind, please make sure your cash or credit card voucher are anchored by something when you leave. Or just hand it to me. If money blows off the table, someone else is going to keep it. No one is going to say, "Oh here, this twenty dollar bill is yours." No, they will snatch that money off the ground and order another Cosmopolitan.
Please keep these handy dandy tips in mind the next time you go into a restaurant and say "Can we eat outside?" It will make for a better experience for you and for your server. And that's what we want, isn't it? We all want to have a good time at restaurants whether we are working at one or eating at one. We all want to help each other and get along. We are a family, like a giant tree, reaching out to the sky. But if that tree drops an acorn into your soup, do not freak the fuck out. Just remove the acorn and continue on with your lovely al fresco dining experience.

Today is the last day to enter The Bitchy Waiter Photo Contest to win a gift card from Amazon? Click here for the details.

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You Can Win A (totally lame shitty) Prize

Yes, I am still whoring out my contest on The Bitchy Waiter facebook page. We have 32 entries as of today so your chances are still good to win a (totally not) valuable prize. It will be fun and exciting and most importantly, it will give me a chance to gain followers and since I am a huge attention whore, that's what it's really about, isn't it? That's what it's really about, my good crazy people my friends. Some contests offer huge prizes like $500 a week for life or a new car or maybe a trip to Paris. But this is The Bitchy Waiter and I am one cheap-ass broke bitch so my prize is not nearly so exciting. The winner of this contest will receive an all expenses paid trip to (as long as the expenses don't exceed $25.00). That's right. I am offering a $25 gift card to Amazon where you can buy things Designer Whey Protein Powder used books and diapers. Whatever you want! It's $25.00 so go crazy! Here's how it will happen:

  1. Upload a photo on The Bitchy Waiter Facebook Page. The photo must have the words "The Bitchy Waiter" somewhere in it. The words can be added by Photoshop, be on a t-shirt, written in ketchup, spelled out in Sweet 'n Low packets or any other way you can think of. Get creative. You can add as many photos as you like but each one will be voted on individually.
  2. You can also email the picture here and I will post it!
  3. I will then move the photos into the Bitchy Waiter Photo Contest Album for easier viewing of multiple photos.
  4. The "likes will be tabulated by adding the votes on the wall and the votes within the photo album. Yes, there are two places to "like" and they will both be counted.
  5. Once it is posted you must get your friends to "like" it. (This is how I get more fans, get it?)
  6. Repeatedly ask your friends to "like" it because the picture with the most likes (on the wall and in the photo album) will win the (totally lame and rather disappointing) $25 gift card to Amazon. The more creative it is, the better chance that others will vote for it too, so go for it!
  7. The contest will end on Wednesday July 27 at midnight (EST). At this time, I will go through every photo and see which one has the most "likes" to determine the winner. There is no deadline to put a photo up, but the sooner you do, the more time it will have to gain votes.
  8. On Friday July 29, I will announce the winner. The winner will be contacted via Facebook messaging from a third party (to protect my anonymity) so I can arrange for the gift card to be sent electronically.
So there you have it. I am looking forward to seeing your photos and I imagine that I will only get about four or five entries so your chances of winning are really good. Thank you to all who waste time reading the blog, answering polls and making up captions for pictures. I appreciate it and if I could afford a better prize, I would certainly do it.

The Bitchy Waiter

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

My Secret Identity Has Been Revealed

It's not easy wearing my secret identity mask to work every night, but I must. In order to maintain my Bitchy Waiter personae and not alert my co-workers to what I spend my free time on, I do it. True, my customers often question why I am wearing a black latex mask as I take their order and it;s fucking hot, but I cannot risk that someone uncovers my secret identity. At my "new" job where I have been for almost five months, I have not told a soul that there may or may not be stories about them posted on the Internet. I certainly don't need a retelling of The Restaurant That Shall Not Be Named and then I am forced to write an apology to the co-workers who read what I wrote about them. Awkward. But even Batman has a confidante. Sometimes I feel the urge to tell someone. And a few days ago, the urge got the best of me and I came out to someone at the new job.

I like this girl. She's smart, funny, efficient and most of all she has absolutely no problem making fun of customers with me as we stand in the dish room and check our cell phones while eating bread and butter. I had told her a couple of old war stories from my days in the trenches at Houlihan's when she discovered my Kryptonite. "Oh my God, you're so funny. You should totally write a book about waiting tables." Little did she know, she had just uttered the words that will unlock my secret identity to anyone. "Flattery gets you everywhere" is the understatement of the decade when it comes to me and my needy self. I pondered the possibilities of telling her about the blog. Could I trust her to keep the secret? Would she read it and then think I was some Bilbo Baggins asshole who supposedly gets people fired and cares not for the feelings of others? Maybe. I thought hard about it for a couple of weeks and finally decided that this young girl could be trusted.

One night at work, I called Ashley into the sidestand. No one was around. The owner/manager was doing paperwork, the other server was melting in the heat because said owner/manager never wants to turn on the air conditioning and the cooks were behind the line trying to out curse each other. "Ashley, I have something to tell you." We were behind the gauzy curtain that is meant to conceal the coffee maker in the sidestand but really all it does is serve as something for me to wipe my hands on when I refill the ketchup bottles. "Ashley, can you keep a secret?"

"Sure, I can. Why? What do you know?" I looked into her young, eager and innocent eyes and questioned spoiling her youth with my sordid tales of bitchery.

"My dear child. Before I go on, I need to know that I can trust you. What I am about to tell you can change your life forever. Can you assure me that what I am about to divulge will stay within this gauzy ketchup-crusted curtain?"

"Okay, sure. What?"

I took her left hand into mine. With my right hand, I pulled out my wine key and exposed the sharp pointy end and prepared to poke her index finger to draw some blood. I lit three candles and howled at the moon which retreated behind a dark storm cloud. A cold wind from the patio burst through the french doors and whipped our hair into unruly messes. (Truth be told, mine already looked like hell.) Mice scurried and cats fled. My plan was to then draw some of my own blood and share it with her to ensure her trust but then I decided that was too fucking nasty so we shared a piece of bread instead.

"So here's the deal. I write a blog called The Bitchy Waiter and I think you would like it but you can't tell anyone here about it because I don't want to get fired." I heaved out a sigh that made her question what the big deal was. I now had a partner in crime. When we work together, if she sees something that makes good blog fodder, she alerts me to it. When I post something new, she always lets me know that she read it. She knows my secret. She is the Alfred to my Batman, except she is not an old British man with gray hair who is my butler. She's just a cute a girl from Queens who knows my alter ego. And I like it that way. Hopefully she remains trustworthy and I won't have to drop her into a vat of boiling soybean oil after being dangled by a thin rope.

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Saturday, July 23, 2011

One Year Ago, I Was Drunk

I am posting this again from last July, because it has been almost exactly one year since I was on vacation and drinking my way up the West Coast. As it turns out, this week I have a friend in town so I took time off from work and will pretend I am on vacation too. But in memory of my alcoholication last year, let's remind ourselves of my love for all things cocktails.

From 7/21/10:

While gallivanting across the Pacific Northwest, I ventured into many dining establishments and was served by a variety of servers. Young or old, experienced or newbie, they all had one thing in common. Each and every one of them brought my ass a cocktail. It is not surprising that I drank my way through my vacation. What is surprising is that I carried a pen and paper with me so I could keep meticulous notes of all the alcohol that I ingested. On average it's about three cocktails a day so it's not like I have a fucking problem or anything. Some were better than others but all were divine. Below, you can witness the slow poisoning of my liver and I have listed where they each came from in case you want to sample them sometime. Some were made for me at the homes of friends but I am pretty sure if you turn up on Stephanie or Ron's door, they would be happy to make you a cocktail. Or at least give you the recipe.

  • #1- Pisco Punch at my hotel The Galleria Park in San Francisco. Never had Pisco before but fucking loved it.
  • #2- Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, Twin Peaks bar in The Castro
  • #3- Pomegranate martini, 2223 restaurant
  • #4- Pomegranate martini, 2223 restaurant
  • #5- Margarita on the rocks with salt, Beach Chalet in Golden Gate Park
  • #6- Pomegranate martini at Stephanie's house
  • #7- Pomegranate martini at Stephanie's house
  • #8- Pomegranate martini at Stephanie's house
  • #9- some French beer at some French bistro. Bastille Day!
  • #10- Blueberry rum fizz at my hotel
  • #11- Kiwi cosmo, Catch restaurant
  • #12- Vodka gimlet, Badlands bar in The Castro
  • #13- Margarita on the rocks with salt, The Lodge in Sonoma, CA
  • #14- Russian River Valley Chardonnay, Della Santina's restaurant
  • #15- Wine tasting at Gundlach Bunschu winery
  • #16- Wine tasting, Bartholomew Park Winery
  • #17- margarita on the rocks with salt, Maya restaurant
  • #18- Pomegranate martini, Stephanie's house back in San Francisco
  • #19- Betel Juice (midori, rum and pineapple), Betelnut restaurant
  • #20- Betel Juice (midori, rum and pineapple), Betelnut restaurant
  • #21- Betel Juice (midori, rum and pineapple), Betelnut restaurant
  • #22- Vodka/cranberry on Amtrak train going to Portland, OR
  • #23- Frozen mango martini at Ron and Larry''s house
  • #24- Pink margarita on the rocks with salt, Dots Cafe
  • #25- Pink margarita on the rocks with salt, Dots Cafe
  • #26- Mirrorball (watermelon vodka, cranberry, prosecco), Saucebox restaurant
  • #27- Vodka gimlet, Ron Tom bar
  • #28- Blackberry cosmo, Doug Fir Bar
  • #29- Blood orange margarita on the rocks with salt, The Farm restaurant
  • #30- Portland pomegranate martini at Ron and Larry's house
  • #31- Portland pomegranate martini at Ron and Larry's house
  • #32- Miss Mona (frozen vodka, orange juice and pomegranate), at Ron and Larry's house
  • #33- Epic Peachy Bitchy Spritz (vodka, peach lemonade, seltzer), at Ron and Larry's house and thank you to Sarah for creating it.
  • #34- a beer at Ron and Larry's house before getting on the plane

And in case any of you were wondering, I do not go to Alcoholics Anonymous. Yet

Friday, July 22, 2011

A Comment on Comments

Oh goody, a comment on comments! These are the posts where I can switch to automatic-pilot and let my brain flow freely to my two fingertips as I hunt and peck on the keyboard and say whatever I want. A wise old soul commented on Beware of Possible Robot Children. Of course their comment had nothing to do with what the post was about, but I would expect nothing less from a random Internet commenter who continues to regularly read my blog despite making it very clear they do not like it or me.

Tagtag writes:

your a credit to society sir, and an hiv peddling scrunt. I select you to be the new caboose of the human centipede. most of all, just hope your life really is as painful and sad as you make it seem. cut the shit. where do you go from here ? your not getting younger. cant wait tables forever. that acting career panning out? didnt think so. just saying. maybe spend a little less time writing and a little more time figuring out what a washed up old hag like your good self can do in his autumn years. just lookin out breh... scroodly noodles ;:))

Okay, first off, there is "your" and "you're." They mean two completely different things. If you plan to insult me, I would always recommend that the very first word of the insult be spelled correctly. Otherwise, it makes your comment seem pointless and it will make people think that you're not very bright. You made the mistake twice in your comment. Just saying. Also, punctuation and capitalization have a purpose. Learn it.

Next up, I applaud the use of the word scrunt. I have never heard of that word and I really really like it. I will use it as my own from now on so I will always thank you for that, tagtag. However, I am not peddling HIV. It's impossible to sell something that one does not have, so my sales permit for peddling HIV was denied. Not that I know anyone who is on the market for HIV anyway. That would be a very poor choice of something to peddle. I do not recommend it. On the bright side, I heard that your license for peddling the herp was recently approved so good luck with that! You will be great at it, I am sure. I know you can do it.

Thirdly, I get to be the new caboose of the human centipede? Thank you so much. Can you please connect me to the previous caboose of the human centipede so I can get some pointers? I certainly do not want to disappoint and I am sure they would be very helpful in explaining my new role in life. (You're the previous caboose, aren't you?)

Also, you hope my life is as painful and sad as I make it seem? Sorry to disappoint you, dear, but it's not. I'm actually a pretty happy person. I have it good. I only work about 25 hours a week and have a lot of free time. I travel, live, laugh and enjoy my days. Sorry, can't help you with that one.

In addition, thank you for your brilliant perspective on aging. I was under the mistaken impression that I was getting younger, but now I know that I am getting older. Revelation! Newsflash: we are all getting older. I'm good with aging. The older I get, the less I worry about what others think about me and the more I focus on making my life and the lives of the people around me happy. You're not around me, so I really don't give a shit about you. As for the acting career not panning out, well it's kind of my choice. If I only audition once every three or four months I can't really expect to work all the time, can I? I only audition for things I want to do. If I audition for a national tour that would take me away from home for nine months, I don't want to do it. I like my life the way it is. Trust me, I'm good with it. Maybe I will wait tables forever, who knows? But if I can have a job that pays my bills by only working 25 hours a week, I think that's pretty good. I know a lot of people who would love to chop off 15 hours of their work week. I don't want a job that I have to think about when I'm not there, so this actually works out pretty well for me. As for my autumn years approaching, you're wrong there too. I have not been approached by AARP yet so I am definitely still in my summer years; maybe even late spring. Don't you worry your pretty little head about this "washed up old hag."

Finally, why are you here? If you don't like this blog, there is an easy solution for that: don't come to it. You don't like me? Thankfully, you don't know me so again you have the capability to live your every day life without any input from me. Maybe you used to know me or I pissed you off once or something, I dunno. My recommendation to you is to delete this page from your bookmarks and go on living your life sans The Bitchy Waiter. It might make both of our lives better. And again, good luck peddling the herpes. I am sure you will do a superb job. Email me if you need help with your craigslist ad. I know writing is not your strong point.

scroodly noodles,
The Bitchy Waiter

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Thursday, July 21, 2011

Beware of Possible Robot Children

It's no new news that when I see kid in my station, my heart skips a beat, my hair stands on end and I get the heeby jeebies. Kids and I mix like oil and water. Like Tortilla Flats and good service. Like scotch and vodka. So naturally when I saw one being rolled into my station last week, my mood dropped lower than pair of old lady tits on a hot summer day in Georgia. The mother pulled the kid out of the Mega-Stroller and then said something I have never before heard someone say to me:

Where can I fold this stroller up and put it so it's not in your way?

What is this odd combination of words I am hearing? They are as foreign to me as "thank you, you were a great waiter" and "no, I don't want another margarita." Flabbergasted, I pointed to an area near the coffee maker that we use to store extra chairs. The Divine Mother placed the stroller out of my way and then set her child in the booth. She then pulled out an iPad and earphones, plugged her kid into them and carried on with her night. The child was transfixed by whatever it was that was on the screen. Not having an iPad myself, I both loathed the child and worshipped it. After thirty minutes of a perfectly behaved kid, I began to wonder if this was a real child. Perhaps it was the Messiah or a reincarnated Buddha Somebody, but those both seemed too far fetched. It was most likely a robot.

Do you remember Small Wonder? It was a television show that ran from 1985 to 1989 and it was about a robot girl named Vicki who lived with a family and they tried to pass her off as a real girl. She had an electrical panel in her back, an electric socket in her right armpit, and an RS-232 serial port under her left armpit. Could this kid at booth 15 be the latest prototype of V.I.C.I. (Voice Input Child Identicant)? After all, I never saw the mother plug the iPad into anything. I suppose it's possible that it was attached to his RS-232 serial port under his left armpit, but this being 2011, the port was probably a RT-498 which is much more compatible with Apple products. Also most RS-232 ports are found only in the female version of kid robots..

As the night progressed and the "child" remained calm, it became more and more clear that this was indeed a robot. There was only one way to find out. I needed to spill water on it to see if it short circuited. When I noticed that the mother's glass was half full (I'm an optimist, don'cha know?) I carried the pitcher of water to refill it. My plan was to "accidentally" spill some water onto the "boy" and wait for sparks and smoke and then point my finger and exclaim with glee, "A-ha! Robot!" As I filled her glass up, the iPad screen suddenly went blank. Whatever had held his rapt attention was no longer on. Immediately, the boy started crying and insisting that it start over. He threw a straight up tantrum and freaked the fuck out. His mom pushed some invisible button or waved her magic Apple wand (reminder: I don't have an iPad, so I don't know how they work) and the screen lit up again. She wiped away his tears and said, "All better, sweetie?" Maybe he was a real boy, after all.

Overall, the child was very well behaved, proving to me that not all children are the spawns of Satan and his slutty whore bride. I give credit to this mother who had the foresight to let an iPad babysit for her so she could enjoy her dinner and three glasses of White Zinfandel. When she unfolded her stroller and placed the kid back in it, she thanked me for the service and the kid waved goodbye. Cute kid, but something about the way he looked at me made me think that maybe he was robot after all. His eyes were kinda glassy and he seemed zoned out. You know, like a robot. Or maybe that's just what happens when you stare at an iPad for an hour straight. Again, I wouldn't know because I don't have one. But if I did have an iPad, the first thing I would do on it is a search for proof of robot children. And if you want to help me get one, all you have do is click here.

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Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Servitude, the Movie

I was contacted by a big time movie producer recently! Was it to star in his next movie? No. Was it to audition for his next movie? No. Was it to promote his current movie that I am not in and didn't even have a fucking audition for? Yes. Really, Mr. Producer? I'm talking to you, sir. Aww, c'mon. I'm an actor. I have my SAG card and everything. I can't be in your movie but you want me to promote it? Ballsy, man, real ballsy. But then I watched the trailer and can't wait to see it. This guy knows that I would love this movie and that I have a legion of fans (a teeny, tiny legion...) who would want to see it too, so I am agreeing to put it on my blog.

Seriously, it looks like something that anyone who has ever waited table will want to see. Watch the trailer. Share it with your friends. And then when they make a sequel, we will demand that The Bitchy Waiter has a at least one freakin' line in the thing.

Ladies and gents, I give to you, Servitude:

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How To Quit Your Job at Taco Bell

Not since the Jet Blue guy quit his bitch of a job via the emergency exit slide of an airplane, have we had such a hero to worship at the feet of. But now that has changed. A guy named Adam left his resignation letter to Taco Bell in a very creative way. He didn't write it on a bev nap as I did to excuse myself from Houlihan's. He didn't email it. He didn't Fed Ex it. In fact, he really didn't even write a letter. He put it on the sign in front of the restaurant (like Taco Bell is a restaurant...) so instead of customers seeing "Gorditas for $1.99" they saw a big ol' "I Quit, Fuck You." He followed that with a smiley face so it wasn't completely rude. It was said that he had worked 22 days in a row and was denied having off for the Fourth of July. Right there with you Adam. How dare Taco Bell keep you from celebrating the birth of your country. It must be because they are a Mexican "restaurant." If you'd have asked off for Cinco de Mayo or Mexican Independence Day, it would have been no big deal. They would have done it and given you a free side of guacamole too. But the Fourth of July? No way, Jose. Lo siento in a big way, but get your ass back in the kitchen and make me a chalupa.

None of us were there, so we can only imagine what went down when he asked for the day off.

Adam: Hey, manager, can I like have the fourth of July off?

Manager: No.

Adam: Dude, c'mon. I've been working for like 22 days in a row. That's like two and half weeks, what the fuck?

Manager: Do not use that language in our establishment. I will give you a demerit and put it in your permanent record.

Adam: Okay, so what if I like volunteer to work on Labor Day? Then can I be off on the fourth? My friends are having this totally awesome pool party and I told them that I would bring the tacos.

Manager: No. Go clean the bathrooms, Adam.

Adam: No way, man. It's totally not my turn to clean the bathrooms. Let that new chick with the mustache do it. I'd rather clean out the grease trap or mop the walk-in.

Manager: Do I sense insubordination?

Adam: Dude, like I even know what that is. So seriously can I have off on the fourth of July?

Managaer: No, now go count the tortillas. And because I am sensing some attitude from you, I am going to take away your break today and your Enchirito will no longer be half price.

Adam: That blows! I have to pay full price for my Enchirito? No fuckin' way, dude. This sucks. I knew I should have worked at Wendy's.

Manager: Do not make me write you up, Adam.

Adam: Yes, sir. I'm sorry. I am going to go clean the bathrooms now, right after I go change the sign for today's special.

Manager: Thank you, Adam. I am happy to see you take the initiative since I know that you are not on signage duty today. I commend your maturity. Keep it up and within six or nine months you could be head cashier and in charge of Mexican Pizzas. Good job, Adam. Now go change that sign with pride. Go Taco Bell!

Adam: Yeah, uh huh.

So that is toatlly how it probably went down. Adam went right out to the sign and took a virtual dump on his job. I hope he had a good time on the fourth of July. And Adam, if you read this, please contact me at because I want to tell you how cool you are and interview you as well.

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Friday, July 15, 2011

Give My Regards to (the) Broadway (McDonald's)

The buzz of Times Square is all around me. The annoyance of waiting tables has gotten to be so great that I poked myself in the leg with my Actor's Equity pin to jolt me back into pursuing what I love. I am at an audition today and sitting in Duffy Square waiting for my appointment. I hear a machine that is spewing water and noise all for the sake of cleaning the street, I hear buses and cabs whizzing past a giant McDonald's sign that is all tricked out in neon, glitz and tacky and two feet away from me I just heard a tourist exclaim that her cell phone is a piece of shit. Two short blocks north of me is the location of the Houlihan's that I spent so much time in; it's Tropicana Tanning Zone now or something and I think it too is closed. There are a lot of us who can say "I used to work in that dump." New York City is strewn with places that I have either worked at or tried to get a job at. These places are like ghosts, always just around the corner ready to jump out and scare me.

A few days ago, I was in the Union Square area trying to find a place to eat. I walked past Chat n Chew, a down home country cookin' kind of place that always satisfies my craving for mac and cheese or chicken fried something. Over the years, I have applied for a job there many times. Something about its familiar food and the fact that the servers wear whatever they want appeals to me. A few months ago, I was there and had an interview with a manager who was very enthusiastic about my possible employment. The last words he told me were, "I will call you next week to set something up." He never did. I can only assume that he was snatched away by death because what other reason could there possibly be that he never followed through on his plan to let me serve mashed potatoes and a turkey and dressing sandwich? Surely, his dying breath was filled with regret as he tried to tell his loved ones, "Make sure you call The Bitchy Waiter to work at Chat n Chew. His phone number is on his resume (cough, cough) and I left his resume... (cough) on (cough, cough, wheeze) my (cough, wheeze, gasp)..." As he expired, his family probably cried out in grief, "But wait! Where did you leave his resume? We must call The Bitchy Waiter." So I didn't eat at Chat n Chew.

I walked over to Union Square Cafe because Giada De Laurentiis from The Food Network once told me that the bar has really wonderful complimentary spiced nuts. Okay, she didn't just tell me, she said it on television, but still, they sounded good. I peered into the window and saw all the servers in long white bistro aprons setting their tables. They weren't open yet. I flashed back to a time I was applying for a job there. I recalled looking at the starched white linens that covered the tables and thinking that I was under dressed for the interview. Tablecloths spell out fancy eatin' and my jeans and t-shirt were not a good match for that particular job search. On that day I moved on just as I did a few days ago. Next?

Standing in front of The Blue Water Grill, I knew that it was too expensive for me. Unless they had some kind of buy one app get an entree, cocktail and dessert for free, it was not going to happen. Besides, I didn't like their attitude based on when I applied for a job there about four years ago. I was sent downstairs to fill out my application and wait in line with the dozens of other eager-faced servers. Their application was one of those that you have to put way more effort into than you should for a waiting job. Seriously, I spent less time writing college research papers than I did their application. "What does good service mean to you?" and "Please describe your favorite dining experience" and all that other bullshit is too much. Really, the application should say, "Can you carry a tray, do you have a pen and when can you start?" After patiently waiting my turn to speak with a manager who was younger than some of my aprons, it was finally my turn. The lady took one look at my resume and said, "based on your experience, I think you might be better suited at a diner." A diner? How rude. This coming from someone who seemed better suited to be a cheap three dollar prostitute like the one I just watched stumble out of the Roxy Delicatessen.

I finally ended up at Rosa Mexicano who was having a happy hour. Half price margaritas and appetizers? Where have you been all my life? I walked in and thought about the three days I worked there many years ago. On my third day of training, I was told how much I would be tipping out. I like keeping more than 40% of my tips so I Speedy Rodriguez'ed my ass out of there. I only remember two things about working there. One is that you gave way too much money to the guacamole guy and coffee girl. The other thing I recall is that a fellow server told me I seemed familiar. After a whole morning of him trying to figure out how he knew me, he finally realized he had seen me do a production of The Full Monty. "Oh, you saw that?" I said. "That was such a fun show. Getting naked on stage was so fulfilling." His face went a little pale as it dawned on him that he was now talking to a guy he had seen naked. His heterosexual world was spinning faster than the waiter turnover at Rosa Mexicano. After that moment, he just seemed awkward around me. No matter, I quit later that day. Those bitches never paid me for my training either. The least they could have done was comp my margarita last week.

And so it goes. The restaurants we all work in are so often places that pay the bills but do little else. They come and go from our lives as we try to find something to take its place. Today I am trying to get an acting job to take the place of slinging hash. If it happens, great. If not, I will look to William Shakespeare for inspiration. "All the world is a stage, and all the men and women merely players." It's just that sometimes my stage has a ten table station and my leading lady thinks her coffee is not hot enough. Off to my audition.

(Shout out to Doug, one of the best Equity monitors ever!)

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Thursday, July 14, 2011

Mandatory Meetings Can Eat My Pud

Ahh, the mandatory meeting. In no other job outside of the restaurant industry have I been expected to attend a meeting that may or may not be on my day off. The most recent one I was forced to attend was in fact on my day off. Sure, we may get paid for it, but like I need that extra $5.00 for an hour long meeting. I'd rather have my day off, thanks. The meetings are always the same. The owner or district manager or whoever the fuck else shows up and burps out some words of wisdom. This particular meeting was also attended by a silent partner who was anything but silent. Every time he piped in, I automatically dismissed his comments because he knows absolutely nothing about serving. Besides, his wardrobe looked like he raided the closet of Mr. Furley and how can anyone take him seriously? The meetings are meant to inspire, challenge, correct and educate but really all they do is create a big "shut the fuck up" moment that happens collectively among the employees. These people show up and act like they know what is best even though they only show their faces once every four or five months Their ideas may look good on paper, but they need a healthy dose of reality. Unless you are in the restaurant every day, you really don't know how things work. Do I resent them? Oh hell yes.

At the most recent mandatory meeting, I took notes because I wanted to make sure that I got all of their points down on paper in order to memorize them and make our establishment a better place. No not really. I took the notes so I could put them on this blog and people could see how utterly lame and pointless the meeting was. These are a few of the things that were deemed important enough for me to forfeit my day off and drag my ass to work for an hour:
  • Up sell. No shit. Anyone who has waited tables for more than a hot second knows this point. "A vodka/tonic, sir? Is there any vodka in particular you would like? Might I suggest Grey Goose, Kettle One or Any Other Way Expensive Brand?"
  • No eating while on the clock. Yeah, right. Uh huh. Sure. You try working an eight hour shift with no break and see if you don't grab a handful of whatever you can get.
  • No drinking. Excuse me, how the hell do you expect me to deal with the bitch at table 18 if I don't have a hidden glass of Pinot Grigio in a plastic cup?
  • No cell phones at work. Now that is just dumb. Look, I'm not going to be answering my phone whilst taking an order but I will have my cell phone with me. I need it. It is very important that my phone is in my possession so when someone stiffs me I can take a picture of their credit card receipt and publish it to Facebook. It's what I do. T-Mobile made me do it.
  • Be friendly. Oh, really? I thought I was supposed to openly show my disdain for my guests. Thanks for pointing that one out.
  • Be upbeat. That's why I need the plastic cup of Pinto Grigio.
  • Do your sidework. Again, this pearl of wisdom fell right off the Obvious Truck.
  • Respect one another and respect your managers. Now that is just fucking hilarious.
Yes, that was the extent of the meeting. Why they didn't simply send us an email or text message, I'll never know. Perhaps our silent partner wanted to show off his latest pant and jacket combo and felt that a mandatory meeting was the best way to do that. As for the information we were given, file them all under "no, duh" and call it a day. Here are a few more nuggets of wisdom I am surprised they didn't mention to us. All equally obvious but just as important:
  • Wear your pants at work at all times.
  • Do not floss your teeth while standing at a table. Do this in the sidestand or the service bar.
  • Do not pour vodka on a guest and light them on fire no matter how tempting it is.
  • No pets allowed.
  • Be alive when you show up to work.
  • Clock in and out so we can pay you even though you do this for the love of it and not the money.
  • No smoking crack, shooting heroin or tripping on acid while on the clock.
  • When someone orders something, ring it in, and then bring it to them when it's ready because we owners think you are so stupid that you may not understand your function as a server and we feel better if we point out the obvious. It makes us feel superior to you because we all have small penises and have to exhibit or machismo and authority every chance we get.
I hate the obligatory mandatory meetings in the restaurant world. Only once has the meeting been worth attending. We had a pizza party at it. Next time I go, I'll just have to make sure my plastic cup of Pinto Grigio is full.

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Wednesday, July 13, 2011

RIP, Sherwood Schwartz

There is a pall over 4222 Clinton Way, where the Brady's live. It is a sad day indeed for me and many other people across the globe because yesterday we lost one of the most prolific and important creators of television ever to exist. Sherwood Schwartz died on Tuesday at the age of 94. If you don't know who he is, then shame on you and may you be cursed by a tiki idol. Maybe the phrase "the youngest one in curls" will jolt your memory. Sherwood Schwartz created the best, most endearing and beloved television sitcom in the history of the world, The Brady Bunch. And as if that wasn't enough, he also created Gilligan's Island. The man was clearly a genius who was able to pry open the minds of Americans and see what they wanted to watch on television. How else was he able to produce two shows that although ridiculed in the beginning have managed to remain on the air for over 40 years?

Thinking of the passing of Mr. Schwartz brings to mind episode #74 of Gilligan's Island, "Where there's a Will, There's a Way." It's the one where Mr. Howell writes a will and leaves everyone on the island a fantastic gift after his death. He leaves oil wells and yachts and diamond mines. You know, your average everyday rich people stuff. Well, then Mr. Howell gets all paranoid that everyone wants to kill him so they can hurry up and get their bequeathment so he goes into hiding. While running through the jungle, he narrowly escapes some quick sand and then he gets an idea. He places his hat on the quick sand so that when the others find it, they will think he was swallowed up into the earth. Of course the Skipper finds it and they give him a funeral but Mr. Howell is hiding in the tree watching what everyone is saying about him. It is then that he realizes that the other castaways loved him and not just his money. As he wipes tears from his eyes, the tree branch breaks and he falls onto the ground ruining his secret. Everyone gathers around him saying how glad they are that he is alive. It's one of my favorite episodes on Gilligan's Island because it actually deals with a very serious subject in a Gilligan-gets-hit-on-the-head-with-a-coconut kind of way. Advice to anyone who is at Sherwood Schwartz's funeral: you better look up into the trees and make sure his sneaky ass isn't sitting on a branch watching you cry for him. I wouldn't put it past him, that crazy Sherwood Schwartz.

So, We say thank you to Mr. Schwartz for filling our childhood afternoons with laughs and silliness. His shows served as our babysitter, our friend and our teacher. He taught us lessons that we use to this very day. For example, when you want to back out of a date, you simply have to use the excuse "something suddenly came up." He also taught me the entire story to Hamlet thanks to episode #72 of Gilligan's Island where movie producer Harold Hecuba visits the island and they write their own musical version of the play.
Ophelia: Hamlet, dear, your problem is clear, avenging your father's death. You seek to harm your uncle and Mom, but you're scaring me to death.

C'mon, that's some fucking brilliance right there. But most of all, Sherwood Schwartz's shows taught us to enjoy life. Every single episode of Gilligan's Island and The Brady Bunch had a neat tidy ending where everyone was happy and life was good. Maybe they weren't completely realistic versions of life but they still gave us a hope that we too could find happiness in our every day life. If Ginger Grant could be happy at the end of an episode where she is almost thrown into a volcano, then shouldn't we be able to find some joy in our life?

Rest in peace, Sherwood Schwartz. Wherever you are, I hope you are having a Sunshine Day!

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