The Argument FOR Separate Checks

There is always an ongoing debate about separate checks. History tells us that servers do not like to deal with them, but with advanced technology in restaurant computer systems, separating a check is now as easy as pushing a few buttons. When servers really get their aprons in a twist is when customers do not tell them in advance that they would like separate checks and wait until the last minute to throw a wad of bills and several credit cards on the table while yelling out what they are paying for. I understand the point of separate checks, I really do. Sometimes, you just want to pay for what you had and not a penny more.

Last week I had a six top in the restaurant. Some people were ordering apps and cocktails while others were not. When it came time to pay the check, I heard the blow hard at the head of the table belch out, "Hey everybody, let's just divide it six ways; 28 bucks apiece." From my point of view it was great. Their bill was $142 which meant I got a $26 tip, or 18%. Yes, I earned that tip with my stellar service and for not cutting a bitch when a a six-top showed up 20 minutes before closing time when there was no one else in the restaurant and my side-work was already done. They gave me mostly cash and and one credit card and it was all easy, breezy and beautiful. Well except for the one guy who got totally shafted by the “let’s all pay 28 bucks apiece” plan.

The man who had the great idea of splitting it equally had two cocktails ($18.00), a calamari ($8.00) and a burger ($10.50) His total was $36.50 before tax and tip, but he was getting off with paying a fraction of that. Meanwhile, Mr. Milquetoast on the other end of the table had mussels ($8.00) and fries ($3.50) and water for a total of $11.50 before tax and tip. He was being screwed sans lube with a basket of fried calamari and he was just going to take it. Maybe he only ordered $11.50 worth of food because he only had $11.50 worth of money. I watched the man struggle with the decision of whether or not to speak up about it and then hand over twenty-eight dollars. It was clear he did not want to do it, but he didn’t want to be that friend in the group who looks like a cheap ass bitch.

I would have been the cheap ass bitch who said something. The guy at the head of the table was a real loud-mouth son of a bitch who monopolized the conversation and cracked way too many unfunny jokes. The man on the other end of the table seemed quiet and shy and probably chose to sit as far away as possible from Mr. Douchey. Had it been me, I would have declined the invite as soon as I found who else was going to be there. But this guys wasn’t me. If he was me, he would have said:

“Um, guys. I hate to be the cheap ass bitch at the table, but I only had an app and some fries so I’m only gonna pay for mine. It was $11.50 plus 8.87% tax makes it $12.52 plus a 20% tip is $15.02 so I am leaving a total of $17. Yeah, I’m leaving two extra bucks to help cover which ever one of you skanks is gonna to try to stiff the server. Here's a ten, a five and two singles. Outta here, buh bye.”

But he wasn't me. So he basically said:

"Um, okay, here's my money. I only have a twenty and a bunch of singles. Twenty-eight? Is that right? Okay, here's twenty-eight  dollars, I guess. Next time, can you please use some lube or a pat of butter before you screw me because this is rather uncomfortable. You'd think I'd be used to it by now because I have no spine or backbone which makes it all the more simple for me to get fisted right here in the restaurant. Oh, what's that? We're short four dollars? Let me reach into where my balls used to be and see if I have any more money. Okay, I do. Here it is. Sorry it's wet from my tears of pussification. Thank you everybody."

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Walking in a Sweaty Wonderland

Last week, New York City had the distinct pleasure of its first heatwave. We had three days in a row of 97º temperatures. For those of you living in Texas and Arizona, I realize that 97º is what you look forward to after a day of 115º, but here in New York City, that is freakin' hot. And at two of my three jobs, our air conditioning is having challenges. (In corporate speak, "challenges" means "big fucking problems.")

On one of those hot days, I was at the restaurant where the A/C is weak even on a day when the sun isn't reaching through the ozone layer and molesting me. When I got to work, I knew that I had better set up the patio because despite the heat, some masochistic would think it would be nice to sit out there. Three hours into the shift, it seemed I had wasted my time and roll-ups because nobody was interested. And then it happened. A woman came in from the street eyeballing the patio.

"Is the backyard open?" she asked.

"Yes it is. Would you like to sit outside?"

"Is it hot out there?"

Okay. This lady just stepped in from the heat outside and wanted to know if it was hot outside. My nerves were already short because of the lack of A/C and my brain was a bit frozen from spending every spare moment in the walk-in cooler.

"It's the same heat back there that you just came in from." I smiled at her to make it seem like I was trying to be funny, but really, I thought she was a fucking idiot.

"Well, can we go back and see if it feels any different?"

"Yes, ma'am, sure we can." I grabbed a menu and lead her to the depths of hell we call a patio.

I opened the French doors and stepped outside. I was surprised at how different it felt from when I had last been out there three hours before. The air was crisp; almost chilly. I looked around and noticed a thin layer of frost on the metallic table tops. As I stood there, I felt the temperature dip twenty degrees and then another ten. In the back corner of the patio, the evergreen tree was decorated like a Christmas tree and two partridges were making a nest in it, obviously confusing it for a pear tree. Sitting at one of the tables was Santa Claus and Jack Frost each with a steaming cup of hot chocolate from Starbuck's.

"You're not allowed to bring outside food and beverages here, sir," I said to Santa.

"Ho, ho, ho," he laughed. "We didn't see a server so we brought our own. I do apologize." He touched the side of his nose with his stubby mitten-covered thumb and the two paper cups disappeared. "We are waiting for two more friends. Could we get menus, young man?"

"I'm just drinking," said Jack Frost. "Bring me a hot toddy."

"Can you say "please?"" said Santa.

Jack Frost rolled his eyes. "Please."

Two figures brushed passed us and I recognized Frosty the Snowman and  Mrs. Claus. They pulled up two chairs and joined the table.

Frosty had an icicle hanging off his ass and Mrs. Claus was wrapped up in a scarf that had images of children sledding down a hill.

"Dear," she said to her husband. "Frosty is warm. Can't you do something about this heat? It must be 40º out here. Look at him; poor thing's starting to melt. That icicle wasn't there ten minutes ago."

Santa again touched his nose with his thumb and immediately, the wind blew in from the north bringing with it snowflakes. The roll-ups on the table began to get soggy.

"Where's my fucking hot toddy" yelled Jack Frost.

I was so mesmerized by what was happening on the patio that I had forgotten I was at work. I looked at the woman who had wanted to sit outside and her cheeks were red with the cold air and a tiny bit of snot was slipping out of her nose. I handed her a tissue and she shivered as she wiped the snot away. I heard jingle bells overhead and looked up to see Rudolph flying above us pulling a sleigh along with eight flying pigs who had just flown out of my fucking asshole.

"Oh God, it's hot out here too," said the lady. " I'll just sit inside, I guess."

"Good idea," I replied.

Dumb bitch. We ain't got no micro-climate. It's 97 fucking degrees. I hate people.



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Chili's Waitress Fired For Facebooking

Thank you to everyone who sent this story to me. Last week in California, a waitress at Chili's was fired after going to her own Facebook page and venting about a table who stiffed her.

"Next time you tip me $5 on a $138 bill, don't even bother coming in cause I'll spit in your food and then in your fuckig [sic] face you cheap bastards!!!!!!!!!"

Where do I begin? First off, what kind of immature, unprofessional sever would ever go to Facebook and complain about their job? Anyone who does that must have shit for brains, have no life and be in need of some serious mental help. Getting bad tips is all part of the job. If you don't like it, then you should quit and get a real job. maybe your service was sub-par, or maybe the customer had twins on the way and needed to save her money. Anyone who goes to the internet to complain about their job is a loser. (Pot calling kettle black...).

I feel bad for this girl, I really do. I was once fired for blogging about the horrible management team at a restaurant here in New York City. There was no social media policy when I was hired but you can bet your over-priced white truffle pizza that they had one the day after they let my bitchy ass go. I will get the last laugh because my book has a whole chapter dedicated to all those whores. Anyhoo, the Chili's waitress made a few mistakes. To her and anyone else who have questions about social media rules and your job, I offer these suggestions:

1. You should know what the social media policy is at your place of employment. Nowadays, lots of companies forbid their employees from Facebooking, Tweeting, Pinteresting or whatever else is cool to do this week. If they have the policy, they beat you to the punch. Don't do it.
2. According to the screenshot of the waitress's  Facebook page, she had Chili's listed as her place of employment. If you're going to leave a vague Facebook status about your job, all ambiguity goes out the window when you have your "about me" section posted with your job. You don't really need that information on there, do you?
3. Make your Facebook page private! I understand that this girl has since suspended her Facebook account but before she did, people were able to take screen grabs of all her information. Amateur.
4. Do not friend your bosses. Who does that? No matter how cool your boss is, you don't want them to see that picture of you passed out in the parking lot of the Wal-Mart while wearing a grass skirt and a coconut bra. (I had an explanation for that, by the way.) When you get a friend request from a boss, you ignore it. I got a friend request from my new manager and I sent it to the ignore pile quicker than I ask for a shift drink after I punch out.
5. Be careful about friending other co-workers. Don't be so quick to have them knowing your goings-on. One of them might be a mole.
6. Servers, don't threaten to spit in the food. That is old hat and we all know that nobody really does that anyway. There are better ways to seek revenge on bad customers. For example, the next time they come in and try to pay with a credit card, tell them it was declined. Or demagnetize it for them. Or get their phone number and make a flyer that says they are selling an iPad for a hundred dollars and then distribute the flyer all over Southwest Houston specifying that all calls must be made after midnight.
7. Always spell "fucking" correctly. If your Facebook status gets picked up by the national news media, you want people to know that you can spell.
8. Do not work at Chili's.

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Three Douchebags Walk Into a Bar

So, three douchebags walk into a bar. No, that's not the opening line to a joke. It's what happened last week as I was trying to enjoy my Monday afternoon cocktail at place called 508 Gastropub. After a hard day of shopping and playing miniature golf, all I needed was a simple cocktail to soothe my nerves from the stressful situation that was happening at the golf course; in front of me and behind me, there were children playing who had absolutely no respect for the sport of miniature golf. The kids were running from hole to hole and dropping their balls into water hazards. (That whole sentence totally just reminded me of the summer between my sophomore and junior year in college. No, not because I was a big ol' slut but because I was the manager at a Putt-Putt Golf.) By the time I was at the bar, the Blood Orange martini was calling my name.

The lovely bartender whipped it up very quickly and placed it before me. I worshipped its beauty and then snapped a picture of it because my cell phone gallery is a sad but meaningful testament to my everlasting love of cocktails.

And then three guys walked in and sat right next to me. They were loud, not funny, loud, pretentious, loud and annoying. The one in the middle wore his sunglasses backwards in the very same manner that The King of all Tools, Guy Fieri does. I think when you go to Douchebag University, that must be the the first thing they teach you. I have never seen anyone but card-carrying douchebags wear them that way. Tool #1 says to the bartender, "Hey, it's his birthday," pointing to Tool #3. Tool #2 was busy checking his Blackberry.

"Happy birthday," said the bartender. Maybe she meant it, but it was clear that these asswipes were not going to get anything for free just because one of them happened to be born. Save that trick for Hooters or Friendly's.

They ordered two glasses of wine and one Old-Fashioned. It seemed like Tool #3 had just watched the season finale of Mad Men and wanted to be like Don Draper. I studied the behavior and dress of the three guys trying to pinpoint what it was exactly that made them seem so all-encompassing douchey. Maybe it was the Live Strong bracelet one was wearing or maybe it was the way one of them kept laughing way too loud at his own jokes and then looking around to see if anyone else thought he was funny as he thought he was.

They went on to order three dozen oysters. Knowing that oysters are an aphrodisiac, I imagined them sucking them down along with way too much to drink and then going back to one of their apartments to "watch a game" and then blaming the oysters and alcohol on the accidental blow jobs that happened.

Through the course of their conversation, I learned that at least one was a hedge fund manager. I don't know what that means exactly, but I am pretty sure it has something to do with removing errant hedgehogs from vaginas. Or maybe that's a Christopher Durang play. He mentioned that his company wants him to move to Houston and he is seriously considering it. "They'd pay me more, it's 30% cheaper to live there and they have this amazing place called Treasures." I Googled Treasures and it's precisely what I figured it would be; a tacky upscale men's entertainment club.

"Please move to Houston," I thought. "Right now. Or at least right after you convince your buddy that your penis would never ever fit into his asshole, but you'll prove it if he wants you to. And if it does fit, then you're alright with being wrong."

They continued talking too loudly and getting on my nerves. I finished up my second martini and polished off the onion rings and paid my check. I walked up to the bartender and told her that I write this stupid blog. She was sufficiently unimpressed but I told her that I would be writing a story about the three guys at the end of the bar if she'd like to check it out. I doubt she will. They probably tipped her well, because she was very pretty. They would have tipped her more though if she worked at Treasures.

Farewell, Douchebags. Thanks for the story and thank you for letting me take your picture even though I didn't ask your permission.



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All I Need's An Air Conditioner

Just to give you some idea of the type of classy ladies I work with, "Alison" came into the club on her day off last week.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

"I was in the neighborhood and I heard the A/C was fixed so I came in to cool off my hot twat." Ah, sweet little demure lady-like Alison, laying in the booth, legs spread and fanning her inner thighs.

She was right. The A/C had been fixed just that day after a week of it spitting out luke-warm air and making the job even less tolerable than it already is. The room feels like an oasis of cool against the hot muggy streets of Manhattan. I was thankful that I had only had to work sans air conditioning for one shift. Today was going to be a good day now that the thermostat said 68º instead of "fuck you."

I begin to set up the room and for the first time in a week, I don't resent lighting candles and making every single table just a teeny tiny bit warmer. The show is a busy one. It's going to be a packed house and with 80+ people in the room, the A/C was going to get a big fat welcome gang bang.

About thirty minutes before show time, the people start pouring into their seats and ordering their drinks. I breeze through all my tables as happy as a pig in mud because the air is cool and today was a good day to forget to put on deodorant. Not that it matters; I use that stupid crystal rock that is basically just giving sweat and body odor an engraved invitation to party in my pits. The show starts and I notice that the temperature in the room is warmer than I'd like. The thermostat now says 73º but I figure it's due to all the bodies we have crammed into the space. Ten minutes later, the thermostat says 76º and I know we have a problem.

"Did anyone adjust the A/C? It's hot as balls in there," I tell the bartender.

"I think it shut down again. We just had it fixed today but it still seems fucked."

I grab my tray of drinks and head back into the sauna. No less than three people call me to their table to alert me that they are hot. I wonder if they can see the sweat soaking through my uniform or if the dim lighting and dark shirt have concealed it for me. "Yes, we are having some air conditioning issues," I whisper. "We are working on it." By "working on it," I mean that I have poured myself a glass of ice water and have decided to stay in the sidestand where it's much cooler. I roll up my sleeves and prepare to step into the room with a dirty vodka martini that was going as far away as possible. By now, my forehead is wet with perspiration. I glance at the thermostat where it says 82º. By the time I get to the other side of the room, the martini glass is sweating more than I am. I feel a bead of sweat rolling down my forehead and onto my nose where it lingers for a brief second. As I am lifting the drink off the tray, the sweat drop decides to end it all by taking a nosedive into the pool of vodka and vermouth. Without missing a beat, I place the drink on the table. "Here you are sir, one martini, extra dirty, just like you asked for." Yeah, it was dirty, alright. Dirty with the blood, sweat and tears of the bitchy waiter who's twat is hotter than a cat in heat.

The rest of the night consists of Mr. and Mrs. Obvious telling me it's warm. Finally, the show ends and we can begin to get the people out of there and try to bring the temperature down a few thousand degrees before the next show starts. We bring fans up from the basement because nothing says sophisticated night club more than plastic oscillating fans sitting at tables. The next performer goes up to the stage to start her sound check. "It's hot," she says. I walk past her carrying a fan and choose to ignore the comment in much the same way she chose to ignore good taste when she chose her ensemble that evening. The second show's audience doesn't merit two servers and I play the seniority card and ask to leave. The seniority card was damp from sitting in my pocket all night but I played that sweaty bitch nonetheless.

Twenty minutes later, I am sitting in the lobby, shirt unbuttoned and sipping my white wine. I stay until I finish my obligatory shift drink. As hot as it is in this place, I am not turning down free booze.

Like Alison before me, I have my legs splayed in a futile attempt to cool off my hot twat. The wine helps. All I need's an air conditioner.



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Groupon Is Making Me Poor

Does anyone else have to deal with Groupons at their job? Or Living Social? Or any of those other online deals that bring people in to your restaurant? I do and I've got something to say about.

While I am all for taking advantage of a deal, many of the people who use Groupon have no idea what they should be tipping on. Let me spell it out for you: you tip on the original amount! Just because you are only paying $10 for a billion dollars worth of food doesn't mean that you leave $1.50 tip. Your waiter is still bringing you two apps, two entrees, two beverages and a dessert, right? He is doing the same amount of work that he would be doing if you paid full price. Why should the waiter make less money because you wanted to save some?  It's annoying and it needs to be corrected. I think it would be nice of the Groupon people to remind the purchasers of these deals to tip on the original amount. Groupon is always so witty and funny in their descriptions but never once have I seen one that said "Don't be a cheap ass. Tip on the original amount."

Think about it. I am at work and have four tables. Two of them have Groupons meaning they are probably going to have more food brought to their table than the tables who are paying full price for every item. When the check comes, the non-Groupon tables are going to be at least twice as much as the other and therefore tip more. But I brought the same amount of food to all four tables. What this does is make me resent the Groupon tables and lets them slide down my priority list, which is a real shame because the whole point of the stupid fucking Groupon is to get customers into the restaurant and then make them want to come back. But when I am repeatedly stiffed by those people I tend to give less-than-stellar service to them and they will never want to come back again. I'm not proud of this, but if nine times out of ten I am going to get a shitty tip from the Groupon table, I don't want to waste any time on them. I save my smile for people who are going to put their money where there mouth is.


Customer: Hi, we got this Groupon and I think we get free nachos and a side of guac, is that right? And then our entrees are two for one, right? And we each get a free soda and a dessert too, right? I just love Groupon. If it wasn't for Groupon, I couldn't afford to go out to eat. I love Groupon! I only paid $12 for it. Ain't that something? 
Bitchy Waiter: Yes, Groupon is something else, alright, you cheap bitch.

Please, people. If you use a Groupon, remember that your server deserves to be tipped on what it would have cost if you had paid for everything. Please don't make your server go into the poorhouse. He didn't buy a Groupon, you did. He just wants to make his rent money and get the fuck outta there.



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No, Your Baby is Not Starving

Oh, entitled parents, how do I hate thee? Let me count the ways, you self-absorbed time suckers who think that the world revolves around you and your precocious brat who won't shut the hell up even for one second.

Last week, a five top came in; four adults and one diaper-wearing, needy one year old human who required a high chair. I go to greet them at the front door.

"Hello, how are you tonight? Table for five?"

"My baby is starving. I need bread," snapped the mother.

Really? That's how we're going to start our evening together, by you completely ignoring the (fake ass) pleasantries I am offering you? Is it my fault that you, as a mother, failed to bring a goddamn Ziploc baggie of Goldfish to nourish your child during the long trip from you apartment down the street all the way to the restaurant?

What I said: Alright, let me go get some bread for you and then I can pull some tables together for your party to sit down.

What I thought: I'm sorry, but is your baby from some drought stricken country in Africa and he hasn't had clean water in days? Is your child one of the 15 million who will die of hunger this year? Is he part of the 50% of all children under five years of age in South Asia and one third of those in sub-Saharan Africa who are are malnourished? Is he one out of the eight children in the United States under the age of twelve who goes to bed hungry every night? Or is it that he's just a little fussy and now you regret throwing away that banana that he didn't want twenty minutes ago?

I return with the basket of emergency rations and begin to drag two tables together so they can sit down and eat their dinner now that I have practically saved the life of a child who, had it not been for me, would have surely expired. The group sits down and I notice that the child has taken one bite of bread and is now interested in the battery operated candle that is sitting on the table. Starvation averted! Score one for the war against hunger.

"We have a few specials tonight I can tell you about very quickly. Our soup tonight is a chilled corn soup with a cream base. The corn is grilled and it has a red pepper garnish. Our appetizer of the night is-"

"I'm sorry," mother interrupts. "Can I go ahead and place his order for mac and cheese? He's really hungry. But no bacon in it.""

I look down at the "really hungry" baby who is mouthing the plastic candle. Right, we don't want that baby to eat bacon but by all means let him lick that candle that has remnants of Windex, dust and every germ known to mankind.

"I will do it right this second." I stop pouring water for everyone and firmly set the metal pitcher on the table and leave them to again do my part to solve world hunger, one baby at a time.

"Please rush. This baby is starving," I type on the order so that that the cooks knows how utterly important it is to get the food right away. I head to the kitchen deciding to wait there until I can return with the sustenance before doing anything else for the table. Six minutes later, the mac and cheese is ready and I go to the table.

"Sorry I didn't get a chance to finish pouring water but I know how important it is to get food to a starving baby so I stayed in the kitchen until it was ready." I pick up the pitcher and continue pouring. "So anyway, our appetizer of the night is a roasted beet salad with goat cheese and balsamic dressing..."

Five minutes and two bites of mac and cheese later, the kid is wandering around the restaurant with its mother. Turns out he wasn't starving after all. It was just another case of an entitled parent thinking that their child deserved special treatment because no other child in the world can be as important as their own. Snap out of it lady. If you're fortunate enough to be able to afford to eat out at a restaurant, you're child is not starving. He's lucky. Most of us who are reading this are lucky.

I hate entitled parents.




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A Comment on Comments Guest Blog

This is both a Comment on Comment AND my first guest blog post. It comes from Katie who is an occasional guest blogger for another kick ass website called InnocentBARstander. Katie wrote a little something in response to a comment on the Bitchy Waiter Facebook Page. A reader named Jackie B. had this to say:

"Really ppl? For the prices I'm paying for your "lovely" service if I want a lemons and no ice then I should get one and not have to worry that your (sic) going to go back and bitch about the 10 extra seconds it takes to change it up a little. You ppl make it sound like your job is the toughest and most important one out there. Trust me it's not. And I get needing to vent and bitch but dang you ppl are *ucking ass holes."

Please enjoy Katie's response: 

Here's a quick blurb about being a lemon.....(as I sit here drinking a glass of wine, looking at my masters degree collecting dust under the pile of unopened student loan envelopes).

I am a lemon, no not the piece of crap car that breaks down every time you have a less than exceptional week due to all the Jackie B's flooding into your restaurant and as a result have limited funds in your bank account, but an actual lemon.  Here goes:

I am a lemon sitting in the bottom of a flimsy produce box. It is Monday afternoon and I am traveling my way to the restaurant to complete the food order for the week. Bump Bump Bump goes the truck.  I feel a piece of broccoli and a whole cucumber fall on my head from their respective and also flimsy produce boxes.  The back of the truck opens and I am greeted with two men in hair nets. I get a whiff of freshly made tortilla's, some not so fresh cheese, and cigarette smoke from the servers quickly inhaling as much nicotine as possible before Booth 4's entrees are ready.  

I am carried in from the truck by one of the hair net men and brought into the walk-in cooler.  OUCH!  I fall immediately to the floor amongst my fellow lemons and roll right under the prep-line cart.  I am waiting patiently to be picked up as I see the hairnet man pick up all the other lemons off the floor, but I am hidden and he does not see me.  I wait all night on the cold damp floor but still no one sees me.  It isn't until Tuesday morning when the prep-cooks come in to retrieve the cart that I am finally picked up off the floor and put back into my original flimsy produce box. I see people come and go and wait another few nights in the dark and cold.  By now I am starting to get quite damp.  I think that box of lettuce from last weeks order is starting to leak...  I am not needed yet since the lemons that had fallen on the ground and then put back into the box were used to fill the fruit trays already.  It is finally Thursday afternoon and I am picked up by a girl who  smells strikingly similar to what I smelled when I first got off the truck. Oh no...the ground again!  This time I land in some fresh ketchup.  No worries, the girl has a nice rag conveniently located on her belt loop that has been used to wipe tables all lunch shift and cleans me off. She says a few colorful words under her breath and I am put into a basket.  I am waiting to be cut so pieces of me can be used for waters, cocktails, and bartenders hands who have recently been puffing on the nicotine.  I hear the same girl use that same colorful language as she cuts me into pieces and complains about how she hates me because she has a cut on her finger, and "IT HURTS LIKE A BITCH".  

Well Thursday night is coming to an end and I still haven't been used.  I see the barback coming to collect the other limes, oranges, and cherries that are in the same tray as I am.  He wraps us in Saran Wrap and we are put away for the night.  

It is now Friday afternoon and I have become a nice yellowish brown and the juice that once ran through my veins is increasingly drying up.  The barback comes to release us from captivity, unwraps us from the plastic and sets us on the bar next to the server station.  8 pm rolls around and I am FINALLY being picked up along with 10 of my other friends. We are carried on an appetizer plate to the woman at table 6.  Jackie Beeotch grabs all of my friends and I and squeezes us into her free, luke warm, probably rusty tap water and slams us down.  UGH...too sour!! says Jackie Beeotch!

Well, Jack-hole...let's recap....When you couldn't remain seated during your dining experience and NEEDED 48 extra lemons and "in a hurry", just remember the journey that your lemons have been on. Just a question.....Do you remember this lemon ever being washed after it hit the floor...twice?  I hope you choke on your next lemon Jackie B. 

Thank you, Katie.  And everyone, please go check out InnocentBARstander.



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Another Baby Gets Drunk (Yawn)

There aren't very many guarantees in the restaurant world. Other than your last table of the day always ordering a dessert five minutes after closing time and the old lady sending her coffee back because it's not hot enough, what can we really know for sure? Well, I can name at least one other thing that you can always count on: every couple of weeks, some baby is going to get served liquor and the story is going to go viral.

Yes, it happened again. On May 26, a three year old was served orange juice with vodka and that baby ended up as drunk as I am on a Sunday brunch shift when the manager spends the day in he office doing paperwork. Bingyan Cai said her son Michael got trashed while they were aboard the Alii Kai Catamaran enjoying a dinner cruise in Oahu, Hawaii. I have never been on a dinner cruise, but I may have to try one if they can assure me that every time I order orange juice it will come spiked with vodka. The mom noticed her son turning red, acting unruly and mumbling which, I think, is pretty much how all three-year olds are. “He just got really red and he just kept mumbling, ‘Momma it’s hot, it’s hot,”’ she said. “He was just so wild, full of energy and tried to run here and there but couldn’t even stand straight.” It sounds like your typical Booze Cruise, if you ask me.

After she tasted the drink and confirmed that it was extra extra delicious, she alerted the staff who responded with a bottle of water and a "don't make a fuss as to not ruin the ride for tourists." She had him checked out the next day and she has no plans to sue. The company refunded her the $300 it cost to take her family on the "Kids Drink Free Boat" and called it a day. My favorite quote that the mom said is, "if he had drunk the whole 12 ounces it could have been very fatal for him at this age." Very fatal. As opposed to just kinda fatal. That's like being a little bit pregnant.

This brings up the following questions:

• Why the fuck was I never accidentally served alcohol when I was a baby?
• Where do I get a ticket for the dinner cruise where you order orange juice and they bring you a screwdriver?
• Can I substitute the screwdriver for a margarita on the rocks with salt?
• What is going on with servers not paying attention to what they are serving?
• How did this baby get so lucky that he lives in Hawaii and gets free cocktails?
• What the hell kind of name is "Bingyan Cai?"
• Is the legal owner of the picture I posted going to be all pissed off at me because I made their baby asking for a martini?
• Is it a good idea to simply lower the drinking age so that when a toddler gets served liquor, it can be no big deal?
• Don't babies order apple juice anymore?
• What do you call apple juice spiked with vodka?
• If I adopt a baby, will it help me get free drinks?
• Can't babies think of new and creative ways to get their fame whoring selves in the newspaper?  Drunk babies are so passé.
 

Thank you everyone who sent this news item in to me. I should create a Google Alert for "drunk baby" so I will always have something to write about.



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Bad Restaurant Romance

Restaurant romances can be a slippery slope. They can even be slipperier than the walk-in after I spill a gallon tub of Ranch dressing and then "clean" it with a greasy broom and a roll of paper towels. Working in a restaurant brings you close to all kinds of people and when you mix it with the inevitable after-work drinking, the flirtations can sometimes grow into true love, or at least a blow job in the bathroom after closing time.

I myself have never gotten involved with someone at work. Partly because I find office romances to be completely unprofessional but mostly because no one has ever been interested. But I have seen it happen. It always starts out great. The attraction is there between two co-workers and it's easy to date because they both have the same shitty ass schedule. A few dates turns into a relationship and then after two months they start to fight and it becomes incredibly awkward when they share a shift.

Her: Are you gonna cut the lemons? It's your sidework, you know.
Him: Yeah, as soon as I run the trays through the dishwasher.
Her: Well, I need lemons right now. Can you do them first?
Him: Why is it always about what you want?
Her: Are you crazy? Everything we do is about you. What about what I want? What about what's best for me?
Him: How about you cut you own fucking lemons?
Her:  How about you cut your own fucking balls off?
Him: Fuck you. You're crazy.
Her: Yeah I must be crazy if I ever thought being with you was good fucking idea. You make me fucking sick.
Manager: Let's be team players, gang. We open in five minutes.
Him and Her: FUCK YOU!

Yeah, been there and seen that. Everyone has a story like that. I know someone who was once with a super hot manager in the handicap stall of the women's bathroom. The host walked in to pee and the manager had to lift his feet from the floor so she wouldn't notice that there were two pair of legs in one stall.

Every restaurant has at least one super slut. Imagine, if you will, a manager by the totally made up name of Janice Koehelr. (The name might be very very similar to the name of an actual person; Janet Cole, Jarice Khueler, Jeanette Kumbucket...) She was a horrible manager who worked at a place like The Olive Garden or Outback Steakhouse or Bennigan's. You know the kind of place I'm talking about. She would sleep with employees and go out drinking with them and then give preferential treatment to those who were nibbling on her awesome blossom. You had to play the game or suffer the consequences. I heard she once had sex on a table with a line cook after the restaurant closed and that she used a bottle of ketchup in a very familiar way. Like those ketchup bottles aren't gross enough. She went through men faster than an old lady goes through chamomile tea bags. (I also heard she was an expert at tea bagging but quit doing it when her weave got dirty from being too close to the walk-in floor.) Yeah, that Janice/Jarice/Jeanette was a real piece of work. She eventually got fired and now works at a strip club. Not sure if she's a manager, server, pole dancer or cleaning woman. Whichever job she has, I'm sure it still has the prefix of "blow." 

My point is, restaurant romances never work out. Sure, they can be fun at the beginning when you both run to dry storage to get some more sugar packets and while you're in there you taste a little bit of her sugar walls, but it's not worth it. Eventually, things will go more sour than the milk that is sitting next to the coffee machine. Don't do it, friends. And if you must, just remember Janice. One day she had the world at her feet at Outback and the next day she was on her knees at a strip club, cleaning carpets and then munching them.



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The Case of the Overflowing Toilet

It was a slow night at the restaurant. The cooks were reading newspapers, the servers were sharing an order of fries and the customers were eating anyplace but there. The Bitchy Waiter needed something to do and he needed it then. All of his opening sidework was already done. The last thing that needed to happen was placing the candles in the restrooms. One of them had been locked so he put the lit candle on a shelf and waited for whichever employee was inside to come out. Erika, the new chef, emerged from the restroom and he took the candle inside. He noticed the toilet still had paper in it. "Geez, flush the fucking toilet, new girl," he thought. Hanging on the wall was an empty roll of toilet paper and sitting on the tank was a brand new roll that had been unwrapped but she must have been too lazy to throw away the empty roll and replace it with a new one. Thirty minutes had passed and now he was bored. He looked at the pile of silverware that needed to be rolled and then his eyes fell onto the empty ketchup bottle but nether one of those were going to make him feel constructive.

"Maybe I'll go make a phone call," he said to the mirror over the sidestand; the same mirror that was in need of a date with some Windex. He reached up to the shelf and picked up his cell phone; the same cell phone that was strictly prohibited on the dining room floor. He headed straight to the restroom where the air wasn't fresh but the silence was golden. He swung the door open, flipped the light on and stepped inside.

"Goddammit!" Looking down, his skid-resistant shoes were in an inch of water. The toilet was running and the bowl was overflowing with water. Toilet paper was spinning in a lazy clockwise pattern and enjoying its freedom from the bowels of sewage and grasping at its chance to see what life is like on the floor. "Who the fuck clogged the fucking toilet bowl?"

The Bitchy Waiter shoved his cell phone into his pocket and went to tell the manager. "The restroom needs some attention. Bad." He watched his manager scurry over to Jose the dishwasher and the two of them retreated to the restroom.

"What's goin' on?" asked the bartender?

"The toilet overflowed and now my shoes are all fucking disgusting."

"Who the fuck? I bet it was table 16." We looked over at the lone table in the restaurant. Sitting at the booth was an older man who had only moments before returned from visiting one of the two restrooms. "He looks like he could clog a toilet real good."

"Uh huh," said The Bitchy Waiter as he eyed Erika slicing some carrots. "Maybe it was him. Maybe not."

The manager reappeared rolling behind him a big yellow mop bucket and holding a dirty mop that no doubt now had traces of fecal matter that would be spread all over the restaurant the next day unless someone changed the mop head. But no one ever changed the mop head.

"It's okay now,"the manager said. "Someone tried to flush the toiler paper wrapper but I plunged it." He went downstairs to return the mop bucket and hopefully replace the mop head.

The bartender looked at table 16 again. "It was totally that guy, right?"

"I don't think so," said The Bitchy Waiter. "Someone else was in there first and that someone else is now slicing carrots."

"The new girl? No fucking way," he said. "That's nasty. You think it was her?"

"Well, I went in there right after she came out and I noticed the toilet wasn't flushed. She had finished a roll of toilet paper and opened a new one. The boss said that whoever it was tried to flush the toilet paper wrapping and that's what made it overflow. So yeah. I think it was her. That bitch took a huge fucking dump, clogged the toilet and now she's making a salad."

They both looked over at Erika who was using her hands to mix some Caesar dressing into a bowl of romaine lettuce.

The bartender shuddered. 'Okay, now I am totally grossed out by her and I thought she was kinda cool."

The Bitchy Waiter agreed. "I know. If you're gonna clog the toilet at least try to fix it yourself. I mean the plunger is right there, but she's just gonna act like nothin' happened? That is some nasty shit, man."

"Well, maybe it was the guy at 16, who knows? He could have gone in after her and when he tried to flush the toilet, it overflowed."

"Yeah, maybe. But I'm gonna just go with it being her. I read a lot of Encyclopedia Brown books when I was a  kid and I'm pretty good at figuring out mysteries. The clues point to her."

"Caesar salad is up for 16," yelled Erika.

The Bitchy Waiter went to the line and picked up the salad. "Thanks," he said.

"No problem," she replied. "Looks like it's gonna be a slow night, huh?"

"Maybe. You never can tell. Sometimes you think it's gonna be slow and then all of a sudden the restaurant is overflowing and in a flush you're busy."

"What? she asked.

"I meant flash. Thanks for the salad."

The Bitchy Waiter dropped the Caesar salad at table 16 and went into the other restroom to make his phone call. His night was just beginning.





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