Casting Notice for Restaurant Workers

Have you ever wanted to be on a television show? If so, read on. I was contacted this week by a person who is casting and developing a new television show about restaurants. Once I calmed my nerves and took a couple of deep breaths, I read the rest of the email to learn that she was not interested in me. She is, however, looking for people like you! She asked that I spread the word around so I have copied her casting notice below. Please read and share. And you better let me know if one of you bitches ends up on TV so I can be jealous and do tequila shots as I sit alone in the dark all bitter.

I would do it myself, but my boss doesn't need to be reminded that The Bitchy Waiter works in his restaurant.

love,

BW

NEW TV SHOW!  RESTAURANTS WANTED!

Do you OWN or WORK in a RESTAURANT fraught with WORKPLACE DRAMA?

Is your CHEF HOT-HEADED, OBSESSIVE COMPULSIVE, or of the belief he/she is GOD"S GIFT TO FOOD?

Do you have a BICKERING WAITSTAFF?  Are they constantly ARGUING about shifts, days off, and who gets the best tables?

Do the FRONT OF THE HOUSE and BACK OF THE HOUSE have so many COMMUNICATION ISSUES it’s amazing anything comes out right at all?

Did the BARTENDER and a SERVER break-up and now they REFUSE to speak to each other - even during the Friday night dinner rush?! 

If you own or work in a restaurant where staff issues are threatening to spill out into the dining room, a new show from a MAJOR CABLE NETWORK wants to help.   Our experts are ready to take on any issue, from bad communication, jealousy, and fragile egos to the poor multi-tasker who slows everyone down and the line cook who loses his temper over every single substitution. They can take the heat in and out of the kitchen, and they’re eager to test and teach your staff to put their differences aside, respect one another, and work together to make your restaurant the very model of teamwork and efficiency. The show will be EDGY, EMOTIONAL, and HILARIOUS as people confront their issues big and small, and the audience at home will have their eyes opened to all that the people who make and serve their food deal with on top of keeping their fickle customers happy.

Please email tvcasting@cineflix.com with your NAME, CONTACT INFO, a recent PHOTO and some information about where you work and what kinds of workplace drama you are dealing with. 

Thanks!

Not a Couple of Gay Dudes

The patio at the restaurant is quite nice. Once the sun goes down and we turn on the twinkling white lights overhead and light the tiki torches, it's almost impossible to notice the dirty bent up metal chairs and the mosquitoes flying around looking for someone to infect with the West Nile Virus. Dare I say it's romantic? I suppose if you're sitting at the one table that doesn't wobble, the neighbor hood raccoon is not hanging around table 21 and the moon is overhead that night, it could be.

Two men come in and they ask to sit on the patio. I pick up two menus and lead them out back where there happens to be a full moon shining brightly overhead.

"Wow, it's kinda romantic," says the guy in jeans and a loose black t-shirt.

"Oh yes," I reply. "I mean, look at that full moon, it's gorgeous."

The other guy, wearing a baseball cap and ripped jeans with Converse sneakers sits down. "Too bad we're brothers and not a couple a gay dudes," he says. He then laughs in a Beavis and Butthead kind of way like "a couple a gay dudes" is some really sophisticated joke.

The gay dude serving them, also known as The Bitchy Waiter, hands them their menus.

"Do you guys want anything to drink yet?" I ask.

"Maybe a chocolate malted with two straws to share as you stare into each other's eyes," I think.

They order a couple of brewskies to make it abundantly clear that they are both straight and they quite enjoy the vagina. We all know that only straight men drink beer, right? Just like all gay men only eat quiche. The rest of their order consists of two steaks, well-done and no, they do not want any salad. Salad is not manly enough for these two men.

I get it. You're straight. The only reason you're sharing a two-top under the moonlight is because you both came from the same womb and that makes it alright. Heaven forbid that someone get the wrong impression and possibly think that the two of you are boyfriends who tickle each other's taints on Tuesday nights after watching the Modern Family that you have on DVR along with House Hunters, RuPaul's Drag Race and Project Runway. It's okay if two guys sit at a table under the twinkling stars. The stars don't give a shit about you and they shine just as bright for straight men as they do for gay men. You don't have to announce to your server that you're "not a couple of gay dudes" because your server (especially the one you have tonight) doesn't care either.

But hey, maybe they're not brothers after all. Maybe they are a couple of big ol' queens and that's just a ruse that it makes them feel comfortable being out together. You know how in that movie Lincoln, Tommy Lee Jones plays Thaddeus Stevens and he's in love Lydia Hamilton Smith but they act like she's just his black housekeeper so nobody will ask questions? Maybe the two guys are like that. Or you know how in that movie J. Edgar, Herbert Hoover goes on vacation and eats every meal with Clyde Tolson but they just call each other business associates so nobody will wonder if they are diddling each other? Maybe the two guys are like that. Maybe they just say they are brothers so no one will judge them when they play touch football in Central Park. I bet they have a two bedroom apartment where one bedroom is for show and the other bedroom is for all the magic. Whenever they have food delivered, they probably act like they are on the phone with their mom so that Miguel over at Dos Burritos doesn't think he's delivering food to a couple of maricons who are about to devour a couple of tamales before they devour a couple of tamales.

It all makes sense now. When I handed them their menus, I should have given them the secret gay handshake so they would know I was cool with them being homosexuals. I get it. "Too bad we're brothers and not a couple of gay dudes" obviously was a cry for help from deep within their shuttered closet filled with Wrangler jeans, baseball caps and flannel. If only I could have seen their truth sooner so I could have offered them the key that will open up the back corridor of that closet that leads to a room filled with feather boas, Andrew Christian underwear and a fully stocked scrap booking/gift wrapping station. Next time, boys, I will be there for you. Please come back to my station so I can make it right. I feel I have failed you. You're gay and it's okay.

Or maybe you're just a couple of asshole brothers who think "too bad we're not a couple of gay dudes" is a funny thing to say. If that's the case, fuck you and your well done steaks and beers.



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One Wet Purse

It was bound to happen. Any waiter, no matter how good or bad, is eventually going to see their tray get wrapped up in this crazy little thing called gravity and watch it come tumbling down. I try to never drop anything. After all, I've tried for for three years, seems like thirty. Could you ask as much from any other man? (Bonus points to anyone who gets that musical theater reference.) Wednesday night, my perfect record went down in flames. Well, it went down in liquid.

I am working at the club and the show has a pretty healthy audience. With it being winter and all, and people having this overwhelming need to stay warm, there are big black coats hanging on the back of every chair, making my confined space to walk even more confined. The words "complimentary coat check" are as meaningless to people as "please tip your server based on the amount before your Groupon." Between the coats, the purses, the bags, the small space, the dim lights and the glass of Chardonnay I had earlier, it is near impossible to serve with ease.

My mood is already pretty miserable seeing that it is the night before Thanksgiving and all I want to be doing is sitting on my sofa having a wine tasting. I get to work at 5:15 in preparation for the 7:00 show and by 6:50 it seems that no one is coming. There are four people in the audience when it is decided at 7:15 that it will be canceled meaning I set up everything for absolutely no reason. The four people who did bother to drag their asses out to the club have their drinks comped and not one of them leaves me anything. Girl at table 23, you were prepared to pay a $10 cover charge and then you ordered a $14.95 martini knowing you would still have to buy a second drink requirement and you still can't even leave me a fucking dollar when we apologize and buy your drink for you? Get the fuck out, cheap bitch. It's not my fault that some dumb ass producer thought it was a good idea to book a show on the night before Thanksgiving. And her friend who was performing in the show? He didn't even show up. I now have two hours to kill where I am making no tips and only making $5.00 an hour. Grumpy? Yeah, that's me. There is an 11:30 show this night as well because you know that everyone wants to go see a show at 11:30 PM on Thanksgiving Eve. "Brine the turkey? Fuck that, I'm gonna go see a show!" There are precisely zero reservations on the books but we are not allowed to cancel on the off chance that they have twenty or thirty walk-ins.

The 9:30 show begins without a hitch other than the multitude of black coats impeding my walking path. I trip on a black bag that is sitting in front of booth one and the lady moves it over about six inches. She doesn't move it in the direction that it will actually make any difference, say like under the booth, but she moves it so that I am still likely to trip on it, it will just happen six inches later than before she moved it. "That was close," I think.

Ten minutes later, I am inching towards table 26 which is practically on the stage. I try very hard to be indiscreet so as not to bother the performer. I squat down with my tray of drinks and reach over to hand a martini to my customer. The vodka is safe. I remove an empty beer bottle from the table and place it on my tray. I then move my hand towards the glass of seltzer water as I also move closer to the customer. It is then that I feel under my feet the coat that will be my downfall. My foot catches on its sleeve knocking the beer bottle over and thus unbalancing my tray. The glass of seltzer tips over and spills on a purse. You know how quickly your brain works when something like this happens?

Oh my god, I think I'm gonna fall over, no I'm not gonna fall over but the beer bottle is gonna fall over, oh my god it's gonna knock over the glass and it's gonna spill, oh my god it's spilling all into this really tacky cheap looking purse that looks like it came from Mervyns, oh my god, she's gonna be so pissed, oh my god, did I remember to set my DVR to catch Project Runway, oh my god, that purse is so wet and so ugly, oh my god at least it wasn't a martini or juice because juice would be messy and vodka would be wasteful, oh my god, maybe she won't notice, oh my god she noticed, oh my god maybe I shouldn't have had that glass of wine, oh my god, what am I saying, of course I should have had that wine, oh fuck.

"I'm so sorry," I say. "Thankfully, it was just water. I will be right back with something to clean that up."

I return with some napkins and blot up the spill and the show goes on. The woman is very understanding. If it would have been a screwdriver, maybe not so much, but seeing that it was just seltzer, she was alright with it. Let's face it, her and I both knew that her purse needed to be hosed down with something, if not gasoline or soap and water, then at the very least, some seltzer.

At the end of the show, I again apologize and tell her that after three years (seems like ninety) this is the first time I have spilled anything. She seems unimpressed. I am very careful to not let her smell the Chardonnay on my breath as I tell her good night. Her tip is a good one because she probably realized that her purse is white again and not dishwater grey like it was when she arrived. The 11:30 show is canceled and I get to go home early after my shift drink of vodka, Campari and grapefruit juice. My no-spill record is no longer intact, but thankfully my buzz is.



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Eating Out For Thanksgiving? Read This First.

Here we are just one day away from when so many of us sit at a table surrounded by our loved ones, or if we're really unfortunate, our family, and give thanks for all things. More and more these days, people look at their kitchen on Thanksgiving day and say, "I quit this bitch" and pile themselves into their mini-van and head over to a restaurant. Let us give thanks to those servers who relinquish their own holiday so that they can be at work and serve everyone else who is too lazy to make their own goddamn Butterball.

We've all done it. Working in a restaurant on Thanksgiving is about as fun as fishing out the bag of giblets from that turkey carcass you bought at the Met Food. What makes it so difficult to be at work on Thanksgiving is that customers have extraordinary expectations for this particular meal. People spend 364 days thinking about what's going to go onto their plate on the fourth Thursday in November. Too often, they are dissatisfied with what they get at a restaurant on Thanksgiving.

If you are going to go out to eat on Thanksgiving, there are some things to keep in mind:

•  No, the pumpkin pie does not taste like your great Aunt Fanny's. Your great Aunt Fanny doesn't work here. The pie was made by a man named José.
• Your server is probably not getting holiday pay for being at work on a holiday. He is still getting his $2.13 an hour if he lives in some states. The people who are truly making the bucks for working on Thanksgiving are private cater waiters and NFL players.
• I know you like drumsticks. Everyone likes drumsticks. Your table can't all have drumsticks because each turkey we made unfortunately had only two legs. If you want to eat the turkey that has five legs, you need to eat at the Three Mile Island Nuclear Reactor Diner.
• Our cranberry sauce only looks funny to you because it was made from fresh cranberries and did not slide out of a can.
• Please do not take the newspaper into the restroom with you. You're not at home.
• There is no television that we are going to plug into an extension cord and roll over to your table so you can watch the game. 
• Yes, of course you can have seconds. It's just that in a restaurant it's called "ordering something else."
• Your server also thinks your mother-in-law is a bitch.
• When you are finished eating, please do not unbutton your pants and lean back in your chair for a nap. There are other customers waiting for your table.
• Your waiter will be happy to get you some more butter for that fifth roll you are cramming into your face, but please do not be surprised when you see a surcharge for the third, fourth and fifth rolls. An order of rolls consists of two.
• Your server does not want to have anything to do with your camera. He does not want to take the picture nor be in it. Ask someone else to do it.
• Save the familial drama for home. Table 12 does not want to listen to table 11 arguing about what the limit is for the Secret Santa drawing. We all know that nobody wants Grandma to draw their name and nobody cares that your ex-wife still wants to be in the drawing.
• No, you cannot take the centerpiece home.
• When you say grace and give thanks for the bountiful feast you are about to gorge upon, take a moment to also give thanks to everyone who is at work while you are not.
• Please tip 20%. The waiter wants to make sure that giving up his holiday was worth it. 

If you are one of the brave souls who will be wearing an apron on Thanksgiving day and punching a time clock, good luck. May the tips be as plentiful as the leftover turkey sandwiches. No matter how bad it gets, always remember that it could be worse. The very first Thanksgiving between the  Plymouth colonists and the Wampanoag Indians way back in 1621 (it didn't become a national holiday until until 1863 when Abraham Lincoln made it so) also had a  server and she had it really bad. Her name was Myrna. She cooked all the food using only an open flame and a cast-iron pot. She had no help because all the other pilgrims hated Myrna because she had scurvy and the Native Americans didn't help her either because they were too busy trying to figure out to get rid of all the palefaces. Myrna cooked all the food, served all the food and then she washed all the dishes down in the river. Her only tip was a cup of maize and a leaflet telling her to find Jesus. So servers, do it for Myrna!

Happy Thanksgiving! (I would be thankful if you shared this.)



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A Light at the End of the Clusterfuck

Last night at work was a supreme cluster fuck royale. You know those nights where anything that can go wrong does go wrong all the while you are wearing a pair of underwear that are not your favorite and they are crawling up your ass farther than the lady at table 28? That was last night.

It all starts when I arrive at work and see all the tables completely stripped down of table tents, candles and bev naps. They are naked with their regular accoutrements in various piles around the room.

"What the fuck happened here?" I ask. "Why are the tables not set and why are so many of them dirty?"

The host who had been at the club all day eagerly explains. "You know that TV show Smash? They're shooting across the street and they used our club today for a table read and then they had lunch here! I saw Anjelica Huston and Katherine McPhee and Debra Messing and that blond chick-"

"Megan Hilty," I say.

"Right! Her and the whole cast were here all day! Isn't that cool?"

I look around the disaster of a room and say, "It would have been cooler if they would have reset the fucking tables and swept up a little bit after themselves. What are they, animals? The floor is trashed."

The night goes downhill from there. I head downstairs to find way too much closing sidework from the night before that had now turned into opening sidework for me. Dirty silverware, bus tubs and glasses are strewn about the dish area just waiting for me to get my hands on them to be cleaned. The night before must have been really busy and late for someone to leave that much sidework uncompleted. It happens sometimes, I get it. I just didn't want it to be this night.

The show begins on time and I am listening to the performer with her perfectly clipped Julie Andrews as Mary Poppins accent. Having taken a whole semester of dialect class in 1985, I notice that her accent sounds muddled and somewhat uncertain; maybe a bit Brummie with a hint of Yorshire and a dash of Manchester.

"I was born on Long Island," she says "so you may be wondering where my British accent comes from. Well, I went to the Royal Academy of Performing Arts when I was 19 and the accent stuck."

Okay, this lady is clearly in her late 50's and she's saying that from her two years in London about 30 years ago, she still has an accent? Please, lady, I lost my Texas twang two weeks after leaving The Lone Star State, you pretentious bag of Earl Gray Tea.

Okay, her accent has nothing to do with my cluster fuck of an evening, but it still annoyed the hell out of me.

About two-thirds of the way through her show, our computer system decides to take a cat nap and freeze the hell up. We are twenty minutes away from handing out thirty checks and everything is locked down. We are told to begin hand-writing all the checks and getting the calculator to add the tax, but since we use highly sophisticated iPads to take our orders and we don't waste time with antiquated pen and paper, we have no back up of what people ordered. Our only choice is to go by memory or shuffle through the enormous pile of dupes that have been stabbed to see what people had. As for prices, who the fuck knows? Beer and martini prices are listed in the menu but I have no idea how much a Grey Goose and soda is. None of us do. The prices are in the iPads which are still in hibernation. My co-worker is a trooper, writing out all of her checks within minutes, guessing at prices and hoping for the best. I, on the other hand, decide the situation will be best handled by throwing my apron onto the ground and going sit downstairs for five minutes to breathe deeply. The Julie Andrews wannabe is now on her last song and I have only written up two checks and still have not added the tax yet. I am fucked. Suddenly, the iPad makes a beeping noise and it has decided to join the living again. Frantically, I print out the check and rush to get them to my tables hoping that the credit cards will not be an issue. Although slow, the iPads are back up again but we are behind for the next show that will start in fifteen minutes. As one audience leaves and the next one arrives, I scan the room for any leftover wine that might make me feel better. There is none.

The second show starts and I go to a table of three women to take their order. Lady number one wants a Cabernet, lady number two wants a Virgin Mary and lady number three needs some more time. I return with the first two drinks and lady number three is now ready to order.

"I don't drink, so can I have a virgin strawberry daiquiri?" she asks.

"I'm sorry," I tell her. "We don't have a blender because it makes too much noise during the show. Is there something else I can get for you?"

Her disappointment is real. "Okay, well then how about a whiskey sour but with no whiskey? Yes, a  virgin whiskey sour."

"A virgin whiskey sour?" I ask.

"Yes, please."

"A virgin whiskey sour would be a glass of sour mix, you know that right?"

"Oh it would? Okay, I'll have that. It sounds good."

"One virgin whiskey sour coming right up," I tell her.

Suddenly, I am in a good mood. This lady has just asked me for the dumbest thing I have ever served and unbeknowest to her, she has lifted my spirits.

"Blog post!" I think.

I make my way to the bar. "This dumb bitch wants a virgin whiskey sour, so can I please have a rocks glass of sour mix? And throw a fucking cherry in it with an orange wedge."

I return to the table with the $5.95 glass of sour mix that came from the soda gun.

"Here you are ma'am. One virgin whiskey sour. Enjoy!"

The rest of the night goes pretty smooth once I convince the bartender to let me have my shift drink before the end of my shift. The virgin whiskey sour made me realize that even in the darkest of shifts, there is always something that can make you smile and in this case it was the sweet little lady who ordered a fucking virgin whiskey sour since she couldn't have a virgin strawberry daiquiri. It's the little things that get us through our shifts.


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Random Act of Kindness Challenge

There is a photo floating around on the Internet, as they often do, that has gone a little bit viral. I featured it on the Bitchy Waiter Facebook page yesterday and it was shared by over 500 people and seen by over 127,000 others. The photo shows a very generous tip for a waiter along with this explanation:

A random act of love in memory of our son Joel. He brightened everyone's day. May this brighten yours. Thank you.

I don't know who Joel was or which server was on the receiving end of this act of kindness, but isn't it amazing how something as simple as a $50 tip can make all the difference in the world? Fifty dollars is not going to change anyone's financial situation, but the fact that it was given under such wonderful circumstances can in fact change someone's life. Let's think about this.

Joel obviously left a huge hole in the lives of the people who loved him and the way they have chosen to fill that void is to offer random acts of kindness in his memory. The fact that photo has been seen by so many people is a testament to what a wonderful idea it is. As for the server, we know that he or she was no doubt excited to receive a 150% tip, but we can be fairly certain that it changed the way they look at things. Maybe that server took that offering of goodwill and did their own good deed later that day. I would imagine it would be hard to not want to give that feeling to someone else after someone gave it to you. And I'm not talking about the money.

Of the 127,000 people who saw this photo, I wonder how many of them were inspired enough to do something equally kind and no, clicking "like" or sharing it on Twitter does not count as a random act of kindness.

Here is my challenge to you: I challenge anyone who reads this blog to come up with their own random act of kindness. We don't all have fifty extra dollars to leave to a server, but there are hundreds of other ways to be kind to strangers. Think of something and then do it.

• Maybe the next time you are in the drive through at McDonald's just tell the cashier that you want to pay for the car behind you. 
• Or if you are waiting for the 7 train and you can see the N train is coming but the doors are going to close before those people have time to cross the platform, hold the doors open and let hundreds of people make that connection.
• If you see an old woman trying to get her push cart over the curb, take two seconds to do it for her.
• At work, do the sidework for someone else and see how happy you make them.
• If at work you see someone's coat fall off the back of the chair and onto the floor, pick it up and place it back on the chair without telling them. 
• Make an extra sandwich or have an extra bottled water to give to someone you see who may need it. It's just a sandwich and chances are you're gonna throw out half of that lunch meat next week anyway.
• Let someone get in front of you in the line at the post office.
• If you use the last of the paper towels, change the roll. 

What makes all of these random acts of kindness so special is that they sometimes go without being acknowledged. People may never know who did them that favor. It's part of human nature to want validation for something done right but on the other hand nobody likes a person who's all, "Hey listen to this good deed I just did. Aren't I great?" So do it without expecting a thank you. If you must have people know what you did, then write it here in an anonymous comment. That way people will see what a wonderful human being you are but by remaining anonymous you won't look all needy.

I vow that today I will do at least one random act of kindness. Hopefully, the person who is on the receiving end will then do one as well. Think how wonderful a world we could live in if everyone kept doing random acts of kindness for people and then all those people did it too. It would never stop.

Yes, this blog post is uncharacteristically non-bitchy, but sometimes we have to stop and be thankful. There is not one person who is reading this who does not have the ability to be kind to a stranger today. Not one. So do it and see how it affects your day. I have been known to be kind before and I can guarantee that it makes you really happy. Don't believe me? Try it and find out for yourself.

I hope you will share this so we can get the word out about how important it is to be kind to one another at least once in a while. Take the day off from being the cynical bitch you usually are and let that old man have the seat on the bus. Your legs may be tired but your soul will feel refreshed.




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Most Ridiculous List of Fines, EVER

This photo was sent to me recently by a reader in Florida. The photo shows a list of fines that were created for the servers at a Florida restaurant and her friend was one of the lucky recipients to deal with this bullshit. The fines are for various things that may happen during the course of a typical restaurant shift and was created by the manager/owner. (By the way, manager/owners are the worst. Every lost dollar comes right out of their pocket so they are usually breathing down your neck about food costs, upselling and drinking on the job.) I was told that every employee was given the list of fines after punching in last week and that any fines incurred would go directly into the pocket of the manager/owner. One employee has already contacted a lawyer and was told that this is pretty much straight up illegal so the likelihood that any fines were actually paid is pretty slim. However, isn't this the most asinine piece of crap to ever fall out of the ass of manager? Some of the fines are ridiculous and if I worked there I would pretty much be in the hole as soon as I punched in.

FINES!!!

• Not knowing specials...............................................................$5
• Changing floor plans without okay..........................................$10
• Not doing side work before taking tables................................$5
• Not turning in coupons with cash out......................................$3/coupon
• Cash out not in right order.......................................................$3
• Chalkboard & specials in POS system not matching..............$2/server
• End of shift sidework not done or done poorly.......................$5/server
• Sidework sheet not used..........................................................$5/server
• Close a check wrong................................................................25% of check
• Not stacking dishes correctly in dish room.............................$3/server
• Ordering item not on menu or fish market without okay........$3
• Walking away from expo when food is up..............................$3
• Talking about tips....................................................................$3
• No gift certificate number on closed check.............................$3
• Taking tables outside your section without authorization.......$15
• Saltines not in basket...............................................................$5
• Wrong cover count on closed checks......................................$1/cover
• Comped checks not stapled to front of cash out......................$2
• I have to research comped checks...........................................$5

I came up with a list of my own fines that I think servers could institute for all those times the managers or the restaurant dicks us around:

FINES!!!

• Working a nine-hour shift without ever getting a break to eat..............$100
• Staying at work past the time I am scheduled to be there.....................$100
• Having to look for a manger to accept my cash out..............................$100 per minute
• The soda is flat.......................................................................................$100
• I run food for someone else who is in the weeds...................................$100
• I take a table outside my station because that server needs help...........$100
• The kitchen 86's something that I just sold............................................$100
• The computer rings up the wrong price.................................................$100
• The manager is too busy to check my sidework when it's done and then by the time he finally gets around to looking at it, it has to be done again.................................$100
• My paycheck is not ready when it is supposed to be ready....................$100
• The kitchen sends out a well-done burger when the ticket clearly says medium rare or they send out french fries when I asked for mashed potatoes or salad. ..................$100
• There are no clean glasses or silverware to reset the tables....................$100
• I am called into work on my day off because someone was fired...........$100
• The floor plan is not ready to go by the time we open.............................$100
• We don't have any towels to wipe down tables even though we have been saying for two weeks that the manager needs to order some more, dumb ass............................$100
• My cash out has a big due-back but the manager doesn't have any cash to pay me so I have to wait until another server has a big drop....................................................$100 
• The manager takes the side of the customer when everyone fucking knows that the customer was wrong wrong wrong and now I look like the asshole when really it's the manager who just doesn't have any balls....................................................................$100

I hope you will share this so that maybe it will eventually get back to the person who wrote this list. It was given to me on the condition that I not reveal the name of the restaurant or the person who took the picture. But wouldn't it be fun for the manager/owner to see his list on the Internet and realize that the whole world is laughing at what a stupid asshole he is?

What fines would you like to see instituted at your restaurant? Write your ideas in the comments and let's have some fun.



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One Pissed Off Pizza Delivery Guy

Not all pizza delivery guys are created equal it seems. Last week in Des Moines, Iowa, Chloe Teply decided she wanted to order a pizza to feed her face. The thing is though she didn't have enough money to tip the driver but she figured, "No big whoop, I just won't tip him." Her mistake. The next morning, she found the door of her apartment to be covered in sweet frothy urine. With amazing powers of deduction, she determined that the only person who had recently been at her door who might have reason to piss the fuck all over it just might possibly be that guy who had hand-delivered her a Super Supreme Pizza, a  feast of pepperoni, ham, beef, pork sausage, Italian sausage, red onions, mushrooms, green peppers and black olives that she probably ate all alone in the dark while watching Twilight. And oh yeah, she didn't tip him, so maybe he was upset. Gee, Chloe, you think?

"It's just one of those things where unfortunately, I don't have the money," said Chloe in between bites of her sides of Buffalo Burnin' Hot Wings and Cheese Sticks. A quick look of the surveillance video confirmed her suspicions and Pizza Hut was contacted and the guy was fired. Chloe goes on to say that maybe him being fired is not enough. "I mean, is he gonna come back and clean it up? I didn't expect him to, but maybe I should make a few phone calls, you know? See what he's doin'"

Yeah, he lost his job so he has all the time in the world to come back to your poor white trash apartment complex and mop up some pee.

Chloe, always the sensitive soul, also says, "If you're gonna be really upset about things like that maybe you shouldn't be a pizza delivery guy at all."

Okay. No, I do not condone peeing on the door. Everyone knows that the delivery guy went way past the line with that move, but who here doesn't understand his frustration? He's not delivering pizza because it's fun, he's doing it to make money. I have said it before and I will say it again: tipping is part of our culture. Plan on it. If you can't afford to tip, you can't afford to order food or eat out.

I know the question on all your lips is, "But what would you have done, Bitchy Waiter?" I will tell you. I would have told Chloe thank you very much with a most sincere smile. I then would have gone back to my car and pulled out a pen and some paper to write down her address so I would be sure to remember it. I then would have gone home and pulled up a one of those websites that prisoners go to in order to find pen pals. I would have found some hot mess who is looking for companionship and write a letter on her Chloe's behalf. Someone like this guy, Joseph:

 

His profile: "33 years old, 5'10", 191 pounds. Hot, spicy foods are some of life's simple joys I really dig. And do with enthusiasm! Likes to eat." Sounds like a match made in Buffalo Burnin' Hot Wings Heaven.

On the other end of the pizza delivery guy spectrum, I got an email from someone named Kitty. She says, "So today I ordered pizza from this little local Italian restaurant in my town. I usually have the same driver each time. I tip 6 or 7 bucks each time. About 10 min after he left I heard a knock on the door. It was the driver. Apparently there was an extra 20 stuck to the money I handed him and he wanted to return it. I was so shocked I let him keep it. I had to chase him across the street to get him to keep it lol. Having someone be so honest made my day and I hope I made his too."

I would suspect that most pizza delivery guys fall somewhere between these two. Not all of them are going to pee on your door if you stiff them and not all of them are going to drive back if they think you tipped them too much. The only thing we can know for sure about this story is that Chloe Teply is cheap. Cheap, cheap, cheap.



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Election Day. Go Do It.

If you want to have the right to complain about the government for the next four years, please go out and exercise your right to vote. The act of voting is even more important than who you decide to cast your ballot for.  

Go vote!

Please share this if you think this gown is absolutely fabulous!


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No Seating of Incomplete Parties

Can we talk about seating incomplete parties? I know, I know, it's like beating a dead horse(face) to bring this topic up yet again, but it needs to be discussed. There are two ways to thinks about it.

The person who has never worked in a restaurant before: I don't see what the big deal is. I mean, it's not like we're not going to order food eventually...

The Bitchy Waiter: It's freakin' annoying. 

I am at work on Thursday night and the place is slammed. People in Queens have major cabin fever from being cooped up in their apartments during Hurricane Sandy and since there is very little subway service into Manhattan, they are settling for a dinner out at their local neighborhood restaurant. We had a 100% increase in covers over the last two nights. Slammed.

A woman arrives and alerts us that she is waiting for two or three other people who are "on their way." I ask her if she'd like to sit at the bar and wait for the rest of her party to arrive but she's says "No, you can go ahead and seat me now."

I can? I can go ahead and seat you now?? Oh, why thank you, ma'am. My evening will be complete for I have had the wonderful opportunity to seat you now.

She wants a booth but they are full so she agrees that she will suffer through the horrible situation of sitting at two small tables pushed together. Never mind that there are millions of people in the area with no heat, water or electricity who are suffering in their own way, but this woman has to truly suffer by sitting at two tables, the poor thing.

"If a booth opens up, let me know," she says.

Right, sure, uh huh.

She orders a glass of wine from her server all the while popping up out of her seat every ten seconds to scan the room seeing if a booth has opened up. She looks like a fucking meerkat in a pink polyester pantsuit.

About ten minutes later, she is still waiting for her guests. Meanwhile, we are on a waiting list because all of the tables are full. One of my booths in the back of the restaurant has paid their check and are on their way out. Miss Meerkat smells her chance. She leaves her table at the front of the restaurant and hovers around my booth as I wipe it down. She immediately places her cell phone on the table like she is Christopher Columbus claiming some new piece of territory.

"I've been waiting for this booth, so I'm gonna sit here now," she tells me.

She returns to her original table and gathers her coat, menu and wine and then heads back to her little piece of heaven known as booth 14 where she asks me what the specials are. So now, we have to reset the table in the front and transfer over her one glass of wine to me because another server had originally started the table. That is annoying.

Five minutes later, one of her guests arrives who wants to know the specials and order a drink. I regurgitate the soup of the day (verbally, not actually, although the soup of the day is white kidney bean with kale which sounds disgusting so had I tasted it, it could quite possibly have been regurgitated.) I go get the pinot grigio and then try to carry on with the rest of my tables. Five minutes later, another person arrives at the table who also wants to know the specials and order a drink. I have now spent and inordinate amount of time on one table. Between transferring the check, resetting her first table, making way too many trips for a first round of drinks and reciting our laundry list of specials, this table has already gotten more attention from me than I give to some of my family members, and I haven't even taken their food order yet.

"One more person might show up, but you can go ahead and take our order now?"

I can? I can go ahead and take your order now?? Oh, why thank you, ma'am. My evening will be complete for I have had the wonderful opportunity to take your order now .

Two people were ready and the third only thought he was. "Hmmm, I don't know. You don't have any fish specials?" he asks me.

"No, sir, the only specials I have are the ones I already said. Three times."

"Well, what fish do you have then?"

I glare at the menu he is holding that says we have salmon and tilapia. "We have salmon and tilapia."

I can see two other tables in my station waiting to order and I can see an order of fries in the window that needs to be delivered.

"Salmon and tilapia, huh? Nothing else?"

"No."

"I wish you had swordfish."

"Salmon and tilapia."

"Okay...I guess I'll have a cheese burger then."

I decide that he will be having it medium with cheddar because quite frankly he is out of time with me and they have used up all of my patience.

This is why I hate seating incomplete parties. It throws off the rotation of the restaurant. It always puts us behind because we can't consolidate our trips to the table. Seating incomplete parties requires us to make individual trips to that table over and over again instead of getting all the drink orders in one fell swoop. Who's with me, here? I can't be alone in this thinking, can I? If you have never worked in a restaurant and still can't understand why seating incomplete parties is a bad idea, kindly go back to the top of this post and re-read it out loud. I'm right. I just am.



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