Complaining of the Sake of Complaining

When I first see the man sitting at table 12 (why is always table 12?), my mind flashes back to an old ZZ Top video from the 80's. He has a long grey beard that hangs to his chest and his eyes look possessed like he is the evil brother of old St. Nick. When I see his wife reading the menu to him, I remember that I have waited on them before and that the man is blind. I take back the part about his eyes looking all possessed but there is no excuse for a beard like that. It looks like grey pubes on steroids. I recall that they are difficult and that the last time they were here, the woman sent her burger back for being overcooked, which is pretty normal for Juan who seems to think that well done and medium rare are the same thing. I also recall they are pains in the ass.

"Hello, folks, how are you tonight?" I ask. "Can I get you something to drink yet?"

She orders an Old Fashion and he looks in my general direction to place his drink order.

"I will have a Bombay Sapphire martini. Very dry. Up."

"Yes, sir," I say all the while thinking that martinis are always "up" aren't they? "Would you like an  olive or a twist?"

"Yes," he says and he waits for a laugh from me that never comes. "I also want an onion. I like a salad in my martini." Again he waits for a laugh that ain't coming.

"Alright, so one Old Fashion and a Sapphire martini with a salad, coming right up."

Minutes later, I place the drinks onto the table and I watch the man stick his finger in his to gauge how full it is. They have me recite the specials and then do what most people do which is decide they don't want a special.

As the man licks his gin-soaked fingers, the woman tells me she is ready to order.

"I'm gonna be bad and order a hamburger," she says as if this is the first time in her life she has ordered something that isn't the epitome of health. Her ass tells a different story and it's an autobiography about about fried foods, gravy and donuts. "I want it medium rare. Will they know what that is?"

"And here we go," I think.

"Well, I know that sometimes they have a tendency to overcook burgers, so I will ring it in as rare so we can can cook it more if we need to. Would you like cheese on it?"

"What kind of cheese do you?"

"We have American and cheddar."

"Oh, I didn't know you differentiated between the two here."

To me, that sounded rude. Am I crazy or did that sound rude?

"Cheddar." Her ass quivers with excitement about the additional calories. "And it comes with fries, right?" Her ass yelps with anticipation.

ZZ Top informs me he will have the same thing but he would like bacon on his.

The woman interjects. "Really? You want bacon on it? It was hardly bacon last time."

Now, I know she's being rude so I question her.

"Hardly bacon? What do you mean? Was there not enough of it? Or you didn't like the taste of it?"

"Oh, never mind," she says into her Old Fashion.

I ring in their order, being sure to ask for the burgers rare and about thirteen minutes later, their food is ready. I take the burgers and fries to them and the woman immediately takes a bite of it and discovers it is too done.

"No. They did it again. This is not medium rare." She thrusts the burger towards me so I can get an eagle's eye view of the burger that definitely looks more on the medium side.

I am not pleased. I ordered it rare and here it is way too done and now I have to deal with this bitch. I agree with her that it is not medium rare and offer to make it again.

"No, I'll eat it, but look at it!" She again shows me the burger. "You look disgusted by it. You must not eat meat. Is that why you have that look of disgust on your face?"

I lie and tell her that I very rarely eat meat because I don't want her to know that the look of disgust on my face is because my peripheral vision has caught her husband sucking ketchup out of his beard.

"I'm so sorry. I can have them remake it."

"No, I'll eat it, but it's massacred."

"I'm so sorry, I can have them make remake it."

"So my fries can get cold?"

Her ass makes a sad face."

"I can bring you new fries. I'm so sorry. I can have them make remake it."

"No, I'll eat it. But look at it! This is not medium rare!!"

"I'm so sorry. I can have them make remake it."

"No, I'll eat it, but it's not cooked right."

Yes, bitch this has been established. You have two choices: eat it or let me get you another one. All I can do is punch in the "rare" key on the computer and hope they do it right. Eat it or let me get you another one. She decides to eat it. And eat it she does. Every last bit of burger and fries is gone from both her plate and her husband's although I am not certain he ate all of his. It is quite possible that a good deal of it was lost in that Bermuda Triangle he calls a beard. I swear to god I see a pickle in there and we don't even serve pickles.

They do not want dessert so I give them their check. "Have a good night," I tell them. "I'll pick that up whenver you're ready."

"Well, I wish my burger would have been medium rare."

Again with this?

"I'm so sorry. I could have had them make remake it. I told you that."

"No, it's okay, I just wanted you to know."

Like I didn't already know. Everyone knew. You made sure that I knew and that the tables next to you knew and you'll probably go home and write a Yelp review about it too. Do not complain for the sake of complaining. If you don't want me to fix the problem, then there is no need to tell me over and over again. I want to solve the problem. It will only make my tip better if you leave happy. But if you don't want me to resolvethe issue, then your continual complaining is serving no need other than for you to voice your displeasure. Shut up.

They finally go, leaving their table looking like a a bomb exploded at it with crumbs and burger juices all over the tabletop, chair and floor. I pick up the cash and count the tip. It is slightly more than 20%. You can never tell what you're going to get. Sometimes nice people leave you crap tips and sometimes people with big asses and blind husbands leave you good ones. What a world, what a world.



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