Chew Chew Train

Looking for a new restaurant job sucks big hairy donkey balls covered in dingleberries. There, I said it. What especially sucks about it is that you have to expel all this energy for something you don't even want to do. And at this time of year, no one is hiring because every restaurant is closing up their patio and cutting shifts. Whenever I walk into a place the bartender or waiter says the same thing. "Hi. One for lunch?" Then I have to say that I am looking for a job and I see their eyes shift into a look of pity towards me. They take my resume to "put on file" but I know what that means. It goes into a drawer for a week and then it gets thrown out. I know this because I have been the one that throws that crap out. But I persevere.

Craigslist is a veritable feast for restaurant jobs, but you never know what you are applying for. I saw an ad today that caught my bloodshot eyes. It said "Waitstaff/Entertainers, Weekends Only." I can do that. I can do waitstaff. I can entertain. I sent my crap via the internets I sent my waiter resume, actor resume and headshot. (Don't judge.) Lo and behold I got a call. The guy starts to tell me about the job and I have to interrupt him to ask him which place he is from. Hello, I have emailed about a thousand places. He tells me that he needs waitstaff who can sing and he sees that I have extensive musical theater background. (Don't judge.) So I am thinking it is some lame ass singing waiter job at like a 1950's diner themed restaurant or something. He asks if I can make drinks. "Sure I can, I do it every night." I didn't tell him I meant at home. Then he asks if I can cook. What does he want? A singing waiter/bartender/chef? Jeez, what am I getting into? Then he tells me it is on a train. A train. Uh huh. For a flat fee of $250, he wants me to meet him at an Amtrak station on Saturday at noon to prep the train. Like I know how to prep a train. A salad bar, yes. Train, no. I would be serving food on a train going to Vermont and then entertain the patrons who, he informed me, are all old . And how would I entertain all these old people? Why with a karaoke machine, of course. I kid not. Then we would spend the night in Vermont and I would be home Sunday night at midnight. What is this? I would be gone for 36 hours. I don't even know this man. What if I get on the train and there is some serious Agatha Christie shit going on? Intrigue, murder and mayhem! And how do I know what kind of place I will be spending the night at in Vermont? He said he had a suite for the crew, but what if I end up sharing a bed with a hairy greasy cook named Bruce? And what if I after all this crap he decided to only pay me twenty bucks? And you know what's really fucked up? I actually thought about it doing it. I asked to think about it for 15 minutes and then I came to my senses and called back and said no thanks.

I just want to serve brunch. Is that too much to ask?

The Second Interview...

So I went to the second interview for the big corporate restaurant yesterday. It was scheduled for 3:00 but I was at another restaurant at 2:40 waiting to meet with a manager and getting a little nervous. I finally had to bail and literally run to catch a bus and then run three blocks to make it to my interview on time. Believe it or not, punctuality is hugely important to me and to show up late for an interview is just showing a bad first impression. I made it at 2:59. Mr. Fancy "I Wear a Suit to Work" Manager came to meet me at 3:35. Nice. He asked me all the same questions that the other guy in Chef's Whites asked me last week. I wanted him to notice that I had cut three inches off my hair to show how serious I am about my future with their company, but he never did. And voicing it just seemed to fucking desperate. Even for me.

I asked them some questions and got some startling answers. At peak they have twelve servers on the floor. Twelve! I looked around the restaurant. "How many tables do you have in here?" I asked. He told me that each person has a three table section. At my last job I had the whole place to myself sometimes and had up to 12 or 15 tables at once. What do you do with three tables? hover? Chew their food for them? Wipe their mouths and their asses? Jeez. He told me that sales for a dinner can range from $1000 to $2000 and a slow lunch could be $500. That's not vague or anything. I also asked about the tip out situation. Not too shabby. You only have to tip out 3% of sales and I was really surprised that it was that low. (I worked for a corporate place once that shall remain nameless [Rosa Mexicana] and we had to tip out 40% of our tips. We were supposed to tip the food runner, the bar, the busser, the guacamole maker and the fucking coffee girl. Even if you didn't use coffee. They told me that on day two of training. There was no day three of training.) I fed Mr. Manager some bullshit about how long I have been a waiter and that they wouldn't have to train me to be one. They just have to tell me what steps of service they require for their restaurant. When I told him I had been waiting tables for almost 18 years, I could see the realization on his face that I had been serving food since he was in the fifth grade. That made me cry a little on the inside.

Finally, he told me he would discuss my application with the other managers and decide if they wanted to bring me in for a third interview. A third? I'm sorry, did I accidentally apply for the position of brain surgeon because I thought I was just asking people what food they wanted and then carrying a plate to a table.


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15 Minutes or It's Free!

There are lots of ways that servers can feel demeaned whilst slinging hash. Most of the time these feelings are thrust upon us by the wonderful people who sit in our station, but on occasion it comes from the restaurant itself. Bennigan's in Houston, Texas on FM 1960:

Someone at the top of the food chain, Mr. Bennigan I presume, came up with a wonderful plan to let people order food and then give it to them for free if it wasn't on their table within fifteen minutes. "15 Minutes or it's Free!" they called this promotion. Mr. Bennigan stayed up late one night and thought long and hard to come up with that name. The man is an utter genius, I tell you. This was a lunch promo and it sucked. Maybe they still do it, I dunno. If they do, I feel for the poor bastards who still work for that crap. But hey, then they have a job which is more than I can say so kudos to them for finding a restaurant that manged to stay open for business.

For each table in your station, you had to wear a stopwatch around your neck. So you potentially had nine of these things swinging around as well as all the "flair" crap you were supposed to wear; suspenders, stickers, buttons, whistles, butt plugs and flags. After the table ordered you had to re-read what they wanted and once they approved the order you took a stopwatch from your neck, placed it on the table, and started it. Then you ran like holy hell with fire under your ass to make sure this shit came out on time so it didn't come out of your tips. If anyone else was on the computer, you'd knock their ass down to get to it first. And people thought they would be all cute by ordering very well done steaks and burgers or anything else they thought would take a long time. No one ever ordered a side salad because that would be too easy. Plus it was Texas and people there don't really understand the concept of salad. Unless it's fried.

There was a routine you had to deal with when one of these orders came up. You had to alert the kitchen so they knew it took priority. And you had to give them updates. So every five minutes you had to run to the kitchen and give them a time for each order and then when it was three minutes before FREE FOOD happened, you had to "red flag" it or some shit. It was a real pain in the ass because all you did for lunch was run around to tables and check their fucking clocks and freak out. If you failed to give all the updates to the kitchen then it was not their fault if it went over time. It was the server's fault. And we had to pay for it. That sucked. If you did manage to give all the alerts and it was still late, then the restaurant would pay for it. I never had to pay for it. I made sure I gave every fucking alert because if it was late and I had done my part, I didn't give a rat's cheap ass who paid as long as it wasn't me. I ignored tables if I had to in order to keep track of the clocks. I remember one time, I was seconds away. I had a huge tray of food practically running to get to the table before the timer went off. I pretty much threw the plates at them but it made it on time. The customers were so pissed when that happened. They actually rooted for us to drop a tray or for the computer to jam or whatever else it took for them to not have to pay for their $6.00 burgers.

God I hated that place. I always felt like if they needed food that fast, they should have eaten at Taco Bell or brown bagged it. Just don't make me pretend to be a fucking race horse.

The Job Hunt...

I have been doing the job search thing ever since my last restaurant pulled the rug out from under me giving me three days notice before I was unemployed. "Hi, employees. Today is Thursday. We are closing the restaurant on Sunday. We hate you and don't care about you and fuck you." Yeah. So I have not written about that yet too much because I am still angry, bitter, mad, vindictive and pissed off. In a word: bitchy. Anyhoo, I have been looking for the next food establishment that wants to take advantage of my full on people skills and help me spread joy across the land one table at a fucking time.

Looking at craigslist for a restaurant job is a joke. I love the places that say to send a resume because they only want people with lots and lots of experience. But send a headshot. A headshot? What the fuck is this, A Chorus Line? In other words, they only want to hire you if you're hot. True story, this: A few years ago I was applying for a server job in Chelsea were hot gorgeous men apparently grow on trees. I went into a place that had a help wanted sign in the window. I saw several guys filling out applications at the bar so I asked if I could have one. They told me they were not really hiring anymore. Hmmmm. I looked at the guys at the bar filling out applications and said, "uh, what?" What they meant to say was they were only taking applications from guys who spend their lives at the gym and have the bodies and faces of Adonnis. Now, I may not be a Greek looking God and all that shit, but I am not the fucking Elephant Man. "I am not an animal!" Whatevs with them. I want to do an experiment on craigslist someday and send in two applications for the same job and attach two different headshots. One of a hot model guy and one of a pimply ass weasel looking guy and see who gets called in. And maybe make the hot model guy's resume be pretty lame with like three months of experience but make sure his picture is a torso shot showing off his abs and chest. I'd really like to try that little social experiment, but I am way too fucking lazy to even update my own resume, so the chances that I will go through all that just to prove a point? Slim to none.

I went to an interview yesterday for this really corporate restaurant. I know how they work. I worked at the freakin' Marriott for seven years for Pete's sake. The interviewer was all dressed in Chef's whites like it was big deal or something. "Blah blah blah...what can you bring to our restaurant?...what makes you a good server?...blah blah blah." He asked me when was the last time I went above and beyond to exceed the expectations of a guest? That must be corporate restaurant question number three in the handbook. I told him about how on the last day at my last job someone left his credit card on the table. Well, I knew we were closing down and if he came back the next day we would be closed and he would never get it back. So I ran out to the street and took a chance and went South, running one and half blocks before finding the guy. He was happy and thankful. The interviewer was really impressed with that story and crazy enough it was actually true. Then he asked me to tell him about last time I found myself in a stressful situation and how I handled it. Told him some bullshit about how I "take myself out of the situation" and "breathe deep" and "ask a manager for advice." Whatever. The real way I handle a stressful situation is nothing like that. It involves a cocktail, going into the kitchen and screaming about what a fucking asshole my table is and then clicking into the realization that it's only someone's meal and it doesn't fucking matter. They will have three more meals tomorrow that can be better for them.

But I got a second interview for next week. This close to having another job that will fill me with joy and contempt. I mean contentment.

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In the Beginning, There Was Chicken Fried Steak

I look upon myself on occasion and question where did I gain this stellar attitude towards my service job. How did it all begin that I imbibed such a healthy outlook for working in a restaurant? I flash back to the mid-80's. Madonna is on the radio, Cabbage Patch dolls are all the rage and this girl at school wears a pair of red jelly shoes every day. I was 16 years old and I have my first job ever. I applied for a social security card and started work in a small bum fuck town of South Texas. For $3.35 an hour, I was a dishwasher at one of the premier dining establishments in all the land. The finest place to enjoy a high quality steak that was cooked to perfection and served to you with a smile. Okay, not really it was Sirloin Stockade on Navarro Street in Victoria, Texas. You knew it was fancy because it had a salad bar. With three dressings.

I took the job because two of my best friends worked there as waitresses. They made all the money while I toiled in the back emptying grease traps, taking out garbage and mopping bathrooms. But I was in the food and beverage industry and knew I had found my home. A tear comes to my eye when I realize that this is where it all started. I did not deal with customers very often except when someone spilled something and they told me to go out into the dining room to clean it up. Within my first week, I knew that the job was a piece of crap. But all that money!! Fifteen hours a week at $3.35 was bringing me about 35 bucks week after taxes and I was rich! Rich I tell you! I was on the road to financial prosperity.

One night, someone wanted chicken fried steak without gravy. Well they must have been a foreigner or retarded because everyone knows that you eat chicken fried steak with gravy on it. You just do. Well it went out to the table with gravy on it and I guess therein lies the problem. They gave it back to the waitress who gave it back to the kitchen who then gave it to me, the dishwasher. "Wash this off," my manager told me. "They don't want gravy." "Uh, what? Wash the meat?" I asked. "Yeah, rinse off the gravy, they don't want it." I thought they were playing a joke on the new kid. I laughed nervously, not sure what to do. My manager rolled his eyes and took the spray nozzle from my hands. It was one of those big silver kind that hang from a spring. He held the chicken fried steak with his other hand and sprayed the gravy off of it and then threw the soaking wet piece of meat back onto the plate. I stared at him in disbelief as he walked back towards the line. He tossed the meat into the fryer for a few minutes and then pulled it out, put it on a fresh plate, handed it back to the waitress who took it back to the table. Without the gravy, just as the customer wanted it.

I learned that night that we in the food service industry have a responsibility to make our customers happy. Whether it be giving them a simple smile, making sure they have the perfect ambiance or even just washing off their meat to get the gravy off of it, we are there to please. I thank you, Sirloin Stockade manager. Thank you for teaching me how to be the perfect bitchy waiter. God bless you.

P.S. I quit three weeks later because according to my diary, it was "interfering with my social life."

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Rooty Tooty Fresh and Bitchy

I can't stand people who order cocktails and ask for a little extra liquor. And then when I give it to them, they act all surprised that I charged them for it. Sorry, drunky, but you gotta pay to play. Why do people think extra shots are free? Would they ask for a burger but say "can you just thrown onan extra patty for me?" No, they wouldn't. Well some would, but they are douchebags. Most of the time, a cocktail is measured and in some states it is illegal to give more than the maximum amount in one drink. Obviously these alcoholics need to drink at home or go to those lame ass places that don't have a liquor license and they can just BYOB. Then they can drink themselves into an alcoholic stupor and get a taste of alcohol poisoning (which is not as fun as it sounds. Trust.)

Picture it: Houlihans's Times Square. We would get tons of idiots who wanted to have a fancy drink before seeing Cats or Phantom of the Oprah. They look at the menu with dumb ass names of the cocktails. Someone actually got paid to come up with these names? "Oooh, can I have a Bahama Mama? No, wait make that a Jamaica Me Crazy. No wait can you make a Lemon Drop shot? Wait, maybe a Blue Indigo Go Go...I dunno! What's good?" I smile and say, "they are all equally delicious" as I think, "they are all equally overpriced." So they finally decide on some stupid ass drink like the Very Very Banana Berry and say "but make sure there is plenty of liquor in it." Fine. I go to the bartender who was mean, bitchy, crazy, a habitual liar and I hated her (if you're reading this, Hi Vivian!) and say how important it is for this very special guest to have extra liquor in their drink. So she makes it a virgin. But then we took the straw and poured the liquor directly into it so that the first sip they would have would be pure alcohol. And then it would be gone. It worked every time. I got such joy at watching them take that first swig and be shocked by the alcohol content but not wanting to complain because they knew they asked for it. Their eyes would roll and their moths would pucker and I would say, "is everything okay?" And they would squeak out "yum, delicious, thank you." Off I go knowing that the rest of their drink was nothing but "fresh" fruit that came from a bottle of syrupy gunk, ice and artificial flavorings. Have fun at Les Miserables...

Kiss My Grits!!

I am dedicating this post to my favorite television waitress of all time. She is the brilliant and perfectly bitchy, but in a nice way, Florence Jean Castlebury. Better known as Flo, she worked at Mel's Diner on the hit television sitcom Alice. It ran from 1976 to 1985 and I watched that shit every week. Yes, I was alive to watch it. I am an old bitchy waiter. Flo was trashy, funny, slutty, easy, bitchy, and tacky. In other words, my hero. She wasn't afraid to tell her boss to fuck off, but because she was on television she had to settle for "kiss my grits." If someone told her that the food sucked she agreed with them and I never once saw her do an ounce of sidework.

I loved her so much I went as her for Halloween a few years ago. When it comes to a Halloween costume, I don't fuck around. I went to town on it. At the time, I was working for a mammoth hotel industry with very strict rules about what to wear and how to behave. I won't say which one in order to protect their vision of how an employee of theirs should behave while working for them and afterwards. It was Marriott. I asked them one October if we would be allowed to dress up for Halloween. They foolishly said yes. They probably thought I would wear a silly hat or put some stupid ass ears on my head. No no, uh uh. I dragged my ass up to work an hour early and went full drag. Bra, panties, slip, wig, earrings, make up, the works. I sashayed into the dining room and their jaws dropped. I was Flo. I spent the whole day in character. My tables didn't know what to do with me. We served a lot of attorneys and judges and businessmen and they could not handle me. I called them "sugar" and "sweetie" and told them what they wanted before they told me. They were filled with discomfort that there was a man dressed up like a lady and he was flirting with them. The next year, we were not allowed to wear a costume. But that year I had a blast. And I won the costume contest too. Best tip of the day.



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What Not to Wear

Uniforms are a pain in my ass. For most of my illustrious food service career, I have had to wear one. I suppose I don't mind, because it makes it easy to decide what to wear each day. Hmmm, this stained black polo or that stained black polo? These ripped up khakis or the khakis with the hole in the back pocket? What really irks me is when the restaurant decides what you have to wear, but they don't provide it. They will give you a list of approved stores to buy your pants from; The Gap or Old Navy usually. Or they will say to get some (totally lame ass) Dockers or (stiff as board) Dickies workpants. They will tell you which style to get and how much they will cost but what they won't do is pay for it. I don't get that. I feel like if they are going to decide what I have to wear, then they should dole out some dollars for that shit. I don't wear khakis in my real life so why do I want to pay for them to wear to work? And who the fuck wears Dickies anywhere except at a job where you are required to wear them? Seriously, they are horrible And the shirts? They are always the same thing. A black or white polo or a blue oxford. And they never pay for that either. Sometimes they will give you a t-shirt or something to wear and they will give you the first one for free. Wow. Thanks. But if you want two or three so you don't have to wash a load of fucking clothes after every shift, you gotta pay for it. Or what is even shittier is when they do provide the uniform but they take it out of your paycheck. Excuse me? You're gonna give me two ugly ass shirts and two pairs of pants that don't fit and it will come out of my paycheck for the next zillion weeks because they are overpriced and I only make $3.00 an hour? Fuck you.

Then I got a job where I could wear whatever I wanted. "Oh how it will make my day so much better to wear my own clothes," I thought. That lasted about a day. You quickly realize you don't want to wear your good clothes to work because they just get covered in honey mustard, coffee and shame. The Dickies may suck, but if you spill anything on them it doesn't matter. I don't know what those bitches are made of, but nothing sticks to them. Food and liquid just bounces right off like the fabric is Teflon. So even though my last job allowed me to wear my own clothes, within a few weeks that too had become a uniform: one pair of jeans (stained, ripped at the bottom) and three different t-shirts that I didn't care how much honey mustard or coffee got on. As for the shame part? Whatever. I have been serving food for so long the shame has permanently attached itself to my epidermis.

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The Other Side of the Menu

So I went to breakfast today at a restaurant and sat at a table and had someone wait on me. I would normally be doing the serving today, but my asswipe boss closed down the restaurant I worked at with only three days notice and now this Bitchy Waiter doesn't have a job. I am just Bitchy right now. And mad. And bitter. And unemployed. Anyhoo. As I was a customer today, I looked around at what the waitress had to deal with and I felt her pain.

I saw the old couple who sat at one table to order and then a few minutes later got up to change tables. As she shoved the table out of her way she barked out, "we're changing tables, but we'll have the same order." Really, lady? Do you think the waitress is as dumb as you are fat? I am certain that she assumes that you still want your eggs cooked the same way even though you are sitting at a different table now. Or does the lady think that if you sit at one table you have to eat oatmeal and at another table you have to eat cream of wheat? What a dumb bitch.

I saw the man next to me eat his meal and then when the waitress thought he was ready to go he ordered another bagel. That, sir, is annoying. She wants you out of her station when you are done, not stick around for 20 minuter longer for you to nibble on a bagel as you and your annoying girlfriend discuss the merits of the PC/Mac Guy commercials. Seriously, they discussed this for about an eternity. "How did they get the parts? How often do they shoot a commercial? Did you know that one guy really works for Microsoft?" I wanted to stick a fork in her throat to get her to shut up about it. When the bagel came out, he sent it back because it wasn't toasted enough. But he didn't say it nicely. Oh no. He did not realize there are two ways to ask for something. Nice: "Hi, I'm sorry, but would it be possible for this to be toasted a bit more, please?" His way: (with eye roll) "Uh, this needs to be toasted. It's warm but it's not toasted." Then the whole time it was being toasted to his liking, he was craning his neck around trying to see when it was coming back. And sighing. What a douche.

I ate my waffle and enjoyed my time on the other side of the menu. I left her a 28% tip.

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NEW DOMAIN NAME

Bitchy Waiter is now THE Bitchy Waiter. That's right. I am it. THE one. And even easier to find now at www.thebitchywaiter.com (shout out to Chris, holla!)

So if you have me linked on your blog role, or your favorites make sure you notice the URL change.

The Bitchy Waiter thanks you.

Waiter, There's Something in My Food

We have all found something in food that should not be there haven't we? If we find a hair in our salad at home, we simply remove it and go on eating, assuming that the hair is our own and not from one of the people at the grocery store who stocked the produce. However, when someone finds a hair in their food at the restaurant there is absolutely no way that it can be anyone else's hair except the waiter. And they freak out. I mean, it's a hair. Get over it. Some people act like it's a poison that is going to burn their throat if it gets anywhere near them. But a hair? That's nothin'.

I worked at a place once where the kitchen was full of douchebag cooks who got a kick out of making the servers miserable. Theoretically, it was Bennigan's in Houston, Texas on Shepherd at Highway 59, but it really could be any restaurant in the world because nine times out of ten, the kitchen is full of douchebag cooks. Anyhoo, one of my tables had ordered the delicious and freshly thawed Brownie Bottom Sundae Death by Chocolate Creamy Fudge Pie or whatever the fuck they called it. My table called me over because they had found something in their dessert that was neither chocolate nor brownie. Even I was surprised at what was before my eyes. I guess the dessert "chef" was pissed at me for having a more fulfilling life than him and he was seeking vengeance. Under the ice cream and covered in fudge, there was a fish tail that had been cut off from the deep fried crispy catfish. A fucking fish tail poking out of the gooey chocolate goodness. There was no way to deny it. It was not a hair that I could suggest was one of their own or a bug that only proves that out produce is "unbelievably fresh." It was a fucking raw fish tail in their dessert. I stifled laughter because even though I was mad that this asshat cook was fucking with my tip, it was pretty funny. The table was all upset about it and blah blah bah, but you just tell them that the next dessert is free or you give them a coupon to buy one plate of nachos and get another one for half-price, and they get over it real quick.

I never acknowledged it to the cook because I didn't want to give him the satisfaction. I saw him staring at me trying to gauge my reaction, but I gave him nothing. Well nothing except a glob of mayonnaise under the door handle of his car, but other than that, nothing.

You Say Potato I Say Potato

Why do people go all nuts and balls over sweet potato fries? Sure, they may be a bit better for you than the lowly russet or Yukon gold, but they still get sliced up and dropped into a bubbling vat of oil and saturated fat and then fried fried fried. But when people find out that they can have sweet potato fries as an option it suddenly justifies the sixteen ounce hamburger they are having that is covered with melted cheese and the milkshake to wash it all down. Mothers always choose the sweet potato fries for their kids even though we all know that a kid wants a real french fry and not some orange looking french fry wanna be. Unless it's a Cheeto, then that would be perfectly okay.

I guess the sweet potato is loaded with antioxidants. They help slow the aging process of the skin and organs and lower the chance of cancer and all kinds of other healthy shit. But blueberries are full of antioxidants too and no one is going to think it's okay to fry a bunch of blueberries and call it a health food. Hold the phone. Hold. The. Phone. I think I may have just created my next endeavor. I will open a health food restaurant and only serve foods that are high in antioxidants. And I will fry them all. Fried pinto beans, fried artichokes, fried prunes, fried strawberries and fried pecans. All in the name of health food! And when some physically fitness minded bitch comes in and says to me that a plate of fried prunes is not a health food, I will point out to her that the prune is full of antioxidants. And if she doesn't like my idea of health food then she can roll up her yoga mat and stuff it up her well toned vag.

The next time you have the option of sweet potato fries or real fries, do yourself a favor. Just get the real ones. That's what you want and you know it. If you really feel the need to be healthy order a fucking salad.


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My Friend, Liquor

Many times people ask me how I get through my day at work if I obviously find so little enjoyment in it. True, there is very little to enjoy while waiting tables but I do look forward to walking out of the Hell Hole with a wad of cash in my pocket. Cash does wonders for my attitude. So does alcohol. Yes, it helps a lot. Luckily I work at a place where it is relatively easy to slip in a few cocktails in between ignoring customers, short changing people and grazing in the kitchen. I think I shall write about how I got through last Thursday night.

The beginning of my shift: I started with a lovely cocktail that was made especially for me by the bartender. It had Hpnotiq and Stoli Vanilla vodka straight up. What is Hpnotiq, you may ask? I stole this from the website: Hynotiq is an exquisite blend of premium vodka, natural tropical fruit juices and a hint of Cognac which combine to produce its signature frosted blue. It's also fucking delicious and makes it much easier to deal with that bitch on table 201 who wants a veggie burger but only if it's going to be "a really good one."

The middle of my shift: I went up to my dear friend the margarita machine. I said to it, "How you doin'?" I kissed it, told it that I loved it and fondled the lever until it rewarded me with a tall glass of frosty tequila love. I then added a shot of Watermelon Pucker and some fresh squeezed watermelon juice. I swallowed.

The end of my shift: I had made it through the night without telling anyone to fuck off and I deserved compensation for that. Therefore, I asked the bartender to hook me up and she made me a Lemon Shot. Don't know what was in it but it was good. Real good. Sweet and tart at the same time, just like me, and the perfect foil to my bad attitude.


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Annoying Customer of the Day

My patience was thin the other day at work. Maybe because it was my last day at that restaurant before it went 86'ed and I was filled with anger that I was given only three days notice before I was to be unemployed. Or maybe it was just the usual anger and bitterness I always have while slinging hash. Anyhoo. Table 506. On the patio despite 90+ degree temperatures and 1000% humidity. Lady asks me if we have hot chocolate. Hot chocolate? Is she freaking kidding me? I looked at her like she had a tail growing out of her ass (which she very well may have had, because she was quite obviously a snort pig). I told her yes we did even though I hate making it. Then she asked if it was the same hot chocolate that we used to have when we were the other restaurant. Again I looked at her like she had a tail growing out of her fat ass and said, "Excuse me?" She went on to tell me that we used to be known for our hot chocolate before we became this restaurant. I had to explain to the stupid bitch that that was then and this is now. That restaurant closed and now this one opened so we are two different places. She didn't really get it. Dumb, I suppose. And unattractive. She finally ordered a hot chocolate with extra whipped cream which we don't have. We have mascarpone. So she asked for that in her hot chocolate again proving what a dumb cow she was. If you don't know what it is, it is NOT whipped cream. It is sort of like Italian cream cheese. Not really for hot chocolate, but for this bitch I gave it to her. It sunk to the bottom. And I didn't care.

Then she told me she wanted toast, buttered. I told her that the toast comes out with the butter on the side so people can decide how much to put on for themselves. "Oh, can you ask them to butter it for me?" I looked at her hands to confirm that she was not deformed or limbless and told her I will ask them to but they will probably forget out of habit. "Well, it's not too much to ask for them to butter my toast is it? I just hate buttering toast." She said it like buttering toast was a fate worse than death. Like it was right up there with doing her laundry, peeling off wallpaper or trying to reach around her enormous girth to wipe her own ass. How terrible it is to have to butter your toast! I think it came to her buttered. I never asked. I also never asked how the hot chocolate was with the pile of cream cheese sitting at the bottom of the mug. I was moments away from being unemployed and her issues were the least of my worries. She will probably be back there three weeks from now when the restaurant is a new one and she will still be asking for shit off a menu that does not exist.


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Whole Grain Goodness

O' those tasty toasted crunchy whole grain oats that we know and love as Cherrios. Not only are they delicious, tasty and heart healthy, they are a big fat pain in my little skinny ass. Parents feed these things to kids like they are vitamins. I see parents with zip lock baggies stuffed full of the wholesome whole grain goodness that they let their kids eat and play with. What they don't ever do though is pick these little shits up off the goddamn floor when they leave. Something about all that soluble fiber makes for a big mess when I step on them because the kids think it is more fun to throw them to the floor than stuff them in their mouths. Yes, I realize that one serving is 50% of your daily recommended allowance of folic acid, 25% of your magnesium and that it only has 1 gram of sugar and no artificial flavors or colors. But Jesus, I have to sweep that crap up off the floor. Hundreds of Cheerios a week go into the dust bin because these fucking parents think it's cute to give a handful of the cereal to their kids to occupy themselves with.

How can this problem be solved? First off, parents should not bring kids into my station. Period. If they do, I would like for them to strap a feedbag onto the child's face so that all food that does not make it into the mouth would remain in said feedbag. Ideally the children should only be fed things that do not crumble or fall apart. Something like ice would be perfect. If they need more nutrition than they would receive from ice, then I would suggest freezing chicken stock into ice cubes and feeding them that. If that is not satisfactory to the parent or child, they could be fed a grape. One solitary grape that the parent is responsible for placing directly into the mouth. Anything is better than the crumbly bitches I know as Cheerios. Perhaps the most obvious solution to this Cheerio dilemma that I face would be birth control. Put a lid on it.


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Just Pay the Damn Check

You know, I don't give a shit who pays for the fucking check. It does not matter to me (or any other waiter) who paid last, who owes whom, who's turn it is to treat, who's birthday it is or who makes more money. We just want you to pay the damn check and get out so we can start talking about you. Nothing is more irritating than listening to two old ladies argue over who will pay for the two soups that weren't hot enough and the two hot teas that weren't Lipton. Just split it or give me two credit cards and shut up.

It happens all the time. Someone asks for the check and then the other person has to say "Oh no, you don't! I'm paying." "No I'm paying'" "No I am..." and so on and so forth. Or what really cracks my shit up is when one person says they are going to the bathroom and then sneaks over to me in the sidestand to interrupt my mimosa drinking to slip me a credit card. And then ten minutes later the other person does the same thing because they both want to be the big shot and be the one who pays. I always ask who is going to tip better. I have seen people get seriously upset about the whole stupid thing. A few years ago two men were both grabbing for the check to pay for it and prove who had the biggest penis when they got too into it. They were grabbing and pushing and eventually tilted the table and knocked over a few glasses that fell and shattered. Now who do you think had to clean that shit up? I just grabbed the check and said "DECIDE!" Now when two people argue about it I have a system. The first credit card that touches my hand is the one who pays. No exceptions whatsoever. A man once gave me his card and then the lady was saying "No, wait I have to pay because it's his birthday. Wait wait! Take my credit card." She continued whining as I swiped his card and made the man pay for his own birthday dinner. When I came back to the table I told them my rule as she shot me a look of hatred. I shot it right back to her and as I handed the check to the man, I smiled and said "happy birthday."

Soapy Water? No, it Isn't

I hate to repeat my myself. I hate to repeat myself. But I hate dogs on the patio of my restaurant. But I hate dogs on the patio of my restaurant. Today I had a dog owner on the patio who blatantly ignored the New York City law of having no dogs on the patio of a restaurant. It is an eating place, after all. However, this is the same lady who ignored the big sign telling her to not seat herself on the patio so she obviously does not appreciate rules and regulations. She was fat. Or maybe pregnant. Not sure. She had her dog with her who she at first carried like a baby. What a sad sad loser lady. She grunted out that she wanted some orange juice. Seriously, as she said it, it sounded like she was taking a dump and was really trying to squeeze out some business. I obeyed and ran away to get it for her fearing that she was in fact defecating right there at table 504. Her husband eventually showed up and I was amazed that a woman like this had found a partner to spend her life with. Apparently, her husband was retarded, blind, deaf and stupid. Then she asked me for some water for her dog. I was in a good mood and didn't mind doing it at all. I went in, opened a package of "to-go" containers, filled one with water from the tap, placed it by the illegal canine and went on with my business. One minute later, she flags me down. I thought maybe her water broke or she was having a muscle spasm. "This water is soapy!" I looked at it and saw some bubbles. "No, it isn't. It's just water from the tap making bubbles against the plastic." "No," she burped, "it's soapy." "No, it is not soapy," say I. "I just pulled this container out of the box and its never been near soap. I just put tap water in it." Bitch didn't believe me. "Never mind. I am not giving my dog soapy water. I will just give him some of mine." No sweat off my back, bitch. I didn't really want to get it in the first place. So what did she do? She emptied the bowl that holds jelly packets and threw them on the table. And then poured her water into it and put it on the sidewalk. Does she really think that the jelly bowl that has been there for days and has peoples hands constantly in it is cleaner than the never before used container I had given her? That jelly bowl is so full of dirt, germs and typhoid that I don't even like to touch it. Drink away, doggie, drink away.

By letting her bring the dog, then someone else brought two more and then someone brought a Golden Retriever. Gorgeous dog and all that but way too big to be out there. Once I saw it shake and I could see hair flying all over the place. I know for certain that some of it floated onto table 502's plate of food, but I ignored it. I think they were done anyway. Oh yeah, and plus I didn't give a poop.


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Stroller Bitches From Hell

Yes, another posting about the Upper East Side women and their massive strollers and even more massive whore-like attitudes. And this time, I have photographic evidence of these mythical creatures who seek me out to torture me with too many questions and far too many special dietary needs. I have taken the time to block the faces of these Cunty McCunt Cunts in order to protect their identity.

They rolled in the other day and sat at the patio right under the sign that says PLEASE SEE HOSTESS INSIDE RESTAURANT BEFORE SEATING. They of course did not do that, because their heads were too far up their own asses to be able to see the sign. Although I saw them sit down, I waited until one came inside to ask for a menu before I acknowledged their presence. One lady had a double stroller while the other lady had a single stroller. They both, however, had bitch face. As you can see from the photo, the strollers took up a ridiculous amount of space. The lady with the double had so much crap inside the stroller I cannot even be certain that there were actual babies inside it. All I could see were about fifty blankets, a dozen pillows, a ton of stuffed animals and occasionally I would hear a muffled cry. I can't be sure what the cry was about but I was pretty sure it was saying that she hated her mother and couldn't wait to learn to talk so she could tell her so. They barricaded themselves behind the table making it impossible for me to get within two feet of the table. So every time I needed to serve them, I just handed shit to them They looked irritated about that and it made me happy. I just handed them the waters (which I never refilled) and then handed them their salads (which had plenty of substitutions and things on the side). I never cleared the table because I honestly couldn't get to it. Do you see the size of those fucking strollers? Is that really necessary? These children don't live in the strollers do they? Please tell me that I am not looking at their bedrooms that they just added wheels to.

They never said thank you or looked at me. I went out to them two times to see if they were ready to pay but the check just sat in the lap of Bitch Face #1. Later I looked out to the patio and she was holding the check up in the air with her back to me and having no idea if I was anywhere near her. She just held the presenter up in the air as if to say, "I am ready for you to take care of my needs now. I am Queen of all Stroller Moms and also my vagina smells bad." When they finally left, their table was a wreck. They left four jars of baby food and a pile of baby wipes that were covered in something that better have been mashed peas and not something else that baby wipes commonly wipe. As they rolled away, I cursed them under my breath and felt sorry for the babies who will no doubt grow up to be just as annoying as their mothers. Someone should rescue those babies. And teach them how to walk because those strollers are fucking ridiculous.


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I hate desserts!!

The Murphy's Law of food service is that the last table of the day is the one that will keep you there the longest. It never fails. It's like the last table that is sat in your station is destined to make you stay at work longer than you want to. Okay, really the first table sat keeps me there longer than I want to because I don't want to be there at all in the first place.

I was working a ten hour shift recently. Don't even get me started on the whole working for ten hours straight thing. My lazy ass can barely handle four hours so it was like this endless day of customers continuously asking me for things. "Can I get water? Can I get coffee? Can I get eggs? I need this I need that. Me me me!" What about my needs?? I wanted to pull my freaking hair out but I didn't because it looked really really good that day. I had tried a new product that morning and it made my hair all bouncy and shit. I digress. I was scheduled to leave at 9:00 PM which wouldn't have been so bad if I hadn't started at 10:30 AM. Seriously, I felt like Abraham Lincoln should come in at any minute with a proclamation or something. My last table was nice enough. It looked like I was going to leave earlier than expected because it had slowed down. Then it happened. As I was presenting them with their check at a mere 8:00 PM and salivating over the possibility of leaving an hour early, they asked to see the dreaded dessert menu. After 9 1/2 hours, well over one hundred people, and close to $1700 in sales, I get to sell my first dessert. Oh boy. I shot her a look from hell as I waited for the next request. "Oh and can we get some coffee?" All day no one had felt the need to have dessert and judging by the hips on this lady she didn't need it either. But she ordered it. I waited about a thousand hours for the kitchen to make the damn thing and rushed it over to her along with the check. Which sat there. And sat there. And sat there. Meanwhile, I sat at the bar feeling my patience grow thinner than the hamburger patties we sell. She didn't eat that dessert. She made love to it in slow motion. She fondled each spoonful with her tongue and then would slowly sip her coffee as I sat near by watching my Golden Years rapidly approaching. By the time she was done I fully expected my first social security check to be waiting for me.

She finally paid her check and said thank you. She left me a nice tip. I was so eager to get out of there, I beat her out of the door. She was still sitting there as I walked past her booth's window. I waved. She looked at her empty coffee cup. It stayed empty unless she helped herself to a refill. I was done for the day.


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No Dogs Allowed

Pets do not belong inside restaurants. They just don't. Now if your pet was a roach, rat, mouse, ant or spider, then it would fit right in to most of the restaurants that I have worked in. However, if your pet is a dog, dog, dog, dog or dog, then do not bring it to the restaurant with you. They are not welcome there. Besides that, it's kinda fucking illegal. People in New York City think they can bring their dogs with them anywhere they go and when people sit on the patio (AKA sidewalk) of my restaurant they see no problem with parking the pooch right beside them. We gave up a long time ago telling them it's against the law because if they get a ticket, who cares? But c'mon. Today I had three dogs on the patio at the same time. Their stupid ass owners tie them to the chair and then make me step over them every time I have to walk through my station. Now I love dogs. Just as much as I love babies. And you know how much I love babies... But I don't want to take time out from ignoring my tables so that I can go get a bowl of water for some bitch's bitch. I don't want to get my leg bit off if I accidentally step on the dog's tail and I really don't want to watch someone feed their dog.

Table 500. A two-top. I walk out to the patio and see that they have dumped the jelly packets out of the bowl that was on the table and now that bowl is on the sidewalk filled with eggs and bacon. And a fucking dog is eating out of it. Is that right? Hell no, that ain't right. I gots no problem with people feeding their dog off a plate. They can let their dog drink water out of a vase from the Ming Dynasty for all I care, but not at a restaurant. People don't want to see that and wonder how many other dogs have eaten off the plate that now holds their over-cooked Eggs Benedict. I gave the lady a look that said, "Really? Are you fucking kidding me? Are you fucking kidding me?" She looked back at me with a sheepish smile and said, "He was hungry." Cut to me giving a eye roll that almost threw my eye socket out of whack. The lady knew it was wrong. Even the dog gave me a look. The look said, "I know my owner is a dumb ho and just so you know, she ain't gonna tip you."


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Mr. Nice Guy

I have heard from some that the last post went too far. Soggy biscuit, anyone? Anyhoo, I have decided to go a different direction with this posting. Just this once.

Yesterday at the restaurant I was in a really good mood. Maybe it had something to do with that caprihina I had during lunch, but all seemed right with being a waiter. I was okay serving food despite the crazy ladies, the stroller moms and the women who complained that their food was taking too long even though it only took eight minutes for it to get to their table (Yeah, we have computers, so we know how long it takes. Don't tell us it took thirty minutes, because we will look at the computer and tell you that you are wrong.) Even though the teenagers left me $1.25 on a $48.75 check, for some reason food service seemed okay. At the end of the day, my last table came in. It was a two-top. After they paid their check they called me over to the table. I figured they wanted to tell me that the nachos didn't have enough cheese or the Coke was flat. They told me:

We moved to New York City a few years ago and we wanted to to tell you that you are the first waiter we have ever had that didn't seem like he hated to be at his job. You are friendly, happy and we can just tell you are a nice person. We just wanted to say thank you for that and we appreciate your service.

I know. Crazy. It's sweeter than the imitation maple syrup we serve with the pancakes. I told them that I had just had six weeks off and to come back in two weeks so they could see the real me.


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Soggy Biscuit

When we opened the restaurant today, nobody cared. We sat there for thirty minutes before someone peeked inside to see if we were open. The first table was a pair of ladies. I think they were sisters. Maybe friends. Whatever the relationship, they were crazy. When the first lady came in the sister was behind her screaming "You're sick! You're sick!" Great. This is going to be fun. The crazy sister started yelling at the crazier sister to be quiet. Then Crazier said she was going to sit on the patio if Crazy was going to sit inside. Crazy told her to just sit down and so Crazier did as she was told. I was so not in the mood. They took forever to sit down and to open the menu. Crazy brought her own coffee so I knew she didn't need anything to drink. Finally, she told me what she wanted. "I want that one egg on the little..whadaya call it... the little uh...thingy..." "Biscuit?" I ask. ""Yes. Biscuit!" "Yeah, we don't have those anymore since we changed the menu about five months ago and we have never had them on a weekday." Crazy was so confused then. Crazier wasn't eating. Water was all she needed. I left Crazy to stew in her addled confusion. She finally ordered two scrambled eggs and rye toast. But then she called me over later to bring her another glass of water because her sister had touched it. Whatever, Crazy. Crazier touched your glass and your crazy ass can't handle it? That's because you're Crazy. I think she was still upset that she wasn't eating a biscuit.

When she left she had a big discussion with me about how Madonna supposedly moving into the neighborhood and that maybe she would come to the restaurant some day. Uh huh. Madonna is really going to Vogue her Material World ass into my station to have a seven dollar plate of eggs. Crazier had already meandered out of the restaurant mumbling to herself. I looked at the check presenter and she left me a dollar which was really no big deal, because she only spent seven bucks. She got on my nerves but I sorta felt bad for her being saddled with the Crazier sister and all. I suddenly wished we had biscuits to give to her. A nice big soggy biscuit. If you don't know the definition of a soggy biscuit, click the link. Beware. It ain't nice. At all. You have been warned. soggy biscuit definition.

Welcome to Baby Land

I have been back to my restaurant for two shifts after a six week hiatus. Turns out nothing has changed. As I came up out of the subway to go to work, I saw the same homeless guy with the same cardboard sign saying he had the same disease he had the last time I saw him. I was immersed in depression. Not for him. Me. All of a sudden it was blatantly clear that things were the going to be the same at the restaurant as they were six weeks ago when I left.

Today at lunch, I was reminded yet again how horrible Upper East Side mothers are. Seriously, do they take a class at the Learning Annex on how to be so fucking annoying? Table one: three moms, three babies, three enormous strollers. And as usual, they barricaded themselves in making it impossible for me to serve them anything. They even acknowledged it saying "oh, we're making it really difficult for you, aren't we?" but did they move the strollers? Of course not. That would be considerate and also make sense and Upper East Side mothers don't do those things.

Table two: two women, two babies, two gigantic strollers. I knew these ladies would be a pill when one of them asked me if the Chopped Salad was chopped. No, the Chopped Salad is a sandwich. Bitch, please. Then they sent the Diet Coke back because it tasted funny, even though nobody else in the place felt that way about it. I think their taste buds were off from having their heads too far up their asses. And of course they needed lemons for the water. And when I told one we didn't have a baby changing station, you'd think I just farted on her. Bitch, please, I fart as I walk by you, not on you.

Table three: two ladies, one baby, one stroller that was bigger than a mid-town studio. This mom was flabbergasted when I told her we didn't have American cheese for her brat to chew on. "Really? No American cheese?" "Really," say I. "Well, don't you think that's weird?" she asks. I told her that I personally don't like American cheese so it made me very happy that we didn't have it. That shut her up and she ordered mozzarella. Her food came out and she was upset that her veggie burger came with fries (read the menu) and needed me to take them off the plate. And then she sent back her brat's broccoli because it wasn't soft enough. She prefaced it with a "I hate to be a pain in the neck, but..." Bitch, please. If you hate doing it don't do it. I hate having my eyes poked out with toothpicks so I just don't do it. Take a lesson. The baby threw it's rattle on the ground after banging it on the table for about a hundred hours. When I served their food, I kicked it under the booth so maybe they would forget about it and then I could throw it away when they left. They saw me though. "Oops, I didn't see that there." I didn't get it for them though. I made the fat grandma get it. Who cares?

It's so nice to be back at work. God how I missed it. I need a drink.


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Hostess with the Mostess

We all know what a restaurant hostess is, don't we? A hostess is the girl at a restaurant who will greet a customer and then take them to their table and hand them a menu. They are there for a reason. For some who work at the restaurant, the hostess serves other purposes. Sometimes they are fun to pick on, yell at, take out your hostility on and in some cases they are good for oral sex in the parking lot after closing. Or maybe that was just this one hostess I knew who may or may not have worked at the Bennigan's on FM 1960 in Humble, Texas during the early 90's. (Shout out to Carol. Holla!) I digress. They are there for a reason. They know which server gets the next table to insure proper rotation of customers for each waiter. They also know to not put someone in a station if that server is too busy to properly accommodate the needs of the guest. Or whatever.

Nevertheless, customers will continually ignore the hostess and plop their fat asses wherever the fuck they want to. They all want to sit by the window or the booth or away from the kitchen or the bathroom. Someday, I want to design a fucking restaurant where every table is a booth next to a goddamn window. It makes me nuts when people seat themselves. If the table is dirty, don't sit there. It's dirty because someone didn't have time to clean it so why do you think we will suddenly have time to clean just because you slid your pot belly ass all up in there? It certainly does not make me hurry. I will usually ignore them completely until they flag me down to complain that their table is dirty. I always say some bullshit like "Oh I didn't realize you were a new table. I thought these were your dishes and you were getting ready to leave. I am so sorry. Did the hostess seat you here at a dirty table? That's it for her. I am going to tell the manager on her. They need to fire her."

And don't even get me started on people who seat themselves on the patio right under the big sign that says "see hostess inside before seating." Idiots. All of them. Please utilize the skills of the restaurant hostess. And no, I am not referring to the oral sex skills that she will be demonstrating on the manager after two shots of a lemon drop and a free order of nachos.


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Time to be a waiter again

After six weeks of not being a waiter, the time is drawing near for me to don my apron, slap on a fake smile, put some pens in my pocket and get back to the wonderful world of food service. It has been a glorious six weeks. Let me mention some of things I have not done lately. Never once have I considered if a ketchup bottle needed refilling. I did not slice lemons, limes or any other bar fruit unless it was for a cocktail that I myself would be drinking. Okay, well actually that was probably about the same amount of slicing. This bitchy waiter drinks. A lot. I have not dragged a high chair over to any women who then complained that the straps were broken and therefore unsafe for their precious bundle of joy. (We keep the straps broken to discourage people from returning with their precious bundles of joy.) I have not memorized any lunch specials to spout off to my tables. Strike that. I have not memorized lunch specials for years. Lunch specials are a waste of my time. The menu has plenty of options. I have not wiped down a table, set up a patio, filled a salt shaker, made a decaf skim latte with extra foam for an old lady who will send it back because it's not how she wants it and I have not had to tip out a bus boy who doesn't do shit.

Oh, how I have loved my six weeks of being a non-waiter. A single tear falls from my bloodshot eye as I realize that in two days I am the slave of food service once again. Bitchy waiter lives on.

All-you-can-eat!!!

Buffets are an evil thing. I worked at a place once that had an all-you-can-eat buffet for lunch. It was really popular because people are basically pigs and want anything they can stuff in their mouths if it is included in the price. I won't say the name of the place, but let's just say it was the Marriott in downtown Brooklyn. Anyhoo, the price was $19.95 and it included everything that was available that day; typically two soups, three or four salads, two entrees, two sides, a carving station, fruit and desserts and breads o' plenty. And people really took the all you can eat thing for serious. Is it really neccessary to take four rolls when you know you will maybe eat two? And why take five desserts when you really just want a bite of each one? Kids were the worst. Let me rephrase: FAT kids were the worst. I'd see so many porky piglets all jazzed up on Coca Cola waddle their fatt asses up to the dessert bar and pretty much drool on every piece of cheesecake before they decided which one they wanted to inhale. I once watched this woman pile her plate full of rolls and then she put them in her purse. She thought she was being all sneaky and shit, but I saw her. And then her husband called me over a few minutes later and asked if I wouldn't mind bringing him a piece of bread. I told him to ask his wife because I just saw her put a baker's dozen in her handbag. Yeah, I really said that, but then I just smiled and laughed and touched his shoulder and then they just thought I was damn charming. Dumb fucks. I ignored his request. Another time someone asked me what was included to drink on the Sunday brunch buffet. Anything basically. So he then proceeded to try to have one of every thing he could thing of just because it was included. A mimosa, a screwdriver, a champagne, a coffee, a Coke, a tea, you name it. This man was insane. By the time he got to dessert he asked if he could have a glass of milk. I gave him a pint glass of half and half. He drank it. All of it. Because it was included and it was all you can eat.

If you ever go to a buffet, take it easy. It's all you can eat, not all you can carry home. And don't be asking for a "to go" box. Who thinks it's okay to take a doggie bag up to the buffet and get your dinner for that night? My standard answer for that was "you can take as much as you want with you but it has to be inside your stomach when you leave." Smile. Laugh. Touch on the shoulder. Here is your check

Famous People Suck

I hate waiting on celebrities. I have not had to do it very often because famous people don't usually come into the places that I have slung hash. Generally, they like to go to places that are not chains, franchises and/or crappy and I usually work at places that are chains, franchises and/or crappy. If a famous person comes into a place I work, then I instantly question their judgement and credibility. Once when I worked in Times Square (afore mentioned tourist trap, hypothetically Houlihan's) a soap opera actor came into my station. It was the old guy who played Palmer Cortlandt on All My Children. I think he's still on it. Anyhoo, he sat in my station with this really hot Latin guy that was about 100 years his junior. Palmer looked like he just came off the set of the soap because he was wearing a freaking ascot around his neck. The young guy was all flirty with him and and then Palmer paid for their lunch on his credit card. I ain't judging or anything, but can you say "sugar daddy"? He was really nice though and it was fine. A few months ago Ivanka Trump came into my restaurant. Obviously, she was slumming or she wanted to see how poor people live because she came in to have an $8.99 omlette. I didn't wait on her. My friend did thouigh and said she was alright, but only left a 15% tip. C'mon! Bitch, we know you have hundred dollars bills flying out of your ass and you're only going to leave four bucks? Spread the wealth.

Another person I know said she had the Grandma from Everybody Loves Raymondd come in to her place once. She seems like such a sweet old lady. Doris Roberts her name is. Apparently, she's a dried out cunt lip. This colleague told me she ordered a two-minute egg. And sent it back five times. Five times! After the first time, don't you think the chef (fry cook) would actually time it to make sure it was really two minutes. And then a third time? And fourth time? And a fifth? Get real, lady. You ain't the Queen of England. Maybe the egg just didn't taste right to her because her taste buds are fossils. Or maybe she secretly hated eggs because her last ovary fell out of her cooch back in the Roaring 20's. Whatever the reason, it's no excuse.

If I ever see a celebrity in my station, I don't want 'em. I have ignored Connie Chung and I will ignore you too. Famous people are just people who lucked out. If they sit in my station I will treat them just like the stroller mom or the old homless lady who pays with coins: like crap.

The Penny Story

This story happened years and years ago, but it's a goody. I was working in this tourist trap in Times Square in New York City where food was way overpriced but tourists came anyway because it was familiar. Let's just say it was hypothetically called Houlihan's. On 49th and Seventh Ave. It was the lunch rush and in my station were three secretary bitches who were happy to have someone to boss around for a change. They ordered their usual salads with everything on the side but extra everything and lemons for the waters and separate checks and anything else that screams "we are bitches." It was a busy Wednesday where everyone in the restaurant had tickets to see Cats or Phantom of the Opera or anything else that screams "we are tourists." After a while the three secretary bitches called me over and asked me if their food was ready. I gave my standard reply: "I guess not because if it was ready it would be here." Dumb bitches. They didn't like my attitude. Hmmm, can't imagine why. Their food came and they complained about a variety of things. I don't recall what exactly but it was probably the usual things like, the bread is not warm enough and the Diet Coke is flat and no one wants to sleep with me because I am big fat snort pig. I threw their check down and went on with ignoring other tables. They left money to pay for the check on the table and when I saw it I knew what to expect. Exact change, no tip. But then I saw my tip. One penny in the bottom of a glass of water. I fished it out and scoured the room looking for the whores. They were already gone, so I ran downstairs out to 49th Street and looked both ways. I had to decide whether to go left or right. I decided to the right and ran down the street, penny in hand. About halfway to Sixth Avenue I saw them. After knocking a couple of tourists out of the way, I went to head secretary bitch and tapped her on the shoulder. "You forgot something at your table," I said. "Oh, I did? What?" "This," I said and I flicked the penny at her and suddenly it was in slow motion. I watched it twirl through the air as her face recoiled in terror. The penny hit her right tit and bounced to the sidewalk. I turned around and walked back to the restaurant giddy with pride. She was right behind me.

When I got back in, I headed to the bathroom to hide out because I knew I was about to be in big trouble. Someone found me and said that my manager needed to see me right away. I slid into her office ready to be berated. My manager shut the door and turned around to look at me. She had a huge smile on her face. She told me that even though the bitches were in fact bitches and deserved it, what I did was wrong and she was going to have to suspend me for three days so that all of my co-workers knew that throwing pennies at customers was not acceptable behavior for our fine dining establishment. Houlihan's. On 49th and Seventh. Hypothetically.

My response to being suspended for three days? "Cool. Can I cash out now because I gots myself a three day weekend ahead of me."


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Deciding is hard (for stupid people, that is)

I hate when people ask me what to order for themselves. Can't they tell by the blank expression on my face that I don't give a shit that they are in my station, let alone what they put into their pie hole? It's one thing if they ask me which is better, the french toast or the pancakes. Those are two similar items and maybe I do have a preference. I will tell them the french toast is better. It is also $1.75 more than the pancakes and if they order french toast I don't have to bring butter to the table like I do with pancakes. What I can't stand is what this lady did to me a few weeks ago. She looks up at me with these wannabe puppy-dog eyes and pouts her lips and says in a baby voice, "I don't know what to get." "Then I will be back later," I say. I scoot off because I don't want to stand there while she juggles every possibility on the menu. When I finally meander back to her table she asks all baby voiced, "which one do I want? The frittata or the french toast?" Okay, these are two completely different items. And don't forget, I don't care. Especially since they are the same price. I tell her to go with the french toast because if she orders the frittata then I have to ask her what kind of dressing and toast she wants with. "Oh, but I kinda want the frittata." Then get the frittata. "But the french toast sounds so good." So get the french toast. "Oh...I dunno...(in a fucking baby voice)." Get both so you can stuff one in your face and the other up your vag, I don't care.

What have we learned from this post? We know that customers are the only ones who should be deciding what they will order. The waiter doesn't care and if he says he does, he is lying. Or has ulterior motives. Make a decision. Order it. Eat it. Pay for it. Leave a tip. Get out.


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Pitch a tent, asswipe

In the restaurant world, there is something known as a camper. This is someone who stays at their table way too long and then keeps new customers from sitting there instead and effectively decreasing my turnover/tips. I hate campers. They suck. There is one that comes into the restaurant and we call him Coach. He comes in every brunch and wears those short polyester gym shorts that are of a primary color. Bright blue of red. He wears a tight fitting tee, a baseball cap and comes armed with his earphones and the New York Times. No one ever wants to serve his ass because he sits at a four top, orders one thing, drinks about a dozen cups of coffee for an hour and a half and then leaves $2.00. He does not get it. If four people sat there and each ordered an entree and a mimosa and then left and then four more people came in and did the same thing, I could make ten or fifteen times what he leaves for a tip. God, I hate him. We changed or menu about a hundred years ago too and every fucking time he asks if we still have oatmeal. No, we do not have the oatmeal anymore. Pull the fucking earphones off your head and listen to me, meathead.

Campers suck. If you are ever in a crowded restaurant and you are finished eating and have paid your check, then leave. Go to a bench in the park or Barnes and Nobel or a bar or better yet HOME if you want to sit and chat with your friends. I am done serving you and will not refill your water or coffee. I will not make eye contact. I will shoot daggers at you and curse you and your unborn ugly children. Get out of my station. Roll up your sleeping bag, put out your fire, break down your pup tent, and get your camping ass out of my restaurant.


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The countdown begins...

So it's been a while since I have blogged. Get over it. Here it is. I have had the good fortune to not wait tables for four weeks and surprisingly my attitude in life has been much much better. Fear not. Within two weeks, I will again be slinging hash and filled with the hatred and loathing that one can only get by taking food orders from assholes. Contrary to popular belief, there are other things in life than waiting tables and that is what I have been doing instead. On the first day that I did not have to bring french toast to bitchy ladies and their ugly children, I decided that I wanted to go have brunch and see what it feels like from the other side of the menu. So on a Sunday morning, I rolled out of bed and dragged my ass to some place that served overpriced eggs and mimosas. I had brunch served to me. The waitress ignored me, took too long to bring my drink, the omelette was too soft, the hash browns were not crispy, she never checked back, she forgot to bring the check and then she hurried me out of the booth because other people were waiting for a table. What a cunt. I now know what it is like to be served by me. Mere days will pass before I am back to waiting tables and Bitchy Waiter will again rear his ugly head.