Stop Taking Credit Card Vouchers

I know I must have written about this before, but it bears repeating. Why the fuckity fuck can't people remember to leave their credit card voucher after they sign it? I realize that in this day and age of identity theft, one must be ever so careful with personal info and documents. I've had my identity stolen before and it's a really shitty thing. (And I curse those assholes who worked at Home Depot and helped me fill out a credit card application and then stole all my digits and opened up a three new credit card accounts at Wal-Mart and the like.) We have to be aware. But we also have to leave the credit card slip for the restaurant. We need it. I need it. For my tip.

Last week a lady was paying for her whole table. They rang up a bill of $314.00 and she gave me her credit card to pay for it. Now this lady was pseudo-famous and had a crowd of people around her after the show so it was hard to get her bill to her and then collect payment. I pretty much had to get it to her via carrier pigeon, but I did. I watched her sign the voucher and place it on the table and then she continued talking to all of her fans. Finally, after about 30 minutes of her being surrounded by a pack of hounds, she left. With the credit slip. Goddammit, lady! There goes my tip on a $314.00 check. No! The humanity. The horror. I ran to the sidewalk and saw nothing but the usual bags of trash and cars about to be towed, but no credit slip. What do I have to do? Do I have to somehow attach our copy to the table so they know that it stays? I guess the words "restaurant copy" are simply not enough.

But I wanted that tip. It's not cool (not to mention illegal) to add the tip. Not that I haven't done that before but when I did it felt uncool. And illegal. I approached the performer of the evening, for it was her mother who jetted with my gratuity. "Err, is your mother still around because I think she accidentally took our copy of the credit voucher." My subtext was, "I need you to find your old lady mom and get that fucking credit voucher or else I am getting stiffed on 300 bucks." The performer was totally cool about it and said to just void her mom's transaction and she would pay for it. So I did it and handed her the new voucher. Which she quickly signed. Without adding a tip. Seriously? Am I going to be stiffed twice on the same table? She thanked me and headed for the exit as I threw imaginary knives at her back. With one foot out the door, I heard her say, "Oh my God! I didn't tip you!" I exhaled with relief and said something moronic like 'it's not my place to ask for a tip" or some other bullshit line. She scratched out $45 and handed back to me. I was happy.

But from now on I am stapling our copy to the table and hot gluing their copy to their face.

Old People: Can't Live With 'Em, Can't Remember Shit

Over the course of time while working at one place, you get accustomed to seeing some of the same faces over and over again. These regulars are sometimes welcome sights and sometimes not so much. Admittedly, I am not the best at remembering people who sit in my station more than once. It's not that I don't have the ability to recall that Suzie Side Of Mayo sat in my station two weeks ago, it's more that I just don't give a shit. Eventually though I will recognize if someone's a regular. On the other hand, I certainly don't expect customers to remember me. Most of the time.

A few weeks ago I had a couple come in that I knew from another job. The man and his wife are really old and somewhat famous. He's a songwriter who wrote some really big hits for Frank Sinatra and wrote a couple of Broadway shows. I met them about five years ago when I was doing a revival of one of his shows and got to know him then. He was at rehearsal with me everyday for three weeks and then watched every performance for two weeks after we opened. When I saw them come in, I went up to say hello. Seeing that he's 91 years old, I didn't expect him or his wife to remember me. His wife must be about his age but she doesn't look a day over 106. Her face is pulled so tight that she makes Joan Rivers look like a fresh clean daisy. Seriously, her lips are practically above her eyebrows now. I reintroduced myself and saw the flicker of recognition come into their eyes as they placed me from their past. It was sorta like a light bulb went off and they should know what that looks like because I'm pretty sure they were close personal friends of Thomas Edison. They were very happy to see me and raved about how great I was in the play. They went on to say that I stole the show and that I should have been the lead because I sing like an angel. (They may or may not have said that last little bit, but they did remember me.)

A few days ago, they were back in the club and again sitting in my station. Seeing that it had only been two weeks since I last saw them I greeted them warmly and told them it was nice to see them again. I saw a tumble weed blow through his head as a cricket chirped in hers. They had no idea who I was. Again. Granted the man is older than rocks and she's had so many face lifts that her brain may now be in her shoulder blades, but I figured they would at least think I was familiar. Nope. I got their hot teas and moved on. At the end of the night after they had paid, the husband asked me where his credit card was. I told him I had given it back to him at the table but he assured me he did not have it. I found his wife in the lobby and asked her if she had it and she freaked out. "Oh my God, I don't have it. Did I lose it? Oh my God, he's gonna kill me. Oh my God, we have to find it." I half looked in the trash can and around the table knowing it wasn't going to be there. By this time, the Mrs. had a flashlight at the table and was fearing for life. I think she still lives in the 50's where the man rules the roost and he was kind enough to let her touch the credit card and now that she lost it her privileges would be revoked and she would be back to a $10 a week allowance. I quit looking because, I had already been paid and tipped.

Five minutes later, the husband burps out that he found it in his pocket. Old people. Their minds are as mushy as the Ovaltine they eat for breakfast. Gotta love 'em.

Rainbow Overload

After reading all the titles of the unwritten autobiographies of Bitchy Waiter readers, I chose the one that I thought would make the most interesting post. Behold. I give to you Rainbow Overload, suggested by Keith:


Bam Bam McCunningham plopped himself on his bed after a twelve hour shift at the go-go bar. As he slid his size 7 pumps off his size 9 feet a good two or three ounces of glitter fell out of each shoe. He pulled his pantyhose off and noticed a small run in the left leg. "Occupational hazard," he muttered. Bam Bam served drinks in the raucous and raunchy gay bar in Western Queens called Otis' Place. Of course no one called it Otis' Place because it didn't roll off the tongue like it should. Everyone called it Opies. Bam Bam didn't like being a cocktail server but it was only until he got his big break as a writer. Every week he submitted a story somewhere and every week he got a rejection letter from someplace else. In the meantime he served drinks at Opies. In drag. When his vintage pink princess phone rang, his first inclination was to ignore it, but he thought that anyone calling this late must have something very urgent to discuss. "Hello?" After a few seconds of silence, the other end of the phone erupted in sobs that he immediately recognized as coming from his BFF from second grade, Lisa. It turns out she was just dumped by her boyfriend who realized he was gay. It was the fourth boy in a row she had dated who came out of the closet. In fact Lisa and Bam Bam had been a couple all through high school so she had quite the history of falling in love with the wrong man. But now he was her closest confidant. Most people referred to Lisa as Bam Bam's Fag Hag, but she preferred the title of Fruit Fly. He consoled her for two hours and promised to meet her for a champagne brunch the next morning followed by a day of shopping and then a mani/pedi. When he hung up the phone he was exhausted. He decided to leave the makeup on and go right to sleep but his Yorkshire terrier Bruce had other ideas. Bruce jumped into his lap holding his pink leash in his mouth and yelped at him asking to be taken for a walk. Bam Bam couldn't resist the cute face and knew that avoiding the walk would only make for a messy morning when Bruce decided to relieve himself on the new rug Bam Bam had just purchased from Crate and Barrel. Five minutes later, Bam Bam and Bruce were walking outside in the cool early morning spring air. With his dog at his side and the sound of Judy Garland pulsing through his iPod, Bam Bam found himself reinvigorated and not ready for sleep at all anymore. Once he returned home, he decided to put on his writing hat and get to work on his next piece. With his cute Jackie O. pillbox sitting jauntily on his head and Elaine Stritch playing in the background, he took a sip of his Cosmopolitan and began writing his one man play about coming out of the closet in a small Southern town.

I Worked for Free

I am a firm believer in giving. I have been known to volunteer my time and help underprivileged kids with art projects. I have assisted the elderly. I often donate to various causes. One time I even gave a sandwich to a man who had no legs. However, when I am at work, I am there for me. A few days ago the club hosted a benefit for a local school. Parents of the students came in to perform while other parents came in to watch. The proceeds of the show went directly to the school, and judging by most of these parents they could have just written out some checks and been done with it. When it came time for me to give out their checks with the cover charge and the two-drink minimum it turns out that a lot of the folks didn't think they needed to leave a tip because it was for a good cause. Excuse me, I was not volunteering my time for the benefit. I just showed up at work like I always do (and when I say "always" I mean once or twice a week...) and ended up serving a benefit. I don't give a shit about the quality of the kids' athletic equipment or if they get to take music classes or any other goddamn thing. I am at work. For tips. That shit pissed me off. By the end of the night I felt like there should be a fucking plaque posted above the school gymnasium with my name on it for all the time and money I ended up donating to that fucking school. Now don't get me wrong. You know I loves me the kids. I think they should have everything their precious little hearts desire. But I don't have kids. I don't want kids. Isn't enough that I pay taxes that go to public schools? But I had to wait tables and repeatedly get stiffed by parents because it was a benefit. And I send out especially bitchy vibes to the three lesbians at table two who rang up a $165.00 tab and left poop squat. Heather has two cheap ass mommies. Now don't me wrong. I loves me the lesbians, but those particular ones? Nope. Don't like em.

Wait Your Turn

I should be whipped incessantly with an al dente noodle, for I have forsaken writing for far too long. I was distracted by a supreme bitchola who was in the club a while ago and it has taken me this long to climb out of the dark hole of bitterness that she sent me spiraling into. Oh, and I have been lazy too. But let me regale your souls with what this woman was like. Table 28X. Not my table. I was nearby though servicing the needs of my clientele when I feel the cold icy stare of a bitch stabbing me in the back. I turn around to look at her and risk being turned into stone by her Medusa ass attitude. And she gives me a look that I will now ask you to recreate. Turn your palms upward while raising and clenching your shoulders. Now tilt your head to the right while curling the left side of your lip and furrowing your brow in such a way that will guarantee a need for Botox. Shake your head back and forth in short jerky movements and now please move your palms backward and forward in an oscillating manner. Are you doing all of this? This is what Medusa was doing to me. To save her from all that activity she could have simply said , "Hi, excuse me?" but she wanted to put on a show instead. Knowing full well that she wanted something, I played dumb and went up to her and asked if she needed anything. "Uh, a drink??" Way too much sass was coming from this lady. Looking behind her, I saw that her server was at the next table. "Scott, is your server and he's right behind you. I'm sure he's on his way and your table is next." That should have satisfied her, but true bitches always have to take it a step further. So she took it a step further. "Well, him being right behind me and him taking my order is not the same thing now is it?" Wait, what? Was she being funny? I scanned her eyes and saw not a trickle of humor. All that was visible was anger, impatience and forty years of mascara clumped into the corner of her eye. I waited a second to see if she was going to say something like, "oh, okay" or "thank you" but she said nothing. She then rolled her eyes and gave me a look that was telling me to take her order now. I simply responded with the customary I-am-not-your-server speech but she was not satisfied and wanted to know why it was taking so long. I paused and took a deep breath and counted to ten. I then told her the reason it was taking so long was because 105 people all were seated at the exact same time and we go down the rows of tables and she just happened to be at the last row. End of story, lady. It's something that most people learn in fucking kindergarten. It's called "taking turns" and we all do it. At the bank, the grocery story, the amusement park and even at restaurants and bars. Wait your turn.

Scott took her order and she was fine. But when it came time to pay their checks we made sure we knew who's credit card would be the last one to be swiped. Medusa the impatient bitch, that's who. Bitch needs to learn to wait her fucking turn and maybe learn that people who are nice to their servers sometimes get to cut to the front of the line. But bitchy ass Medusa ladies who have shitty attitudes? Nope. You will be last. Go back to kindergarten and learn some freakin' manners, bitch.

Gay Dogs Not Welcome Down Under

I was perusing the internet news the other day trying to find something to pique my interest when I came across a news item that happened at a restaurant down under. In Australia. I don't know what those people are sprinkling on their Vegemite sandwiches, but they might be a bit crazy. But then again all my knowledge about Australia comes from Crocodile Dundee and Men at Work so what do I know?

Apparently, this blind man wanted to go eat at a Thai restaurant so he asked a waiter if it would be alright if he came in with his guide dog. (There was a sign saying guide dogs were welcomed, but maybe someone missed the memo that said blind people don't read signs. It's like those signs on the subway that ask if you want to learn how to read and speak English, but the sign is in English so anyone who may benefit from the sign can't fucking read the sign. Vicious vicious circle. Anyhoo.) So the waiter went to ask the owners if it was alright for the dog to come in but he didn't hear the word "guide" dog. The stupid ass waiter heard "gay" dog. Uh huh. And then the owners said no the dog couldn't come in because it was gay. Okay, all together now: what the fuckity fuck fuck? This is wrong on so many levels. Even if this was an actual homosexual canine who liked to get it on with members of the same sex, why would that be the reason the dog couldn't come in? They were going to persecute this dog because they thought it was gay? How stupid was the waiter to see a blind man and not know that it was a guide dog? Now if Elton John had sashayed into the restaurant wearing a frilly frock while holding a dildo and a big pink poodle, sure: gay dog. But a blind man with sunglasses, a cane and a dog with a handle on it? Gay dog? No, dumb ass. Guide dog.

The man left the restaurant and then presumably filed a complaint and blah blah blah. But when the owners were explaining the situation to the court, they said if they would have known it was a guide dog, it would have been fine. They just thought the dog was gay and that was why it wasn't welcome. I don't know these restaurant owners, but I pretty much hate them. They seem small minded, ignorant, rude and clueless. Basically, your typical restaurant owner/manager. They had to issue the blind dude an apology and pay him $1400 in compensation. And in Australia, $1400 buys a lot of Vegemite.

And in case you are wondering, Vegemite is is "a dark brown Australian food paste made from yeast extract. It is a spread for sandwiches, toast, crumpets and cracker biscuits and and filling for pastries." Thanks Wikipedia.

I'm on the Broadway

For a lot of people, living in New York City and being a waiter means one thing. Actor. Of course it's a stereotype, but over the years I have come to believe that many stereotypes are based on some hint of truth. It may not be an easy thing to accept, but it does seem to be true. I live in New York City. I am a waiter. Does that mean that I fall under that auspicious umbrella of unemployed actor? Darn tootin' it does. I am one extremely talented and extremely out of work actor. And so are most of the people I work with. It's a fact of life.

When I was working in Times Square's Houlihan's, all I ever served were tourists who were on their way to see Cats or Phantom of the Opera. Tourists are known for being wide-eyed and eager to know about the people who live here so a lot of them would pepper me with questions. "Where do you live?" Where are you from?" "Is the hamburger really $15?" But there was one question I got asked more than any other.

TOURIST: Are you an actor?
ME: Yes.
TOURIST: Oh, how exciting!
ME: Well, not really that exciting.
TOURIST: Have I ever seem you in anything?
ME: Well I dunno, are you accustomed to seeing theater that happens in basements in Brooklyn?
TOURIST: No.
ME: Then, no.
TOURIST: Have you been in any movies?
ME: Yes.
TOURIST: Oh, how exciting! Which ones?
ME: Did you see Across The Universe?
TOURIST: Yes! Were you in that?? Oh my God!
ME: I was in the riot scene. There were 300 of us. I'm the one in the very back about 150 yards from the camera. I had on fake sideburns so that's probably why you don't recognize me.
TOURIST: Oh my God! And are you on Broadway?

Okay. It is Thursday night at 7:20. Every Broadway show is about to start within 45 minutes. Obviously, I am not there. I am here. Holding a tray with dirty dishes and empty glasses on it.

ME: Yes, I am currently starring in Houlihan's the Musical. Right now. You're in too. It's your line.

People asked me that all the time. Like if I was in Chicago or Grease, I would want to keep a few shifts a week at good old Houlihan's just to remember what it was like to wait tables. Bitch, please. Hell, no I ain't on Broadway. I'm a fucking waiter who has to get up at 6:00 AM so I can go get in line at 7:00 to go audition at 9:30 so I can get to the restaurant to cut the fucking lemons by 10:30. I guess, technically I was on Broadway. It just happens that Houlihan's was on 49th and Broadway. Look ma, I made it! I'm on Broadway. How would you like your burger cooked?

Retirement is Right Around the Corner

Because I am so influential and noteworthy, The Bitchy Waiter was interviewed by U.S. News and World Report a few days ago. I know, I know, it is quite impressive and all. I am in awe of myself even. They contacted me via this blog to ask me some questions about my retirement plans because they were researching a story about the uncertainty of so many people's financial futures. The reporter said that she was looking to speak to servers especially because she knew that most restaurants don't give a rat's retiring ass about the financial future of their employees. Well, she didn't say it like that exactly, but pretty much. I would give you the link to read, but then my anonymity would be compromised because the article used my real name and even more shocking they gave me an age. If you should happen to come across the article, just divide the number in half and you will be much closer to my actual age. Anyhoo, it got me thinking about my golden years. I foresee some poverty in my future along with cat food for dinner.

As a waiter, I don't have the benefit of a 401(k) with matching contributions. I think most restaurants feel that the shift meal they give you at the end of the day should satisfy not only your hunger for dinner, but also your craving for financial security. And speaking of security, what about Social Security? Does anyone really believe that will be around when we need it? Even if it is, my latest letter telling me how much to expect when I retire was barely enough to cover my tequila intake each month. Do I worry about it? Sure I do. So I have started my own personal retirement account.

I read somewhere that 3% of your salary was a good amount to put away for your retirement. It's even better if your employer will match it. (God, I miss working for The Marriott sometimes...). So I decided to open up an IRA at the bank. I rolled over what The Marriott had helped me save and now it is there for me to deposit whenever I want. My financial advisor reminded me that I was limited to $4000 a year. I laughed in his face when he told me that. That is about $80 a week and I am sorry, but I just don't have an extra $320 a month for retirement. If I was to put that much money into retirement each month how the hell am I supposed to enjoy Monday Margarita Madness? So I do 3% of each shift. No matter how shitty, I take 3% and put it into an envelope in my closet and when it gets to $500 I will proudly carry it to my financial institution for deposit. Yesterday the shift was so bad that I only made $33. I put one dollar in my envelope. One. Dollar. My golden years appear to be shaping up more like my pewter years. Or aluminum. Or cardboard even. In the meantime, I blog and write and wait for that big break that is going to bump me into a better future where I can afford luxurious things like Boar's Head turkey and shampoo that didn't come from Dave's Dollar Discount Den.

Yum-O, Delish, EVOO, BITCH

I often think of things that I want to write about but the idea may slide into a hidden recess of my brain and never resurface again. It sometimes takes a posted comment from someone else to jolt my memory and recall the topic. A shout out to Lorinda who reminded me that I need to write about that cheap gravel-voiced hag known as Rachael Ray. What person in the food service industry is unaware of her infamous show on The Food Network, "$40 a Day?" The bitch may have been able to eat her way across the country on a shoestring budget but she never left the servers enough money to go to Payless to buy a shoestring of their fucking own. Bitch is cheap.

The premise of the show was that she could eat three meals and a snack in one day in various cities and do it all for under $40. Of course her breakfast sometimes consisted of a lone muffin and tap water and her dinner would be a single appetizer but she always managed to make it under $40. Coming under budget was helped by the fact that she never left a server anything close to resembling a decent tip. If I didn't tip my servers, I could save a shitload of money too. But I tip. It's waht you do when you eat out. Rachael used to be a fucking waitress too, so you would think she would have some empathy for servers, but all that mattered to her was that she make it under budget and that she comes up with some new annoying catch phrase. Delish! Yum-o! I swallow! Maybe she should have just changed the name of the show to "$45 a Day" so she could factor in a tip. Or call it "I have Vocal Nodes and Polyps and Don't Give a Shit About Waiters."

I watched this show at the beginning of Rachael's career and it was before she started gargling with gravel and I could tolerate the sound of her voice for more than two minutes. Nowadays her throat sounds like it has a piece of glass wedged in it. Somebody please give this bitch a piece of bread to swallow. Maybe if she would just shut the fuck up for a couple of days her vocal chords could take a breather and repair themselves. But she is too busy publishing cookbooks, selling Dunkin' Donuts, filming her thirty bejillion different television shows, creating pet foods, and marketing kitchen crap. She sells a bowl to put garbage in. It costs $32.99. Seriously, bitch? I have something I put garbage in when I cook and it's called a plastic grocery sack from Met Foods. It works great. Try it.

If anyone ever bumps into Rachael Ray (and when I say "bump into" I mean with your car while going 40 mph) please tell her that the Bitchy Waiter said hello. And that he hates her.

I Don't Need Help Wiping My Ass

As much as I write about the overall crappiness of waiting tables, I think I may have found a service job that ranks even lower than being a slinger of the hash. Whilst eating dinner at a very fancy and hoity toity restaurant a few days ago, I came across some poor slob who had taken service positions to a new low. A job that even I would refuse to take and that says a lot, because I fucking worked as Popeye once at an amusement park. I'll fucking do practically any job. Except one. Behold: the bathroom attendant.

I have never really understood the need for a bathroom attendant. Not since I was about five years old have a I needed assistance doing anything toilet related. (Well, there was that one time my sophomore year in college but that was totally random. And thank you, you know who you are.) What is it about upscale joints that make them feel the need to have someone in the loo to turn on the faucet for me and then hand me a fucking paper towel? And then there is that awkward moment where you pretend that you are going to give them a dollar. I pulled the old "my wallet is in my coat pocket" trick because I just don't want to give this guy money. Yes, it sucks that he sits in this room and has to listen to the kids being dropped off at the pool over and over again. And I am sorry that he has to smell whatever odor is emitted from the body of Fatty McFattFatt Ass. And I feel bad that his shoes are covered with the golden droplets of urine that didn't quite make it into the urinal. But really? I need to give this guy a dollar? He had the sink area all covered with cologne and lotion and mouthwash and gum and anything else I might need, but the thing is I didn't need it. The bathroom was about the square footage of a box of Cheerios, so it would have been nice to have more room in there instead of half of it being taken up by this professional ass wiper.

Does this sound bitchy? I realize he too is looking for tips. He wants money. But a bathroom attendant? C'mon. I now know there is at least one job in the restaurant world that I will never have.

The Wonders of Craigslist

The Bitchy Waiter needs a new job. Or an additional job. Working only two days a week is fine when things are busy, but when it's slow it ain't cuttin' it. And things have been slow. Last week a goddamn fucking tumbleweed rolled through my station. Crickets are chirping up in there lately. So where does one turn when a new job is needed? Why craigslist, where else? I have been surfing the posts there the last few days and finding a bunch of big fat zeros. It takes a lot of practice and reading through the lines to sort through a job posting on craigslsit, so I thought I would offer these pointers. Keep in mind, these are all real ads from craigslist:

• Looking for full time long term employment only. No part time or seasonal applicants please. In other words, we want you to be available at our beck and call and be ready to work at a moments notice. You will be our slave.
• Dress to impress. We think we are hot shit and want to see how nice you can dress even though once here, you will be wearing black pants and a stained white button down with a greasy tie.
• Casual seafood restaurant are looking for part time waiter or waitress for lunch and dinner shifts. PAY $15/Hour. First off, they have grammar issues. It should be is looking not are looking. But anyhoo, the only way they are paying $15 an hour is if you are not being tipped. I call bullshit.
• Please send resume with references and photo. We are looking for blond girls with big titties.
• Restaurant seeks wait staff multiple nights shifts. Room for growth. By growth we mean more shifts, not management or a better job.
  
• If you can not attend the open call, please feel free to attached your resume to this posting. But we will not call you because we will have already had hundreds of other desperate servers who managed to drag their asses to the restaurant so fuck you. (Please note the incorrect use of past tense on the word attached. Why would I want to work for someone who gots some bad English?)
  
• If you look HOT & Classy in a Bikini & you can both flirt & play billiards and remain a lady I want you to become a partner in my business. Seriously?
• At Applebee’s our team members enjoy: Flexible Hours, Competitive Pay, Extensive Training, Meal Discounts & Health Benefits are offered after 30 days. But your health benefits will only be instated if you are considered full time and we hire everyone as part time even if you are working 40 hours a week.
• Please ONLY show up to interview if you are able to begin immediately! Because we really suck as employers and the last person quit in the middle of the shift because it is so shitty here.

I will continue to be on the lookout for a new job...

Vacation's All She Ever Wanted

This lady came in the other day and she's always a little bit of a pain in the ass. Just because she's a semi-regular, she thinks that she deserves special treatment. You know the type. As soon as she sat down she said she wanted something special to make her feel like she was on a tropical vacation. I hate when people say stupid shit like that. I wanted to suggest that she put on an ugly one piece bathing suit with a ruffle and then get a sunburn while listening to Tom Jones on her Walkman because I figured that's what she usually did when on a tropical vacation. Instead, I simply asked her what she would like to drink. She thought long and hard about this oh so complicated question. Suddenly her eyes lit up as she realized what drink would satisfy this tropical craving she was trying to fill. I couldn't wait for her to ask for a Pina Colada or Banana Daiquiri so I could tell her we don't have a blender. And then she asked for something that is so completely incongruous with tropical that I thought she was kidding. "Can I have a Frangelico and coffee?" She said it all whispery and shit with this snarky grin like it was so so daring of her to order this wild and crazy drink. What the fuck kind of tropical vacation does this bitch go on that she sits on a beach and drinks coffee? Is it a beach in Antarctica? Is she retarded? Then she altered her order a bit and requested iced coffee which made it a teeny bit more understandable. "And can you put some whipped cream on it so it really seems fancy?" Yeah, lady. Every drink I have ever had while on the beach had whipped cream on it and it made me think it was fancy, will do. I put about six inches worth of whipped cream on her drink because I knew it would make her wet her panties when she saw it. If I would have had one of those little paper umbrellas I would have stuck that in it too, but no such luck. Instead, I did one of those tricks you do with the paper of a straw to make it look like it was a flower. She squealed with pleasure when she saw it. This lady really needs a life. Or a vacation. But she loved me. Bitch loves her some Bitchy Waiter.

Ding Dong, That Munchkin's Dead

This is totally un-waiter related but important nonetheless. You know the Munchkin from The Wizard of Oz that says "As coroner I must aver, I thouroughly examined her, and she's not only merely dead, she's really most sincerely dead?" You know which one I am talking about? The coroner one? He died this week. Not only do I have a soft spot in my heart for Bitchy Waitering, The Brady Bunch, fried foods and The Olive Garden (kidding), my heart also goes soft for all things Ozian. His name was Meinhardt Rabbe and he was 94 years old. He always seemed like one cool fucking coroner and I hope he never had to wait a freaking table in his whole life. Have fun over the rainbow.

Ancient History

Don't get me wrong, I love old people. I love their AARP card-carrying, scooter-driving, blue-haired, polyester-wearing asses, but do they have to be so freakin' slow? When I get to be old, (read 50) I refuse to be the one who is always in the way of some younger hipper cooler person who just wants to pass by. I move pretty quickly through life and I assume I always will. Maybe I am so bunny like and filled with vim and vigor because I am barely in my early 20's. (I started waiting tables when I was three years old, you know). Here is a word of advice for those senior citizens in our lives: MOVE!

You know that old lady who was in Titanic? I think her grandpappy was in my station last week. This man was a living breathing fossil and he was sitting at table number four. Or should I say "propped up" at table number four? I think if I cut off his leg, I would have been able to count the rings and discover that he was old enough to have been responsible for some cave paintings that were recently discovered in Brazil. He was so old that his bones were no longer brittle, they were just held together with Metamucil, Super Poligrip and hope. He showed up with his walker and by the time he got to his seat the show was practically over. And then the poor thing had to go to the bathroom because his bladder must be the size of a corn nut. This is when I needed him to yield to me and let me get past so I could continue on with my job. Of course, I was nice to him and patient because The Bitchy Waiter is always nice and patient to anyone who voted for Abraham Lincoln. But good Lordy, get outta my way.

By the end of the night, Old Man River was half asleep. Or half conscious. I say potato you say almost dead. Either way, I was happy when he was gone. Oh what I wouldn't have given to have had a bottle of Febreeze that night because that old man smell surely lingered well after he was gone. It hung in the air like a mixture of fog, funk and Old (man) Spice. Goodbye, old man. And rest in peace.

Maria...I Just Met a Girl Named Maria

As I mentioned before, I have been living high on the hog and eating out a lot lately. A few days ago I went to a restaurant that is pretty well known here in the city. I won't say the name of it, but let's just say it is owned by an Iron Chef. Uh huh. Iron Chef. Needless to say the food was delicious. The mashed potatoes were so good that I wanted to order a tub full so I could soak in them, sink to the bottom and then eat my way out. I also had a double baked potato that made my toes tingle. Yeah, I ate two carbs. The food was so good there that I even liked the collard greens. Ordinarily I don't touch a vegetable with a ten foot breadstick, but these were so good that I actually enjoyed them and didn't have to just swallow them whole with big gulps of water. My steak was perfect. My margarita was divine. The triple layer toasted coconut cake was a slice of heaven. Despite the brilliance of all this wonderful food, there was one thing that stood out even more. Our server, Maria. Let a choir of angels sing the freakin' hallelujah chorus, because this girl was good. She was one of those servers that makes you want to come back again and again. I mean, even if the food was just adequate, Maria would have made the food taste even better. She was that good. Always there whenever we needed something, never rushed us, recommended certain items, laughed with us, asked us our names. I kinda fell in love with Maria that night. I was so impressed by her service, that I was inspired to ask her if they were hiring, because maybe The Bitchy waiter could step it up a bit and work in a non-dump for a change. She told me they were hiring and to drop my resume off on Monday. Cue the choir of angels again.

On Monday, I ironed up my finest shirt and printed out a resume and headed to my future place of employment. I asked the host if I could see Claudia, the lady that Maria had told me to ask for, but the host said she was in a meeting and would give her my resume. Curses. I really wanted to meet this Claudia woman so I could pour on the charm, but instead I thanked Hostess and went on my way. About an hour and half later while walking down the street, guess who I bumped into. Maria. (Angels sing again.) She was all, "Oh my God, you have to apply!" and I was all, "Oh my God, I just dropped off my resume but they wouldn't see me!' and she was all, "Oh my God, go back!" So I went back. I told the hostess (a different one now) that I was in earlier and really wanted to see Claudia. "I'm sorry, she's in a meeting but I can give her your resume." No, that won't do. I explained to Hostess #2 that I really wanted to work there and I know they are hiring and I know I can do great. And then I told her that I had just bumped into Maria and I was taking that as a sign that this was meant to be. Hostess #2 agreed that this was surely an act of God and went to find Claudia at once. Success! She would tell Claudia how eager I am and that Maria and I had experienced serendipity and everything would fall into place. Three minutes passed before Hostess #2 reappeared. Without Claudia. My hopes were dashed. But Hostess told me that Claudia appreciated my story and she would be calling me. We shall see. I think it's meant to be. I really do. Stay tuned. The Bitchy Waiter wants to work for an Iron Chef.

Thai Food Good/Lip Liner Bad

For the last few days I have been living high on the hog and eatin' out fancy style. A few nights ago, I traveled out to Brooklyn to eat at my favorite Thai restaurant, Joya. I loves it. As always, it was really crowded and we had to wait for a table, but since I have been going there for years and have gotten to know the owners a little bit, they gave us a round of drinks while we waited for our table. It pays to be friendly to the owners and develop a relationship because nothing says "good restaurant" like free Cosmopolitans. After a few minutes, we were beckoned to follow the host to our table. As I said, it was really crowded and we had to navigate around a few tables that were near the bar and host stand. It was completely unintentional, but my friend Maya bumped into a table where this nasty ass skank ho was stuffing her face with spring rolls. Now it was not the fault of my friend. It was crowded and the table was pushed out into the aisle a bit. Besides that, my friend is as graceful as a goddamn mother fucking prima ballerina and shit. She's as graceful as a freakin' gazelle. But she bumped into the table and it knocked the votive candle over. My friend immediately apologized to the woman and her ugly boyfriend. It wasn't a big deal but the skank ho gave us a look that said "I will cut you." Again, Maya apologized and moved on. I was behind my friends so I was able to see the full expression on this chick's face from start to finish.

First she furrowed her brow, pursed her lips, crinkled her nose and inhaled all at once. Can you do that so you know what I mean? Furrow, purse, crinkle, inhale. Then she she tilted her head to one side and snarled her lips. Like one side of her upper lip went all snarly and shit so high that it almost touched her nostril. She really shouldn't make that expression very often because every time she does it, there is a good chance that she will smear the black lip liner she had on. Yeah, black lip liner. Pretty, right? Then she looked like she was going for a gold medal in eye rolling because bitch practically pulled her eyes out of their sockets in order to achieve her desired look. It bothered me more than it should have, but it was just an accident and it didn't even make a mess. This beyotch just wanted a reason to be mad. And to be mad at my friend Maya, the delicate elegant swan of loveliness is just not right. Especially when it is coming from this uncouth graceless cow black lip liner wearing ho bag.

The rest of the evening went off perfectly. I assume that Eye Roller/Lip Liner got over it. If I know her type, she probably complained to her waiter that her table was bumped in to and tried to get some free red curry with chicken. You just know she did. It just made me glad that I was a patron that night and not having to deal with this twat. And by the second Cosmopolitan it was a good thing she had left. I would have had words with her. Primarily some makeup tips.

The End

As I sit here at my computer, I feel overcome with sadness and melancholy because after 173 posts and close to fifty bejillion hits over the last year and a half, The Bitchy Waiter is coming to an end. Some people are going to be thinking "Thank God, because all this asshole ever does is bitch about his fucking job. If he hates it so much, why doesn't he get a new one?" That is exactly what has happened. As of two days ago, I am no longer a waiter. I have completed my teaching credentials and I will be molding and shaping the minds of the future as an educator of today's youth. I will be teaching English to high schoolers in The Bronx and I am so excited about this new path my life has taken. In order to protect my identity and remain looked upon as an upstanding citizen, I will be removing this blog from the internets. I don't think it would be very wise to leave it out here and take the risk that someone may see it and think it is inappropriate material for a teacher to be writing. And to be honest, it was getting harder and harder to come up with topics that I thought people would even give shit about.

I want to thank you all for reading the blog. It means so much to me that even one person read it and to have this many followers makes me feel proud and good. So I thank you. I tip my hat to you and I kiss the world of waiting tables good bye. Au revoir, side work. Farewell, bad tippers. Kiss my ass, managers. I have a new career. As much as I will miss writing about the wonderfully crappy world of restaurant work, the time has come.

April Fool, bitches! I ain't got no other option right now but waiting tables. The Bitchy Waiter is here to stay. Happy April Fool's day.

It's an Art

From reading my blog, some people may gain the impression that I am ashamed of what I do for a living. Is it my ideal profession of choice? Fuck no. Am I good at it? Fuck yes. Believe it or not, I do take my job very seriously on occasion and I feel that if I am going to be a waiter, at least let me be a good one. Despite the thoughts that may be rolling around in my head (ie: I hate this job, this lady is annoying me, that lady is annoying me, when do I get off, of course I will bring your food to you when it's ready, that guy has ugly teeth, etc...), for the most part I keep those thoughts to myself and try to do my job with aplomb.

Years ago I saw a musical called Working. It was about all these different people and the jobs they had. One song stood out to me because it was about this waitress who kicked ass at her job and she really got a kick out of doing it. I must admit, that sometimes that happens to me. You ever have one of those shifts where your station is totally full and everyone needs something but nothing fazes you? You're in the zone and everything flows as easily as a frozen margarita goes down my throat. The girl who played the part when I saw it was really great and she had all this cool choreography that involved her spinning her tray and jumping onto tables and shit. I barely remember it though because it was about twenty years ago and if my calculations are correct then I would have been about four or five years old. (I am in my mid-twenties. I am in my mid-twenties, I am in mid-twenties...). Anyhoo, someone (holla out to Steven A.) sent me a video clip of the amazing Rita Moreno doing this number and I shall now share it with you. Rita is one cool lady. She was one of the first people to EGOT (win an Emmy, Grammy, Oscar and Tony) and besides that she was on The Electric Company in the 1970's, a television show that came on way before I was born. (I am in my mid-twenties. I am in my mid-twenties, I am in mid-twenties...). Next time you are at your job, take pride in what you do. Get that hot tea with pep in your step, Paulette! Polish that silver with joy, Jerry! And do some dancing on the tabletops. We are waiters and we are proud! (okay, I just threw up in my mouth a little bit.)

"It's An Art" from the musical Working

R.I.P. Ethel A. Smith

Is it creepy to let you know that I was reading the obituaries the other day? It's not a regular kind of habit or anything that I have to sit around and read about people expiring, but sometimes they're full of interesting tidbits about the life of a dead person. It's sorta like reading a biography but instead of a whole book, you only have to get through a couple of paragraphs and you're done. I found one that caught my eye the other day:

Ethel A. Smith, a retired waitress and Highlandtown poet, died March 11 in her sleep at Bonnie Blink, the Maryland Masonic home in Hunt Valley. She was 101.

Did you catch the word that made me stop and read this obit? Ethel was a waitress. And a poet too, but a waitress. I went on to read the rest of the write up and learned that she was a waitress for twenty years of her life and the last time she waited tables was like in 1946. So she hadn't been a waitress for sixty-four years and had gone on to marry, own a couple of businesses, get some poetry published, and have a really full life but the first thing mentioned in her obituary is that she was a waitress? Is that how I will be remembered when I go to that great big side stand in the sky? How horrible that no matter what I may (or may not) achieve in my life, the person that writes up my obit could be like, "oh, he was a freakin' waiter for about fifty years of his life. Just put 'Dead Waiter' and call it a day."

I refuse to be remembered as only a waiter. This crappy ass piece of writing that is spewing from my fingers right this second will be around long after I'm gone. Maybe my obit could read:

Bitchy Waiter, retired waiter, blogger and kick ass tipper, died yesterday at 101. He was totally bitchy but he did a lot of other shit that didn't involve holding a tray so don't think he was just like this loser or anything.

I say we all raise a glass in honor of this kick ass lady who lived to be a hundred and one fucking years old. She had kids and grand kids and wrote some poetry. In a whole century of living she only used twenty years to be a waitress. 20% of your life waiting tables is not too shabby. Right now I am looking at 50%. You go, Ethel A. Smith. I hope when you got to the Pearly Gates, Saint Peter, Paul or Mary was there asking you how you wanted your burger cooked and then they threw in a free dessert and comped your check.

(In addition to writing poetry, she enjoyed knitting and crocheting.)

Must. Eat. Pie.

Does anyone else have their foot in their mouth so often that you have grown accustomed to the taste? Do you look at your toes as appetizers and your feet as the main course with a side of crow for dessert? Generally I am pretty good about keeping my thoughts just that: something that I alone can hear, but occasionally my insides bubble over with rage and frustration and my voice spews out what my brain is thinking. Sometimes it's possible to mask it with humor and people don't realize how much truth there is in the statement. Example: A customer comes in ten minutes before closing and says, "Oh, is it okay if we eat now? Are you going to hate us?" And then I say, "No. it's fine, but the kitchen crew will not be happy and are going to be cursing you and your unborn children." Then I laugh and roll my eyes and touch them on the elbow and say, "just kidding." But I'm not kidding.

A few years ago, I was serving a a party of ten or twelve people. They were all really loud and none of them would pay any attention to me when ever I tried to talk to them. Throughout the meal, I got progressively more frustrated with them and they never even noticed. By the time their plates were cleared and I was asking about dessert and coffee they had completely forgotten that there was a waiter there. Repeatedly, I asked if anyone wanted anything and only the lady next to me paid any attention and ordered an apple pie ala mode. Clearing my throat, I repeat, "So does anyone want dessert or coffee? Anyone? Hello??" Again, they all ignored me. I had had it. "OKAY! So the only one that wants dessert is the full figured gal up here at the head of the table??" Did I really just say that? The table got quiet and all looked at me and then they looked at the fat ass who wanted pie. A deathly silence hung over the table and it seemed to last longer than The Blind Side (starring Academy award winner, Sandra Bullock) as everyone looked at Fat Ass to see how she was going to respond to the horribly rude waiter who had just insulted her in front of her friends. She paused. I held my breath. I looked at her. She slowly turned her head in my direction and our eyes locked. And then she said, "That's right I'm the only one who wants dessert, I guess, so bring it on!" And then she laughed. I laughed and told her I would be right back with it. I comped it. My inside voice thought it was the least I could do. I had once again firmly planted my foot inside my mouth which was better than having it in her mouth because she would have eaten it. Bitch was hungry.

Move, People, Move

Why can't people move the hell out of my way? Last night at work, the show had more performers than there were audience members. There were about 525,600 singers and about 15 paying guests. What that meant was all of the singers were milling about the room and sitting wherever the hell they wanted making it near impossible to serve drinks to the people who were there to see the show. Wouldn't you think if I consistently bump into your chair every single fucking time I walk past you, then just maybe your chair is too far out into the aisle and you should pull it in a bit? You would think, but not with these folks. One man didn't want to sit inside the booth, he wanted to sit with his legs sticking out of the booth so when I walked past him, I slammed the hell out of his knee. It was really hard, Like Joan Crawford on Christina kind of hard. It was an accident, but he didn't move it. No, really it was an accident. The first time. And then after the show, all the singers wanted to stand around and compliment each other and hope to get a compliment in return. It was ridiculous. They just stood there with needy looks on their faces that said, "Somebody please tell me I was good. Please?" But they didn't get out of the way. I had to squeeze past them about twenty times.Once a lady even said, "oh dear, we are totally in your way, I'm sorry." But she didn't move. She was just sorry.

And it's not just at work either. On an escalator, why do people have to just stand there? If you are going to stand on an escalator, then do it on the right side, so those of us who still recall how to walk up stairs can continue to do so. And at the grocery store, it is not okay to park your stroller with your sleeping baby in the middle of the aisle. I will push sleeping baby out of the way in order to get to my Amy's mac and cheese. And on the subway, when I am getting off the train, do not stand directly in front of the doors so I can't get off. I will shove through you and knock your ass out of the way, little old Asian lady.

Bottom line: Get outta my way, baby. Get. Out. Of. My . Way.

Smile, Darn Ya, Smile

On those days here in New York City where it's sunny and mild and the birds are singing and the daffodils are blooming, it sure makes it hard to drag one's ass to work. We have so few nice days here, that it seems a crying shame to waste one on something so lame as employment. Seriously, we get about two weeks of nice weather between blizzards and hot and humid and today is one of them. However, work beckons and I shall answer the call. But more than likely I will be in a bad mood unless I find a way to alter it. The first thought is some type of mood altering drug, but no I don't do that. A cocktail? No, too early in the day. Call out? Not cool. I am left with one possibility: tricking my mind into believing I am in a good mood.

I heard one time that if you force yourself to smile for at least eight minutes, the muscle memory triggers your brain into thinking that the smile is real and your bad mood will up and vanish. Weirdly, it actually works. Years ago when I was working at Black Eyed Pea on Highway 290 in Houston, I drove to work each morning. I was at the end of my Pea time and it was a real struggle to even pretend that I gave a shit. Then I heard about this little trick on National Public Radio. I listen to NPR because I am real intelligent and shit. So I tried it. I would get into my car for the twenty minute drive and I would plaster this fake ass smile on my face and keep it there. I be looking like The Joker or some lame ass Miss America pageant bitch with Vaseline covered teeth as I drove my ass through Houston. But by the time I got to work, I felt better. I did this every day for several weeks and every time it somehow put me in a better mood. Of course the shitty mood would come right back as soon as some bitch would ask for a second hot tea because she ripped the first tea bag, but at least the good mood was there for a while.

Now that I live in New York City, I don't employ this technique anymore. Sitting in my car alone with a huge shit eating grin on my face is one thing, but doing that on the 7 train is not going to happen. Here in the city, the only people who are sitting alone on the subway and smiling like demons are the same people who are taking dumps in their pants and swatting imaginary flies. So now I embrace my bad mood. I welcome it. I accept it. And I take it to work with me.

CAPTION WINNER IS...

"Orange you supposed to be wearing a helmet?"

-Noel Constant

Je Suis Un Bitch

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

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

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

Write a Caption

Okay, so I am on my way to work this morning and thought I would try something new for the posting today. I am going to post this picture and see what captions people can write for it and then choose a winner. And what will the winner receive? My undying thanks and appreciation, that's what. And if it goes well, maybe I can do it once a week and eventually give out a prize. I am thinking prizes like an all expenses paid vacation to the Bahamas or a dinner at Bobby Flay's restaurant or a $5 gift card to Starbucks. One of those. We'll see how it goes.

So, what is your caption for this cat with fruit on its head?

Oh No He Di'nt

I have slowed down in my postings because I refuse to write unless I have something really worthwhile to say. I suppose I could type up some mundane crap every day and post it just to maintain some regularity, but it seems more substantial if the posts actually resonate with me. Well, something resonated with me. It hit a chord. Struck a nerve. Rang a bell. Punched me in the (sorry, Marlene, for the use of the word) cunt. And for something to cunt punch me it has to be really major because I don't even have a vagina. Anymore. Kidding. I never had a vagina. Of my own. Anyhoo.

I have written before about my last job and how they closed the place down only giving us four days notice. I had originally hoped to be moved to another one of the restaurants in the chain for at least some pick-up shifts and they told me that they would try to do that. I even went so far as to go and interview with a manager at one of the other locations. Yesterday I got a call from a former co-worker who, although he is totally funny and likable, is really, really old. He too was dumped by the restaurant but still has some friends at one of the other locations. Someone informed him that the reason the owner and manager didn't hire him or me at another store was because we had both put disparaging remarks about the company on our Facebook pages. Yeah, after we were fired with no notice and left totally unemployed, we both may have put something on our status' that said "VYNL sucks" or "fuck you, VYNL" because we were justifiably pissed off. And now we find out 6 months later that that is why they wouldn't transfer us to a new restaurant. To the owner, John, I have this to say:

You think "VYNL sucks" was bad on a Facebook page? The only people who saw that were my 296 friends. I didn't post it on The Bitchy Waiter Fan Page because over a 1000 people would have seen it. Now that would have been mean. If he got his crybaby panties all up in a twist over that, I wonder how he feels about me going to Yelp and posting some crap about his restaurant. Which I did. And how did he like it when I went to New York Citysearch and spread the truth about his shitty ass ways? Yeah, John, you suck. You have no ethics, no morals, no feelings and everyone who works for you hates you. Even the people who you think like you, don't like you. They kiss your ugly fat ass because you are the boss. They talk about you behind your back and question your policies and ideas. You suck. The only thing nice about you was your friendly wife who must see another side of you in order to stay married. I don't even want to work at your crappy ass restaurants anymore. VYNL closing was the best thing that ever happened to me and I hope the next time you are eating breakfast there, a piece of VYNL scrambled egg gets lodged in your throat and makes you choke. Not long enough to kill you or anything, but long enough to make you freak the fuck out. I pretty much hate you.

I feel better. Was that too mean? It's not like he reads this. But even if he does, it's all true. Thank God for the freedom of speech act or whatever law or amendment there is that lets me state my opinion without fear of retaliation. To you, VYNL and John, I say eat my mother fucking pud you sorry ass piece of crap.

Love,
The Bitchy Waiter

I'm Looking Over a Four Leaf Clover

Today is March 17th so it's the day that we all give ourselves permission to take off from work an hour early, pour ourselves a pint of green beer and celebrate the legend of Saint Patrick. I decided to do a little research on him so I delved into the wonderful world of wikipedia and learned that he was a Christian missionary in Ireland and he died in 493 AD. He spent some time as a slave and then he became a bishop and then he banished snakes from the whole island of Ireland. Now color me surprised, but I always thought that Saint Patrick must have been some Guinness drinking leprechaun who only had one purpose in life and that was to get totally trashed on March 17th. Turns out that the 17th is the day he died, so we are commemorating his death by slurping down shamrock shakes at McDonald's and wearing green ties and socks. When I worked at Bennigan's, St. Patrick's Day was a huge thing. We had some kind of countdown to March 17th and when the day finally arrived, people would cram themselves into the place and get trashed, all in the name of this wonderful Christian missionary who died 1500 years ago. And the only Irish thing about Bennigan's was the name. The kitchen would always throw together some crappy ass special of corned beef and cabbage and then we'd sell Guinness drafts for a dollar less than usual and people would pour into that place like it was St. Patrick's Cathedral. They'd all have on their "Kiss Me I'm Irish" buttons and their green berets and basically just get on my non-Irish nerves. If I could have anything today, it would be to find a four-leaf clover and make a wish that frat boys wouldn't get so drunk that they had to throw up on the 7 train. Do we really need another excuse to go to restaurants and drink to the point of no return? Can't people observe this special day by having a bowl of Lucky Charms in the morning, saying a prayer on a rainbow, finding a pot of gold and staying out of my station?

Happy St. Patrick's Day from The Bitchy Waiter.

Almost Famous

I worked a really slow shift a couple of days ago and it took a lot of effort to keep my eyes open. Seriously, I practically had to pull the olives off the toothpicks and prop open my eyelids with them. I sauntered up to table 25 and asked what they would be drinking for the evening. The lady looked up and squinted at me like she was trying to think of what to say. And then she asked me if I was an actor. "Yes." In my head I am getting all excited because maybe someone saw me in When in Rome. In the background. Standing on the steps. Yes, I am that famous. Then she asked me if I had done a certain show at a certain theater. "Yes." And then she tells me "I saw you! You were so great!" Suddenly, being a waiter wasn't so horrible because here I was holding a tray, but this lady had seen me doing something that I actually enjoy doing. It felt like I was meant to be waiting tables that night just so she could sit in my station and make me feel good about myself. I felt proud, happy and excited. And then I went and got her a glass of Cabernet. Very quickly I was consumed with bitterness and sorrow that I was just a waiter. Fame is so fleeting.

The next night, I was at a bar drinking. Shocking, I know. During my second pint of Anchor Steam a very attractive girl came up to me and tapped me on the shoulder. "Excuse me, but do I know you?" she asked. In my head I'm thinking, "Oh jeez, another person who saw me do a show somewhere or caught my (brief and practically non-existent) appearance in Enchanted. When does it ever end?" I looked at her and smiled. Her face filled with recognition and she said "I think you were our waiter at VYNL on the Upper East Side?" Crestfallen, I tell her that yes I was in fact her waiter there. "Oh my god!! I loved their granola!! See I told you it was him!" and she playfully slapped her friend on her arm as she laughed and they trotted off. Fame is so fleeting.