A Comment on Comments

There have been so many comments lately and as much as I want to respond to each and every one I simply do not have the time. My social calendar is completely full and my time is extremely valuable. For instance, just moments ago I ate an entire box of mac and cheese and that takes time people. And skill. However, I thought that it would be fun to pull a few of the most interesting comments and respond to them here in an open forum. Behold:


Anonymous said in regards to this post:

You sound like the typical drug useing, I hate my daddy, I'm gonna do a better job if I get pregnant accidentally after work at the party, I am a waitress that's smarter than the world, maybe I can scam drinks off this table by not ringing up the drinks waitress. Grow up, have a family, and post something worth reading. You need a monkey leash.

May I respond, Anonymous? First off, I can't take any comment seriously if you can't spell words correctly. And you do not know how to spell "using" which is a real issue for me. You're dumb. And please note that I used "you're" and not "your" because it is correct. And why do you think I want to get pregnant after work? For one thing, I don't have a uterus which is another big issue. I am a man. Bitchy WAITER not Bitchy WAITRESS. You're dumb. And the whole grow up and have a family and post something worth reading thing? I have no desire to spread my seed and bring a child into my life. The thought of it makes me sick. The only thing that would make me feel sicker would be another boring ass blog about someones supposedly adorable baby. And as for the monkey leash, well you may be right.

Floyd said in regards to this post:

Honestly, I am 19 years old and I think you are way out of line. First off, dont give the old and tired excuse: "Oh, I might lose my job if I serve alcohol to minors." Our government is run by a bunch of controlling pricks that work for special interest groups. You should do what is right and if a minor wants alcohol is no big fucking deal to serve them. Grow up and stop following the law like a zombie.

Oh Floyd. Dear, sweet, naive, dumb-as-a-brick Floyd. Do you really think that "I might lose my job" is a tired excuse? You know what I think is tired? Obnoxious 19 year old boys who think they know the answers to every world problem. You're probably the same kid who sits next to me on the R train with his iPod playing way too loud. And you take up two seats because you spread your legs so wide since you think your balls are so impressive that you couldn't possibly keep your legs close together. Pull your pants up, pull your head out of your ass and leave the blog.

And finally, to all the people who suggest that I quit bitching about my job and find a new one: shut up. Get over it. It's what I do. I bitch. If I was a doctor, I would have a blog called The Bitchy Doctor. Or The Bitchy Teacher, The Bitchy Prostitute, The Bitchy Nurse, The Bitchy Priest, The Bitchy Architect, or the Bitchy Homeless Man. I will always and forever be bitchy. I'm good at it and Oprah told me to find what I am good at and do it. In the holy name of Oprah, I shall be The Bitchy Waiter.

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Your Bitchy Waiter Astrology

Aries March 21-April 19: Today is the day you have been waiting for. You may or may not finally achieve what you have been working towards your whole life. Look for a man in a dark coat to guide you to the next step and when you see him, make sure you pass on the secret phrase so he knows that you are the one he has been looking for too. Secret phrase: how would you like your burger cooked?

Taurus April 20-May 20: Grab the bull by the horns, Taurus and just say no to bullshit. With the stars in alignment today, you may find yourself with some extra cash in your pocket. But don't spend it too quickly because the universe may have other ideas. At the end of the day, you might end up printing a sales report and have to take a lot of that cash and give it to a manager who is sitting in his office and doing "paperwork" when really he is in there looking at Internet porn.

Gemini May 21-June 21: With only a few more days left in Gemini, now is the time to make things count. If you have considered a change in direction, go for it. Once the moon moves out of Uranus you'll have a lot more room up there for better and more exciting things.

Cancer June 22-July 22: Your love life is about to change so get ready! After a long drought of loneliness and desperation, a homeless person is going to show up in your life and make you realize that love can be found anywhere. Even in a stinky toothless man who lives under a bridge. (If you are a male Cancer, then you are going to turn gay for this homeless man. It's in the stars.)

Leo July 23-August 22: Leo, your pride will take a beating today when someone is going to ask you to do something you would rather not do. Suck it up though because after all is said and done, you will be the bigger person for following through on it. Just scrape that gum from under the tables and await your karmic reward.

Virgo August 23-September 22: We all know how you are Virgo. You want everything in its place and done your way. Well get over it, because the planets say you need to pull the stick out of your ass and get over yourself.

Libra September 23-October 23: A new job opportunity is on the horizon if you know how to play your cards right. A man in a feathered hat and leopard skin pants will show you to your corner and introduce you to your new job prospects. Take it easy your first day though, Libra. You want to enjoy the start of your new career as a whore.

Scorpio October 24-November 21: The gentle sting of reality will nip at your heels today as you realize that the job you took a few years ago "until something better comes along" is what you will still be doing ten years from now. Take a breather and take a bong hit. It's the only way to satisfy such crushing disappointment.

Sagittarius November 22-December 21: Your likable demeanor will be challenged as people constantly push your buttons. Push back. Hard. If someone rubs you the wrong way today feel free to spit in their food or ruin the metallic strip on the back of their credit card.

Capricorn December 22-January 19: Buy a lottery ticket today. You are not going to win, but you need something to hope for since everything else about your day is kinda crappy.

Aquarius January 20-February 18: A co-worker will reveal some interesting information to you today that can help you in the long run. Keep that info to yourself for a while until you know exactly how to use it to get what you want. Not necessarily blackmail, but kinda sorta.

Pisces February 19-March 20: An old friend will reappear in your life today. It's someone who was there for some of the most important moments of your life. This old friend will not recognize you and walk right past you. Don't be too sad though. This old friend never really liked you that much anyway. They thought you were a bit of a whiner.


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It's Up to You, New York, New York Times

Okay, okay, this is a repeat post because I am so busy. If you must know, I am in a play and open in a week so my time has been a bit pinched as of late. I would tell you where the show is so maybe I could have five or six people in the audience, but then I would run the risk of Anonymous showing up and throwing a rotten egg at me during the curtain call. In the meantime, please enjoy this sorry ass summer repeat:


An article in the New York Times was brought to my attention and I feel that it needs to be responded to. (Holla, Bonnie!) It is titled "100 Things Restaurant Staffers Should Never Do" and it is part one of a list of bullshit notions that some asshole restaurant owner came up with. I am a big fan of The Grey Lady, baby, but this list has gots to go. The writer of the list is some man named Bruce (lame name) who is opening a seafood restaurant. I get that he wants his staff to do all these things and that is fine. But I don't work for you, Bruce. This list is something that should be taped to the bulletin board in the kitchen of your restaurant. Don't put it in the newspaper and think that all servers will start obeying your commands just because it got published in the Times. The list is only 50 items long right now with part two coming out later. Let me respond to some of them.

1. Do not let anyone enter the restaurant without a warm greeting. I agree. Easy to do, no sweat off my back. Fine.

3. Never refuse to seat three guests because a fourth has not yet arrived. Bullshit. Incomplete parties fuck with my seating rotation, my order taking and the kitchen. If people can't be there on time, then they should not make a fucking reservation. End of story.

8. Do not interrupt a conversation. For any reason. Especially not to recite specials. Wait for the right moment. Seriously? What if the right moment never comes? Some people are so fucking full of hot air and gas that they never shut the fuck up so that I can do my job. Uh uh. You say "sorry to interrupt, but can I take you order, you gassy bellowing bucket of lard?"

12. Do not touch the rim of a water glass. Or any other glass. Duh.

13. Handle wine glasses by their stems and silverware by the handles. No shit, Sherlock.

20. Never refuse to substitute one vegetable for another. What about the rule on the menu that says "no substitutions"? It's a pain in the ass. Eat the fucking collard greens.

23. If someone likes a wine, steam the label off the bottle and give it to the guest with the bill. It has the year, the vintner, the importer, etc. Come on!! Who the fuck has time to steam a label off a bottle? Is this guy fucking kidding me? I don't even have time to spit in their food sometimes and he thinks I am going to do that? And where does he suggest I find a steamer? The cappuccino machine I guess? Get over it. Tell them the name of the wine and let them fucking write it down. How hard is it to remember Knotts Berry Farm, anyway?

32. Never touch a customer. No excuses. Do not do it. Do not brush them, move them, wipe them or dust them. I am firm believer in the gentle touch on the shoulder or elbow when you thank a guest for coming in. It increases your tip. It just does. It's not like I am grabbing a boob or something. And if they are in my way because they are wandering around the restaurant, I will push their ass out my way if I need to.

37. Do not drink alcohol on the job, even if invited by the guests. “Not when I’m on duty” will suffice. Oh please. How the hell am I supposed to get through my shift?

38.Do not call a guy a “dude.”

39. Do not call a woman “lady.” I agree. Douchebag and Cunt are far more appropriate.

43. Never mention what your favorite dessert is. It’s irrelevant. So I guess just be the fucking robot waiter and say that everything is perfect and delicious even though some things suck and some things don't. I find that customers appreciate an honest opinion.

50. Do not turn on the charm when it’s tip time. Be consistent throughout. I am consistent. Consistently bitchy.

Thanks, Bruce for your wonderful insight. It sounds like your restaurant is such a joy to work in. Surely the next 50 ideas will be just as inspiring.

Here is the complete list by The King of All Douchebags, Bruce.


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Does Anyone Still Wear A Hat? While Waitressing?

Summer is upon us and the humidity level is creeping higher and higher. Here on the East Coast, the weather is a crazy thing to me. Having lived here for 16 years I am still not used to the fact that in the winter it can be 5° and then in the summer it can be 95°. What the hell kind of place is this? And I don't care what people say about it not being the heat but the humidity. If it's 95° it's fucking hot no matter what the humidity level is. The reason I'm so flumfluxxed about the temperature is because I have to wear a uniform to work and that uniform is black pants and a long sleeve black button up shirt. You try wearing that and walking into the depths of holy hell that we call the subway and try to stay fresh for more than three minutes. It's impossible. When I get off the train and get to work, it's not pretty sometimes. Sure, I could carry my uniform to work in a garment bag, but really? A garment bag that carries a stain covered pair of pants and a faded dress shirt? Not worth it. Or I could fold it and carry it in a bag, but really? And then get to work and have to wear a stain covered pair of pants and a faded dress shirt that is also wrinkled? A true dilemma. So what do I do? I wear it and and turn into a big hot sweaty mess and then serve my guests looking like a tired dried up French whore who just gave a blow job in a sauna.

At my last job, I could wear whatever I wanted which was a good thing for about two weeks. And then I realized I was getting all my real clothes stained with coffee and grease and I started longing for a uniform again. I don't know who came up with the universal uniform for restaurant folks to be khakis, but that's what it is most of the time. Pizzeria Uno, Bennigan's, Houlihan's and Black Eyed Pea were all khakis. I have spent about 13 years of my life being forced to wear Dockers and Gap pants.

My big issue with a uniform is when the restaurant requires you to wear a certain article of clothing but they make us pay for it. That pisses my shit off. If I have to wear that ugly ass burgundy shirt, Mr. Houlihan's, I don't want to pay for it. Same thing with you, Mr. Black Eyed Pea. I have to buy the green shirt with the stupid ass embroidered logo? Or sometimes they will give you one shirt but if you want another it comes out of your paycheck. Fuck that. I will take the one free shirt and wear that bitch every day until it has so much food on it that it walk itself into the restaurant and start picking up shifts.

If I have to wear a uniform, I want to wear one that has some personality. I want a little hat and an cute frilly apron and a name tag. I want a big starched white collar and white sneakers. I want bright red lipstick and a beehive. Basically, I wanna be Flo from the television show Alice. I have written about her before and I have even been her for Halloween. Now that's a uniform.

And does anyone get what the post title is referring to? Does anyone still wear...a hat?

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Slip Sliding Away

So I tempted fate a few days ago by writing about dropping trays. Thankfully, I made it through my next shift with my trays as steady as ever so I thought I would take another gamble and write about something else that can plague a server: falling on your ass. It's happened to most of us and if it hasn't happened to you yet, it will. It's inevitable. I've written about when customers fall but who really cares when they fall? As long as they didn't hurt their wallet or break their credit card, I'm good. But when it happens to one of our own, it's a true tragedy.

The last time I fell was when I worked at VYNL. Part of the kitchen and all of the storage was downstairs so it was ripe for accidents. Plus the stairs were made of metal, always greasy and they were so steep that we may as well have called them a ladder. Going down them once to fetch some ice, I slipped and ended up in the basement flat on my ass and in a pile of nasty stagnate water that no one wanted to fucking clean up. I guess since it was only stagnate water in the food prep area, everyone thought "meh, it's cool." It hurt though. And I have a skinny little bony ass without much padding. But worse than the physical pain was the humiliation of ending up on the floor in front of all the cooks. Most of them didn't speak English, but laughter is universal. They laughed at me in Spanish and I was mucho embarrassed.

The thing about falling at a restaurant is that when you fall, it's always onto the nasty ass floor that was slippery with salad dressing or fajita juice or whatever the fuck. And whatever made you slip is what you end up sitting in. And when you do fall you're usually in a hurry which contributed to the fall in the first place so you never have time to go clean up. You just pop right back up and carry on all the while having a big glob of 1000 Island dressing smeared all over your ass. Now don't misunderstand me. There is a time and place to have 1000 Island dressing smeared all over your ass but that time and place is not while you're at work.

Of course falling can be avoided. If you take yourself over to Payless, you can buy some skid-resistant shoes for $24.99 and they really help. Spending $24.99 on something crappy for a crappy job is not fun, but let me say this. Not falling at work is a good thing too. And not having 1000 Island dressing smeared all over your ass while at work is an even better thing. Save that for your private time.

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When I Was There, Was I Really Family?

This is a post from a while back, but I have a very busy day ahead of me and my lazy ass doesn't have time to write new shit. Understandable? Or totally lame? You decide.

Forgive me father, for I have sinned. It's been about a million fucking years since my last confession, but while I was in Texas I did something I am completely ashamed of. The guilt has been eating away at me like a fat lady eats an order of eggs benedict. The shame has completely consumed me so that I can barely function. Last night at work, I found it difficult to maintain focus and give my customers the attention they so rightly deserved. My mind kept wandering to a dreadful night eight days ago when I did what I swore I would never ever do. Something that makes me shudder with revulsion. I ate at The Olive Garden.

It was my last night with my parents and I wanted to take them out to dinner. They live in a small town and when you want to eat someplace nice, the options are limited. There, they think The Olive Garden is fancy. Real fancy. When people go there they do it without any hint of irony at all. So that's where we went. I must admit that I was looking forward to that never-ending bread stick/salad bowl thingy even though someone once told me that each bread stick was 310 calories. Our server was a young girl who was obviously new to the world of food service. Someone at our table asked her which wine she thought was better. I was pretty sure that all of the wines at The olive Garden would be equally mediocre but she had an answer. Her answer sounded like it was in the form of a question. "Uh...I dunno? You'll have to ask someone else because I'm not old enough to taste the wine yet?" Then she giggled. Okay, listen, new waitress. You never say you don't know; you just make shit up. You can always say. "Well, the chardonnay is much more popular than the pinot grigio" or some other vague ass answer like that. The table ordered three different glasses of wine so when she showed up she was holding three glasses in one hand and had three bottles of wine cradled in her arm and up against her chest. She squatted down to get them to the table and then gave a big sigh of relief. "Whew! I made it and I'm the captain of dropping things." And then she giggled. Ay ay, captain, just shut the fuck up and take my order.

I had a chicken parmigiana and I inhaled three breadsticks (930 calories...), had some salad and two glasses of wine. I enjoyed the food. It sorta remonded me of the chick parm you used to be able to get at Burger King and I loved that shit. It was 9:15 and we suddenly realized we were the only ones left in the restaurant. It being a Tuesday night in small town Texas, people headed home early I suppose. Maybe they had to get up early on Wednesday and till the farm or clean out the chicken coops. We asked if they were closed, but they informed us that they were open until 10:00 and there was no need to hurry. A few minutes later, Giggles the waitress came to our table and said, "So, I'm gonna go 'head and go home now? So...uhh..." We took that as our cue to pay the check. We left her a 22% tip which in that town was enough for her to go buy a two bedroom one bath house. I enjoyed my meal at The Olive Garden. When I was there, I really did feel like family. That may have been in part due to the fact that I was eating with my parents who are actually family, but regardless, it was nice.

I hope you can forgive me for eating at The Olive Garden. I hope Jesus can forgive me but most of all I hope I can forgive myself. I shall say 100 Hail Marys and clean the lids of twenty ketchup bottles in hopes that I can be resolved of this most monsterous of sins.

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Uno, Dos, Trays

All waiters occasionally drop a tray, but after years and years of practice it happens less and less often. Throughout my near upon two decades of experience (I started waiting tables at the age of two) I have gotten to where having a tray at the end of my arm is as natural as having a margarita at the end of it. I can maneuver my way through a crowd with a tray of glasses held over my head with grace and elegance. A few weeks ago I dropped my pen onto the floor and just bent down to pick it up while holding a tray of martinis. I didn't think anything about it but the lady at the table acted like I should go join Cirque du Soleil or something. When I worked at the Marriott, I entered this thing called "Marriott Olympics" and had to run through an obstacle course while holding a tray with glasses of water. Didn't spill a drop. I didn't win though because this lady named Nancy had been waiting tables since the invention of food and she had more experience than me. That bitch won a free night at a hotel and some luggage for that shit. I'm not bitter though. Much.

Some servers can do that really cool spinning trick with their trays and I have never been able to master it. I was never able to spin a basketball on my finger either so I'm pretty sure I have some kind of finger tip deficiency problem. I work with a guy now who's really good at it and every time he does it I get all jealous and have to leave the room. Some people aspire to write the next great American novel or find a cure for cancer. I just wanna fucking learn how to spin a goddamn tray on my finger. Damn this finger tip deficiency of mine!

I don't remember the last time I dropped a tray but of course since I just typed that, the next time will be tonight. About a hundred years ago I was a food runner at a Mexican restaurant in Denver called Juanita's. I worked there for about nine months and never once dropped a tray. And those trays were huge-like five and six platters worth of food. On my last night of employment there, I mentioned to someone that I had never dropped a tray. I jinxed myself. At the end of the shift, after I had punched out I went to say goodbye to the kitchen because I was moving the next week. The food runner who was still on was all of a sudden weeded so I said I would take the last tray out as I left. My swan song, you might say. Of course I dropped it. Fajitas, enchiladas, rice and beans all over the place. Seriously? My last tray is the one I dropped as I am doing them a favor? I cleaned that shit up and got the hell out of Juanita's.

When I worked at Houlians's, we played a game sometimes that involved dropping a tray on purpose. The point of the game was to drop a tray on purpose. All you would do was pick up a tray and then drop the tray on purpose. It's fun to break stuff. Ah, Houlihan's...good times.

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Dear Lady at Table 32,

Here is a brief list of all things I wanted to say to Table 32 a few days ago:

• Do you really need to be reseated that many times in order to find the perfect seat?
• It's tacky to tip the host and then still complain about where you're sat.
  
• The drink has Blue Curacao in it, so yes it is actually going to be blue.
• The Real Housewives of New Jersey asked me to tell you to give them their accent back.
• That blouse looks like it came from the $5 and under bin at Chico's.
• Black is not slimming.
• You have on way too many sequins. The only person wearing that many sequins should be on an episode of "Toddlers and Tiaras" or be named Liza Minnelli.
  
• You don't need to call me over to hand me an empty glass. I will get it when I have a free hand.
• I see that your reservation was for two but you are alone now. You don't have to tell me that you decided to take yourself out tonight. It's obvious that your husband bailed on you and is at home relishing the two hours of solitude and trying to recall what it's like to not have his ears bleed from the sound of your voice.
  
• Your hair is scaring me. And scarring me. For life. Frosted is not pretty.
  
• You don't need to call me over to hand me another empty glass. I will get it when I have a free hand.
• Do you really need more napkins or are you just trying to think of something to ask for every time I walk by you?
• Seriously bitch, stop calling me over to take empty shit from your fucking table.
• Using the phrase "it's a delight" does not make you sophisticated. It makes me think you heard it on that episode of "The Three Stooges" when they were plumbers at that fancy party and that one snobby rich lady said it.
• Using the phrase "it's a delight" more than six or seven times makes me think you are supremely dumb and a trifle desperate.
• Yes, I can get you an order of hummus and chips.
• Yes, I can get you more chips.
  
• I see you waving me down again. Let me guess. Your plate is empty and you want me to take it. Stop it.
• The people next to you are sick of hearing you talk. They don't know you and don't want to be your friend.
• Yes, I will get your check for you. You don't have to ask me for that. It's on my list of things to give to you along with a dirty look and a fist up your puss.
• Yes, we take American Express. Your American Express card does not impress me. It's a green one.
  
• You looked stupid when you took a picture of the performer after her show and told her she was "a delight." Enough with that phrase already.
• I hate you. You annoy me. Don't come back.

Things I actually said to Table 32 a few days ago:

• Can I take your order?
• Yes, ma'am.
• Good bye.
  

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The Patio is a Pain in the Ass

This is a re-post of something I wrote last summer, but it being summer, its time has come again.

Let me tell you about waiting tables on a patio: it sucks. My restaurant has a patio in the summer and people knock themselves over to get one of those crappy little two-tops next to a busy Manhattan street. It's not relaxing out there, that's for sure. Sirens, buses, homeless people watching you eat french toast? Why bother? But people love it. But what really annoys the fuck out of me is when someone complains that it's too hot or too windy. Oh okay, let me stop the wind for you, lady.

Someone today waited twenty minutes for a table on the patio/dirty sidewalk. After they rearranged the tables to suit their needs they called me over and said the sun was too bright. I asked the sun to stop shining, but that bitch didn't want to cooperate so then they wanted to move. I reminded them that we are in fact outside which tends to have sun and told them that the entire inside of the restaurant was shaded if they wanted to move their gloober-globber asses inside. Of course they didn't. They wanted to move the table somewhere else making it almost impossible for me to walk around them, but sure. Whatever makes my customers happy is what I want. Uh huh. They also tipped me $7.00 on $62.00. Assholes. I hope they get a touch of melanoma from their three minutes in the bright sun.

Another time a lady freaked the fuck out because she saw a rat on the sidewalk. It's a sidewalk. In New York City. That's where rats live. Be thankful the rat didn't pull up a chair and order a Bloody Mary and ask for separate checks.

Another time a lady called me over because a gnat had flown into her mimosa and she wanted another glass. This very thing happened just a few days ago. I personally think that drowning in a mimosa is a pretty good way to go, but whatever. It's a gnat. Who cares? Fish it out and continue drinking. I read somewhere once that we eat about a pound of bugs a year and don't even know it because they get in our food all the time. I told her this, but she didn't like that factoid. I took her mimosa inside and pulled the bug out of her drink with my impeccably clean hands. I then poured her drink into a new glass and gave it back to her. She should have been more specific and asked for another drink and not just another glass.

I hate working on the patio.


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Must Be 21 to Read This Post

Every once in a while, someone will send me an email that will spark an idea of what I should write about so a big shout out to Leila for this blog post idea. Minors trying to order drinks are such a nuisance. In my day, I never even tried to order before I was of age because I had such a baby face that it was never gonna happen. I would just do what any sensible minor would do which was sit in my car and drink a couple of Bartles and Jaymes or California Coolers followed by a chaser of Boone's Berry Farm before going in somewhere. All of my friends had fake i.d.'s so I would just watch them drink or maybe if the circumstances were right, they would order for me.

It's funny to be a server and see some obviously underage kid trying to order a cocktail. It's always a dead giveaway when they order some stupid ass drink like a Long island Iced Tea or a Banana Daiquiri. Or they go in the other direction and try to be so cool and order a scotch on the rocks. If they would just order a Coors Light or some other nondescript drink, I probably wouldn't notice but if you ask me for a Sex on the Beach or a Bahama Mama, I'm gonna figure you are either a tourist, stupid or under age. Or all three. When I was first waiting tables I hated to ask for i.d. because I was barely 21 myself and still looked like I was 17 and was always so afraid that I was going to offend someone. Nowadays I don't give a shit. It's fun to bust a kid. And they always have the same excuse. "Err, uh..I must have left my license in my other purse" or "dude, my wallet was stolen but I am so 21. Seriously, I was born in 1989, dude, for real." Sorry. Not gonna fly with me. Like I really want to lose my (shitty ass lame) job for serving a minor just because he wants to see what a Mudslide tastes like. I was out once with a group of people and one kid was only 19. He was trying to be all cool and shit so he ordered a White Russian, but requested it to be "easy on the Kahlua." My friend looked at him and said, "you know that Kahlua is an alcohol, right?" He didn't. What a dumbass. If you're gonna order a White Russian while in a dive bar, the bartender will look at you and think you are a dumbass, dumbass. He didn't get served. He should have ordered a Budweiser and no one would have questioned it.

Kids, don't try to drink in my station. I will card you because I enjoy disappointing you. I may even let you order it, wait five minutes and then come and ask for i.d. just so you can get your hopes up that a Mai Tai is coming your way. Don't fuck with me, fellas. I ain't got time to waste. Get your self a fake i.d. or order a fucking apple juice.


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The Menu is Your Friend

This an older post that I thought needed to be seen again since so many people are not familiar with the word "menu."

Sometimes people think that when they come into the restaurant they are in their own kitchen and I am their personal chef for the day. No bitch, that is not how it works. We have this thing called a menu. M-E-N-U. It is this really great idea that someone came up with that tells you what we have to offer. You should read it. Someone was paid to create it and make it and print it. And then that girl at the front who showed you to your table gave you one for you to look at it. It is not for your devil spawn children to draw in or for you to use to flag me down. It is for you to choose what you want to eat. Some ass came in the other day and threw himself into a booth without being seated. Then he complained the table was sticky with syrup. (He HOPES it was syrup.) So he didn't have a menu and he ordered a chicken parmesan. Seriously? Does this look Bella Italia or The Olive Garden? No, ass, we are a diner. Burgers, salads, meatloaf. I ain't got no fucking eggplant rollatini so don't ask for that shit either. So I told him we don't have it. "What, you out of that today?" I suggested that he order two fried eggs with hash browns and toast because that is what we do. Or maybe a burger with a side of pubic hair because that is what he was about to get. This other douche bag came in last week and started ordering all this ala carte crap without looking at the menu. He ordered two eggs just like his friends. Fine. That comes with hash browns and toast. Then he says he wants French Toast too. Okay, we have that. And then he wants sausage. And coffee. And orange juice. It all came out, he ate it and then got his bill and had a fucking pissy bitch fit. He wants to know how three orders of eggs can cost more than twenty dollars. I told him it was simple mathematics. One order is $6.95 and when you multiply that by three it comes out to more than twenty dollars. See? It's easy, douche! He thought there was a better way I could have rung up his food so he did not have to pay for everything. I took him a menu. MENU! I showed him each thing he ordered. I asked him, "Is that what you had? Did it come to your table? Did you eat it all?" He answered yes to all these things. Then here is your bill. End of story. Read the fucking menu people and make both our lives a little easier, but I will still want to drop pubes in your burger, just so you know.


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A Travesty Has Occured

A terrible thing has happened and I can hardly live with myself. How have I made it through 24 years of life ( I was born in 1986, give or take a few years) and not known something of this magnitude? I feel like the rug has been pulled from under me and I don't know what's real anymore. Yesterday was National Doughnut Day and nobody fucking told me. And this is a holiday that has been happening since 19 freakin' 38? According to the vast amount of research I did on Wikipedia, this wonderful event was started to honor the ladies who served doughnuts to the soldiers in World War I. And on a side note, I think one of those soldiers was in my station a few weeks ago. National Doughnut Day happens on the first Friday of every June so I have placed this handy dandy countdown clock here to remind us that on June 3, 2011 we can all have donuts for breakfast, lunch and dinner and when someone gives us the judging evil eye we can say, "fuck off, it's for the troops." And then proceed to cram another glazed doughnut into our pie hole.

Apparently Dunkin' Donuts was even giving away a free doughnut yesterday if you ordered a cup of coffee. This is not right. I could have spent all day yesterday hop, skipping and jumping from Dunkin' Donuts to Krispy Kreme and filling up on fried dough. My arteries are royally pissed off that they missed this wonderful opportunity. This will never happen again. It is now marked as permanent alarm in my phone, the date on the calendar is already circled, there is a string around my finger and I have a tattoo on my face that says "don't forget doughnut day." But don't worry. The tattoo is in a real fancy font so even though I have a tattoo about doughnuts on my face, I'm still classy.


This clock is set to New York City time, just so you know.


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Just Say No to Gummi Bears

Anyone who has worked in a restaurant knows what a table tent is. They are the little menus that sit on a table that are more than likely sticky and covered with old crusted food because those little shits never get wiped down. Sure, it's in our sidework to wipe them down every day, but no one ever does it. The table tent will tell you the specials of the day or some other bullshit information. Personally, I like a table that's clutter free. It makes the restaurant look nicer and quite frankly it just means less crap for me to keep clean. When I worked at a diner, every table had a ketchup bottle, creamer, sugar caddie, jellies, table tent and a bowl of butters, not to mention the silverware and napkins. Too much crap. The place I work in now is more of a night club but it too has its own paraphernalia: table tent, candle, bev naps, an email sign up list and pen. It looks crowded.

The other day we had a performer who wanted to add some more shit to the table because I guess there was still a couple of square inches that weren't accounted for yet and she wanted to make sure I had absolutely no place to put down drinks. She added a program for her show, business cards, raffle tickets and Gummi Bears that were poured into old prescription bottles. Yeah, I don't get the significance either. But she didn't just leave the Gummi Bears in the bottles. She also thought it was beneficial to spread them out all over the tables- like people are really gonna eat a piece of candy right off a cocktail table. By the time she was done, it looked like a clown had puked all over the whole damn place. Or maybe Rainbow Brite just got her period. The club seats 120 people so she made sure that every seat had all that crap at it even though there were only reservations for 60 people. That means that she put out 100% more crap than was necessary. I hate overachievers.

After the show, do you think she helped remove all the stuff she had put on the tables? Of course not. And have you ever tried to wipe away hundreds of Gummie Bears off a table? I don't recommend it. They stick. Basically, each and every fucking Gummi Bear had to be picked up individually and it was a huge time suck. With no pay off. Maybe if she had a song called "Gummi Bears on the Tables" or "I Like Making Extra Work For Waiters" it would have made sense. But she didn't. Bitch just stuck Gummi Bears on my tables for no good reason. I was never a fan of the Gummi Bear. And now I really hate them. All in favor of a bare table say "aye." Aye.

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You Wanna Piece of Me?

As I have previously noted, I am not only a bitchy waiter, I am also a shameless publicity seeking whore. Which is why you can go here to get a little piece of me. I know, it is totally cheesy and lame and stupid, but I don't care. Just go and see if there is something you can't live without. All items would also serve as (really lame-ass) gifts.

My Child, My Pet

Riding on the lovely 7 train yesterday, I spotted one of those mothers who thinks it's a good idea to attach their child to a leash. However, the leash was made to look like a a monkey so as not to seem so I-have-my-kid-on-a-leash-ish. So the monkey part looked like it was hugging the kid and then the tail was what the mom was holding on to. But, still. Your kid on a leash? As she got onto the train, she dragged her baby behind her. It just seemed wrong. Call me old fashioned but can't you just keep your eyes on your child instead of a rope? But then I started thinking about how handy those leashes would be in a restaurant. Every person who asks for a child's menu would also get a leash that they would be required to attach to the kid so that it is forced to stay at his table. Kiddos, don't be getting all in my fucking way when I'm trying to carry a tray of food. Put that leash on! And in the restaurant, the leashes should not be all cute adorable ones that look harmless and fun. I want real actual leashes. From Petco. The kind that are made of polyester or leather. And I want studs and spikes on them so if the child moves so much as an inch away from the table, the discomfort will force him back to the booster seat they made me get. Or better yet, why not a leash made of a bungee cord? I like this idea. A really elastic one. And I would lure the child away from their table with a big pile of chicken fingers. The kid would walk towards the food and then I would inch it a little further away and keep doing that until the adorable tot is struggling against the elasticity of the cord. One foot further and then the bungee cord would do its thing and snap that kid right back to his seat where he was supposed to be anyway. I would lure the kid up and over tables first so that when he was being bungeed back to his inattentive parents he would go under tables and over booths and maybe get smacked around a little bit on the way. It would be an excellent lesson for that poor dear child. Stay in your seat. Don't move. Be quiet.

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Please Drink Responsibly. But Only if You Really Want To

No one is a bigger fan of enjoying a cocktail than I am. There is absolutely nothing wrong with catching a good buzz and using alcohol as a social lubricant. Why just last night I had two Mojitos. And a couple of days before that I had two mimosas, two margaritas, a berry cosmo and a pomegranate martini. Of course I spread that out over a good amount of time so as not to become Punch Drunk Judy. However, Punch Drunk Judy did make an appearance in my station recently and she was a lovely lovely woman. A lovely wino of a woman I shall call Judy McDrunkity Drunk.

At the club, everyone must have their two drink minimum throughout the course of the hour and ten minute show. For some teetotalers it takes quite a bit of effort to suck down two gimlets every 35 minutes. But not for Judy McDrunkity Drunk. She sat down and ordered a glass of wine. She was very sweet. I brought her first glass of Pinot Grigio and went on my merry way to get the rest of the drink orders before the show started. A few minutes later she gave me that arched eyebrow look that said she wanted my attention. I went to her table and she cocked her head with a smile and lightly tapped the rim of her empty wine glass. She was ready for round two before the show had even started. I love when that happens. I took her drink to her and since I could hardly reach her table because of the crowd, she stood up and reached forward for it and took it from me. She was being helpful. When she ordered a third glass of wine and stood up to take it from me, this time it didn't seem as helpful as it seemed desperate for the sweet nectar of the grape. A while later, I got the arched eyebrow look again, but this time it wasn't so much that her eyebrows were arched but more like her eyeballs were sagging. I took glass number four and thought surely she must be done now because the show is almost over. Nope. This time her husband ordered it for her. I assumed she longer had the ability to allow her appendages to function. I was proven wrong when I brought her glass number five and she popped right up and reached over the table to wrap her bony thirsty fingers around the stem of the glass.

The show ended a few minutes after that and I passed out checks. I thought for certain that checks weren't the only thing that was going to be passed out that night, but Judy was happy as a clam. Seemed totally fine and loved the show. Of course, she loved the show. After an entire bottle of wine even The Blindside (starring Oscar® winner Sandra Bullock) is enjoyable. The check was paid and I was at the computer closing out my cash when I saw her walking towards me on her way out.

"Good night," I said. "Thanks for coming. I hope you enjoyed the show."

Judy focused her glassy eyes on me and came right up to my face and proclaimed, "I loved it! And thank you so much." She pressed her lips to my cheek, kissed the hell out of it and walked out of the club with her husband. I was left with a really great tip and a really wet face from the lips of a wino named Judy McDrunkity Drunk.

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Bloody Mary Secret Recipe

At work a few days ago I came across an ethical dilemma. One of those moments where you have to make a split decision about something and the choice is not an easy one to make. The wrong decision can change a life. Should I do what is right or should I do what is easy? It was a very busy night and I had a lot of drinks to get out before the show started in five minutes. The bar was a sea of cocktails waiting for me to carry them to their rightful owners. As I headed to table 42 (Or at least I think it's 42. I don't really know those table numbers back there. You know, the one in the corner?), the ethical dilemma presented itself. On my tray was a Diet Coke (Diet Pepsi, really...), one glass of pinot grigio and two Bloody Mary's. Waiting for me at the bar were about ten other drinks that were watering down like the polar ice caps. Two feet away from table 42, I noticed that one of the Bloody Mary's had some thing floating on the top of it. That thing was a mosquito. Or maybe it was a gnat. It for sure wasn't a fly. Well, if it was a fly it was a really small one. My mind flashed. In about one second, this is what flew through my head:

Oh my God, is that a bug? That's a bug. Fuck, that's a bug and now I have to go all the way back to the bar and get another Bloody Mary. Shit. I don't have time to go back to the bar to get another Bloody Mary because the show is about to start. Maybe it's not a bug. Maybe it's a leaf from the celery. No, it's definitely a bug. And we don't even put celery in our Bloody Mary. Fuck, just give it to them, maybe they won't notice. No, that's wrong. Fuck it. No that's wrong. Fuck it. No that's wrong. Fuck it, it's candlelight, they'll never see it. No, that's wrong. I can't do that.

I looked at the two people who ordered the Bloody Mary's and tried to decide which one would be the least likely to notice the happily drowning insect in their beverage. The wife was old but pretty sharp. But then I noticed the husband. He had on a hearing aid and my reasoning was that if he was hard of hearing he probably had some failing eyesight too. So down went the Bloody Mary in front of the Old Man. I also conveniently moved the candle away from him to ensure bad lighting. I based my decision on what would make my life easier, and do I feel bad about it? You bet I do. I think it worked out though. He ordered a second one. I brought it to him without the fly, gnat, mosquito insecty thing.

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I Am a Publicity Whore. I Really Am.

So it's Memorial day today and I took the day off to take my lazy ass to the beach and now I am on my way to my regular Margarita Monday. But what's this? The Bitchy Waiter has been named a "Blog of Note" today? I quiver with excitement. I tremble with anticipation. I hate customers. I just wanted to give a very bitchy welcome to any first time readers. And not only am I a bitchy waiter, I am also a greedy publicity hound and attention whore so I hope you will follow this blog, follow me on Twitter and like me on Facebook.

And for your convenience, links:

CLICK HERE TO FOLLOW THIS BLOG

CLICK HERE TO FOLLOW ME ON TWITTER

CLICK HERE TO LIKE ME ON FACEBOOK

Thanks, y'all.

Is The Customer Always Right?

Someone sent me an article written about that old wives tale "the customer is always right" and I must respond. Is the customer always right? Of course not. They are very often misinformed, clueless, unreasonable or just plain dumb. But here is what may surprise you: the waiter is not always right either. There, I said it. Sometime I can acknowledge that I have made a mistake. I have found that when I do, the customer appreciates the honesty and it results in a better tip. Just fess up. I have flat out told them that I forgot to put the order in and that's why it's taking so long so here is a complimentary beverage and I'm sorry. I will also go out of my way to do what a customer wants but if it gets just plain ridiculous, we have to draw the line. I do not believe the customer is right when they demand that the music is too loud for their baby to sleep. Or when they want us to make something that isn't on the menu simply because we have all the ingredients. Peanut butter and jelly in the house does not mean that the kitchen has to make a sandwich for your kid because that's the only thing they will eat. If the kid doesn't like what's on our menu, then maybe they should be eating somewhere else or bringing their own stupid PB and J. And when this lady told me that there was no liquor in her strawberry daiquiri, I knew for certain that the customer was not right because there was most assuredly liquor in her drink. So in those instances, customers are wrong.

The article questioned why so many companies are willing to side with rude disgruntled customers rather than siding with their loyal employee. If management was more willing to ignore this antiquated rule, then employees would be more willing to give excellent customer service and in return the customers would have a better experience. Once I was explaining to a woman that an egg white omelet was an additional charge. It was clearly on the menu but she couldn't understand why. "I'm only using part of the egg and not the whole thing so it really should be less'" she said. Never mind that it takes more eggs to make an egg white omelet, she was not having it. I kept telling her it was the policy and there was nothing I could do. She called a manager over who then voided off her additional $1 charge in order to appease her making me look like an asshole even though I was the one who was following policy. "The customer's always right," he sighed as he swiped his card in the computer to void the charge from her check. So now this woman will always expect that every time she goes back to that restaurant. And I now resent trying to do my job. Had the manager explained that it's policy and made her pay the dollar, I would have had respect for the manager and the lady would now know she either has to deal with our rules or go somewhere else.

Before you jump all over me, anonymous poster, I do try to make my customers happy. If I can bring some extra bread because they are "starving" I will or if the sun is shining in their eyes, I will adjust the blinds. But if they want me to comp their steak because it "didn't taste right" but they still managed to eat all but two bites of it, then the customer is wrong. If they ask for a discount because sitting on the patio was too loud for them to hear themselves think, that customer is also wrong. Is the customer always right? No. We give them the benefit of the doubt but sometimes they just are wrong wrong wrong.

Happy Birthday to Me

In 1984 many wonderful things happened. The groundbreaking film Ghostbusters was released, Cyndi Lauper earned the Grammy for best new artist (criminally beating Madonna) and Apple introduced their first Macintosh personal computer. But these are not the only momentous occasions of that year, for it was also the year that I was born. Today is my birthday. Uh huh. I am 26 years old. I repeat, I am 26 years old. Anyone who says otherwise is completely and utterly wrong. To celebrate, I am taking the day off from work. Actually, I only work two days a week so taking Saturday off is a regular thing for me, but today I have a reason other than laziness and no direction in life. Today I will be having lunch and dinner at restaurants and I expect nothing less than a group of waiters singing to me as they place before me a stale piece of cake with a dirty candle stuck in it. The restaurants should be comping my drinks, simply because I was born. The whole restaurant should give me their undivided attention because it is my special day, dammit. And in case you are wondering what I would like for my birthday, there are a few things. You can always go here if you want an idea or here for another great gift option. The Bitchy Waiter is also on the look out for a new Mac Book, running shoes, a watch, jewelry, vacation home in Provincetown, free airline tickets, tequila, tequila, tequila or anything else of value. Or you can always go here to express your birthday wishes upon me.

Seriously, thank you for the birthday love and thank you for reading this blog. It makes me happy that even one person reads it or comments on anything. Thank you. And to all you other May 29th birthdayers out there, happy birthday to you too! Oh wait...was I born in 1984 or was I a sophomore in high school in 1984, I'm not sure.

Miracles Really Do Happen

I recently wrote about how frustrating it is when someone takes both copies of the credit card slip effectively keeping me from getting a tip because I don't know what they had written on the tip line. It really sucks when this happens, but a few days ago a miracle occurred. Let's play a game and you decide which miracle is true.

Miracle #1: I woke up late and was rushing around getting ready to start my day. I was out of Cheerios so I had to go to breakfast option number two which would be two pieces of toast with grape jam. I put my bread in the toaster and two minutes later I sat down with my breakfast ready to eat. All of a sudden, I noticed an image peering back at me from my multi-grain bread. Jesus had appeared on my breakfast food. I quickly took a picture and sold that shit on Ebay for $23.99. It's miracle!

Miracle #2: In my backyard, I have a statue of the Virgin Mary. Every day, I go to her and thank her for watching over me and keeping me safe. I talk to her and explain my day and when I am done I feel better. Well, one day as I was telling her how thankful I was for the ten percent tip that someone left me on a $100 check, I looked into her eyes and saw that she was crying. The Virgin Mary statue was crying real tears and I knew that I was on the path to righteousness. It's a miracle!

Miracle #3: A few days ago, someone came into the club and told me that they had inadvertently took the credit card slip that had my tip on it and they owed me twenty dollars. It's a miracle!

Can you figure out which one really happened? I'll give you two clues. Never am I out of Cheerios and I do not have a backyard. Uh huh. Someone actually came back in to tip me from the week before. It made my night and it also restored my faith in all humanity and made all things right in the world. Like Anne Frank, "in spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart." Until someone asks me for a glass of water, a bowl of lemons and Sweet and Low packets and then I go right back to hating all people.

What Do You Want to Drink?

Maybe I have said this before, but it bears repeating. I cannot stand when I ask someone what they want to drink and they respond with some dumb ass response like "what do you have?" It makes me want to grab their nipples, twist them off and use them as a garnish on their Cosmopolitan. Seriously? What do we have? We are a bar. We have what all bars have. There's a pretty good chance we'll have what you want unless you're asking for the milk of the aloe vera plant, a glass of water from the Fountain of Youth, or Tang. And then they look at me like they think I'm really going to recite a laundry list of every possible beverage. I would think that most people have a pretty good idea of what they want to drink. Don't we all have our usual suspects? A Coke, a gimlet, a water. But maybe this asswipe was new to our planet and really wasn't sure what we offered. Perhaps I should have been more patient with our inter-planetary friend but I was not in the mood. I responded with "the usual things that a bar has to drink, so I'll let you think it over and come back later." I don't have time for that shit. If he really needs help, there is thing we have in the club that is made for that purpose. It's called a menu. Look at it. Choose something. I will bring it.

So let's review. If you have a question about a beverage, make it a good one. Like "what reds do you have by the glass?" or "do you have any non-alcoholic beer?" or "if I have six margaritas, you're not gonna to cut me off, are you?" (Okay that last question might be just for me when I go to Margarita Mondays.) Just don't ask some broad-based stupid ass question like "what do you have?" It will piss me off. And pissing off your server right before he hands you your Coors Light is not a good idea.

What, No Long Island Iced Tea?

It was a special night at work a few evenings ago. The whole audience knew each other because they were all there to support one of their own from their local Long Island Community Theater. It was like they were there for the yearly trek into New York City and I was the one who would benefit from this mass migration. I knew things would be odd when I went to my first table.

After I explained the whole two drink minimum thing and they let that sink into their over-processed heads of hair, lady number one informed me that she would like a "milky drink." I wasn't sure what she wanted since we're not a fucking Dairy Queen. I suggested a white chocolate martini since it has a cream liqueur . "Naaaaa." I then suggested a Bailey's and cream. "Naaaaa." Her friend suggested a Pina Colada. I had to tell her we don't do Pina Coladas because we don't have a blender since we are a performance venue and it would be too loud, but her friend said I could just stir it. And to make sure I knew what she meant, she spun her fingers in a circle. Oh, stir it, thank you. "Naaaaa." Tap tap tap went my pen on my pad. She finally decided on a Kahlua and milk, very little Kahlua and almost all milk. Yum.

Table number two. Three Pinot Grigios and one white zinfandel. With two sides of ice. Do I need to say anything more about them?

Table number three wanted a Dewar's and water, but not too strong. I gave her a rocks glass filled with Dewar's and water just like she asked and I put extra water in it so the glass was pretty full. "Is there water in that?" Yes. "Are you sure?" Let's see, unless my short term memory is so bad that I can't recall what I did 45 seconds ago, then I am certain that put water in it. Besides that, the glass is almost full to the top, so that would have been a lot of Dewar's. Three minutes later she was at the bar asking for more water because she wasn't sure I had put any in it. Okay. Next time order a glass of water with a splash of Dewar's.

When it came time to give them the checks, one table was confused by the total. Surely I had made a mistake and added something extra to their check because there was no way that four people could spend that much in such a short amount of time. I looked at the check. It was right. New York City is expensive. Maybe a glass of Zinfandel is cheaper on Long Island but I bet you don't get to have your drinks brought to you by The Bitchy Waiter. Have a safe return to your own little world.

Liza Minnelli sings Beyonce's Single Ladies

So this has absolutely nothing to do with waiting tables, but I wanted to post it anyway because it just needs to be out in the world. My dear friend (not really) Liza has recorded a song for the Sex and the City movie and you have to hear it to believe it. And I spent too much time making this video rather than writing yesterday, so this is what gets posted.

Today is National Waitstaff day

All hail to the servers. Today is May 21st and it's National Waitstaff Day. I never even knew that this day existed, but now that I do, it's the most important day of my entire year. Other than my birthday. And Halloween. Okay, so it's the third most important day of the year. No, wait, Halloween is third, National Waitstaff Day is second. Oh shit, I forgot about Cinco de Mayo. Okay: my birthday, Cinco de Mayo, National Waitstaff Day and then Halloween. Anyhoo, someone somewhere determined that May 21st is the day that we show our gratitude to the person who has to take orders and carry food for a living. If you are a server, wear your apron with pride today. And do not be hesitant to mention to every single table that today is your day. It will only increase your tips. On National Secretary's Day, they all get flowers and taken to lunch. On our day, we also deserve a few things:

• 40% tip
• attitude free customers
• free shift meal
• free shift drink
  
• no separate checks
• free shift drink
  
• no orders for hot tea
• free shift drink
  
• no extra lemons
• no crying babies who throw Cheerios in our stations. In fact, no babies allowed in the whole fucking restaurant.
• no bitches
• no sidework
• we deserve respect! At least for today.

So go out there and use this day to your advantage. Have a drink before work and you will discover that waiting tables is so much more tolerable when you have a good healthy buzz. And if your manager has a problem with you being a wee bit tipsy at work, you just say to him, "Fuck off, dude. It's National Waitstaff Day." And if your table is upset that you brought out the wrong food, you just mention what today is and they will forget about every mistake you made and then dig deep into their pockets and shower you with money and praise.

Happy National Waitstaff Day, y'all. We rock! Share this post with everyone you know, okay? More people need to know about this special day. May 21st. (Bewtween Cinco de Mayo, National Waitstaff Day and my birthday, May is the coolest fucking month of the year.)