LIfe is a Bowl of Cherries

Every so often, the stars align in such a way that allows me to have a perfect storm of fun at work. It is rare indeed that I can write the word "fun" in the same sentence as "work" but it occasionally happens. A few nights ago was one of those nights. And the weird thing is I wasn't even drinking on the job. It is a phenomenon that is unexplainable when fun happens at work. It's like some kind of scientific formula that comes together in such a way that creates the perfect ingredients for laughter. It's as if a bluebird flies over a rainbow and poops out a bunch of confetti that sprinkles into the pot of gold.

I think what happened was the crew was one that I have not worked with in a very long time so it all seemed fresh; as fresh as basket of eggs from an organic, free-range chicken. We all hugged when we got to work and told each other how good it was to be together again after so many weeks of not working the same shift. Our group hug lasted for about ten minutes at which time we decided it was time to get going on our sidework. "I'll go get the ice," I said but then Tom insisted that he get the ice and then Alison demanded that she gets the ice. We all got the ice together walking into the ice room holding hands. We placed the 5-gallon bucket onto Alison's back and Tom and I loaded her down with ice for the evening. As we carried her upstairs, the hostess Liz floated into work. "Hello, all! Isn't it a glorious day to be at work?" she exclaimed. We all agreed and wrapped Liz into another group bear hug. Eight minutes later, we released the hug and carried on with our jobs.

The customers that night were all supreme models of human beings with every single one knowing exactly what they wanted and they each left at least a 25% tip. Most of them seemed to bus their own tables and they all paid quickly and got out allowing us to turn up the music and clean up the place. Tom popped open a champagne bottle and poured us each a glass of bubbly. "I'd like to propose a toast," he said. "To good co-workers and even better friends!" We all hoisted our glasses into the air and nodded in agreement. Within a few minutes the sidework was done and I heard the tell-tale sound of another bottle of champagne being opened to celebrate being finished.

At this time, someone knocked on the already locked door. We could see it was a pizza delivery guy who was holding five pies. I cracked the door open. "Uh, I was delivering pizzas to another office but I lost the address so I thought maybe you guys would want these? They're on the house." I thanked the pizza guy and gave him a bottle of Makers Mark as a tip. We devoured the pies along with three more bottles of champagne. Our night was done. We all hugged each other again and divided up our tips. We each walked with $275 for four hours of work. Sometimes the life of a waiter is fucking prefect.

And sometimes, it's a fucking dream that you have after eating a foot long Italian sub from Subway at 1:30 in the morning.
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The True Meaning of Good Friday

What a busy day today is for not only is it Good Friday, it also Earth Day. So as you head over to the recycling center in an effort to appreciate Mother Earth, spend a moment commemorating the day that Jesus was crucified. After you have given proper respect to both of those events, then please turn your attention to the the real reason that April 22 is so damn important. Today is the 85th birthday of Charlotte Rae, also known as Mrs. Garrett from The Facts of Life. It is no secret that I have a thing for this classic television show as evidenced here. I even dreamed about it a few days ago. In that dream I went to Central Park to meet some friends and when I got there, all of the girls from the show were lounging on a blanket behind us. They were all in bikinis and lookin' good. Even Natalie. Within moments, I was hanging out and having a picnic with them. Can dreams like this really come true? God, I hope so.

So what does Charlotte Rae have to do with The Bitchy Waiter? Gimme a second and I'll come up with something.

Okay, got it. You know on the second season of the show, Charlotte lost a lot of weight so the producers wanted to write it into the script. Therefore they changed her role on the show and Mrs. Garrett went from being housemother to all the girls to being the dietitian for the school cafeteria. All the girls worked there and there were many episodes that had them clearing tables and bussing trays. That Natalie really knew how to hold a bus tub. In another episode, Jo decided to become an entrepreneur and started selling pizzas from a recipe handed down from her mother, Rose. In this episode, Charlotte Rae gives her finest line reading of all time, "What's that wonderful smell?" (at the 18 second mark). You see? More food service involving Mrs. Garret and the girls. They were practically the original Bitchy Waitresses and Mrs. Garret was head bitch. And who can forget their foray into business when they opened Edna's Edibles which was a bakery? Yet again, The Facts of Life is about service and food, just like my life. The store eventually burned down because producers were probably sick of looking at that set that consisted of wicker baskets and breads and wanted something hip and cool to keep the kids interested. This is when they took the show into the wrong direction by opening a gift shop called "Over Our Heads" where they sold inflatable palm trees, records by Oingo, Boingo and other stupid ass shit. This was when Charlotte Rae knew she needed to jump that ship and get the hell out of Dodge.

But happy birthday to you, Charlotte Rae. I wish you would come into my station so I could sing a song to you and present you with a semi-thawed birthday cake with a dirty birthday candle that I found in the back of the drawer underneath an old menu insert. But for you, I would really mean it when I sang. For you are my food service inspiration for the day.


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Will Waiters be the Next Dinosaur?

There is a vicious Internet rumor going around that the days of waiters and waitresses are numbered. We could be as extinct as the dinosaur, the dodo bird or Whitney Houston's vocal chords. According to a CNN article, the newest craze in the restaurant world are tablets that allow customers to place their own orders that will be sent directly to the kitchen thus eliminating the need a for a real live human server to talk to you. I assume these tablets do not require tips. According to the article, the tablets also provide games to help pass the time while waiting for your food and they even accept payment. Does this mean that my career is soon over? Twenty restaurants on the West Coast (rumored to be Applebee's) will be implementing these tablets soon. I guess if it takes off, then the tablets will sweep across the country rendering my ass out of job within a few months. But won't customers miss the warm personal interaction that they receive from a human being? This brings up many concerns:

• Customers cannot ask a tablet for its personal opinion on the special soup of the day. Will a tablet tell you that the creamy spinach soup tastes like ass?
  
• When you find a hair in your food, you really want to have a waitress to blame for it.
  
• If all orders are taken by the device, who will the cooks bitch at when they fuck up an order?
• If you go into an Applebee's with your toddler, you expect him to be served a margarita instead of apple juice. Will a tablet do that? I don't think so.
• What about senior citizens who can't even operate a DVR remote control? How in the hell are they supposed to figure out how to use a tablet to order a cup of extra hot decaf, a water with no ice and a bowl of chicken soup with no salt? And who will bring them their mug of hot water so they can rinse the silverware before they use it?
  
• Will dirty old men still feel the need to grab the ass of the tablet whenever it bends over to pick up something off the floor?
• If there are no waiters, who will be responsible for wiping down these dirty sticky tablets at the end of the day?
  
• How are tablets going to wear skid-resistant shoes from Payless?
• Who will drunk older women flirt with if all they have is a battery-operated device that can service all their needs? Oh, wait. Forget that one.
  
• What will happen when the tablets break down? And you know they will break down. Any restaurant turns into a cluster fuck when the computers go down for even a second, so what will customers do in this dire situation?
• If there are no waiters, who will managers suppress?
• How will a tablet take an undercooked burger back to the kitchen even though the customer asked for it medium rare and then ask the cooks to please burn the fuck out of the patty until it resembles a goddamn hockey puck?
  

These are things that must be kept in mind before we turn our restaurants over to the world of technology. Servers have an important role in restaurants that maybe some big corporations are forgetting. Customers like the feeling of being taken care of and a electronic tablet will simply not serve that need. We servers are there to treat our guests with respect and to make sure their dining experience is a good one. Our customers deserve the attention that only a human being can give them. A tablet will only offer a cold and impersonal experience to diners. For me personally, if a customer is going to have cold impersonal meal dealing with a machine that doesn't give a shit about them or what they order, I want to be that machine that provides them with that experience. Call me old-fashioned, but I care.

If you care about this national trend, please share this article with everyone in the whole entire world.

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One Fancy Ass Dessert, Comin' Right Up

I can admit when I am wrong. Over time, it has become clear that the world is a better place when people just own up to their mistakes. For instance, if I forget to ring in an order and table 12's well-done burger sits in my apron for ten minutes before I remember to ring it in, I am flat out honest with the table and tell them why their food is taking so long. It's better than blaming it on the kitchen or some other bullshit excuse. I think it makes your table appreciate your honesty and then tip you better. It's not easy to admit that I have made a mistake, but that is what I am going to do right now. Last week at work, I mispronounced the specialty dessert to about four or five tables without realizing that I was letting myself sound like a complete and utter idiot.

When I get to work, I look at the specials list and try to commit them to memory. Nobody wants to hear their server read a list of specials off of a piece of paper. It takes about two minutes to memorize the four specials and three desserts so I do it in order to appear professional to my guests. After my first table of the evening was finished with their meal, I approached them with a dessert menu and began to explain what the specials were. One of the desserts was something I had never heard of. It was called a "clafoutis." (See picture above.) It's a French dessert that is pronounced all Frenchy. Click here to hear its proper pronunciation. It was described to me as a warm cranberry dessert that is similar to a custard-like cake. As I began my description of it, I suddenly could not remember what it was called. I hadn't written it down, so I just went for it. I called it a flatooey. Yes, a flatooey. I may as well have called it a shipoopi. Or a Zamboni. I said it with 100% confidence like there really was a fucking French dessert called a flatooey. The guy at the table started laughing when I said it and my stupid ass thought he was laughing with me, not at me. I gave him a look that said, "I know, isn't that the craziest name for a dessert you have ever heard?" I rolled my eyes having no idea he probably knew that I was trying to say clafoutis.

I went on to a couple more tables with my lack of French dessert knowledge. Finally, I went back to the board to see what kind of sauce the other dessert came with and that was when I realized I had been calling the fancy French dessert a fucking flatooey all night long. It struck me as funny and I started to giggle. The chef asked me what was so funny, but I didn't dare tell him that I was totally botching up his dessert description all night. Years and years in the restaurant business and here I was felled by the pronunciation of one single dessert. My humble upbringing had bitten me hard in the ass. Desserts of Ding-Dongs, Pop Tarts, Betty Crocker and candy bars had not prepared me for a centuries-old fancy-ass dessert from France called a clafoutis. I corrected my pronunciation, but still did not know it was French. For the rest of the night, I pronounced it like I was in Texas and didn't give it a hint of a French accent. It wasn't until I got home that night and Googled it, that I learned the proper way to say it. All night I said it like I was offering them a fucking Moon Pie with Blue Bell ice cream. "Why hi thar folks, Maybe y'alled like to try this high falutin' dessert we gots tonight called a clawfootie. It shore is good. Granny done cooked it up in the backyard next to the cement pond. Y'all come back now, ya hear?" God, I'm an idiot.

By the way, I also learned that since it was served with cranberries and not cherries, the dessert was technically called a flaugnarde. So I wasn't the only one who was wrong that night.

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Dear Bitchy Waiter

This is what showed up in my inbox this week so I will take a moment to answer this in all seriousness. I think this email deserves a real response. It can be handy for anyone who may be visiting The Big Apple sometime soon.



Dear Bitchy Waiter,


I started following you about a month ago on Facebook and enjoy your postings. Wondered if you could make some dining recommendations for NYC? That's probably a loaded question, but we are looking for some good middle of the road places for lunch and then a couple really good places for dinner. We don't have to go to any see and be seen places. Any thoughts would be great.

-Steve

Dear Steve,

As of 4/1/10, New York City is home to 23,499 active restaurants according to nycgo.com. That is a lot to choose from. Lucky for you, I have either eaten at or worked at a most of those, give or take 23,000 or so. I am going to just offer up some of my favorite places to eat and then you can take it from there.

• If you want to try my newest guilty pleasure and venture to an outer borough, try Salt and Fat in Sunnyside Queens. Easily accessible by the 7 train from Times Square and who can resist a restaurant that serves popcorn popped in bacon fat?
• For a delicious and cheap slice of pizza, my all time favorite pizza in New York City is Two Boots. They have multiple locations from Ninth Avenue and 44th Street to the Lower East Side. Thin cornmeal crust and totally unique pies.
• For affordable comfort food try Chat and Chew near Union Square. Yummy mac and cheese.
• Also in Union Square is Blue Water Grill. Pricey, so be prepared. Wonderful seafood and I think it's all sustainable and organic if that is important to you.
• For a wonderful burger, go to Five Napkin Burger. There are two in Manhattan; one on the Upper West Side and the other is in Hell's Kitchen and right near Two Boots! The burgers are all grass-fed and organic and I love them. Delicious cocktails too.
• For a lunch burger and if you're on the go, stop at Shake Shack.
• If you're up for a trip to Brooklyn, you will love Buttermilk Channel. Amazing fried chicken and cheddar waffles and totally worth the trip to lovely Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn.
• I love Basilica Italian restaurant. It's tiny, quaint, charming and affordable. On Ninth Avenue and 46th St. Homemade and delicious.
• For Mexican food I have two favorites. One is the pricey Rosa Mexicano. The pomegranate margaritas are to die for. The food is wonderful and it's not your typical enchilada combo place. For Tex Mex in a lively atmosphere, try Arriba, Arriba. Killer margaritas and cheesy gloopy deliciousness.
• For cheap breakfast or lunch, go to The Grey Dog.
• Another breakfast option is VYNL. Great for lunch too, but I love their happy hour the most. I used to work there. If you tell them The Bitchy Waiter sent you, they will either give you a hug or kick you in the balls.

I hope this helps. Have fun in New York City. I wish I could tell you where I work so I could have you in my station but alas. I am anonymous...

Best,
The Bitchy Waiter

Have a question? You can email me here!

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Si, Señora. Soy Mexicano

Although it is not certain, I think I was verbally assaulted by a racist last night. One of my regulars who we all know at work as pretty much crazy was in my station. She is a performer and quite well known but last night she was there as a patron of the arts instead of standing on the stage and screeching out notes that were in her range about a decade ago, but now not so much. She wanted me to know that she had just enjoyed dinner at a Mexican restaurant and she had already sucked down two margaritas. In my attempt to make small talk, I told her that I love Mexican food. She seemed surprised. Like Mexican food was her little secret in the culinary world and she couldn't believe that anyone else had ever heard of the exotic treat "taco." "Sure, I love Mexican food," I told her. "After all, I'm from Texas and I am half Mexican." This comment too seemed to take her by surprise. I wasn't sure which part of the statement was so interesting. I certainly don't appear to be your average Texan since I do not have a drawl nor do I have a gun rack on the back window of my pick-up truck. "You're half Mexican?" She said this after sucking in her breath at an alarming rate. "I had no idea." Now if you knew me, you wouldn't necessarily think I was half Mexican either because I have fair skin and light eyes, but my last name is definitely of Mexican descent. That, and my clinical addiction to tortillas and Tequila should quell any questions about my heritage. Crazy Lady continued. "I can't believe you're half Mexican. You don't seem Mexican at all. You seem all regular." Wait, did this bitch just use the word "regular" to describe my race? Regular in the same way that "nude" pantyhose are flesh colored for white people and the way that Crayons used to have a color called "flesh" that was the color of white people flesh? Awww, hell no. I was about to reach into my pocket, pull out a handful of pinto beans and rub them all up in her gringo face. Do not make me add another tear tattoo under my eye because I may have to kill a bitch. (I will do the tattoo myself with a Bic pen, a needle and lighter.) As I walked away, I heard her say to the table next to her, "Can you believe he is half Mexican?" So now my race is a topic of conversation amongst my whole station.

I personally don't see race. I really don't. I guess growing up as a child who never knew which circle to fill in on the race section of the SAT's and crap made it something of a non-issue for me. I never wanted to check Caucasian and dis my dad or classify myself as Mexican and ignore my Mom, so I always put "other" and moved on. The next time I see Crazy Lady though, I will put on my best Cheech and Chong accent and drive to her table in a low-rider while wearing a big fucking sombrero. I want to make sure she is real clear on the stereotypes of us rice and bean eaters just like she has made it clear for me that all 70 year old female jazz singers in New York City must be racists who have no problem insulting me right to my half-Mexican face.

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Sick Baby on Board

The thing with babies is that you can't ever leave them alone, even when you want to. Again, I don't have kids, but that's what I've heard. Surely there are times when a parent secretly wishes that they could just put their baby in a crate, go out to dinner and then come home two hours later, give it some water and take it out for a walk. That seems to work great for my dog. Or maybe there are times when the baby wants to stay home but the parents drag it out anyway. This may have been the case last night when a couple had dinner with their horribly sick child. Looking at that baby's eyes, they seemed to be saying, "Bitch, I just wanna be at home with some Saltines, ginger ale, a National Enquirer and Oprah."

I was in my station at the front of the restaurant when my bossy co-worker (read all about him here) came to me and told me (not asked me...) to help clean up the milk that a baby spilled at table 21. Making my way to the spill zone, I saw another server in the dish room wiping down a high chair. The milk looked bumpy and slimy so I assumed it was some kind of nasty cheap ass baby formula that comes from Costco. The waiter was putting on rubber gloves. "That is some weird looking milk, right? I said. He replied. "Oh, it's not milk. The baby threw up all over everything." He began to clean it up as I slowly removed myself from the situation. I do not clean up vomit. (Unlike this super hero.) And then I wondered why the fuck Moe asked me to clean up the "milk" when he knew it was fucking baby puke. One more reason to dislike this guy.

Anhyoo, it was then that I caught my first look at the baby. It was now in pajamas because her clothes were covered in vomit and now in a plastic bag laying on the floor. Obviously, the mother knew this was possibility because she happened to have a pair of pj's in her diaper bag. The poor little baby looked miserable: watery eyes, a crusty snotty nose and a cough that sounded like it belonged to a senior citizen who smoked a pack of Pall Malls every day for the last 80 years. Once, I think I saw her cough up a piece of baby lung. She quickly ingested it again. It may have been a piece of the Caesar salad her mother was feeding her, but I will just go ahead and say I am 99% sure it was baby lung. Meanwhile, the parents continued having a gay old time while their baby continued to hold down vomit and cough up body parts.

They had a two-top open next to them that I refused to seat anyone at, because I know that nobody wants to sit next to a sick baby and a bag of clothes that smell like vomit. We have to do that on the 7 train pretty much every day so you would think we would be used to it, but we're not. The baby finally fell asleep (I hope it was asleep) allowing mom and dad to casually sip their coffee while Sick Baby drooled a puddle of mucus on to Mommy's shoulder. Eventually, they paid the check and went home. Or to the emergency pediatric wing at Elmhusrt Hospital. That baby was fucking sick. But at least Mom and Dad got to go out to eat on a Friday night and good for them. I don't get parents who can ignore the needs of their kids like that. Reminds me of a time I saw this woman at Blizzard Beach in Disney World. Her baby was asleep and she was carrying it around like a sack of potatoes. And someone told me once that I was selfish for not having kids? I don't think so.

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Is This Guy For Real?

There is an assumption that all actors are waiters and that all waiters are actors. It is also assumed that once you "make it" as an actor, you will never have to tie an apron around your waist or a noose around your neck because your time with a tray is behind you. Not necessarily. Sometimes, we actors get a six-week contract that lets us do a show and then it's back to the grind. I know plenty of people who have been on Broadway who were back in the restaurant business as soon as the show closed. But what about established Hollywood types who make movies? Why would they ever want to go back to waiting tables? If you know Justin Long, you can ask him because that is exactly what he did last month here in New York City. (Justin Long is that guy from the Mac vs. PC commercials. He's the cool Mac guy. I think he also tickled the fancy of Drew Barrymore for a while.)

He was eating at BLT Fish in March when he thought it would be fun to buy a BLT T-shirt and then pretend to be a waiter. Isn't that hilarious? OMG, Justin, that is so funny. A source (probably his publicist) tells E! News, "He just started picking up glasses, cleaning tables. One lady was asking him questions about the menu and he was just making up answers..." Again, Justin, stop being so freaking funny. My sides hurt. For real. Stop it. The source goes on to say, "He'd come back in the kitchen, grabbing menus, filling waters, asking questions. The chef was laughing at him. Justin was totally cool."

Okay, I call bullshit. There is no freaking way that he did that for an hour. Like we are supposed to believe that his friends he went out to dinner with were cool that he just made them hang around for an hour and watch him bus tables? They were like, "Okay, real funny, Justin. Can we fucking go now?" And we are supposed to believe that the chef at BLT Fish was laughing? I have never worked in any restaurant where the chef is going to let some random person, famous or not, hang out in the kitchen and make up answers about their food. And what about the waiters? After two minutes, I am sure they were all thinking "Okay, can you get out of the fucking way now because this is my job and I am at work, douche bag." Meanwhile, Justin was all, "Hey guys look at me, I'm a hostess now! And now I'm a dishwasher! And now I'm a bartender. I'm funny, huh? Man, why did Drew Barrymore ever leave me? " I'll tell you why, Justin, You seem like cocksmack, that's why.

At the end of this crazy hour of fun, he gave all of his tips to the employees. Because he's cool that way. I mean, how much did he make in an hour (if he really did this for an hour?) And who the hell gave him a tip anyway? Did he just take over someones station and then closed the checks for them? Did he do side work? Did he have to roll silverware at the end of the night? Nah, he just took the few bucks that people gave him and tossed it to the sad employees as if they should be so happy that he graced them with this event. It's a story they will all be able to tell their grandchildren some day:

(Say this in an old man voice):

Kids, when I was once a waiter in the Big Apple, this famous actor who did commercials for Mac computers thought he'd be funny and started waiting tables at my job even though he didn't know what the fuckity fuck he was fucking doing. He was totally in the way and he annoyed the fuck out of me. And then he gave me five dollars. He was total asshat and I never went to see another one of his movies again. I also threw away every Apple product I owned. The end.

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Chocolate Fishy Goodness

This is a repost. Last night at my job, I learned that someone I work with is also a Bennigan's survivor so this post is in his honor. Even though he has no idea this blog exists.

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

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

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

Drunk Babies Are the New Black

It seems like only yesterday that I was writing about a baby that went into an Applebee's as a sweet innocent toddler and came out as a drunk alcoholic 15 month old with addiction issues. Apparently, getting babies drunk is all the rage because it happened again this time at an Olive Garden in Florida. A two and a half year old boy was mistakenly served sangria instead of orange juice and he got all drunk and bleary eyed. The mother said that as they were eating, the waiter came over and whisked the cup away and just told them he had to get them another one. When the nosy mother asked why, the waiter explained the mix up. So wait. This waiter was going to just try to sneak it away without telling them what the fuck happened and try to pass it off as no big deal? He was seriously going to not tell them why he suddenly had to pull the cup away from the thirsty kid? He thought it was okay to not tell the mother that he had accidentally served her child sangria? I really like this waiter, but he could have stuck to his plan and not tell her that they got the baby trashed. He could have just said that he realized the glass was dirty or the orange juice was expired. Of course the worry-wart mom took the baby to the hospital and he is fine. C'mon. It's sangria from The Olive Garden. We all know that shit is mostly fruit punch with a tablespoon of cheap red wine thrown in it. But if The Olive Garden is going to start indiscriminately handing out sangria I may have to rethink my opinion on them.

Now I don't have a baby, but this got me to thinking. I have a plan. I want to wrap my dog up in a Snuggie and take him out to eat with me at Outback Steakhouse. I will order my "baby" a cranberry juice and tell them that he is getting over a urinary tract infection. When they bring his cup to the table, I will dump out the cranberry juice and substitute it with some Cosmo that I will have in my flask. I will then proceed to make a scene. "Oh my God! My baby is drunk! My baby is drunk. The dingo ate my baby! My baby is drunk! Who served a Cosmo to my precious baby? I will sue, I tell you! I will sue!!" At this point the manager will come out and ask me what the problem is. I will show him my baby and tell him that before he was served a Cosmo he was a perfectly fine baby. But now he is slurring his words, his eyes are bloodshot and he is covered in doggie fur. This is clearly the fault of the restaurant who accidentally served him a Cosmo. I will rush my baby to the veterinarian right after I phone 1-800-SUE-THEM to get my case set up. I will settle out of court for a lifetime supply of Bloomin' Onions® and Aussie Cheese Fries.

I don't know what's going out there in the world where servers are getting babies drunk. All I know is I have a shift tonight and if there is a baby within of ten foot radius of my station I am going to force feed it a tequila shot and make it play a round of beer pong with me. Drunk babies are fun!




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One Drunk Ass Baby

Have you heard about the world's luckiest baby who was served a margarita without being carded or even having to ask for it? This baby has my dream life. At an Applebee's in Michigan, a baby was mistakenly served a margarita instead of the apple juice his mother had ordered for him. I guess after a few sips of the sweet nectar known as Tequila, the 15-month-old boy started acting strangely. Although it is not official, I feel certain that the baby started drunk texting and coming on to the 8-month old girl at the next booth. In addition, his words were slurred and he was drooling. The mother opened up his sippy cup and realized that her baby was on the road to an AA meeting and he didn't even have his driver's license yet. Of course she complained (as she should have) and the manager apologized (as he should have.) The mother had this pearl of wisdom to say: "Nobody at the table ordered alcoholic drinks, so he definitely shouldn't have received one." Brilliant, mom. Like if someone had ordered a margarita it might be a little bit more understandable why they poured a freakin' margarita into a sippy cup and then gave it to the person in the high chair? But since no one ordered anything from the bar, it was extra super wrong for this to happen.

They took the baby to the hospital where his blood alcohol level was .10 -- over the legal limit for an adult driver. Hopefully, they took away the keys to his Big Wheel because parents don't let babies drive drunk. The kid was fine despite the massive hangover he had the next morning. The baby was quoted as saying, "Why do I always think I can handle that last cocktail? Never again. I need a Big Mac to soak up some of this alcohol. Mom, can I get a Happy Meal?" The mother reminded him that the Happy Meal may or may not have a toy in it. The baby replied by puking and crawling into the kitchen to make a Bloody Mary. "A little hair of the dog, then," said the lushy toddler.

No word on what Applebee's has done to make sure this does not happen again. I suspect more training will come into play where they will potentially ask to see some identification from anyone who orders a drink, alcoholic or otherwise. I would also suggest that they offer this baby a lifetime supply of Rose's Lime juice, triple sec and house tequila since they are the ones who introduced the kid to the joys of cocktails. Or to appease his mom, next time they could just slide him and apple martini.

Thanks to everyone who sent this in.

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The Bitch is Back

After reading several posts from many months ago, something seems ominously clear to me. As horrible as it is to admit, I seem to have gotten a little soft as of late. The cockles of my heart have warmed up a bit and recent posts seem more observational than straight up (now tell me do you really wanna love me forever) bitchy. Today, that shall change.

A few days ago I had woman in my station who had a skull as thick as the layer of dust on the knick knack shelf at The Bennigan's I used to work at. For anyone who has ever worked in a Bennigan's, you know what I'm talking about; those stupid ass shelves full of useless clutter that are supposed to give ambiance to the place. Be it an old wagon, an antique hand mixer or a street sign, that shit is covered in dust because who the fuck wants to climb their ass up on the back of the booth just to wipe that shit off? Anyhoo, this lady in my station was thick-skulled and by that I mean as dumb as a fucking bag of old tired weaves from Wendy Williams. (How you doin', Wendy? I know you have a Google alert on yourself.) This was my interaction with the lady at table 22:

Bitchy Waiter: Hello, can I get you something to drink tonight, ma'am?
Dumb Bitch: Yes. What do you have that's non-alcoholic?
BW: Well, we have Coke, Diet Coke, 7-Up, Gingerale, seltzer, coffee, tea, cranberry juice, orange juice, pineapple juice, tomato juice and bottled water.
DB: Do you have lemonade?

Okay, bitch, I just got through telling you what the fuck we had. Why the hell would I not say lemonade if we have fucking lemonade? She just got on my last nerve.

BW: No, we don't have lemonade.
DB: Oh, you don't?
BW: No. We don't.
DB: I really wanted lemonade.

The lady is now not only on my nerve, but she is now riding it around like it's a pony and she won't get off.

DB: Do you have diet Sprite?
BW: We have Diet Coke.
DB: Is that the only thing you have that's diet?
BW: Well, I suppose bottled water would be considered diet since it is calorie free.
DB: I really wanted a Diet Sprite.
BW: Well, we have Coke, Diet Coke, 7-Up, Gingerale, seltzer, coffee, tea, cranberry juice, orange juice, pineapple juice, tomato juice and bottled water.
DB: Hmmmmm....

At this point, she has jumped off my nerve and is now squeezing the last bit of life out of it. I drifted off for a second as I wondered what it would feel like to get the matches from my apron and burn off her eyebrows. I decided that it would feel good to me and bad to her so I let that idea fade away.

DB: So, no Diet Sprite, huh? And no lemonade. Uh, okay. I guess I'll just take a decaf coffee with cream.
BW: The cream is not diet, you know.

I laughed at my own joke to cover up the frustration in my voice. She laughed back while I visualized taking the candle and pouring the hot wax onto her nipples. Not in a "sexy" way. In more of a "I hate you" way.

BW: Here's your decaf, ma'am.
DB: Thank you. For my second drink, I'll have a Diet Coke.

Is it wrong of me that I wanted to slap this lady in the face with a cheese grater? Is it her fault that she wanted something I could not provide? Did this post harken back to a time when The Bitchy Waiter was a truly a bitchy waiter?

And on a side note:
There may be fewer posts for a while since I am focusing on my book. Thanks for your understanding. Or I may decide writing a book is too hard and just keep doing this. Who the hell knows. I have no fucking direction in my life...

-BW

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500- Ah Ah Ah!

There is the Fortune 500 and The Indianapolis 500 and apparently there is a card game out there called 500, but none of these 500’s are as important as the one I shall discuss today. Count von Count from Sesame Street gave me a ringy dingy and he tells me that his severe case of arithmomania has confirmed that this post right here is the 500th of The Bitchy Waiter. True, some of the posts have been very short and some have been very long. Some have been funny and others have been poignant. Some have been totally lame ass. Regardless of what the post was, each one was counted and we have reached a grand moment. I tried to organize a parade down Fifth Avenue for this auspicious fucking occasion but it turns out that the city of New York does not think this is any big deal. Little do they know, I have agonized for over two years to pump out “quality” material for the internet. Even on days when I have absolutely nothing of interest to say, I have managed to squeeze out some bullshit into the blogosphere and press submit. That takes some doing, New York City. I know that the whole reason my parade was shot down was because of this video I made about our mayor, Mike Bloomberg. He couldn’t take it. He’s scared of me and I don’t blame him. I’m one bitchy ass waiter. Yeah, he’s a billionaire and all powerful and shit but has he ever written 500 blog posts? I don’t think so. (Truth be told, I think he wrote a book but whoop de doo.)

How does one celebrate his 500th posting? I have not yet decided. I could go out and have an exorbitant amount of margaritas and/or mojitos, but how would that be different from any other Monday? Or Tuesday. Or Wednesday even. I could make a point to be super nice to all of my customers as a personal thank you for giving me so much writing material but that would just seem counterproductive and ironic. Perhaps it would make sense to just pat myself on the back for such a monumental achievement but if I really let myself think about it, I will realize that this is such a lame achievement that it would hardly be worth the energy of reaching all the way back there to pat.

Instead, I will just say thank you to all of you who bother to come here and read what I puke onto the keyboard. Although I know a lot of people land here by accident because they Googled “Jean-Claude Van Damme,” to them I also say thank you. But mostly thank you to those who bookmark this sorry ass page or are fans on Facebook or Twitter, for you are the reason that something gets written almost every day. And with that, this post itself is exactly 500 words long. Okay. Now it is.

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The Mop Nazi

I have been at my new job (in addition to the old one) for about six weeks and I have written surprisingly little about it. Since none of the people I work with know that this blog exists, I am being careful. It ain't easy to leave it out of my topics of conversation since it's sorta my life's work. Just last night, a table mentioned that they bet I have a lot of good stories about waiting tables. It took a lot of effort to not give them one of my business cards. It's best though that no one there knows so I can write freely about them, but in a non-specific way so as not to alert them that they work with The Bitchy Waiter. On the offhand chance that one of them may read this, I don't want any issues. It happened once and I suppose it could happen again. However, I need to write about my boss.

At first glance he seems cold and distant but in all actuality he's just kinda quiet. A seemingly very nice guy who doesn't have too much to say. Now he's got my loud ass all up in his face laughing and telling stories so he seems to be warming up to me. Or tolerating me. Whatever. On my first day, he was giving me the run down of my opening sidework duties. One of them involves mopping the whole restaurant. Thankfully, it's a small 40 seat place so it's not overwhelming. But mopping? Why can't dishwasher Jorge do it? I filled the giant yellow industrial mop bucket with soap and water and got ready to start the chore. He asked me, "Do you know how to mop?" Lordy, lordy, the only people who are more intimate with a mop are Alice from The Brady Bunch and Carol Burnett. I told him that I did in fact know how to mop. As I submerged the dirty stringy mop into the water, he stood at the bar and watched me do it. After about three swabs he said, "You need to push the mop to and fro." Okay, really? This man was seriously not critiquing how I mop was he? I have been using mops since I was seven years old. Okay, maybe I was just pretending that the mop was a customer in my beauty shop, but nonetheless. "Oh, so not side to side, but to and fro? Is that what you want?" I asked sweetly. He arched his eyebrows, closed his eyes, nodded his head and said yes. (Do that, okay? Arch your eyebrows as high as you can and then close your eyes and nod your head. Do you see how disapproving and condescending it seems when done with those actions? This man is serious about his mopping.) I did as was told because I am a model employee and plus I really didn't give shit if every bread crumb from the night before was picked up or not. After all, the lights are so dim once we start service that no one would see a whole freaking loaf of bread if it was on the goddamn floor anyway.

Every time I have mopped since then, I have done it his way. One time I caught myself reverting back to my old disgusting habit of the "side to side method" but quickly reverted when I realized what was happening. How awful would it be if he had security cameras on that he could see what I was doing from the office? I can imagine him bursting out the door, leaving his mild-mannered act behind and going off on me for not following proper mopping procedure. "How dare you ignore my mopping instructions! I said 'to and fro' not 'side to side' do you hear me? To and fro. TO AND FRO! TO AND FRO AND NO WIRE HANGERS! EVER!" So just to be on the safe side, I mop to and fro.

(Attention Carol Burnett: I love you. Please do not sue me for lifting this image of your charwoman character. I know you like to sue people. I have nothing to sue for. If you sue me, the only thing I have to give you is my Thursday night shift with the Mop Nazi. Thanks.)


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More Cheese, Please

The show I was working last week was really loud. The crowd was having a good time and it was rather fun since I didn't have to whisper everything. When there is a singer, piano, bass, drums and brass, the atmosphere at work is decidedly more upbeat. When it came time to get round two of the cocktails out, I went over to booth number four and asked the man what he'd like. Leaning into his booth, I said, "Sir, can I get you anything else right now?" "What's that?" he said. I repeated my question with a bit more volume. He yelled into my ear, "What cheese do you have?"

We sell a cheese plate that I can never remember what kind of cheeses are on it. Gouda, cheddar, brie, Velvetta, whiz? I can't recall. No matter how many times I ask, it goes in one ear and out the other. Do you ever have those things that no matter how hard you try, you just can't commit it to memory? It's the same way I can never differentiate between the Q and the N train. Or prosciutto or pancetta. Or regular or decaf. You know, things that are pretty much the same but not quite. Rather than make up some random cheeses, I went to ask a co-worker. She was no help. "I'm not sure. I just always say 'three non-stinky cheeses' and that's it." Really? People are satisfied with that? Okay. Thanks. I was hesitant to ask my manager again because he would know that this isn't the first time I have had to ask and I have worked there for about 18 months. Clearly, there was no excuse for me to not know the three cheeses on the cheese plate. If I had to ask him again he may get the impression that I simply didn't give a shit about the cheese plate. So I asked him again. He told me the names of the three cheeses, two of which I have already forgotten. One of them was St. Andre, I know that. As soon as he told me, I ran to the table to regurgitate the cheeses before the names slipped out of my head and onto the floor.

"Sir, we have St. Andre, 'whatever the fuck it was' and 'whatever else the fuck it was' for cheese tonight."

"What?" he said. It was really loud in there that night. Neither one of us could hear shit.

"St. Andre, whadayacallit and thingamajig are our cheeses. Cheese!"

He pulled his head back and wrinkled up his forehead. He acted like he didn't know what the fuck I was telling him. "Didn't you want to know what was on our cheese plate?" I practically yelled at him.

He paused for a second and looked at me like the idiot I was soon to feel like. "Teas. I want tea. What TEAS do you have?"

Are you fucking kidding me? "Oh. Teas. Green Tea, Lemon, Red Zinger, Earl Gray, Chamomile, English Breakfast, Orange Ceylon..."

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Movin' On Up

Oh, the celebrities that I come into contact with while working in New York City. It is truly amazing. The opportunities to serve the rich and famous are endless here. Just a few weeks ago I was in the presence of Joan Rivers while working at a trade show. Coincidentally, it was about the third or fourth time I have bumped into her over the years. She has more of a presence in my life than some of my family members. I was in an elevator with her once and during the ride up she entertained us all by describing all the things she could do with her decorator to that ten by ten foot space. You know I have waited on Katy Perry (shh, don't tell the job or I might get fired) and have come into contact with Angela Lansbury. I once served the old man who played Palmer Courtland on All My Children and one time Connie Chung bumped into me as I tried to pass her with a tray of appetizers. This week, I had yet another brush with greatness. A true television icon came into my life and although he did not sit in my station, I did say hello to him. This man has done film, television, Broadway and concerts. His mere presence made my knees quake and my stomach flutter. Ladies and gentleman, I give to you Damon Evans:

Okay, what? You don't know who Damon Evans is? He starred in The Jeffersons as George and Louise's son, Lionel. He actually replaced another actor who played Lionel first and then the first Lionel came back and booted Damon Evans off the show again. It was sorta the way Roseanne had two different Becky's, remember? Damon Evans was the more snobby version of Lionel like Sarah Chalke was the more pretty version of Becky. Anyhoo, Mr. Evans came into the club and I was hoping he would sit in my station so I could ask him if that guy who played Ralph the Doorman was as fucking irritating as he seemed to be. I had other questions for him too:

1. Why did Mr. Bentley act like he was such a ladies man when he seemed so freakin' gay?
2. Whatever happened to Mother Jefferson? I guess she died, but couldn't they have given her a "very special episode" or some shit like that?
3. I know you loved your wife Jenny and her parents were an inter-racial couple, but wasn't her father a total goober? And what did Helen ever see in Tom Willis anyway?
4. I loved the theme song that was sung by Ja'net Dubois (Willona from Good Times) and can you get me an mp3 of that for free?
5. Y'all were nominated for Emmy awards all the time and never won. Did that suck?
   
6. Was Marla Gibbs as funny as she seemed when she played Florence?
7. Did you ever want to kick the ass of the first Lionel after he came back and took your cushy sweet television sitcom gig?
8. Did you know that whenever I go bowling I put Isabel Sanford as my name in the computer? I'm funny.
   
9. What would you like to drink?

Alas, he did not sit in my station. I could only admire him from afar and send out positive vibes from my side of the room. Damon Evans, if you ever read this, I totally would have been honored to get your drink for you. Next time you come in, just ask to sit in the station of The Bitchy Waiter. Tell the host. He'll know who I am.

(For all of you who have no idea what the fuck The Jeffersons is, you should be ashamed of yourselves. Go to Netflix right now and educate yourselves.)

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My Arch Nemesis Makes Another Appearance

Admittedly, this has absolutely nothing to do with waiting tables, but I have written about it in the past and I need to follow up on it. Months ago, I wrote a post about my arch enemy, reality television star Reichen Lehmkuhl. He was in the same restaurant I was in just a few days after I had written a bad review of the off-Broadway show he was in. Someone got all offended by the posting so I responded with a Comment on Comments. The defender of Reichen had this to say:

He's more famous for being admired for his military service and gay rights advocacy, and rise from total poverty, and less of a famewhore, like a waiter who is trying to get people to look at him for...being a waiter and a bitter queen.

Well, yesterday, some pictures were squeezed out on to the Internet of Mr. Gay Rights Advocacy. Although he has proudly served our country, starred in reality television shows, released a single, designed a a jewelry line and wrote a best-selling book, the pictures represent none of these things. Instead he is sporting a full-on erection and posing for a webcam. And I'm the famewhore? I'm not even famous. I will not show the pictures here because they are offensive, degrading, demeaning, demoralizing and shameful. Also, my mom reads this. So click here if you really need to see Reichen's lehmkuhl. It is NOT safe for work. (I know all you hussy bitches are clicking away so fast that your keyboard is smoking.)

Okay, that's it. I just had to write this because there were a shitload of Reichen Google searches that came to my blog yesterday and they needed to be acknowledged. Carry on. Carry trays.

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Just Say No To Happy Meals?

Have you heard about this proposed ban in New York City that would no longer allow toys to be served with Happy Meals because the toys are making kids fat? Councilman Leroy Comrie will push the Fast Food Toy Ban Bill which will limit any meal that comes with a toy to under 500 calories. Of course the councilman used himself as an example saying that he used to eat Happy Meals and other junk food growing up which would explain why he tips the scales at humongous these days. But I did a little digging and there is no way this ass was eating Happy Meals unless he hopped into a time machine. I learned that he graduated from Jamaica high school in 1976 making him about 51 years old today. The Happy Meal was introduced in June of 1979 when he was about 20 years old. So is he saying that the reason he is fat now is because of all those Happy Meals he ate during his final semesters of college?

First off, if a fucking toy comes with an unhealthy fast food meal and the kid wants it really bad, isn't it the parents job to decide whether or not they can eat it? Now, I don't have kids of my own, but I was pretty sure that parents have control of what their kids eat. Unless the six year old has a part-time job at The Gap and has some spending money of their own, they ain't gonna be driving their asses up to McDonald's for a Happy Meal. Never mind that six-year olds can't drive. And do kids really want a Happy Meal because of the toy? Does this guy think that by not putting a toy in the meal, that kids will simply disown McDonald's? No, they eat that shit because it's good. And the parents feed them that shit because it's cheap. And fast. The toy is icing on the cake. Or the grease on the bun.

To me, it seems like this guy just wanted to get some face time in the news media so he decided to steal this idea from San Francisco. I've got nothing against media whores because that would be the pot calling the kettle black, but come on. If he really thinks that keeping the toys out of fucking Happy Meals is going to make a difference, he needs to pull the Cinnabon out of his ass and wipe the frosting from his eyes. If a kids wants a Happy Meal and it comes with some plastic piece of crap toy from Shrek or whatever the fuck movie needs promoting, let the kid have it. But hey, about this: after they eat it, maybe take the kid to the park and let him play for a while. Or maybe take the stairs instead of the elevator. Or make him take the dog for a walk. But if the kid is going to eat Happy Meals four or five times a week and then sit on the couch and play X-box, Wii or Atari (old school), he might grow up to be a fat tub of Thousand Island Dressing. True, that fat tub of Thousand Island Dressing can run for city council but he'll still be a fat tub of Thousand Island Dressing.

I say leave the freaking toys alone and let's just ask parents to make better choices. But, what do I know? I'm just a bitchy waiter who doesn't have kids or eat Happy Meals.

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Proud Waiter Keep on Rollin'

I have been crying in a corner all day mourning the end of my vacation so I have decided to re-post this entry which somehow makes me prod to be a waiter. I will read it over and over again before my first shift tomorrow. I will write again soon, I promise.

-BW

Have you ever had to wait on someone you really didn't want to? No, I don't mean that lady with the cold sores all over her mouth or that gaggle of stroller moms. I'm talking about someone you knew that you just could not face being their server. It can be awkward when someone from another part of your life turns up in your station and you suddenly are their subservient.

Many years ago when I worked at the Black Eyed Pea in Houston on Highway 290, someone came into my station who looked familiar to me. It was this guy from high school. Let's call him Guy. Guy was Mr. High School. He was popular, handsome, a cheerleader, smart, and he dated the girl that I thought I was in love with. (Dawn, are you reading this?) He was everything I wanted to be and he kinda made me sick in that jealous-I-want-your-life kinda way. And suddenly he is sitting in my station and I am about to have to go ask him if wants rolls or cornbread. I looked down at my uniform and noticed the gravy and butter stains on it and then looked at Guy who was wearing a suit and tie and was with three other men in business attire. I regressed back to high school on the day when we were having our school photos taken and I had forgotten. Guy was wearing this really cool purple sweater that I coveted and I was wearing some stupid ass t-shirt.

"Can someone please take table 14 for me? I can't do it?"
"Why? You're not even busy. It's four men in suits. You don't want it?"

I just couldn't do it. I was embarrassed. I had left high school to go to college in another state to study the theater and make it as an actor. Years passed, and I was back in Texas waiting tables and here was Guy. In a suit. During the lunch rush. In my mind at the time, wearing a suit and going to lunch at noon meant success. He certainly wasn't a waiter, that's for sure. When he left, I watched him drive away in his fancy Chrysler LeBaron which he had parked right next to my old Honda Civic. I went into the bathroom to splash some reality on my face and went on with my day. I felt like a loser. A gravy stained, chicken fried steak smellin' loser.

This was years ago. I have changed. Yes, I still wait tables and as much as I bitch about it, I know the reason I do it. I do it because I still remember what I wanted to be when I grew up: an actor. If Guy came into my station now, I would be proud to wait on him because I would be able to say that I am still pursuing my dream. It may not look like I have that much success to someone who is ordering a cocktail from me, but I know that the level of success I have surpasses many others in this world. I think just the fact that I still dream and hope and try says a lot about a person's achievements. If Guy was in my station, he may be a lawyer or a banker or some other bullshit boring ass profession like that, but I guarantee that when he was 16 years old, he didn't want to grow up to be that. I am what I wanted to be: an actor. An actor who supplements his income by waiting tables, but an actor nonetheless And that is a major achievement. So today, let us all be proud of ourselves for doing what we do. We have this job that allows us to make a decent living and it also gives us the opportunity to do other things. We can continue our educations, we can take extra days off, we can pick up extra shifts if we want to make extra money, we don't have to think about our jobs once we punch out and we can carry a tray like nobody' fucking business.

Yes, I am a waiter. A bitchy waiter. But a proud one because this job lets me be what I want to be more than anything in the whole world: a creative, happy, young at heart, financially stable actor. And all those Guys out there? They can keep their Chrysler LeBaron's. I have my dreams.

Do me a favor. If you like this post, share it with someone. Let's see how many people we can get to comment that they too are proud of their bitchy ass waiting tables job.



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The Facts of Life

"You take the good, you take the bad, you take 'em both and there you have, the facts of life." And one fact if life is that all good things must come to an end. I am one sour bitch today because my vacation is over. Within a few hours, I will be back in New York City where according to my averagely-smart phone, the weather is cloudy and rainy with a 95% chance of I-hate-it-here. I had some great service here in South Beach. The one thing I noticed though is that almost every single server was in no hurry to give us our check. Maybe it's because the tip is already included and they were like, "whatever" but I hate waiting for my check. When my cocktail is empty and my plate has been licked clean (seriously, I have no shame when it comes to a good sauce), I want my check. This is even more important when I am on vacation because I am ready to get to the next activity whether it be parsailing, jet skiing, visiting a museum to see a cultural art exhibit based on the trails and tribulations of Floridians who fled Cuba or just going to the next bar to see what their happy hour is. (Most of those activities are things that I never even considered doing, by the way.) As of this morning I learned to simply ask for my check as soon as the food arrived so I could be on my way.

So it's back to New York City and I must put up a front. My exterior must remain tough and strong even though inside I am a soft mass of messy emotion. I liken myself to television's Jo Polniaczek from The Facts of Life played by serious actress Nancy McKeon. Sure, on the outside she was a tough as nails, no-nonsense closet dyke who never let anyone see her soft side. (Well, Blair saw her soft side one time but that was after one too many California Coolers and they swore they would never talk about that occurrence again even though Tootie was spying on them and saw the whole thing and then told Natalie who told Mrs. Garrett, but whatever.) Jo hid her emotions so people would think she was a real tough cookie. I shall play Jo today. My face will say, "Meh, my vacation's over. No biggie.' My heart is saying, "What the fuck? I have to go back to making my own meals? And who is going to do my turn-down service? And when I need ice, I will have to go to my kitchen to get it instead of dialing housekeeping? This sucks! This sucks!" On the outside, my eyes are dry. On the inside they are wet with tears. And they might be a little bit bloodshot.

Happy Birthday, Nancy McKeon. Born on April 4, 1966!

Miami Nice

It's amazing that I am writing today. I am not a great typist to begin with; I hunt and peck with my two index fingers. Today I have one hand permanently attached to a glass of champagne, so fucking kudos to me for this blog post. I am still in South Beach, Miami and wanted to give you some tips about the city, restaurant related and otherwise:

• When you walk down Ocean Drive and you hear them hawking two for one drinks, be aware that the drinks are at least $20.00 apiece and they are the size of a small baby.


• If you have an umbrella at the beach, make sure it is anchored securely. If it blows away, it might roll down the beach until it makes contact with the back of a very attractive young lady from Europe and she will be a bitch to you when you try to apologize. Even though the umbrella is rented and you did not have anything to do with how it was put in the sand, she will not care because her back is bleeding. Awkward.


• The tip is included at almost every restaurant. It is from 15% to 18% so look at your check and then tip accordingly. The waiter will not tell you this in the hopes that you will not see it and then tip on top of the tip. I would do the same thing if I waited tables here, but I am not going to fall for it. You shouldn't either.


• Have eye wash ready for when you see a size 14 woman walking down the street in a size 6 outfit. It will make your eyes burn. Hard. Especially if her t-shirt says "I have the pussy so I make the rules." You might want to throw up but don't do it, because you just spent twenty bucks on your mojito and you don't want to waste it.


• If you walk past The Tides Hotel on Ocean Drive, please go in and say hello to Jenny. She is a kick ass cocktail waitress who is working her way through medical school and she is totally cool. (Jenny, if you are reading this, send me an email and I will mail you a Bitchy Waiter necklace of your choice. Just tell me which one I was wearing the day we met so I know it's you.)


• If you see a guy walking down the street with a ring tail lemur resting on his head, he will let you take a picture of him. But he will then expect money. Fuck that. I love me some lemurs but I can just Photoshop myself with a ring tail lemur. (Truth: I suck at Photoshop, so if anyone can do that for me, I will love you forever. Thanks. I'm serious. I want that to happen.)


• Buy your bottled water at the Walgreen's or CVS because the ones at the beach are $3.57. These are the same ones that cost a dollar at the deli in Queens.


• When you check into your hotel room, keep your fingers crossed that the A/C will be broken because if it is they might upgrade you to a master suite which is totally kicking ass and I never want to leave it. Seriously. I have a fucking living room, a walk-in marble shower and two flat screen televisions plus one in the bathroom. Fancy fucking shit.


• Finally, if you are here to celebrate your 20th anniversary, everything will be better. The food will taste will better, the sun will be brighter, the drinks will be stronger, the ocean will be warmer and everything will be absolutely fucking perfect because you will know how lucky you are to have found the person you are meant to spend your life with. I may be a Bitchy Waiter, but I am one fucking lucky person.

Vacation's All I Ever Wanted

I hate to upset you, but I am in Florida right now. Miami, to be exact. South Beach to be exacter. As you read this, picture me sitting next to a lady who looks like SophiaPetrillo from The Golden Girls and the two of us are sharing a big frozen cocktail with a big gay umbrella in it. Sophia and I each have our own straw but she has a Metamucil chaser. I am having mine with a chaser of another big frozen cocktail with a big gay umbrella in it. On my last night before work, I served a room of about 100 people. It was huge shit-show-cluster fuck but I didn't care because I knew that within hours my ass would be sitting on an airplane while they were still there trying to understand why only one glass of wine and a bottled water cost $19.54. (it's New York City, that's why.) Did I mind when a lady flagged me down to take a picture of her and her friend despite me having way more important things to do? No, for I was going on vacation. Did I mind when one lady ordered an O'Doul's and then found me to change her order to dry vermouth and then sent it back because she wanted sweet vermouth? No, for I was going on vacation? Did I mind when some man grabbed my elbow as I walked past him and almost made me drop a tray on another table? Yes, I did mind that because even though I am going on vacation, I still don't want people touching me. At the end of the night as I deposited all 24 of my checks everyone suddenly became the most impatient bunch of crazies I have ever seen. Usually there are a couple of people in a hurry, but that night almost every single person whispered to me that they needed to go right away. Rather than wait at their tables for me to either make change or run a credit card for all 24 checks, people crowded around me at the computer breathing down my neck. It's funny that they think that will make me move faster, because it does the polar opposite. But did I mind? No, for I was going on vacation. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a date with a pina colada that is bigger than my head.