All-you-can-eat!!!

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

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

Famous People Suck

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

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

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

The Penny Story

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

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

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


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Deciding is hard (for stupid people, that is)

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

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


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Pitch a tent, asswipe

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

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


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The countdown begins...

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

Diaper (#2)

If you read the previous posts, you may recall that some bitch left a diaper at the table one day. An honest to goodness diaper rolled up in a wet ball full of urine. Just left it there on Table 206 next to used napkins, silverware and plates. It turns out I am not the only one who has had this experience. A friend of mine, we'll call her Happy, also knows the joy of food service shared a tale with me.

A few weeks ago an old lady (it's always an old lady...) came into her restaurant to use the bathroom. There is a reason for those signs that say "restrooms are for customers only" but I guess they did not have one. Anyhoo, they let her use it and thought nothing of it. A while after she left, another customer told my friend that the bathroom needed some attention. Apparently, Grandma had a little accident and used their restroom to try to fix the problem. Happy said that the bathroom smelled like a fucking truckstop outhouse. Or maybe one of those porta-potties that get set up at a concert that gets filled with crap all day and then bakes in the sun and produces that smell. You know that smell. Inside the trash can was a Depends diaper that had a fresh deposit in it. Grandma took a supreme dump in her pants and then used Happy's restroom to freshen up and thought it was okay to leave the remnants in the trash can. For real, Grandma?? You already crapped your pants, why not just hold onto it until you get home? Sure you still needed to go to the grocery store for moth balls, Metamucil, and some cat food but you had to stop at a restaurant to funk up the bathroom first? I am certain that leaving the diaper in the trash can did not make you smell any better so why bother? She should have left the load in her diaper, done her shopping, rode the bus home, watched Wheel of Fortune and then changed her diaper. She better steer clear of my place. If I see some old lady going in to the bathroom and there are the tell tale signs of Depends bunching up under her polyester pantsuit I will say, "No! No you may not use our bathroom, Granny Gross Out. Get outta here!"

That's fucking nasty, shit. Literally.


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A Sidewalk Does Not a Patio Make

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 to me 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. They wanted to move. I reminded then 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 in there. Of course they did not. 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 is where they live. Be thankful the rat didn't pull up a chair and order a bloody mary.

Another time a lady called me over because a gnat had flown into her mimosa and she wanted another glass. 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. 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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What a bunch of Jugheads

Waiting on teenagers is right up there with waiting on French people and old ladies. You have to put forth a lot of effort and you get very little in return. Being close to a high school is just one other unfortunate aspect about my restaurant. The main unfortunate aspect of course being that I work there. Kids get off school and then think they want to come into my station and hang out with fries and milkshakes. What do they think this is? The soda shop and they are in a fucking Archie's comic book? Get outta my station! I don't have the time or desire to wait on six kids who want to share two shakes and three orders of fries and a soda with six straws. And they always ask how much something is going to cost with tax which means they don't have any plans to tip my ass. Last week, four adolescents came in and ordered some cheap ass crap off of the apps menu. Their bill was $19.32 and they gave me a twenty and told me to "keep the change." Uh, wow, thanks so much. I finally have that sixty-eight cents I have been saving up for and I can go buy that half pack of gum I've been wanting. As they left, I told them to let me know when they had their first job in a restaurant. "Why?" said the little fat girl who had Future Fag Hag written on her forehead. "So I can come in and not tip you, sweetie. Don't come back. Buh bye."

What a cry baby!

As you may or may not know, I have absolutely no tolerance for children in my station. It's not that I blame the children, because as a dear friend of mine always used to say, "it all comes down to parenting." So true. But I still hate children. And the parents. I am equal opportunity hater, yo. Last week, as I was watching a little girl lick a salt shaker like she was a cow, I began to think of all the ways I wanted to gain vengeance. First though, why in the hell would a parent think it is okay for their child to lick a salt shaker? It is gross on so many levels. Gross for the person who will use it next and gross for the kid because that thing is loaded with germs. I mean, I barely wipe down the tables, do you think I ever clean a fucking salt shaker? Those things end up on the floor, in the seat cushions, and, in at least one instance, in the hands of a scary scary homeless lady who payed for her hamburger with spare change. But lick away, little girl, lick away. This same little girl later opened the lid and poured the salt onto the table while her mother just rolled her eyes and said something like, "oh, these kids...ha ha ha..." She thought it was fine. And then I had a vision. I thought how thoroughly satisfying it would be to somehow dip her precious little two-year old hands into a jar of Tabassco sauce and then just sit back and watch. Watch as she puts her cute little fingers into her mouth and begins to experience the spicy burning sensation that is so perfect on a burrito but not so perfect on two-year old fingers. As she starts to cry, I rush over to show my concern and then she puts her fingers up to her eyes to brush away the tears. And the heat of the peppers burns her corneas. Her eyes are crispier than the bacon that her mother sent back three times because it wasn't done enough. Poor poor little girl. "Maybe she has a tummy ache?" I say to mommy. "Or maybe she saw a big scary spider!" Or maybe she shouldn't have been licking a fucking salt shaker.

Poked By Connie Chung

As a cater waiter, you get used to being at really crowded parties with people poking at you to get a bite of tuna tartar. I can't stand being touched when I am working. Don't tap me on the shoulder, pull my elbow, grab my arm or even look at me funny. It pisses me off and makes me ignore you for the rest of the night. If some lady is annoying me, I can make sure that no other cater waiter gets within ten feet of her for the rest of the night. It's a game we play. At every party there is some Ms. Bitchy McBitch Bitch who is overdoing it on the appetizers. When this happens, we put out an all points bulletin to the other servers with a description of the Over Eater. "Lady in sparkly blue pantsuit, ugly shoes and big hair has had her quota of quesadillas. CUT HER OFF! AVOID PANTSUIT LADY." And we do. And the bitch gets no more food from us for the rest of the night.

Last week, I served a party with a few celebrities. It was honoring Barbara Walters for her lifetime achievement. Apparently she has interviewed some really famous people... Liz Smith was there and she looked so fucking old. I swear to God that her face looked like a 85 year old piece of bacon that sat in a tanning bed for a couple of decades. Not pretty. Nope, not pretty at all. It was really crowded as usual and I was elbowed in the ribs by some greedy woman grabbing at a grape filled with goat cheese. I turned around to see who the fuck was that hungry and it was Connie Fucking Chung. Seriously, Connie Chung? Maury Pauvich couldn't take you to dinner first so you didn't have to knock the breath out of me to get a grape? I resisted the urge to tell Maury that I needed a DNA test to find out about my baby daddy. I gave his wife a grape and then I mentally cunt punched her.

Bitchy Cater Waiter

Although most of my wealth comes from waiting tables, I sometimes earn riches by being a cater waiter too. It's a whole 'nother ball of wax. If you've ever been to some fancy dancy wing-ding where food was being passed around by a bunch of douchebags dressed in tuxedos or all black, I was one of those douchebags. I have to wander around the party with food that is usually on a silver tray and say over and over again, "Crabcake? Crabcake?" or "Goat cheese tart? Goat cheese tart?" or whatever the fuck they threw on my tray. They always try to come up with some creative bullshit name for the food when really it's just cheese on a fancy fucking cracker. One place makes me call a chicken quesadilla a "chicken bouquet" so all I do all night is explain that it's really just a fucking chicken quesadilla. Some places wrack their brains trying to come up with other things than a tray to put the food on. I have served hor'dourves on leaves, logs, tiles, cardboard boxes, sand, rocks, ice and one time on a freakin' skateboard.

The people who go to these events always seem to be on the verge of starvation. It's like they just came in from some poor African country and all they have had to eat for the last eight months was rice and dirt and they can't wait to get a bite of the pig in a blanket that I'm lugging around on a tray made of straw. People grab and pull and rush. They don't even look to see what's on the tray. They want it. I could be serving my boogers dusted in powdered sugar and they would eat three or four of them before asking what it was. And once they find out where the door to the kitchen is, they surround it. They wait like white on rice or lions on wildebeest ready to pounce on that chicken dumpling. Sometimes it's fun to walk out with a tray that you are using to pick up crap and every time someone will try to eat a piece of garbage.

The only good thing about this gig is that if people don't like the food they can just kiss my ass. Not my problem, pal. I love it when some uptight bitch asks me if we have any vegetarian options and I can look her in the eye and say, "nope." Don't care if you're lactose intolerant or allergic to nuts or don't like pickles. I gots what I gots, so eat it or get the hell out of my way. Okay, I suppose there are two good things about this gig. You can usually manage to have a glass of wine through the night when you cater. Find a friend in the bartender and find a long empty hallway or dark corner and you down a glass of wine or three. I find that I am a much better waiter when I am slighty buzzed. It's the only way I can deal with the asswipe that wants his mini-cheeseburger cooked at a different temperature.

Sad Mimosa Lady

When I got to work I was told that I would be serving a party of 25 that day. Joy. Rapture. I got it into my head that the people would be cool, hip, lots of fun ready for brunch! Sadly, it turned out to be 23 premenopausal women who had just completed some walk-a-thon and came into bitch and whine about how difficult it was to complete. One lady got there early and came right up to me and asked for one of the special five dollar mimosas. "Sure, no problem." Then she begins to tell me that she needs it to be in a regular juice glass and she needs to pay for it now and she needs to drink it quickly before her daughter gets there and sees her drinking. Sounds like the bitch is not only dealing with the change of life, but she is a closet alcoholic too. A winning combo! She slides me the five bucks on the down low obviously forgetting that in this country we have this crazy little thing called tax. And tip. So I print out a check for $5.42 and laid it on her table along with the five dollars. Well, the ovaries hit the fan because her daughter saw it. The mother comes up to me and chastises me for bringing her a check and telling me the whole point was for her daughter to not know. What she failed to realize was that I did not give a rat's ass. I want my 42 cents, bitch. "Well, my daughter saw the check and started asking me questions about it and wanted to know what it was for and blah blah blah, my ovaries are dried up..." I very politely explained that I had to present her with a check because she had not seen the total yet (and I did not want to front her the 42 cents). She pulled out a dollar that was more wrinkled than her neck was and gave it to me. Later when they were gone, I went to get the check presenter for the single mimosa and she had taken the five dollar bill out of it. She stiffed me. She walked out on that check just like her youth had walked out her. I didn't care. I voided the mimosa and moved on with my day. Unlike her, my future was bright and carefree and I was allowed to drink mimosas in front of whomever I please.

The menu is your friend

I want people to read the menu. It's not hard to read the menu and that is exactly what the menu is for. It is not decoration, souvenir, sketch pad, nor phonebook. It is this crazy mystical book that we give you that has all the food that you can have simply by asking. Try it.

This lady comes into booth 205 and she was real nice. The man she was with was nice too if you could just ignore that huge scab he had all over his face. Seriously, all around his lips and chin area. I couldn't tell if it was from a beating or if it was a band of herpes simplex gone rogue. But enough of him. The lady ordered a Monte Cristo. In case you've never heard of a Monte Cristo, just know that it is a perfectly delicious piece of health food. After it was in front of her for about five minutes, she wiggled her finger for me to come over. She did not like her Monte Cristo. "I just find it odd that you put turkey, ham and swiss cheese together on french toast, sprinkle it with powdered sugar and then serve it with syrup and jam." Is she for real? "That's what a Monet Cristo is," say I. And then she says "I don't think so...bring me a menu." At this point it is my gleeful and sheer pleasure to get the menu so I can stand right in front of her as she reads the description of the Monte Cristo (a perfectly delicious piece of health food). I do. She does. She shuts up. I don't offer her something else, because she ordered it, it came out as described, get over it. She asks for it to be wrapped. Read the menu next time, lady.

Of course "reading" the menu is only effective if you can in fact read. I recall a lovely young man once who ordered the New York stripe steak. I asked him how he wanted his stripe steak cooked. "Well done, " he said.

I do NOT speak French

Somehow my restaurant got listed in a French guidebook about New York City. Do you know happy it makes me to know that there are scores of rude Parisians who are crawling through New York City with the address to where I work? I can spot them as soon as they walk in. It's usually a family. The son is usually kind geeky and maybe gonna be hot some day. The mother is usually a bitch. They always want a "coca-cola" and bottled water and have lots and lots of questions about the menu. And then they always order a freaking hamburger. They never order the french toast. Ever. Fucking French. One lady asked me if we had hot dogs today. Listen, Frenchie, if it ain't on the menu we ain't got it. Got it? I wish I could get my hands on le douchebag who put us in that guide book because apparently he forgot to tell his readers that in America we tip. WE TIP. Today at one point I only had four tables. Three of them were French. There goes my tip average because they think 5% is generous. They need to take their beret wearing, baguette eating, cigarette smoking asses to some other dining hole. Au revoir, old French whore.

Sexy Cougar Lady

We all know what a "cougar" is. The sexy older women who chases after the younger stud man and calls him her "cub". I don't get it, but whatever. This lady comes into the restaurant every Wednesday. Late fifties about. Wears her long peroxided hair down and her pencil skirt in about a size 10 while she is actually a size 14. She sits on a stool and puts her right elbow on the bar, rests her chin on the top of her right wrist while tilting her head a bit to the left and smiling with her right lip higher than the left. Can you picture it? Re-read that last sentence and act it out. Got it? She says' "Hello there. The usual please." I get her Bombay Saphire martini, very dry, slice of lemon, Tabassco sauce and a glass of water with a lot of ice.

One day she tells me the entire plotline of a Lifetime Original Movie. The song that was playing at the restaurant was that groovy Hawaiian version of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" and it reminded her of the movie because it took place in Hawaii. She tells me, while still in that original position as described above, "Well, it's about an older woman who meets a younger man..." She paused a second, tilted her head down and then raised her eyes back up to look at me without moving her head. Do that now, act it out so you van really picture her. She says, "I guess you could call her a cougar" and then tilts her head back and smiles as she brushes her right hand through her hair.

Bitch thinks she's a cougar.

She ain't.

Happy Birthday, Losers

We don't care that it is your birthday. Why would a waiter give a cheeseburger's ass crack that it's your birthday? But everyday someone comes in with a big shit-eating grin on their face looking like they got some big news to pop out and all it is is "It's my birthday. Do I get anything for that?" Yeah, you get my heartfelt fucking congratulations, asswipe. I would like to see someone go into Macy's and expect a free blouse or sweater set just because they were born. Hey, douchebag, everyone is born, it ain't no big whoop. I worked at one corporate owned restaurant that made a real big deal about it. Let's just call it Bendagain's. Sorta like the Bennigan's that used to be in Houston, Texas on Highway 59 and Shepherd. Man, when someone told us it was their birthday we had to make it a party. And we never asked for identification so you know most of them were making it up. As soon as they told us, we had to drop what we were doing and run to the freezer to get that birthday cake out. You just looked for the one that was the least frost bitten and least funky shaped. Then you had to ask all of your co-workers to come out and sing to the table when nobody has time to do it. And nobody gives flying flaming fajita. But we do it. Because this is how Birthday Boy wants to remember this momentous occasion: a bunch of angry, resentful strangers singing a horribly written and poorly performed Birthday song as he struggles to slice into a rock hard frozen cake that has about a year's worth of ice on it. Yeah, that is special. Happy fucking birthday.

LOST: teeth

Brunch was busy and full of the usual suspects of women and men who had way too many children. Just way too many. I seriously want to chip in and buy some of them a box of condoms. One table in particular had about four or five kids at it. They all wanted to order things we don't have and they complained too much. When they finally rolled out, we realized they had left a retainer on the table. I am not talking like "a partial fee paid in advance for professional services" kind of retainer (thanks, investorwords.com), I am talking about those ugly ass contraptions that go into a mouth to keep you from getting buck teeth and shit. That kind of retainer is what was on the table. Uh huh. Gross. I know. One of the bus boys brought it to me and I was like "I don't want that shit, throw it away!" Apparently though orthodontics are not cheap so it was determined that it would be saved for when they came back in to find it. I put it into a to-go container. Moments later the Grandma drags her bag of bones in yelping about it. I told her that yes, we had it and I went to get it for her. I handed her the box and she says "I better make sure its the right retainer." I looked at her in the one eye that was not clouded over with a cataract convention and said, "I assure you it is the only retainer that was left on table 101 all day long. It is yours." She still looked.

Reminds me of a time a few years ago that this man came back into the restaurant I was working at and asked me if I had found his gold teef. "Teef?" I asked. "Yeah, I took out my gold teefs and left them on the table and now they's gone." Apparently, some people wear removable gold teeth and leave them wrapped up in a napkin and then get really upset when said napkin with said gold teeth gets thrown away. He was not happy. Said he was gonna sue. Easy for him to say.

Things to NOT leave at your table

I am moved to write because today some lady threw her baby into a mega-stroller and rolled it into my station. The baby looked like it was a few weeks old and I don't know why the fuck anyone would drag their weeks old baby to eat at my place, but she did. Actually I should say her nanny did. Mother just talked on the phone and took cell phone pictures of it. Maybe she was Grandmother. Bitch looked old. First thing: "Can you turn down the music? The baby is asleep." Whatever. Point of story is when they left. I went to clear the table and there was a tiny diaper rolled into a ball that was sitting with the dirty dishes and used napkins. Like I won't notice a fucking dirty diaper. So I have decided to make a list of things to not leave at your table:

• diapers
  
• snot rags
  
• babies
  
• trash from other restaurants
  
• hair pieces
  
• magazines that I don't want to read like Time or Ladies Home Journal
  
• crappy cell phones
  
• your bad attitude
  
• odor
  
• junk mail
  
• your phone number (ugly people only)
  
• apple cores, banana peels or sunflower seeds
  
• used gum
  
• gum of any kind
  
• dirty diapers
  

Ancient Chinese Secret

When you wait tables you have to get used to dealing with annoying, idiotic stupid-ass bitches and douche bags because you are surrounded by these people constantly. Maybe it's not nice of me to talk about my co-workers that way, but it's true. And then on top of that I also have to deal with the retards who come into the place to eat. This bag of bones came in yesterday with her husband the fossil and fell into my station. She perused the menu for about a hundred fucking years like she thought it had the answer to the Mid-East peace crisis in it. She points her bony ass finger at me to come over to her. I plaster my smile on my face and say, "Can I answer any questions for you about the menu?" She does in fact have a question because all old people have a question. Like do you have hot tea? Or can you turn down the music? Or what should I do to keep from tripping over my titties? She wants to know about the Pad Thai entree. You should know I work at a restaurant that although not Asian, serves several Asian dishes, Pad Thai being one of them. "So the Pad Thai. I don't understand. Do you just order it from another restaurant?" I look at her. "What?" She repeats, "When people order the Pad Thai or the Red Curry, do you have it delivered it from somewhere else?" Is she fucking kidding me? No bitch they make it in the kitchen. We have a kitchen. With ingredients and recipes and people who don't speak English. We make the food here, lady, don't make me cunt-punch you. What does she think? Like when someone orders a burger we call McDonalds and when someone orders spaghetti we just call The Olive Garden? What a dumb ass question. Meanwhile her Fossil Husband is just sitting there probably taking a crap in pants. She ordered the Pad Thai once she was assured that it comes from our kitchen. She eventually ate two bites of it and said how full she was and made me wrap it up. Old people always get full after two bites and make me wrap up the rest. Their stomachs must shrink as they get older and if that is the case this lady must have a stomach the size of a pea, she was so ancient. They left me a decent tip and we talked about the economy before they left. I was bored and there was nothing on television except C-Span or CNN so I actually chatted her up for a while. Her husband didn't say much. He might have been dead, not sure. They shuffled out the door, the lady holding on to her bag of Pad Thai and the husband holding onto his bag of bones.

Revenge is Sweet and Sticky

Perhaps you have noticed in previous posts that I hate children in my restaurant. This applies to anyone under the age of 18 and pretty much anyone over the age of 18 as well. Recently I had a table of five girls who were all about 15 years old and were hopped up on hormones and the Jonas Brothers. They crammed into my prime real estate booth and started yapping away about who has the prettiest hair and who had a crush on who and who would get their boobies first. I know they will not order much and then they will not tip and they will keep real customers from sitting there instead. One table that was right beside them asked to be moved because they couldn't tolerate the overwhelming stench of annoying that was coming from the prepubescent bitches at Table 204. One of the little darlings announced that SHE was ready to order as I breezed by. I snapped back that I would not be taking an order until all of them were ready to order. Finally, they reached their decision. I heard one girl say she had ten dollars to spend so I was not expecting much. The order: five waters, two orders of wings, a quesadilla and an order of fries. Wow. How would the kitchen ever be able to accommodate such a vast array of food? When their food was ready, I threw it onto the table along with the check. Done with them. On to real customers. They eventually handed me their money and told me they did not need change. The bill was $24.57 and they gave me $25.00. What would I ever do with that forty-three cent tip? Three of the girls left while two stayed to go to the ladies room to put on more lip gloss and brush their hair. They left their things at the table. I started to clear it and noticed a cute little lipstick on the table. I pushed it under a plate so maybe they would not see it and then just leave it so I could feel okay about throwing it away. I eyed the cell phone and decided that was too mean even for me. Their bags were strewn all over the seats and on the floor. A light bulb went off. I ran to get some honey from the kitchen and headed back to the table to continue clearing it. I kneeled down to pick up some discarded french fries and at the same time slightly lifted the backpack off the ground. I poured the honey all over the floor. I gently placed the backpack back onto the floor. And the honey. People really should be more careful about placing their things on the floor of a restaurant because you never know what might get on them. I went along clearing the table as the girls came from the bathroom. "Bye bye," I said. "And thanks!" Five minutes later I came out of the kitchen and they were gone, sticky backpack and all. They did leave one thing behind though: a cute little lipstick that was hidden behind the one plate left on the table. Into the trash it went. I felt better.

Decaf=Regular

Sometimes a restaurant runs out of something. It's just like at your house. You may think you have enough Crisco for every possible need, but one day you need more Crisco than you thought and before you know it you are so totally out of Crisco and you have to use Pam instead. Or Vaseline. Or whatever. The point is, it happens. So the other day we were getting ready for brunch and lo and behold we were out of regular coffee. We had decaf but not regular. We had enough for two or three pots but we go through ten or fifteen pots on a good brunch and we were really worried. Like freaking out what the fuck are we gonna do kind of worrying. We scoured the basement storage for regular coffee and even went into the back room behind the storage where we keep mugs and bowls and huge ketchup cans and shit. No regular coffee. By this point all three of us were sweating bullets. I mean we opened in ten minutes and we didn't have coffee to satisfy our customers-what the fuck were we going to do? Okay, really we were fine. We never looked for regular coffee past the shelf that it is usually on. Someone said "maybe we should just use decaf all day" and someone else said "who cares, I don't even drink it" and then someone else farted and we all giggled like little girls. So yeah, we used decaf all day. And not one person said one word to us about how the coffee seemed less caffeinated that day. They all drank it and asked for seconds and thirds and imagined the effects of all that caffeine pumping through their veins. And therefore proving our theory that all customers are stupid douches who will drink and eat what we tell them to. "Would you like some more coffee, Mr. and Mrs. Douche?"
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Rodents Rule the Roost

I have worked in a couple of restaurants that had their fair share of the Mickey Mouses. And the Ricky Rats. Every place has roaches, that is so no big deal. The rodents can be a big turn off to the customers though. Don't get me wrong, I am no fan of them either. When a customer feels a mouse run across their feet I can pretty much kiss my tip good bye. Rats are even worse because those bitches ain't scared of people. They will crawl up on the table and taste a fried cheese app and then send it back if it's not hot enough. One place I worked at had a real big problem with the rats. It is a restaurant that shall remain nameless, but I will say that it was on a pier next to a huge fish market. Let's just hypothetically say it is called Pizzeria Uno at the South Street Seaport in New York City. Damn, that place had some rats. I swear to God they were so bold that they had the right of way if you saw one coming towards you. We used to throw forks at them to get them to go away. The worst is when a customer would call us over to tell us they think they saw a mouse. Then we have to act all surprised like we have never heard of such a thing at our fine establishment. Meanwhile a manager is banging some pots on the floor hoping that the fucking thing would go back to it's nest under Table 27. Then the customer would always want a discount which ain't gonna happen. If we gave a discount to every person who saw a rat at that place, word would have gotten out that everyone eats free at the hypothetically called Pizzeria Uno at South Street Seaport. That place was full of laughs. I saw Susan Sarandon and Tim Robbins eat there with their kids once. Everyone was all excited and I just wanted to ask her for my seven bucks back for Lorenzo's Oil. And another time a Muslim family ordered the Pizza Skins and then freaked the hell out after they finished and realized they had eaten bacon. That was some funny shit. Hey, is it our fault they didn't read the menu? I got over that place real quick. Between the ridiculously late hours, the tourist tippers and the nightly Rat Parade, I quit after about two months. I left 30 minutes into my shift. Another waiter saw me leaving and asked how I was getting to go home so early. "Easy," I said. "I punched out."

Monkey Waiters

So I always feel like waiting tables is something I can fall back on. Not just because it pays so amazingly well and I am so wonderful at it, but also because it is so completely fucking fulfilling. But then I get word that there is this restaurant in Japan or Chinatown or some fucking place that has monkeys as waiters. As if the cafeteria and the buffet were not enough to do away with my profession of choice, now someone is hiring freaking monkeys to do my job? Okay, well this isn't really my profession of choice. It's more like it was handed to me on a silver platter but the platter was too hot to handle and no one told me it was that hot and I burned off my fingerprints and then after I dropped it, the silver platter broke into a thousand pieces and then they asked me to clean it up and they told me the cost of the platter would be coming out of my next paycheck. Anyhoo, I digress. These monkeys in Japan are getting paid with soybeans, peanuts and pats on the head. I get paid with nickels, dimes and the occasional pat on the ass (okay that never happens). What is this restaurant world coming to? A monkey can never replace me. Can a monkey draw little smiley faces on the check? Can he forget to ring in your food and then tell you that the kitchen printer fucked up and they never got the order? Can a monkey tell you "you can make your own fucking cocktail sauce, asshole."? I don't think so. These are things that make me and every other human waiter so special. The only monkey I want to see in a restaurant is a little pink plastic one that is hanging off my Mai Tai or one that is flying out of my ass when a monkey puts on my stained dirty apron and takes an order from Cunty McCuntcunt at Table 206. Check out the video of the bastards who want my job.

Everyone is poor

I am so fucking sick of hearing that phrase preface almost every single thing that anyone talks about. "Because of the current economic situation, we will be eliminating the W train" or "In light of the economy we must lay off a million employees" or "In observance of the economic climate, I will not be taking anymore craps." We get it, everyone is broke. That does not give broke ass mother fuckers an excuse to not tip their waiters. If you can't afford the tip, don't go to a restaurant, okay? Case in point: four bitches came in last week and I knew from the fucking get go that they were going to crawl up my butt and chew me a new asshole to get out. As soon as they sat down the Queen Beech snapped her fingers with her ugly ass fake nails. I sauntered over. "Do you all have turkey products?" "Yes ma'am, we do. We have turkey burgers." She brushed her weave out of her eyes and said "No, tur-key pro-ducts. Turkey bacon? Turkey ham? Turkey products." I guess the answer then is no. We will forget that turkey burgers are in fact made out of turkey. I walked off so they would hopefully decide to go elsewhere but they all took off the fur coats and decided to make do with our lack of turkey. When they were finally ready to order, they called me over and began to order all at once. No taking turns for these gals, nope. Just all say it at once and hope for the best. One lady wanted an omelette. With turkey in it. Hello?? We already went through this. Had the copious amount of make up that was plastered to her face somehow seeped into her brain and made her retarded? I reminded the dumb bitch of the turkey situation and she said to put a turkey burger in it. A well done one as opposed to the rare turkey burgers that I normally serve. Then the other lady asked for an omelette. With a steak in it. For real. And another lady wanted hash browns with onions inside it. "Well the hash browns are already prepared so I can't add onions." "You are telling me that you can't add onions to a hash brown?" That is exactly what I was telling her. Another lady ordered a side of over easy eggs with cheese on top. She practically had a baby cow when I told her we did not have American cheese. They had a waffle for the table but not with the berries that usually come with it of course. Bananas. And bottled waters. With straws. And sides of bacon. Crispy. Their bill was $81 which is a lot for four people in my cheap ass diner. They tipped me $5.00. Now remember I have to tip out 5% of my sales to other people. That is $4.05 that I give to someone else leaving me with a grand total of 95 cents for that awful table. Again, you have to be able to tip. In light of the economy, I hate those four ugly tacky bitches.
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To Do Or Not To Do, Part Deux

Our friendly neighborhood restaurateur, Bruce (of the Douchebags), has graced us with his wisdom once again in the continuation of his list of 100 things a server should never ever under any circumstances do. I published his picture so that you will know who he is if you ever see him. He sorta looks downright douchey, right? You can tell him The Bitchy Waiter said hello if you ever run into him. And when I say "run into him" I mean with your car. The New York Times must have had some extra columns to dole out this week, because they published this ridiculous list over two days. I say get this man a stone pallet and a chisel so he can carve these bitches out, because he is a genius. Moses may have had the ten commandments, but Bruce has 100 of them. Long live Bruce the Douche! Shall I respond?

51. If there is a service charge, alert your guests when you present the bill. It’s not a secret or a trick. Nope. They need to read the menu and look at the fine print. If some asswipe doesn't see that it says his grat will be added and chooses to tip again, do you really think I will alert him that he tipped 40% by accident. Please. Next.

55. Do not serve an amuse-bouche without detailing the ingredients. Allergies are a serious matter; peanut oil can kill. (This would also be a good time to ask if anyone has any allergies.) Not my responsibility to ask if they are allergic to something. They need to alert me. I don't have the fucking time to ask every single person if they are allergic to nuts or dairy. And if someone is going to die because they forgot to tell me about their peanut allergy, please do not do it in my station. Have the decency to die in the bathroom. Dead people in my station really bum me out and affect my tips.

58. Do not bring judgment with the ketchup. Or mustard. Or hot sauce. Or whatever condiment is requested. I will not judge you for putting ketchup on your steak if you don't judge me for being a waiter. Fair trade?

60. Bring all the appetizers at the same time, or do not bring the appetizers. Same with entrees and desserts. Unless people ordered all at different times because your asshole manager Bruce allowed incomplete parties to be seated.

61. Do not stand behind someone who is ordering. Make eye contact. Thank him or her. Okay, but this will make it extremely awkward when they can actually see my eyes rolling out of my head.

66. Do not return to the guest anything that falls on the floor — be it napkin, spoon, menu or soy sauce. Does he really think that if someone drops their spoon on the floor and asks me for another, I am just going to hand them the same one right after picking it up from the disgusting floor? No. I am going to carry that spoon to the side stand and pretend I am getting another one and then hand them the spoon that I just picked up from the disgusting floor. And how do you drop soy sauce?

68. Do not reach across one guest to serve another. Unless people have crammed themselves into a table that was meant for fewer people and there is no other way to get their food to them.

69. If a guest is having trouble making a decision, help out. If someone wants to know your life story, keep it short. If someone wants to meet the chef, make an effort. Okay, didn't he tell us yesterday that telling people our favorite dessert was irrelevant? Which one is it, Bruce?

77. Do not disappear. Unless you are busy steaming a label off a wine bottle.

87. Do not stop your excellent service after the check is presented or paid. This one is easy to do if you never start giving excellent service in the first place.

88. Do not ask if a guest needs change. Just bring the change. Just fucking ask if they need change. There is nothing wrong with asking. We don't have time to make change for every single person when most don't need it. It takes away precious time for us to pay attention to the other 99 things on the list.

90. If someone is getting agitated or effusive on a cellphone, politely suggest he keep it down or move away from other guests. Oh, I am sure that will go over great. Just ask the asshole to step outside because he's annoying other people. Don't ask him if he needs change but feel free to tell him to leave the restaurant because he is annoying.

91. If someone complains about the music, do something about it, without upsetting the ambiance. (The music is not for the staff — it’s for the customers.) And what are we supposed to do about it? Take time away from our station to go downstairs to adjust the volume on the sound system. Or call the satellite company that is piping the music in and tell then that Table 21
doesn't like Neil Sedaka? And wouldn't that contradict #77?

93. Do not play brass — no brassy Broadway songs, brass bands, marching bands, or big bands that feature brass, except a muted flugelhorn. The fugelhorn?? What the fuck is this guy talking about? And I speak from experience in saying that life is just better for all concerned when Dreamgirls is playing in a restaurant.

94. Do not play an entire CD of any artist. If someone doesn’t like Frightened Rabbit or Michael Bublé, you have just ruined a meal. Unless of course it is the all time classic recording of "Michael Bublé's Greatest Hits Accompanied by a Muted Fugelhorn."

97. If a guest goes gaga over a particular dish, get the recipe for him or her. Gaga? Nice attempt at trying to reach the youth of America with the coy Lady Gaga reference, but whatever, Bruce. No kitchen is going to give you the recipe and if they do, it's going to be a recipe that serves a hundred people. I am not going to convert a recipe that is in cups and gallons down to tablespoons and ounces.

100. Guests, like servers, come in all packages. Show a “good table” your appreciation with a free glass of port, a plate of biscotti or something else management approves. How about a free toothpick or something else that we can get freely and quickly, because in your anal retentive restaurant I am pretty sure the kitchen or bartender is not going to just hand over some free port or biscotti without it being ordered.

Obviously, Bruce has never been a server. He expects way too much from his slaves and the only way all of that will be possible will be if the stations are two tables. Customers may love the place, who knows. But I am certain that working there will be a huge clusterfuck. Good luck to all the servers in Bruce's domain. Perhaps I should write a list of "100 Things Restaurant Customers Should Never Do" and send it in to The Times.


If you want to read it here is the complete list by The King of All Douchebags, Bruce.You may notice that there are a shitload of comments posted on the article and that The Bitchy Waiter has posting number 2!

FOUND: more bitchy waiters!

So while doing a little surfing on the world wide internets, I came across this website that is Queen Bitchy of the Bitchy Ass Websites. It is this site where waiters can go (anonymously of course) and post about how crappy or perfect it is to work at different restaurants around the city. You can just type in a restaurant and see how shitty the manager is, or how the kitchen is totally dirty but they'll let you eat for free. It's sorta like ratemyprofessor. com where you can see how hard or easy your teacher will be before you register for their class. Anyhoos, you should totally check it out. None of the places I have worked are on there, surprise surprise. But one of the places I like to eat is on the site. I won't tell you what they said about the kitchen. I will just have to forget it though because I will still so totally eat there anyway. Mice in the fountain and all.

CLICK HERE TO SEE IF YOUR RESTAURANT IS BITCHED ABOUT

This is why people should tip

I think everyone should be a waiter for six months of their lives. It would make the world a much better place, I just know it. Most people have never waited tables or if they have they forgot how goddamn shitty it can be to depend on total strangers to pay your income. Do you know what waiters usually make hourly? Less than minimum wage. I make $4.60 an hour. That means if I work 40 hours, I would only get $184 for the whole week. That does not even pay for my internets and phone service. Out of that humongous sum of money, I have to pay taxes on tips (whether I get them or not) and my paycheck is usually zero. That's right, I said zero. Waiters pay taxes on a percent of their sales even if they got stiffed on a check. If I ring up a $75 check and Cunty McCuntcunt decides to leave only $5, the government is still going to tax me as if I had gotten a 15% tip. Uh huh. I pay taxes on tips I don't even get. It sucks. Which is why customers must leave at least 15% for the tip. Some people are too stupid to figure it out, so they just leave 10%. Ignorance is not an excuse. If you need help, just double the tax so you would be leaving about 16%. Out of the tip that we are given then we have to tip out of it to the bartender and the food runner and the busser. I worked at one place once and we had to tip 40% of what we made. That sucked and I only lasted there for three days. But plenty of people work there and have to tip out the coffee girl, the guacamole maker, the hostess and the ass-wiper in the bathroom. If you have a crappy waiter, sure, maybe they don't deserve more than 10%. But a good one deserves 20%. I deserve 25%.

Allergic to "everything"

Table 201 is the winner for most annoying table of the day even though they were only there for about ten minutes. A mother and daughter, neither very attractive. That's not important to the story but I just wanted to point it out. Daughter waited at the bar for about ten minutes before Mother joined her and they moved to my station. I walked up to the table to greet them as is customary with my exemplary service. "Hello there, how are-" I was interrupted by Mother who sighed and rolled her eyes as she looked at me and said, "We are so not even close to knowing what we want." Okay. Enough said. Just trying to be friendly. So I ignored them until they called me over. Mother says, "Do you have another menu we can look at?" "No, sorry I don't. Only the brunch menu today." Mother sighed again and said "We are gonna have to go somewhere else then because my daughter is allergic to everything on your menu." Everything? She is allergic to everything? What did she think she was going to find on the dinner menu? A selection of various waters served at different temperatures? So leave then, fine with me. I go to ring up her check for her Diet Coke (which she is apparently NOT allergic to) and return to the table. Daughter apologizes that they must leave, like I care at all. She tells me, "It's just that I am allergic to anything raw and everything you serve has something raw in it." Uh huh. I look down at the slice of uncooked lemon floating in her Diet Coke and wonder what was raw in the scrambled egg platter with toast and hash browns. "I'm really sorry," she tells me. Again I tell her it is so totally fine that they are leaving. Good luck with your quest in finding a restaurant that serves cooked food.
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Babies suck

So many mothers have this sense of fucking entitlement like she is the first woman to ever push a baby out of her Sweet Potato Pie Hole. It's been happening for thousands of years, no big whoop. I cannot write enough about my disdain for children in my station. I don't want them in my personal life so why the fuck would I want one at work? But people bring their babies in and then they think it's my responsibility to make sure the music is not too loud. Or they have the nerve to ask me to heat up their baby food. Why would they think I have time for that? It's not my baby. I am supposed to ignore my other tables and then bother the kitchen staff to heat up a bottle of milk? I'd rather you just breastfeed if it means I don't have to do anything. Not that I want to get a close up view of your areola when I refill your Diet Coke. These are the same people who bring babies to an R rated movie and think it's okay for everyone else to listen to it for two hours. No one cares about your baby except the people who know your baby (and some of them only act like they give a shit.) No one in the restaurant wants to step around your giant stroller or listen to it cry or watch you whip out your tit so it has an appetizer. Leave them at home with a sitter. Or just leave it alone while you come out to eat. I am sure it will be fine, whatever. Just leave a post-it note on it's head with your cell phone number so if there is a problem the police will know how to reach you. You could always take it to Chuck E. Cheese where they live for that shit. The people who work there love it when they have a room full of screaming babies. Or better yet, order in. We have take out menus. Just don't sit in my station.
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Do waiters really spit in food?

Yes, Virginia, waiters really do spit in food. But you have to be a really bad little girl to have that happen to you, so most people are okay. I have been slinging hash for about 15 sad bitter years and I have seen it happen. I am not saying that I have ever done such a disgusting thing to a table because that is a little bit too far even for me-oh who the fuck am I kidding? I have done it twice. Once to this prick in Texas who I heard call me a fag to his buddies at the table so he got a big helpin' heapin' dose of Bitchy Waiter Spit in his free refill of Lemonade. I will reserve the other time I did it for another post. Sadly, spitting is not the worst thing I have seen. I worked at this restaurant once where that kind of thing happened a lot. If you ever ate at the Houlihan's in Times Square during the mid-90's I apologize. There was this waitress there who was dealing with the typical ignorant tourist fucks who are dumb enough to eat at tourist trap like Houlihan's. She was taking an order at a really loud obnoxious table and they were not listening to her. They were too excited about going to see Grease or Cats or some other stupid ass Broadway show that only tourists went to. She could not get their attention so someone at the table offered their assistance. He yelled out to his friends, "Hey let this girl do her job since it's probably the only thing she'll ever be good at!" I dunno why someone would say that about someone right before their food would be handled by that same someone, but he did. And he paid. When it came time for the food to come out, we all congregated in the kitchen to see what she was going to do. I will never forget it. First off, she took their plate of ribs and placed it on the floor. Then she stepped on it. Uh huh. They ate her dirty ass shoe germs. The guy with the burger got some very special fries. She took a handful of them and rubbed them all over the wall of the kitchen before putting them back on the plate and that wall was fucking disgusting. This was Times Square Houlihan's people, where we didn't clean and the rats got more shifts than we did. For their soup, someone else had a brilliant idea. They took the soup spoon and licked all over it and then put it on the plate. The waitress who licked all over it was really sick and didn't want to be there so she was in a shitty mood anyway and this was a good "fuck you" to the table and to our manager who made her come in to work. The last diner just got a good fashioned loogie stirred into her Oriental Stir Fry and she served it with a smile. That was good times, people. Good times. You wanna be nice to your server. If you want to be mean, do it after you eat. Never before. Unless you are stupid, in which case be prepared. Farting at your table is not the worst thing that can happen.
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Merry Christmas, what do you want?

Over the years, I have always worked in restaurants that are open on the holidays. It sucks major Christmas balls. The servers always have to fight to see who has to work on Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, New Year's Eve and New Year's Day. The shittiest by far is Christmas Day. Why the fuck any restaurant wants to be open that day is beyond me. Of course the person who decides to be open on Christmas is not actually working that day. When I worked for a major hotel chain (who's name shall remain anonymous) it was a given that we would be open on Christmas, but do you think Mr. Fucking Marriott was at his office that day? I doubt it. But my ass was waiting tables on all the losers who don't have anything else to do on Baby Jesus' Birthday. And they all look at us with sad puppy dog eyes because they feel sorry for us working on a holiday like we didn't have anything else to do. Really, I look at them with sad puppy dog eyes because they are the ones who are at a restaurant by choice when they should be eating with their loved ones. You would think they would tip us a bit extra on those days but most people leave the same crappy ass 10% tip that they will leave any other day of the year. So don't go out to eat on a holiday. Maybe eventually restaurant owners will decide it's not worth it to be open and let their employees spend Christmas the way it was meant to be spent: celebrating the birth of Jesus Christ our Saviour, getting drunk and/or high and eating till you puke right before you open your presents. And now I have to go iron my fucking uniform for work. Happy Birthday, Jesus. How do you like your eggs?
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Read the menu, asswipe

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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Diet Coke or Diet Pepsi...who cares?

This lady sat in my booth yesterday and ordered a Diet Pepsi. I told her "oh we only have Diet Coke, is that okay?" thinking that of course it would be okay. It's always okay. Unless you are the bitch that sat at table 204 yesterday. When the words Diet Coke fell from lips she looked like I just donkey punched her. "No Diet Pepsi, seriously?" Yeah lady, for real. So she had to "settle" for a Diet Coke like I care what she drinks. If you really want me to give a shit, then order a cocktail and then have another one so my check will grow into something substantial. Once I told some one we didn't have Diet Pepsi but maybe I could find one, like we have a secret stash of forbidden products in the basement. So I went to the soda gun and poured her a Diet Coke and then I sprinkled some Splenda in it because I think Diet Pepsi is sweeter than Diet Coke. Told her I found a bottle of her precious Diet Pepsi and bitch drank the shit up. I worked at another restaurant once where we never once had Ginger Ale but I sold it every day by putting a splash of Coke into a glass of Sprite and not once did anyone notice. Same thing with coffee and decaf. I serve everyone decaf because I don't need a bunch of caffeinated bitches in my station. And it's too much trouble to make two pots of coffee. No one knows the difference. How many times has someone told me they needed coffee SO bad and I just serve them a big ol' cup of steaming decaf? Every day. And then when I ask them if they feel better, they say "Oh God yes, I just cannot function without my caffeine." Uh huh. Whatever. You will drink what I serve you.
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