An Open Letter to the Rude Regular Customer

I really do.

I really do.

Dear Rude Regular Customer,

Why are you always such a bag of douchieness, sir? I have waited on you so many times over the last four years and I have always been nice to you. You also perform at the club occasionally and even though you seem to think you are a star in the same caliber as Sting or Michael Bublé, the truth is that Charo’s right nipple probably has more Twitter followers than you do. The last few times you have come in, I have decided to see if you will even acknowledge my presence, waiting on the sidelines to see if you will recognize me as the same guy who is here every single time you come in, but you never do. You walk right past me as if I am Casper the Friendly Ghost’s homely cousin with a hairlip that you don’t want to make eye contact with. Last night was no different.

You stood in my way. You fixed your hair. You ignored me. You fixed your hair again. You ignored me again. Yes, I saw you looking at yourself in the mirror over and over again. Don’t worry, the stubble on your face looks perfect. A few weeks ago, you talked to me a for a couple of minutes, but that was only after I told you I was doing a show and that I had 178,000 followers on Facebook. I could see in your eyes that you were jealous. (As of this moment, I have exactly 32.40329 times more followers than you do, sir.) I brought you some water last night, but you didn’t say thank you. The only people you know how to thank are the 15-20 people who come see your shows, friends, most of them. Bored friends who are there out of a sense of obligation.

Your parents showed up last night to hear you sing and since you were only doing one number at the very end of the evening, we didn’t charge them or ask them to buy drinks. They got there late and since we know them and they’re nice, we were nice to them. That’s what nice people do. I guess niceness can skip a generation, huh? After the show was over and I was cleaning up the room, I found an iPhone at a booth. A nice, white, unlocked iPhone. I knew it belonged to your Mom and I also knew that we had your number and could call you to come get it. I dropped it into my apron and carried some empty glasses over to the rack. This is when you came back in because you forgot something of your own.

“Hey,” I said to you. “I think this is your Mom’s phone, isn’t it?”

What you did next didn’t surprise me at all: you took the phone put of my hand and wondered out loud about your Mom’s inability to keep up with her things. You turned away from me without a thank you or eye contact or any acknowledgment at all that I had just found your mother’s fucking unlocked iPhone. You put it in your pocket and walked back out of the club. And this is why I hate you.

I didn’t have to give that phone to you. I wouldn’t have done anything to it like toss it in the trash or hide it under the booth, but I could have put it on silent and placed it in the lost and found box in the coatroom so your mom wouldn’t know where it was for a few days. I could have done what my friend Bob did to an unlocked cell phone that his asshole customer left behind. He took it into the restroom and took a picture of his dick and then texted it to the customer’s mother. When she texted back with shock and disbelief, Bob apologized and told the mom that the photo was not meant for her but for his boyfriend. And then when her text came back that said “You’re gay??” Bob texted back and said, “This isn’t how I imagined coming out to my mom.” I didn’t do that, did I sir? No, I was nice.

After you left and I picked up my jaw from the floor at your unbelievable rudeness, I called you a douchebag, not knowing that there were three customers still sitting in the lobby. They thought I was calling them douchebags and came up to ask me why I was being so rude to them. I had to explain myself to them. I went to your poster hanging on the wall.

“I wasn’t calling you a douchebag,” I said to the man. “I was calling this guy a douchebag.” I jabbed my finger at your perfectly Photoshopped face on the poster. “This guy right here is a douchebag. His mom left her phone here and I found it and gave it back to him when he didn’t even know it was missing. He didn’t say thank you and it pissed me off, so that’s who I was calling a douchebag, not you.”

“Oh, okay,” replied the man, “because I couldn’t understand why you would have any reason to be mad at us.”

(Truth be told, I did have a reason to mad at them: they were pains in the ass who were needy and whiney and when the computer rang in the wrong price for something, I apologized and not only corrected the mistake, but gave them a discount on top of it and after splitting their check with three different cards, they still left me no tip. I called them douchebags after they left, because I may be a bitch but I’m not stupid. I wait until after people leave before calling them douchebags.)

So, Rude Regular Customer, I guess I just wanted to get that off my chest. If your mom ever leaves her unlocked iPhone in my section again, she will be getting a very interesting text message from you. It might involve a penis or it might involve an asshole, but it definitely will not involve a “thank you.”

Mustard and mayo,
The Bitchy Waiter

The Bitchy Waiter Shoe Giveaway

Need new shoes? You're in the right place.

Need new shoes? You’re in the right place.

 

It’s time for a Bitchy Waiter contest with wonderful extravagant prizes! However, since I don’t have any wonderful extravagant prizes, I am going to give away a brand new pair of work shoes instead. The people at Shoes For Crews have given me a coupon code for one pair of shoes from their website and I am going to give that coupon code to one lucky winner. That’s right, one lucky person gets to go to Shoes For Crews and pick out a luxurious pair of shoes and have them delivered to their home for absolutely free. I myself wear a pair of shoes from them and I find them to be quite fine. If you are one of those people who do not like Shoes For Crews, then don’t enter the fucking contest. It’s that simple. People will submit a photo of their shoes and then we will vote to see which pair seems to be in the worst shape and in most need of replacing. Here is how it will work:

  1. Take a picture of your crappy ass shoes. In the picture, the words “The Bitchy Waiter” must be seen on a piece of paper. This is so people can’t find any old picture on the Internet of some beat up shoes and claim them as their own. Make sense? Here is what I mean:

    Yes, those are really my shoes...

    Yes, those are really my shoes…

  2. Email the pictures by CLICKING HERE. Put “SHOES” in the subject line. Only send ONE photo. Don’t send me three artistic shots that you want me to choose from. Make sure I know your name. Do not Photoshop “The Bitchy Waiter” onto the photo; it must be in the photo. The deadline is Sunday September 28th at midnight EST.
  3. If you don’t give me your name or follow the rules, I won’t bother posting your photo. Sorry.
  4. After I get all of the submissions, I will put the photos into an album on the Bitchy Waiter Facebook page. That album will be posted on Wednesday October 1st whenever I get my lazy ass out of bed and get around to doing it.
  5. Once the album is up, I will ask people to click “like” on the photo of the shittiest pair of shoes. This will be your chance to share the photo of your shitty shoes so you can get people to vote for you.
  6. The photo with the most “likes” by Friday October 10th at 8:30 AM EST will win.
  7. I will announce the winner on Saturday or Sunday, although anyone can just look and see who has the most “likes” to determine the winner themselves. It ain’t that complicated.
  8. The winner will be contacted by me via their email address. In the event of a tie, my staff and I will determine the winner based on which pair of shoes looks the most tired.

Just so you know, this is not a sponsored post by Shoes For Crews. I asked them if I could have some free shoes for a contest and they were all, “Yeah, I guess so…” I think it will be fun and I cannot wait to see what sad shoes you bitches send me pictures of. Be creative and have fun. Just make sure that you are holding something that says “The Bitchy Waiter” on it. The photo can be of just your shoes or you in the shoes or whatever you need to do to get people to vote for your photo.

 

Thanks!!

 

 

 

Super Rich and Super Famous Person Stiffs Their Server

Cheap or forgetful? You decide.

Cheap or forgetful? You decide.

It seems that another rich celebrity has done his part to make sure that he stays rich by not giving a tip to his server. According to the well-respected news organization TMZ, fighter Floyd Mayweather earned $32 million dollars in Las Vegas on Saturday when he got into a boxing ring and repeatedly hit a man named Marcos Maidana. The fight lasted 36 minutes which means that Floyd made $14,814.82 per second. The day after his big win, he did what most of want to do after we beat the shit out of somebody: he went to the Hard Rock Cafe to celebrate with 150 of his closest friends. He ordered lots of overpriced shit and lived it up, because he’s rich as fuck:

5 bottles of Patron – $2,375
3 Grey Goose  - $1,425
6 bottles of Ciroc – $2,850
20 bottles of Luc Belaire Rose champagne – $11,500
1  6-liter bottle of Luc Belaire Rose - $6,500
200 chicken wings – $600
1 fruit platter – $55

TOTAL BILL:  $25,305

Let’s talk about this. First off, those prices are freaking ridiculous. $475 for each bottle? I just went to my local Liquor Barn last night and got a 1.75 liter bottle of Svedka for $19.99. I am tempted to drag my ass to Vegas and set up a little vodka stand in front of the Hard Rock and sell my Svedka at the rock bottom price of $199. And that really doesn’t seem like enough food and drink for 150 people, am I right? One fucking fruit plate and 200 wings? “Okay everybody, you each get one chicken wing. I repeat, ONE CHICKEN WING. The other fifty are for me. Do not let me catch you eating two wings or I will beat your ass for thirty seconds and you will owe me $444,444 dollars, alright?” said Floyd Mayweather. (On a side note, those wings seem like the best bargain of the night at only $3 each.) And don’t get me started on the fruit plate. One damn fruit plate for 150 people? What is the point? And if it’s like every other fucking fruit plate at a party, it had way too much cantaloupe on it and not enough pineapple.

Anyhoo, Hard Rock Cafe decided to comp his bill since rich people always get free shit even though they are the ones who can actually afford to pay for crap. So Floyd was all, “Cool beans, man, I don’t have a bill! Let’s roll on outta here and head over to the Flamingo to see Donny and Marie, what do you say, homies?” And off he went, leaving his waitress a big fat tip of absolutely nothing. C’mon, Floyd! You just pocketed $32 million freaking dollars and then got $25,305 worth of liquor and food (okay, we’ll say $25,250 because you know that fruit plate was not worth $55) and you can’t bother to leave a tip for your waitress? 20% would have only been $5000 or less than 1/3 of a second of your time when you were boxing. Is this how rich people stay rich, by being stingy mother fuckers?

I suppose it is possible that Floyd assumed that the tip was taken care of too, but when you have millions of dollars flowing out of your asshole, how hard is it to leave a little extra just in case the restaurant decided to not tip the waitress for you? Some of us have nickels and dimes under the cushions of our couch, but Floyd Mayweather probably has bricks of gold under his. The waitress is named Nik Nguyen and she is the one who alerted TMZ to this stiff of all stiffs. I’m pretty sure that Hard Rock would have a social media contract regarding sharing details about your famous customers, but Nik seems to not mind risking her job. There are pictures of her at TMZ in a bikini, so she’s probably an aspiring model or actress and thought that the free publicity from the story would be worth risking her job over. Who knows, maybe she can parlay a deal to be on The Bachelor or Big Brother.

Floyd, if you hear about this, do the right thing and get your ass back to Hard Rock and tip your server. I choose to believe that it was an honest mistake and you didn’t mean to leave without giving a tip. Of course I only say that because I know that if I say you intentionally were a cheap fuck, you will have your people track me down so you can beat the crap out of me. If you do that, just know, I’m ten years older than you and you should respect your elders. You should also respect your servers.

The One Thing To Remember While Serving Brunch

I got your mimosa right here.

I got your mimosa right here.

Very quickly, I just wanted to remind everyone of the one thing they should always remember while serving brunch. No matter how busy you might get or how annoying your customers may be, please make sure that you always keep this thought in your mind. I guarantee that it will make your day so so much better. Happy serving.

 

 


 

Olive Garden Has Crap Breadsticks? Someone Begs To Differ!

I'm so freakin' excited!

I’m so freakin’ excited!

Hey everybody, it’s Doreen the Pasta Queen! Bitchy Waiter has asked me again to write because Olive Garden has popped up in the news and he considers me the expert on all things Olive Garden. I don’t know why he keeps asking me to write for him, but I’m happy to do it. Let’s be honest; Bitchy Waiter has been a little lacking in the posts lately, so if he needs me to help him out, I’m more than happy to do it.

First, off, only nine days until the Never-Ending Pasta Pass, otherwise known as “49 Days of Heaven,” begins and I have shared my countdown clock with you so you can all bookmark it and count the seconds with me.

 

 

So OG is in the news because some fancy-schmancy shareholder of the company wrote a 294 page report on how they think things can be better at Olive Garden and I have one thing to say: whatever! I didn’t read all 294 pages of the report because quite honestly, I have been trying to catch up on my Netflix viewing before Gilmore Girls is released. The main points that I feel should be responded to are the ones below:

  1. “Too many breadsticks.” Ummm, no. There is no such thing as “too many breadsticks.” This guy is saying that they use 700 million breadsticks a years and that too many of them go to waste. Hello, it’s called “unlimited breadsticks” for a reason. He also suggests that they change the recipe. This would be the most awful thing ever to happen in America. They are perfect the way they are and if I want to ask for more, I will. And if I want to put a few in my purse, I will do that too, because those breadsticks are even better the next day if you wrap them in a damp paper towel and put them in the microwave for about ten seconds. One time, I took twenty home with me and I made an Olive Garden Bread (stick) Pudding with them. It was delicious and my cat really seemed to enjoy it very much. This report is suggesting that each customer gets only one breadstick and then one extra for the table. What are we supposed to do, share that last breadstick? It’s ridiculous. They say they will bring us more when we ask for them, but unlimited means that I don’t have to ask! The waitress should supply me with an endless amount of breadsticks and I eat as many as I want. I AM PAYING FOR THEM! If I choose to not eat them that is my prerogative.
  2. “The pasta is over-cooked and needs salt.” Their pasta is perfect. I hate when someone tries to convince me that pasta al dente is the way it should be served. I don’t speak Italian, but “al dente” must mean “raw” because that’s what it tastes like. It’s chewy and awful and I like my pasta just the way OG serves it: soft and mushy so that it gets stuck in my teeth and I can eat it with a straw. Serving undercooked pasta is just as bad as serving a Pop Tart without it going into the toaster first: RAW!
  3. “The to-go containers are too expensive.” That is one of my favorite things about getting my all-you-can-eat pasta to go. I know that it will be in that gorgeous container that is dishwasher safe and I can reuse it. I have a whole set of it at home and whenever I get too much, I just put some of it on Craigslist and I’m always able to sell it. They are so fancy and nice. I would be very sad if they started using regular Styrofoam. Who do they think they are, some low-class restaurant like Friendly’s? Yes, those containers might cost a lot for the company, but we the customers are spending a lot on the food and deserve those heavy duty containers. If they change them, I will just have to start using my own Tupperware.
  4. “Too much salad dressing.” The report says that servers are bring too much dressing because they are too lazy to possibly make a second trip. While, I disagree that there is too much dressing on the salad, I do agree that the servers are lazy. Personally, I like a lot of salad dressing on my salad because it helps to disguise the taste of the lettuce and vegetables. I only eat the salad because I know it’s good for me, but I have never had to ask for seconds on it. I have found that one small bowl of salad nicely balances the three or four bowls of pasta and the unlimited breadsticks. If they are concerned about the cost of too much dressing, maybe they should pay their servers less and save money that way. The customer should not lose out on Ranch.

I want to say thank you to all of my fans out there and to Bitchy Waiter for letting me do his job for him on this blog. I have already asked him if he will let me write about my first day at Olive Garden when I use my Pasta Pass. He told me that he will probably let me, but he is still thinking about it. I also want to let you know that I have really listened to your comments about not tipping the waitress when I use my Pasta Pass. I still do not understand why I should pay her when all she is doing is bringing me three or four bowls of pasta, unlimited breadsticks, one small salad and few Diet Cokes. I already paid $100 for my Pasta Pass and I feel like I have spent a lot of money for them to have the privilege of me eating there. However, I have decided to leave two dollars each time I go. Thank you for teaching me that I was wrong.

 

 

 

Secret Drinker at Table 16

To drink, or not to drink? That is the question.

To drink, or not to drink? That is the question.

I’m not one to judge (yes I am) and I certainly don’t disapprove of anyone choosing to drink or to not drink when they are at a restaurant. As a server, it is my job to bring guests what they ask for. Even if a pregnant woman, who is so far along that her baby’s hand is hanging out of her vagina and grasping at french fries, asks me for a shot of Jägermeister, it is my job to get that drink for her and to not pass judgement. As long as she’s the legal drinking age, she can do whatever she wants. I may feel odd about it or it may feel wrong, but people can make their own decisions about how they drink. Now if her baby were to ask me for a shot of Jägermeister, I would definitely card it. Of course, all I would be able see is the hand poking out of the vagina and I really need to see a face before I can make a call on age. My guess is that the baby isn’t old enough to drink, but I don’t like to make assumptions. I have always looked young for my age, so maybe this lady is a little past her due date and she is carrying around a 21 year old man in her uterus. Of course, that would mean that she is 1092 weeks late and it seems unlikely, but you never know with science these days. Anyway, I don’t like to pass judgment on how people choose to imbibe.

Last week, a woman in my section asked for a Sprite. I diligently went to go get a Sierra Mist and placed it before her. She drank it quickly as I was taking the order for her table. She was there with what appeared to be various family members. I asked her if she wanted another “Sprite” and she said she was fine. After I left the table and went to ring in their order, she followed me up to the bar.

“Hey, sweetie, can I get a vodka/tonic?” she asked.

“Sure,” I replied. “I’ll be right out with it.”

“No. I mean, can I have one now?”

I called out the drink to the bartender who made it right away and I handed it to the woman who drank it in front of me as I continued to ring in their food.

“You can bring me another one when you get a chance, but leave off the lime so you don’t blow my cover. Thanks, sweetie.  And make sure I get the check.”

She went back to her table as I totally did not judge her. And then I started to feel weird about the whole thing. Am I an accomplice to this woman’s secret drinking? I think I am. Should I place a lime on her next vodka/tonic to leave a simple clue to her family who may need to know that she is drinking? What if this woman is on Sudafed and is not supposed to have alcohol? Or what if she is planning to operate heavy machinery? What if her family has just staged an intervention and I am the one who is fucking things up? As I let all of these question wash over me like a sea of Jack Daniels and ginger ale, I rang in her next drink and watched the bartender make it.

As the Absolut went into the glass, making the ice cubes pop and crack, I wondered if this woman was on a quest for sobriety and needed help. As the tonic flowed from the soda gun, I questioned whether or not I should give this lady what she is so desperately wanting, yet hiding from those who love her most. As the bartender placed a lime wheel onto the edge of the glass, I thought about this woman’s family and how much they must love her. As I reached over to remove the lime, the one clue that would alert anyone at her table that she may be doing something she shouldn’t, I thought, “Who the fuck cares? Not my problem.”

I carried the drink over to the table.

“And one delicious and refreshing Sprite for you, ma’am.” She looked at me and I gave her a very subtle wink which she returned with a  confused look, like she thought I was flirting with her or something. “I just love Sprite, don’t you? Or 7-Up. Or Sierra Mist. They’re all great, aren’t they?”

“Yeah, thanks,” she said.

I walked away from the woman knowing that she was old enough to make her own decisions. It’s not like she had a baby’s hand hanging out of her vagina asking for a shot of Jägermeister or anything.

Bottoms up, lady, bottoms up.